LowDawgs LowDown

Extraordinary Chickens

2011-12-17T18:41:00.001-08:00

While standing in line at Barnes and Noble this afternoon, a book from the "marked down" bin of book offerings caught my eye. They always put these second-class literary citizens near the checkout line so that some kind and dedicated book lover will take one of the titles out of their inventory.

This book was titled, Extraordinary Chickens, and was filled with large and colorful photographs of... chickens. In fact, these chickens were quite extraordinary and the photography was excellent.

The fact that this book didn't sell well is obvious: It is in the Last Chance Forever Bargain Book Bin. At least at Barnes and Noble. The next stop will be some outlet store book store that will plaster a bright red price tag on the tome and hawk it like it is some kind of discounted wonder.

But I must ask why. The fact this book didn't sell well perplexes me. It is filled with pictures of extraordinary chickens. Not "on par" chickens or "run-of-the-mill chickens," but chickens with attributes that place them in the upper echelon of peerless poultry.

These chickens have class, style, and that certain something that plain old chickens don't have. Why the general public would not buy this book in large quantities or give it as gifts is a puzzlement.

Further research indicates that these extraordinary chickens also have a wall calendar. That would be one picture of an extraordinary, peerless, and prized chicken each and every month!

That would be a bargain at twice the price. Really.

Climb that Mountain!

2011-11-27T11:28:00.000-08:00

I know I've written at some point about my infamous "Shasta Disasta" of 2003. This was the trip planned by my sister and I after the holidays and involved climbing Mt. Shasta. The fact that Shasta is only a few hundred feet shorter than the highest mountain in California, Mt. Whitney, didn't faze us. I can still remember where I was sitting when she called - in the old brown lounger in our living room on R-11.

My memories of the trip are sensory. It was hot and muggy inside the tent, where Mike, Sue, and I attempted to sleep. It was close and somewhat stinky. It was still light out at 9:30pm. I had eaten too much French Onion soup and would pay for it with severe stomach cramping that forced me to use the "solar outhouse" which was technically unavailable on that particular day of the month. I didn't sleep, which did not bode well when we were roused at 1:30 am to eat breakfast and hit the trail. I remember the clomping of boots and a queasiness that warned me not to do this - but I did it anyway. At some point before a place euphemistically called 'Lake Helen' (there is no lake) I began throwing up and could not stop.

Sensory memories include the long, cold descent with Susan, who gave up her ascent
to take me back down the mountain with the guide who drew the short straw; the tent, a change of clothing, an attempt to sleep - and constant nausea.

None of the group summited that day. The weather and avalanche conditions prevented it. Nonetheless, I was disappointed - very disappointed.

Over the years, I shoved down those feelings and claimed I would never, ever do that again and that it was OKAY, really - it was. But of course, deep down, I knew that it wasn't okay.

There were three factors that contributed to my disappointment that day. First, I was not in the right shape. I was in decent shape, but certainly not as fit as I needed to be for that kind of hiking and carrying a pack. Second, we were not acclimated to the altitude. We arrived in Shasta only the day before and should have hit town at least 2-3 days before the attempted ascent. Third, my inability to sleep the night before caused dehydration and a lack of calories that sent my body into full-on rebellion. We told each other that we needed 3 days, not 2 days, to make this climb. The fact that Shasta Mountain Guides only offered a 2-day was a good excuse not to re-book anytime soon.

Today, I made the decision to book another climb. Shasta Mountain Guides now offers a 3 day expedition instead of an hellacious 2 day ascent. This means better sleep and more acclimation. This means more odds of success.

The trip I want is in June - after school ends. I have a full seven months to get into the kick-ass shape I need to achieve. Training for this trip will help me get off the last of my weight gain. I have been holding steady at 150 pounds for a couple months now - I am ready to proceed.

Knowing that I can be impulsive, I am waiting until next weekend (at least) to book the trip with Shasta Mountain Guides. I am hoping that I will have companions for this adventure.

I am just - hoping. And I dream of success, this time around.

"Practicing" Medicine

2011-09-03T11:10:00.000-07:00

I am reminded today why doctors "practice" medicine. It is supposed to take at least 10,000 hours to get really good at something but there has to be more to it than that. What if the right lessons aren't learned, or the practice-part is off-kilter?

These questions swirl around in my brain now because the poor communication skills of my mother's oncologist and his Galleria-mall-trained front office staff is really so much worse than asking the same stupid questions and approaching an ill old woman in front of God and everyone and announcing, "so yeah, you can't have chemo today or you'll die."

The head-smacking part is this: Way before the bladder cancer invaded Mom's pelvic wall and pressed on her kidneys, causing such agony she called 911 and had to deal with the dirty boots of local paramedics on her clean carpet, Mom was seeing this doctor for blood marrow problems. He is a hematologist AND an oncologist. There must have been some kind of special going on when he finished medical school - two specialties for the price of one. Plus, a discount card for the local coffee place.

In keeping with the tradition of this medical group's mantra of never speaking to other doctors unless absolutely necessary, he diagnosed a myo-something-or-another blood marrow disorder that danced all over her immune system and ate platelets for lunch. Since the gastroenterologist was never in the loop, this duo-immersion hematologist/oncologist apparently didn't know about the medication the stomach doctor gave her to squelch that pesky Crohn's Disease. Now here is the funny part: The immeron? The drug that fights Crohn's? (Wait for it...) It wreaks havoc with blood and kidneys!

Why did Mom's kidneys almost fail during chemotherapy, boys and girls? YES! And why did she need 2 blood transfusions, injections of a medication that costs $7,000 for five doses, and require half-chemo doses the last two treatments? YES! It seems patients who had Immeron CANNOT TAKE CHEMO! Go figure!

Being a good reader, I often make connections between texts I read and the real world. That often spills over into real life. At school, we are immersing ourselves in the work of Jim and Charles Fay, the developers of a self-discipline program called Love and Logic.

There are two logical responses I have for this practicing doctor who never told my mother that her bladder would eventually have to come out or that the chemo isn't going to kill everything because it will kill her first, and that 77-year old bladders cannot be called "antique" and made into stylish handbags.

The first response is vintage Love and Logic: I shall call the office, shake my head, and say, "Bummer." After waiting awhile, I will add, "There is going to be a consequence, but quite frankly I don't know what to do about this right now. But try not to worry... I will think of something."

(Now to re-read the NEXT chapter.)

Bummer.

The Surprise Laundry Toss~

2011-08-03T14:37:00.001-07:00

At some point during my childhood, Mom gave up on laundry baskets and delivered any and all dirty clothing directly to the surfaces of the washer or dryer. The front door of her current house faces the garage entrance, across a small courtyard. The laundry is done in the garage.

For the past 20 years, Mom opened the front door and tossed her laundry onto the porch, until the good time for laundry presented itself. Mind you, this is not a whole load of clothes. This would be what she wore to bed the night before, some under garments, and maybe a towel or two. Mom has an obsession about laundry. We used to think it was a quirk, but now we call it by its rightful name. She goes through a bottle of laundry detergent in a week, often washing a "load" of clothes that equal one pair of pajama bottoms and a wash cloth.

Sue and I started staying with Mom to help care for her in early June. Our first clue about a laundry issue was the lack of laundry baskets - anywhere. Our own laundry had to be washed out in the tub because Mom swore there was never any room for our stuff - especially the clothes we wore for exercise. (Mom doesn't sweat, so she fails to understand why anybody else does.)

Mom often chooses to toss out the morning laundry while naked. This is because every single stitch of clothing that needs to be washed has to be tossed out the minute it is removed from the body. Soiled laundry on the floor is akin to Big Macs in a Hindu temple. But I digress.

We have attempted to speak to her about this lack of modesty which, for us, is really nothing new. We spent half our childhoods shielding our eyes and dying from the embarrassment of a naked mother carrying laundry around the house. Our concerns are laughed off because, as Mom puts it, she has no modesty anymore. (Ever?)

This morning, as she flung open the door to toss the few pieces of laundry, she was met by a shocked and horrified pharmacy deliveryman. Sue heard him gasping, "Sorry! So sorry!" repeatedly. She dropped breakfast preparations and ran from the kitchen to shield our naked mother and sign for the package.

The deliveryman didn't want to stay for a signature, running off with more apologies.

We hope the poor guy won't need some kind of therapy down the road.

A Note from the Rabbit Hole~

2011-07-24T11:54:00.000-07:00

My Mom can't do just one thing at a time. She has always been this way, but since her cancer diagnosis, it has gotten worse. This means that simple, straightforward tasks like making breakfast means going off on tangents, like finding the almonds (already on the counter), doctoring the coffee, and going to garage RIGHT NOW to find the floral piece she needs to make the living room floral arrangement JUST RIGHT. This is followed by heating up the coffee, then going back out to get another piece for the floral arrangment from the box in the garage, and starting a load of laundry.

She finally sits down for coffee, which needs to be reheated. Then, she has to take out the trash, even though the coffee hasn't been finished. She puts the TRASH into the open washing machine and curses while digging it all out aagin.

When she finally comes back inside to have coffee, she remembers to take Lasix and Potassium, which have been sitting next to the coffee. They also make her pee. Since she can't swallow the pills with coffee, she goes back into the kitchen for ice water (with ice and lemon) She sits down and fixates on the bottle of Asacol, which has about 12 tablets left - a week's supply. Immediately, she must go get the FULL bottle from bedroom cupboard and pour the old bottle of tablets into the full bottle. This brings on some grumbling about the cost of the prescription.

She gets up again to go to the bathroom but pees pants and gets annoyed because she wasn't wearing a pad. She changes her clothes and takes the wet pants out to washing machine, while complaining about the Laxix and potassium.

She comes back into the house to return to the bathroom to fix her hair and put on her "face" because Dan is coming down to do some household repairs she has fixated on for weeks and weeks. Bright red lipstick and chola-girl eyebrows later, she comes into the livingroom to complain about the hair that she swears is falling out, although no evidence of this appears in her comb.

Finally, she comes back out to sit in her chair. She turns on "Sweet Home Alabama" for the 23rd time this month, grouses about the televsion and complains that "nobody will let me drink my coffee."

And it's only 11:00. In the morning.

Angry Birds and Rock Stars~

2011-02-19T14:39:00.000-08:00

Today was the 100th Day of School, a tradition that grew out of the more child-friendly educational practices of the 1980s. In fact, word on the street has it that a group of young child educators wants to make the 100th Day of School a national holiday. Except that nobody would come to school, which would create a problem.

Some our young learners created 100 Day Projects by using 100 objects in a creative way. Owen was a celebrity for a few minutes when he came to class with a battlefield glued down on tag board - complete with army tanks and 100 little plastic soldiers he counted himself. Zach used 100 Legos to create a facsimile of the space shuttle. He explained that he chose this project in honor of the space shuttle going up into space again soon. His classmates were very impressed. There were projects with 100 pennies, 100 stickers, and 100 Swedish fish in a painted fish pond. (Several kids were caught licking the fish. But I digress.)

Nobody was surprised when Beny decided to draw 100 pigs from the Angry Birds game. To say Beny likes Angry Birds is an understatement. Angry Birds define his world at the moment. His project is an instant hit: The kids abandon the other projects and surround Beny with cries of admiration. He is the center of attention and laps it up like a parched puppy. The kids point and make "ooh" and "ahh" noises. They pelt Beny questions and he holds up his hand and tells them he will take only one question at a time. In order to secure the project from admiring fingers, Beny asks me to put it up on the board. I clip it up there with a magnetic clip and admirers stop by all day to gaze at Beny's masterpiece.

At 11:30, Beny and Sam's mother arrives with Sam's drum set. While Beny was busily creating his Angry Bird Magnum Opus during evenings at home, Sam became a Facebook media star, performing a song he wrote tentatively called, "I Love to Count!" Using rhythm and interlude, snare drum and cymbals, Sammy pounded out his rendition of the classroom hundreds chart, complete with a chorus and earnest vocals about the joy of counting. In the video, Beny wears a mysterious hat and sits behind Sam quietly playing the keyboards. At one point, he gets up.

"Make sure you stop at 100," Beny advised Sam once the musician hit 50. The drummer agreed and Beny resumed his role as keyboardist.

So, the arrival of the drum set was not surprising. The K-1 class was promised an encore performance of Sam's famous, "Ode to 100: I Love to Count."

You might wonder why a teacher in her right mind would allow a 5-year old to bang away on drums with a full school in session. You might think that meeting Sammy's needs as a learner and showcasing his talents were the main objectives. You would be correct, of course, but there is just one little thing that appealed to the evil self that lives inside me.

You see, banging the drums would make noise. All day long,everyday, throughout the day and longer, we are subjected to the pitter patter of pounding feet as the children of the school descend and ascend the school stairs. Our classroom is right underneath and slightly adjacent to these stairs. Kids on stairs don't quietly walk. They pound. They run. The hit the hallways running before and after they hit the stairs. Our ceiling shakes. Our bulletin boards rattle. Our nerves tingle.

"Ode to 100: I Love to Count" was loud. The kids loved it and clapped along. Sam hit the cymbols and bass drum during the chorus. Those were especially loud. It was rhythmic. It was a HUGE hit. Move over, Beny - Sammy has just taken down the house.

The kids applauded wildly. They waved their hands at Sam the Drummer. They asked for his autograph and begged for "turns" at the drum. Sam complied with both.

After the drums were packed up and the students went home, Jenny and I fully expected to hear from our upstairs colleagues about the drum interlude. We steeled ourselves for glares and admonitions - but they never came because NOBODY heard us.

The pounding on the stairs and in the upstairs hallways drowned us out.

Red-Handed!

2011-02-19T14:24:00.000-08:00

Sara is one of my younger students who stays all day twice a week. This means she gets to participate in first grade work quite often. On Thursday, we continued work on our Classroom Model Community project. Each first grader has selected a community leader or helper to represent. They are creating buildings for the community out of boxes and toilet paper rolls and anything else that captures their imaginations.

Zada is going to build an animal rescue center. She printed copies of such places off the internet and decided she likes a center up north that lacks kennels and cages. Sara offered to help Zada paint the buildings.

Young children love paint, glitter, glue, and other craft supplies. The underlying motto for all kindergarten projects is "More is Better." If a little glitter works, why not more? If a bit of paint covers the targeted area, why not glop the paint on for that tactile, more textured effect?

So Sara began "experiencing" Zada's red paint. As Zada worked on a small out-building for her rescue center, Sara tackled a larger box and painted it red. Disappointed that Zada didn't need her to cover other buildings red, Sara added more red to the painted box. Seeing that the paintbrush was quickly overhwhelmed by the volume of paint, Sara began fingerpainting the box. Soon, red paint covered her hands, dripped from her fingers, and began making its way up her lily-white arms.

Zada was a bit perplexed. She is a conservative girl with paint and supplies and could see nothing good happening from this very wet, very red, and very drippy experience with her younger helper. She backed up and kept working on her little building.

Jenny and I quickly discovered the finger-painter and did the old 'crossing of the arms' and 'hands on the hips' routine. Sara is not one to quickly admit to any kind of wrongdoing. She is, in fact, in the fast-lane to law school. So she opens her mouth to defend her actions - which weren't really as bad as our teacherly body language would indicate. In fact, she was ready to claim that she was out of town while the paint began covering her hands and arms. We know this because we know our Sara.

While I shook my head, Jenny leaned forward with her hands on the table. Zada looked up. "No Sara," my partner teacher intoned quietly, "We caught you red-handed!"

An Ongoing List: Things I Never Thought I Would Say at School~

2011-01-19T19:54:00.000-08:00

There are times throughout the school year that I hear myself saying something that, out of context, would sound quite bizarre. I picture the fly on the wall, the secret video camera, the unseen visitor, doing the classic double-take and wishing they had paid closer attention.

I always have students who undress at school. They remove socks, shoes, belts, hats, shirts, and vests. Sometimes I find these things strewn about the room. Usually they are tossed in a corner or left on a chair or table. I have two students this year who remove their shoes and place them in their cubbies.

Sammy removes ONE shoe, then kicks it around the room.

"Sammy," I say, "Put your shoe back on."

He keeps kicking, then happily replies, "I can't."

"Sam, if you can't put your shoe back on, don't take it off," I say, using logic that is beyond him.

"But,I like to take this one off," he says.

We have this conversation regularly. "This one" is the right shoe. Always the right one. Never the left.

Emily and Mari also remove shoes. Occasionally, they will take of their socks but you know Murphy's Law of Socks. Inevitably, one goes missing and the kid goes home with one foot sockless. They swear to God they have NO idea where the other sock went. Days later, I will find it in the blocks or behind the Legos and attempt to return it. At this point, they swear on their mothers' lives that THIS sock does not belong to them. Never seen it before. Ever.

Well-meaning parents put their kids in layers, sending them to school certain that their little learners will be toasty and stylish. If it is a flannel shirt layered over a tee shirt or tank top, I will bet you money the shirt will be flung over something in the classroom and its owner will be reluctant to claim it.

Sara has them all beat. Her mother dresses her in layers too. No sooner does Sara hit the classroom, she begins to disrobe. Off goes the sweatshirt, sweater, or blouse. Then the tee-shirt. When she is happily bouncing around the room in her spaghetti-strapped undershirt, I start shivering.

"Sara, it's 10 degrees outside. Put your clothes back on."

"That's okay," says Sara, clearly not getting the point.

I gather up the strewn clothing: A sleeveless red sweatshirt, a blue and white tee shirt, and a bright pink scarf. I hand them to her.

"Put these back on," I say in my best teacher voice.

"I don't want to," counters Sara.

I clench my teeth and lead her to the bathroom. "Put the clothes back on. Hang the scarf up."

Sara emerges from the bathroom in the same state of undress as when she entered.

"SARA! I am not kidding. Put your shirt and sweatshirt back on."

"Okay," she mutters. I stand there while she dresses.

Eight minutes later I see her bouncing around the room again. In her undershirt.

I point to the bathroom. "Get your shirts back on. I am not kidding."

"I'm HOT!" moans Sara.

The thermostat reads a balmy 66 degrees.

"NOW, Sara."

"Okay," she sighs, trudging off to the bathroom. She emerges completely dressed. I smile and pat her shoulder. She bounces off to find her friends.

Fast forward about a half hour. Sara is nowhere to be seen. A quick scan of the room finds her curled up in a fetal position on my desk chair, in her undershirt, shoeless, sockless, with eyes squeezed shut, just certain that if she doesn't "see" me, I somehow won't see her. Some people will tell you they just LOVE this age!

"Sara," I say slowly. I breathe deeply. I think about safety pins and duct tape. She sheepishly stands up and I hear myself say it. The thing I never thought I would say in class:

"How many times do I have to tell you not to take your clothes off at school?"

Beny and the Bone~

2011-01-19T19:45:00.000-08:00

At some point during our writing time today, Beny drew the outline of a dog bone, then cut it out. He carried it around for awhile, very proud of his handiwork.

After recess, we settle down for some reading and I hear barking.

Students begin to approach me because they are certain that I don't hear the same stuff they hear. "Beny is barking," they report. "He's barking at the wall."

Sure enough, I turn around and see Beny, sitting on his haunches, facing the wall, and....barking.

Knowing that this question is going to go on the "Things I Never Thought I Would Say at School," list, I ask, "Beny, why are you barking at the wall?"

Beny doesn't miss a beat. He yips, paws the wall with his hands, then replies, "Because that's where I taped my bone!"

The Magic Word~

2011-01-16T20:19:00.000-08:00

There are two words guaranteed to send a classroom full of kindergarten students into gales of laughter. I am talking about 'horse laughing,' often accompanied by falling over and the clutching of bodies. Ask any teacher of young children and they will agree. These words are "naked" and "underwear." The fact that they all came into the world naked and hopefully WEAR underwear is superflous. The words evoke early childhood hysteria. (The other thing you can do as a teacher to provoke this same reaction is to drop something. But that is not germane to this topic.)

I tend to adore the quirky ones and this child fit the bill. She was later diagnosed autistic, but high functioning. She had a lot of repetitious behavior and often mimicked me to a degree of authenticity that gave me shivers. During large group discussions, she would sit aside from the group and rock back and forth, to keep herself calm. Sometimes a single word would evoke a response and she kept things lively by throwing a monkey wrench into my best laid plans and intentions. I loved this child.

On this particular day, I had a parent volunteer named Lori who knew the girl's mother well. During my lesson, she was taking down a bulletin board. Lori was drinking coffee, but listening with interest to our lesson.

I had been working with the kids on a book called, The Seasons of Arnold's Apple Tree. It illustrated the changing seasons very well and the children were engaged in a multiple-day project to create a piece of artwork that reflected the change of seasons. We'd drawn the 'winter' tree previously and discussed how the trees were bare - no leaves. This, of course, led to one of my boys (Michael!) declaring that the tree was NAKED and the entire class erupting in gut-wrenching laughter. So on this, the following day, I tried to quickly review the winter tree before introducing the tree in spring. I quickly sketched the winter tree and one of the kids called out that this was the winter tree and another one said that it had no leaves and then....... of course....... somebody (Michael!) loudly declared that this tree was NAKED.

I worked quickly to add leaves to the tree, praying that their attention would stay on the tree and not the fact that the somebody (Michael!) had said the word, NAKED in front of God and everyone. It almost worked.

There were a few little laughs but I was adept and quickly drawing and talking and keeping their attention. But then... my little special girl suddenly stopped rocking and shouted out, spurred on by the word.

"YES! Mommy and daddy... they were in the van... and they were.....NAKED!"

I was shocked and tried to keep working. Marisa loudly declared "that's disgusting" and poor Lori had to bolt from the room because she was choking on coffee and spewing it everywhere. (Seriously. Everywhere.)

The kids collapsed in laughter and I did my best to restore order. Since I was using my "teacher look," most of them (except MICHAEL!) calmed down right away. I continued the lesson and frantically drew leaves on the spring tree. But my special little girl wasn't finished. Apparently, this word had layers of meaning.

"Yes! Mommy and daddy were NAKED! I kept seeing mommy's..........elbows!"

At this point I put down my marker and had to get up. Lori had re-entered the room at this point and was trying to maintain her composure. The kids were slapping their shins and my little special girl was happily rocking back and forth.

Lori and I were locked in a head-to-head embrace while Lori whispered, "Her mother would be so proud."

This of course, got US laughing which got the kids going into Round 2. But I had to step out when Lori continued, ".......kind of makes you wonder what she thinks 'elbows' are......."

The rest of the day is a blur. We must have completed the spring tree at some point and the spewed coffee got cleaned up and I couldn't look my little girl's mother in the face for several days after that.

I bolted to the other side of the room when my girl was dropped off my her mother. I wanted to shout, "THE VAN? Are you kidding me? You couldn't WAIT?" The VAN?"

But I didn't. I just laugh about it periodically again and again, especially when I hear the word, "naked."

You wanna know what my dad says?

2011-01-16T19:43:00.000-08:00

This story is prompted by the posting on Facebook of a clas picture from kindergarten class that will be graduating from high school next year. I got tagged in the photo and had fun naming all the kids and showing them to my new colleagues. Having your former students "find" you and "friend" you on Facebook, I think, is an honor. It means they remember you in a positive way. (That or they remember you lighting something on fire or sliding across the floor and landing on your butt. But I digress....

I had a principal at the time that I dearly loved. She was an outstanding leader. She respected me, shored me up, and joked around with me - a LOT. As the school year began, I noticed her walking around the outside of my classroom quite a bit during the morning drop-off. After a week or so, she asks me for "the scoop" on the father of one of my students. We both agreed that he was easy on the eyes. Then she peppered me with questions.

"Is he single? Does he have a girlfriend? What's the story?"

This line of questioning meant only one thing. I had to find these things out. I knew he was single because he'd told me he was raising the boy on his own. But I asked around and was told he had a gorgeous girlfriend who made the boy's lunch. It was not easy to tell my boss these things. Being a principal meant long hours and not a lot of time to scope out the local dating scene. I think she had her heart set.

So, a few days after I crushed my wonderful principal's hopes with this news, the boy is sitting with his classmates coloring something. I can't remember what it was, but the activity was part of a larger activity and means for me to begin pulling the kids to me individually in order to accomplish something more meaningful. But, first, I had to pick up scraps of paper off the floor. As I bent to do this, the boy, who was mischevious, articulate, funny, and quite the character, casually asked the boy next to him, "You wanna know what my dad says when he comes home from work?"

I didn't think much of this question since I am predisposed to believe all parents come home and ask relevant, probing, meaningful questions. As I continue to pick up paper, the boy asks his classmate again, "You wanna know what my dad says when he gets home?"

The other boy is rather shy and quiet. He doesn't know my little charmer very well and he refrains from answering. His Air Force father has him believing all kids shouldn't speak unless poked with a cattle prod. I don't think this admonition lasted very long.

Finally, my smiling boy raises his voice just a bit. "You WANNA KNOW WHAT MY DAD SAYS WHEN HE GETS HOME?"

Being one those kids willing to go along and get along, his table partner finally replies, "O.K. What does he say?"

Skipping only one beat as I am picking up the last of the paper scraps on the floor, the boy proudly exclaims: "You wanna have sex!?"

Since the other boy hasn't a clue about what his new friend is telling him, he doesn't say anything. I, however, am choking on the floor and trying to be nonchalant. I look up my little cherub, who is smiling at me quite proudly. I refrain from responding at all.

Instead, I walk to the newly-installed classroom phone and I call the principal.

"What do you want, Lingling?" she says. This is what she calls me. "Lingling" like the Chinese panda. I'm okay with it.

"You want to know what Mr. Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love says, first thing when he gets home?" I ask.

She pauses. "What?"

I am laughing and trying not to draw the attention of the kids. I lower my voice and try not to choke.

"He says... 'You wanna have sex?'"

Dead silence greets me on the other line. This is unusual since my wonderful principal is a talker. Non-stop, yak-yak. We tease her that the "all call" intercom system was installed so she could hear herself talk. She doesn't deny it.

But anyway. After the pause, she says, "Looks like you are going to have to call him."

"Um, NO," I reply. "This is the job of Administration. I have to teach. YOU call him."

She is firm. "No, Lingling... you call him tonight."

I protest but she reminds me that she is in charge and how in the world will I grow and develop if I don't take these risks and meet these challenges?

So after work, I arrive home, dreading the phone call. What do I say? I actually HAVE to use the sex word with a drop-dead good looking guy 10 years younger than me and I have to say it in my own home and not to my husband.

My kids are home so I go into the bedroom and place the call.

Mr. Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love answers the phone.

"Um. Hi. This is Mrs. L. Your boy's teacher."

"Uh oh," he says warily. "What did he do?"

Well. What to say, what to say?

"Um. Well... (I use his name.) You about 'life's little embarrassing moments?'" I ask.

"Yeah...." he answers slowly.

I take a deep breath. "Well. You had one today."

Their Last Conversation?

2010-12-27T13:31:00.000-08:00

My father-in-law, Bob, and his cousin, Aunt Trudy, are the children of first generation immigrants. Their parents came to America on a boat from Germany in the late 19th century and both grew up speaking German as a first language. They both claim to not remember German at all. English was the language of America it was demanded that they speak it. So they did.

Trudy remembers that her aunt, Bob's mother, was given a fresh tomato by somebody working on the boat. She was perplexed by this gift since she had never seen a tomato in her life. So, she threw it at him - thinking it a toy or a piece of a game.

Bob and Trudy were raised as siblings, which was common in those days of the Depression, when families saved money by living together and getting on each other's nerves. She had to take care of him but didn't mind too much. She put him in the buggy and volunteered to go the market, a daily task in those days of iceboxes and milk deliveries. While she was praised as being 'such a good girl' and taking care of the baby, she had an ulterior motive. The baby buggy could hold the groceries and she wouldn't have to carry the heavy bags back to the house. This girl was smart. The problem, according to her impatient father, was that she was a girl.

Aunt Trudy turned 100 on her last birthday. Bob had turned 87 a few weeks earlier. They had a habit of speaking to each other on the phone about once a week, talking about the same old things since nothing exciting happens in your house when you rarely leave it.

It has been apparent for a few years that Aunt Trudy is losing her memory and she finally allowed for live-in companions to keep her safe from heaters, matches, and stoves that won't turn off.

We thought Bob's old age meant a lot of crankiness. It has become shockingly apparent to us that it is much more than that. He is losing his mind in bits and pieces, coherent and mindful one minute and wandering the house and asking for his long-dead parents the next. It is worse at sundown, when he is constantly adjusting the heater, looking for bills that have already been paid, fixating on his calendar of names and dates, and trying to take out empty trash cans at 4:00 in the morning.

Aunt Trudy was a brilliant money manager who worked for the County of Los Angeles. She supervised 80 people and had the eyes of a hawk. She travelled extensively and could carry on a conversation with anybody about just about anything. The first time Aunt Trudy met my mother, they talked for 2 hours about shared memories of living in Hollywood - landmarks, stores, churches, and the famous people they saw. This they did while eating Chinese food at a South Pasadena eatery, with me wedged between them, my eyes going back and forth in this conversational tennis match.

Bob was a supervisor at Western Electric, the company he went to work for before he was drafted in World War II. At the end of the war, they calculated his back pay, gave him a raise, and welcomed him home. He retired after 42 years, disgusted by the lack of work ethic shown by younger, newer employees.

So I think about Aunt Trudy and Bob and I wonder about their weekly phone conversations. When was the last time they had a decent, coherent conversation? Was there a particular date in which all things were normal and then they weren't? When tangled memories meet, where do they overlap? Is there comfort in that? Bob would complain to me that Trudy was "losing it" one minute but brush her lapses off as "an act to get attention" the next.

They've known each other for 87 years, the one and only constant in each other's lives. She lived her first 13 years on the planet without him and then he was there and she reveled in the fact that his little strawberry-blond head fit "right there" in the crook of her shoulder. He was a bright spot in the dreary upbringing and heavy workload expected by immigrant parents.

At which point will that constant be lost? Where do those fleeting, treasured memories go? Can they be held onto for dear life? What happens when one of them forgets? What kind of heartbreak is that?

I wonder these things. I wonder about the cruelties of dementia and the stealing of somebody's mind.

I wonder about their last conversation.

Recollections of a Childhood Friend~

2010-12-12T20:11:00.000-08:00

When I was in the third grade I met my first-ever best friend. She was slow in coming to me but one day she arrived, standing in the door of Mrs. Fletcher's 3rd and 4th grade classroom, accompanied by the principal, a rather imposing woman by the name of Margaret MacDonald. I always swore to my mother that Mrs. MacDonald was in love with Mr. Dieter, the vice-principal, but mom wasn't convinced. "Then her name would be Mrs. Dieter," she said, discouraging my romantic fantasy about these two authority figures at Mingay Elementary School.

"I would like you to meet Debra Pats," Mrs. MacDonald said from the doorway, and my new best friend was led to a desk right next to mine. I was awestruck, to say the least.

I figured that it was MY fault Debra was there, because I had complained to Mrs. Fletcher only days before that I was the "only third grade girl" in the classroom. What power I yielded! Bill and Ruth Pack bought a house on Rose Street and answered my prayers for a best friend.

Of course, what Mrs. MacDonald really said was, "I would like you to meet Debra Pack," but I heard "Pats" and continued to believe that to be Debra's last name for quite awhile. I do believe I argued with Debra about the matter, but she took it in stride.

I had neighborhood friends, of course, but we were thrown together by proximity and the friendships of our parents. I liked them well enough, but Debra was a true friend who loved me no matter what I said or did.

Debra knew how to draw and had the most beautiful handwriting I'd ever seen. She admired mine but it was nothing compared to hers - flowy and wavy, with capital Ds that I tried to copy by the hour. She taught me to draw a horse's head, but I never quite got the body.

We became inspeparable. School ended at 2:50 and Debra and I would join hands and race home to her house to watch Dark Shadows. To say we loved that show would be an understatement. We recited plot lines, acted out entire scenes, and argued over who got to be Sarah Collins, the doomed younger sister of Barnabus, the vampire. The show started promptly at 3:00 and rushing home was critical. We devised methods for getting home faster - skipping sidewalk squares, jumping over squares adjacent to sprinklers, and whiplashing each other up Maple Street, across Jeffries, then past my street, Evergreen Street, and finally - Rose Street.

Debra and her sister Sherrie lived next door to Brian McGill. Brian was in our 4th grade class and played the guitar. We both loved him but Debra agreed to let me be the primary Brian admirer. Sherrie and Brian became addicted to the show that followed Dark Shadows, and new soap opera called One Life to Live. At first, we made fun of them but within a few weeks we were hopelessly hooked.

Early in the 4th grade, Debra had her appendix out and, not to be outdone, mine was removed a few months later. When Debra broke her arm, I was beside myself. Sheer terror kept me from hurling myself off the monkey bars, so I simply called up the Pack residence and announced that I had broken my arm.

The gig was up when I was picked up for an outing. Mr. Pack was driving and Debra and I were deposited in the backseat. Mrs. Pack turned around in her seat, faced me with a smile and said, "Now, Kim, what's this I hear about you breaking your arm?"

I gave poor Debra fits by correcting her spelling and calling her on all manner of errors. She retaliated by never mentioning my abyssmal abilities in math and always complimenting my endless attempts at creative writing.

My life was thrown into turmoil when Debra announced that her family was moving to Orange County. I was devastating and kept trying to argue her out of it. I remember when she stopped by to say goodbye. Mr. Pack overshot my house and Debra came to the door and we were at a loss for words. We promised to write.

I wish I had saved all our letters. We shared everything but a lack of transportation kept us from visiting each other over the years. We excitedly met at Disneyland for my high school's Grad Nite and had the best time. She came back with me on the bus and spent the night. My stepsister had borrowed my car the day before and left a cooler of beer in the back seat. Debra and I were awakened by my mother, screaming at me for having beer in my car.

I have always been sporadic about Christmas cards. Debra is devoted - sending new holiday newsletters each year, replete with family details and the latest research she has conducted into her family history and a nefarious missing link to the patriot Patrick Henry.

Last week I received a package in the mail. It was a signed a copy of Debra's book,
Unmarked Grave: Remembering an American Patriot. I read the book in 3 sittings. My friend's research is amazingly detailed and filled with historical antecdotes that do my history-major heart good. I grew to love these characters and was disappointed when the story ended.

Does my dear old friend know that I have been dabbling in genealogy over these many years and I also have a famous ancestor whose story I would love to tell? How could she know this? She is the one sending Christmas letters - I am the one reading the letters, intending to write back, and never making the time.

My friend wrote a book. I feel pride. I feel pangs. I need to write my own book. Luckily, I won't have to jump off monkey bars or get abdominal surgery.

Tonight I ran my finger over her name and chuckled at the mispelling of her maiden name. It should have read, "Pats."

Clubs~

2010-11-29T18:40:00.000-08:00

Today, during our word work study, I dicatated the word club and the kids began sounding it out and writing it down.

Several of the young spellers wanted to know what "club" meant. I explained that clubs are groups of people who tend to like the same things, like a bicycle club, a chess club, a service club, a car club, etc.

After a few seconds, Noah looks up and calls out, "MASSAGE CLUBS?"

Accidentally Overheard in First Grade~

2010-11-29T18:30:00.000-08:00

After lunch today, the first graders filed in and sat on the rug for one of their favorite times of the day: A read-aloud. Jenny picked up November, by Cynthia Rylant, selected because it provides closure for our Thanksgiving celebrations and sets the tone for our upcoming holiday festivities.

As Jenny reads, she models the 'text-to-self' connections between the story and her family's Thanksgiving celebration. The kids share their own connections and then Jenny carefully and quietly instructs them to open their journals and write down their connections. The kids get busy writing and everybody is on task for quite a while.

After about 20 minutes, Marcus comes up to Jenny with his closed journal. Jenny asks him if he is finished and he replies that, yes, he is done.

She asks him to read his Thanksiving writing to her and he hesitates.

"Uh, Miss Jenny?"

"Yes, Marcus," replies Jenny.

"Um. I, uh.... I uh..... Well. I ACCIDENTALLY wrote down whatever I wanted."

Nonie's Sewing Box~

2010-11-24T16:03:00.000-08:00

I finally bought a sewing machine. This purchase has been a long time in coming, put off by the confusing and pricey sewing machine displays at JoAnn's designed to make anybody who doesn't sew a little nervous.

What happened was this: My couch cushion needed repair. I bought some fabric and hunted around for somebody with a sewing machine to help me. Said machine owners were miles away, at work, or otherwise engaged. Discouraged, I went to Sears to buy an iron, which would allow me to repair the back of the couch with heat-activated adhesive. On my way to the iron display I saw it: A sewing machine on sale for $79.99! (My iron is missing. How does one lose an iron? I don't know. It's a mystery.)

So, I bought a sewing machine, determined to repair the couch cushion myself. It took me several hours to read the manual, thread the machine, and figure out the bobbin. (The latter still has me confused.)

Once the machine was ready, I cut the fabric for the repair and realized I needed pins. I looked in my paltry little sewing box, which is actually a re-purposed 1980s bacon storer from Tupperware. No pins! Picturing boxes of pins, I looked other places but the pins were in hiding.

Suddenly, I remembered. Nonie's sewing box has been sitting in my livingroom for several months now. If pins were to be had, they would be in Nonie's sewing box. I remember her little red pin cushion that looked like a tomato or a strawberry, and the balsa wood pin holder my father made her in Boy Scouts. Surely, they would be in the sewing box!

I opened the box and caught a whiff that I can only describe as Nonie, my grandmother who sewed like a professional and made Susan's and my clothes while we were in elementary school. They were beautiful clothes, frilly dresses, skirts, button-down shirts, and even pants. Nonie made us pajamas, pillows, bathrobes, and matching outfits.

The smell from the box was pure nostalgia. I could picture her. In the box there are needle packages from the 1950s, an array of thread, knitting needles, crochet hooks, packages of vintage snaps, and some mean-looking tools for affixing grommets. For a minute I just touched the things she touched - and remembered.

Alas, there are no pins to be had, so I used needles to hold my potential cushion seems together. They worked well and I think Nonie would have been proud.

But... I still need an iron.

Test Tube Trials~

2010-11-24T15:14:00.000-08:00

In my ongoing attempt to be a better teacher of science, I bought two packages of test tubes from Steve Spangler Science. These sturdy little tubes are actually 2-liter soda bottles, before they are blown up by extreme heat and filled with soda.

Our first classroom experiment involved colored water and vegetable oil, an exploration of the density of liquids. The kids were most impressed by the food coloring diffusing through the measuring cup of water, I think, than the actual travel of the colored water through the vegetable oil to settle at the bottom of the test tube.

The kids dutifully took the test tubes home and explained to their families what the experiment was about. Accompanying each test tube was a hand-labeled diagram of the whole process, our attempt to be "scientific" and "document things like scientists."

About half the young scientists returned the test tubes, despite my wheedling, cajoling, and elevated nagging. We piled them in the bathroom sink at school for washing. And this is where the adventure begins.

The attempts to wash the test tubes in the sink with scented handsoap were unsuccessful. So, I piled the oily lot of them into a basket and took them home, where they sat for a couple days in my school bag. Yesterday, I dumped them all into a sink filled with hot water and dishwashing liquid, where I let them soak while I did other things.

That didn't work. The tubes remained oily and I was perplexed. I switched the tubes to the other sink with a fresh batch of really hot water and more liquid dish soap. That didn't work either.

After a couple hours of unsuccessful soaking, I decided to add some bleach. Clorox is the mainstay of my deep housecleaning. If bleach can't clean out that oil, I figured, nothing can!

Well, I am here to tell you that trusty Clorox did not do the trick. The test tubes remained oily and my kitchen smelled toxic. After rinsing out the now-sparkling sink and still-oily test tubes, I began pondering what I always use to clean icky messes. The answer came in a flash: Cleanser.

"Cleanser won't work," Dan said, when he saw me sprinkling the sink full of test tubes. I added water, ignored Dan, and waited for the cleanser to de-grease these obnoxious test tubes. I dutifully waited a couple of hours, allowing the trusty cleanser to do its dirty work.

The cleanser was a huge disappointment. Not only did the test tubes remain oily, they were now covered with a film of oily cleanser. Big ick factor here!

Dan is a huge fan of Pine Sol. He suggested I try soaking the tubes in his favorite floor cleaner and see if the "fresh pine scent" would do the trick. Pine Sol always reminds me of public restrooms, but I agreed to try. Not only did it NOT work, it didn't work overnight, and my whole kitchen smelled like a public restroom.

I asked Dan to pick up some dishwashing soap that cuts grease, like Dawn. He came back with Simple Green, which made no sense until he explained that it was the only cleaner he could find that actually promises to cut grease.

Simple Green's label lies. I scrubbed out each tube with a toothbrush to tackle the patina of cleanser and then gave up. The offending scientific tools sit in my dish drainer, oily as ever.

Our next scientific adventure will entail dry ingredients only.

Hebrew School~

2010-06-23T10:51:00.000-07:00

This is a bonafide transcript of a conversation I had early one spring morning, before my first cup of coffee.

Me: "So, Juliet, how was Hebrew school?

Juliet: "Fine."

Me: "How did you do?"

Juliet: "Fine."

Emily: "How did I do?"

Me: "When, Emily?"

Emily: "At Hebrew school."

Me: "How did you do at Hebrew school, Emily?"

Emily: "I don't go to Hebrew school."

All Tied Up ^~^

2010-06-23T10:31:00.001-07:00

Walking up the stairs from lunch one spring day, Jenny notices that one of our first graders is missing. She asks the boys at the end of the line, "Where is Azariah?"

Dylan: "He's tied."

Jenny: "Tied?"

Nathan: "Tied up."

Jenny and I exchange glances.

Dylan: "It's okay. He likes it."

Writerly Wregret and the Lizard Story~

2010-06-23T10:02:00.000-07:00

I have been remiss this school year in keeping up with my blog. It isn't that I haven't been writing, but most of my commentary, reflections, and anecdotes have been sent via eMail or posted on Facebook. This has left my blog a bit bereft.

It is a sad thing to lose those precious "writerly moments" that provide the grist for my writerly mill. My task today, at various times, will be to dig these things up and report them here, where they really belong. Otherwise they get lost.

I am reminded of the Lizard Story. It took place back in 2003, with my first T-1 (transitional first grade) class at Wilsona School. We were walking to lunch and passed by a stretch of overgrown bushes that provided shelter for a variety of critters, including an extremely fat lizard.

My students looked forward to the possibility of finding this lizard each time we filed past, on our way to somewhere else. Occasionally, they were rewarded, but usually, the lizard remained incognito.

On this day of the Lizard Story, the lizard was in the shade, under the bush, and very still. The kids located him and some very funny exchanges ensued. I know they were funny because I raced back to class and immediately and wrote the story down in the form of an eMail that I sent out to everybody I could think of at the time. This meant less time for lunch, but a great story is a great story.

My friends and family howled at the Lizard Story. I received many accolades, including a message from my father advising me to keep track of these stories. I took his advice - but too late for the Lizard Story.

My friend Ann reminded me of the Lizard Story after I began my blog. She said it was hysterical and that I simply MUST include it. She, however, didn't save it. She meant to - but she didn't. One of my favorite professors said she saved all my messages in a folder, but for some reason she couldn't locate the Lizard Story either.

I remember asking my dad by eMail and he replied that yes, he recalled the story. He even chuckled. But, he didn't save it and he couldn't recall exactly which kid said what and when with regard to this lizard. He could only recall that the story was very funny. The timing, he said, was impeccable.

There are two fat lizards that live in my backyard right now, tormenting Eadie at every opportunity. They flip her the bird and scurry up the wall, out of her reach, and then just... sit there. When I see them, I get annoyed about my lost Lizard Story all over again.

So there was this lizard under the bush and the kids looked forward to finding it each time they walked past the bush. I remember that Justin wanted to catch the lizard but the other kids were against it. Somebody said something and somebody else said something else and half the kids were flat on their bellies on the cement when they were supposed to be filing into the cafeteria for lunch.

It's kind of like retelling a joke and messing up the punchline.

An Alarming StorY~

2009-09-26T10:19:00.001-07:00

Like most places of business and the majority of public and private schools, my new school has an alarm system. It wasn’t installed right away, which was a good thing considering how many people were in and out of the building during the last of our construction stage and the chaos that was euphemistically called “moving in.”

Setting up a school is a herculean feat on its own, but building a school from scratch is certainly not for the faint of heart, weak of spirit, or those lacking physical and emotional stamina. Our “moving in” phase was punctuated by ever-changing plans, diaphanous rules and regulations, and communication that resembled a six-pack of rubber bullets flying around a padded room.

To say that most of the school’s staff has worked 12-15 hour days, plus weekends, over the past 6 weeks would not be an exaggeration. Opening the school on time meant hitting the ground running – then sprinting to keep caught up and quickly changing courses in order to avoid the hurdles that suddenly materialized from a very dynamic sideline.

So maybe the alarm system was casually noticed. It made sense that we would have one and that it would actually work. Ours was installed about the same time as the fire alarm. Those of us working during the fire alarm’s “testing” phase have a permanent loss of hearing in both ears and lost the ability to smell anything sweet for two days.

The school’s excellent administrative assistant, who could run the school with both hands tied behind her back and duct tape around her ankles, hunted down almost everybody and passed out room keys, door keys, and signatures on alarm codes. She was so stealthy about it that many employees forgot they talked to her and can’t remember giving her a code, signing a paper, or collecting keys. Yet – they have keys, their signatures are on the dotted line, and codes were collected. Since it was during that hellishly busy “moving in” time, it is no wonder some people don’t remember the whole exchange. Caffeine, physical exhaustion, and drywall dust will do that to you, I suppose. (Anybody ever find that Allen wrench?)

Somehow, we got an alarm installed right under our noses. At an unclear point after the first week of school, it was activated. And, for kicks and giggles, they changed the classroom door locks at the same time. The reasoning behind the latter action is still rather nebulous but we dutifully exchanged our still-shiny “old” keys for “new” keys.

Teachers attempting to enter the school that first weekend immediately, with much fanfare and ear-splitting cacophony, set off the alarm. And since the “new” keys hadn’t been handed out yet, they couldn’t enter their classrooms anyway.

The next morning, two of the school’s finest teachers had the temerity to show up for work at 7am. Unaware of the alarm issue, they immediately jolted the entire adjacent community awake with the shriek of an ear-splitting alarm. Unable to access their classrooms, they stood there for 20 minutes attempting to make the noise stop. They took turns putting in their own codes and then, giving up, attempted to figure it out by punching in every numerical combination that anybody and their mother could have come up with on short notice during what we euphemistically called “moving in” time.

Nothing worked. Several more teachers arrived. Their codes didn’t work either. Two of them went for coffee, apologizing to any and all business people gathering on the sidewalk to observe a cluster of well-educated human beings attempt to look non-descript amid the shrieking of the world’s loudest alarm.

Now, remember that I mentioned that the security and fire alarms were installed around the same time? Well, (you’re going to laugh about this one, really….) the keypad for the FIRE ALARM was put right next to the door. So, the stunned and rather shell-shocked teachers were desperately trying to turn off the security system with the keypad for the FIRE ALARM. Who’d a-thunk it? It seems that the security keypad is in THE HALLWAY and the FIRE ALARM keypad is next to the door! Funny, huh?

All that frantic pounding of the fire alarm keypad got the attention of the local fire station. I didn’t actually see or hear any firefighter personnel, but word on the street was they weren’t too pleased. Morning coffee at the firehouse is so much calmer when local schools aren’t playing with their fire alarms.

I must point out that one of the teachers frantically called the school’s director, principal, head custodian, building manager, construction supervisor, a yoga instructor, and her mother. By the time the coffee-bearing teachers returned, the situation was under control, replacement keys were being issued, frowning sheriff’s deputies were being placated, and the teachers were sprinting for their classrooms. Full hearing in their ears didn't return for several hours.

Let’s fast-forward to the end of the same week. It is a Friday and the school’s first International Day Celebration is over. The building is looking more and more like a school now, with forgotten backpacks, snack wrappers, and bits of construction paper all over the floor. Somebody’s first graders went through the back hallway and rocked it like a hurricane. Reminder notices for an upcoming fundraiser are taped to the walls.

Teachers have worked late into the afternoon and, with the dinner hour soon approaching, the first grade teachers decide to wrap up their planning and quickly pick up the chunks of child detritus that might be deemed a safety concern. Around 5pm, these teachers hear what was described later as “a funny noise.” Is that the alarm, they ask each other. No, it couldn’t be. We are still here. We are making noise. Our lights are on. Our staff children are still roaming the halls, looking for food, drink, and anything remotely interesting to do while parents continue to work in hot classrooms and stuffy offices. “Just a little while longer,” the children are promised.

Several teachers are hunched over their desks and one is killing a sapling at the copier. Two office staffers are trying to reach bottom on their work surfaces. The remaining staff children have are now shoeless and have given up running the halls. They stretch horizontally on the floor, praying for dinner, green grass, the family pet, a soft couch, and a video game.

Around 6pm, the aforementioned first grade teachers load up their matching red bags, sling purses and backpacks over their hunched shoulders, and chat as they exit the building. What do you suppose happened?

YES! The blasting of the world’s loudest alarm could be heard at the local park when these teachers exited the building. Everybody within a 5 mile radius is now aware that two slacker-teachers left the building at 6pm while other school employees continued to work. The working employees, slightly hunched over with fatigue, are jolted upright as their world explodes into a range of decibels that would make Guns n’ Roses proud. The culprits, finding a burst of energy they didn’t know existed, race back into the building. One searches frantically for the correct keypad while the other one, who paid attention at some point and figured out where it was, attempted to enter her code. “Put in your code,” she says. “Mine doesn’t work.”

The second teacher enters the code and the shrieking stops. Both teachers stare at the keypad. It has a message. Something about an exit window. Despite being college-educated, they are unsure what this means. Thinking they disarmed the system they leave again. Guess what? YES! The alarm does its job and warns all diners at the local eateries that somebody is trying, once again, to escape the school.

The teachers run back to the keypad and the scenario is repeated.

The first teacher is beginning to suspect that something else needs to be done. After her partner enters the code, the teachers bolt from the building and into the parking lot. All is quiet.

Words about the reasoning capabilities of anybody who would set an alarm in a building still occupied by working people are exchanged. There is laughter about the whole ridiculousness of the episode and the jangled nerves of the remaining staff.

It may be reasonable to assume that the alarm sets itself automatically. Maybe that noise everybody pondered around 5pm was the alarm magically setting itself. After all, the classroom air conditioners shut themselves off around 4:00. Do they belong to the same union?

All those ricocheting rubber bullets have to stop at some point. The one labeled “alarm” has been snatched from the air and attached to a key ring. Using deductive reasoning and the power of “discovery learning,” the local community can rest assured that the comings and goings of their local charter school will no longer disturb the peace.

On Monday morning, we will deliver coffee to the local firehouse.

Mulling Mosquitos

2009-06-29T14:20:00.000-07:00

The only fly in the hiking oinment isn't a fly at all. It's even more irritating: A mosquito! Using the singular term is misleading because these gosh-awful life forms rarely travel alone. They sign up for tours of duty and head out in packs.

I am an environmentalist and love all animals and the vast majority of the Earth's life forms. I have a "live and let live" philosophy about annoying and dangerous creatures like Black Widow spiders, alligators, venomous snakes, and mosquitos. I leave them alone, they leave me alone. It is a good philosophy.

I am also altruistic. If a small creature needs a bit of blood from me in order to survive, hey - I will share! I donate blood for mankind, why not animals?

Mosquitos hum loudly and this is most annoying. But what is worse is when they bite, it itches! It itches to distraction and won't stop itching for days and days!

Mosquitos should take lessons from vampire bats. These little bats inject an anesthetic that makes their presence and feeding virtually unknown to the host. They daintily lap up the blood they need, then leave well enough alone. No pain, no irritating buzz, no "in your face" swarming, and no itching!

But mosquitos did not pay attention to this most excellent model, which makes them the scourge of outdoor enthusiasts everywhere.

Wanting a good hike with mosquitos in the mix requires the use of a good repellent. "Natural" repellents do little good except tick the mosquito off. And DEET is hazardous enough to kill small animals, cause blindness, and make all exposed epidermis toxic. The warning label is enough to cause a serious gulp before application.

Mosquitos are an intricate part of the food web and many species of birds, fish, and other animals dine on the humming hordes without leaving a tip. I just wish the mosquito eaters would do a better job before I get there.

Buzzing Flies~

2009-06-18T13:11:00.000-07:00

The warmer weather, with all its blessings and sunshine, brings flies.

And unless you are religiously diligent in picking up the "leavings" of four very digestively-active dogs, there are more flies.

We have a doggy door that has stood us in good stead for the past six years, but the plastic flap that seals the opening no longer seals properly and the flies consider this an Open House invitation. Finding a replacement flap has not been easy AT ALL. The company's website offers a variety of flaps, but none of them have the precise measurements needed to replace THIS flap. But that is beside the point right now.

So, in come the flies.

I like to stun the flies with a good swatm then let Augie Doggie finish them off. In his prime, Augie could catch a fly IN MID-AIR and with one snap, dispatch it and add protein to his diet. He was so good at it that captive audiences would throw coins into his dog dish.

Eadie, my newest rescue, is pretty good at it but she is not as fast as Augie and rarely makes a mid-air catch. So, my stunning them gives her a sort of “affirmative action” advantage in the fly-catching department. No accolades for her though; we use the "abused puppy" excuse in explaining away her obvious deficiencies in this area.

As part of my kitchen décor, I had a vintage mustard yellow fly swatter that dated from the fifties at least. I like it – it was quite the find. One can go years prowling antique stores and never find an actual flyswatter from back in the days of I Love Lucy and The Patty Duke Show. (Notice how they never had flies in those shows?)

I was more than a tad annoyed to find my husband vigorously killing flies with it one afternoon. This was not a flyswatter to be USED, it was a flyswatter to look at and admire. He got fly guts all over it and I had to wash it. For some reason, this was a source of amusement for him, but sometimes you just can't understand men. This adtrocity continued on a regular basis because he claimed that he just couldn't find a modern flyswatter when he went to the market.

But the worst travesty was yet to come when I noticed one day that HALF the vintage flyswatter was MISSING. I tried to keep my temper, I really did. But this was a piece of history, recklessly sacrificed as a direct result of an ill-fitting doggy door and a pet door company negligent in its duties to provide appropriate replacement flaps.

I gritted my teeth and remembered the "for better and for worse" part in the marriage ceremony. I measured my words and basically accused him of a crime tantamout to treason. My dear husband then informed me that one of the dogs, (“YOUR GRAND DOG”) had gotten a hold of it and took off running like a hound out of hell. "MY GRANDDOG" managed to chew off half the swatter part before the historical piece was rescued.

It isn't so much the flies themselves that bother me - it is the incessent buzzing. If flies could just fly around without the droning noise, I wouldn't be compelled to supplement my dogs' diet with extra protein or, in a fit of annoyance at the loss of my mustard-colored vintage flyswatter, smack them into smithereens.

Meanwhile, MY GRANDDOG chews on pinecones, Augie rests by the ill-fitting flap awaiting a tasty morsel, Eadie sleeps next to the couch, and get to go get the shovel.

Dreams Stashed Behind the Couch~

2009-06-13T13:07:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a dream about Glen Campbell. Why I would dream about Glen Campbell is a mystery I am pondering.

I know the man’s work and sporadically watched his television show as a kid, probably because my dad liked him. I can remember how he sang the words to Gentle on my Mind so fast that I messed up the lyrics. I thought the guy was sleeping behind some girl’s couch (“… that makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind your couch,” became “thatmakesmetend to leave my sleeping..back..…behind your couch.”)

The reason this dream sticks with me is because Glen Campbell came out on a stage and, and in my dream state, I stood right next to it, over it, seeing all – the omniscient player. He began singing while “stashed” behind some rolled up cloth that I now realize must have been the sleeping bag. He quickly came out, still singing, and darted behind a container of Clorox wipes. There were two Matchbook-type cars on the stage. One of them had to be held and wound up for speed by holding onto the car and revving the wheels. The other one was larger. In the dream, Glen Campbell was able to make these cars do tricks and the audience, such as it was, applauded. But here is the important part. He sang a song that I have never heard before. It rhymed perfectly and told a snippet of a story from his childhood, in which he was never allowed to utter the name “Glen,” and had to be called “Jack.” It was a sad song, really, and touched me emotionally.

I immediately connected, during my deconstruction of this dream sequence, that my great-great uncle was named Reginald John Campbell. He was called “R.J.” or “John” his whole life. I don’t think he was ever called “Jack,” but I think I need to find out. It sounds reasonable, since his father's name was John. The Very Reverend R.J. Campbell was the Alex P. Keaton of his day because he was the stalwart Anglican priest born to a minister and his wife in Northern Ireland. That minister, John Campbell, listed himself as a “free Methodist” on his son’s birth registry. This means that John, as a minister of a break-away sect, fathered a son who went back to the family’s religious roots, which were much more conservative. This is like Steve and Elise Keaton, of Family Ties, raising Alex P., played by Michael J. Fox, a staunch right-wing Republican who always wore a shirt and tie.

Recently, I saw a magazine interview of Michael J. Fox, who played Alex P. Keaton, on Family Ties. Fox, as you probably know, suffers from Parkinson’s Disease, the disease that eventually killed my Uncle Bob. Uncle Bob met the very Reverend R.J. Campbell at some point in his early marriage to my auntie Joycie – who was, you guessed it – a Campbell by birth.

Now, Michael J. Fox also reminds me of my father, who whose mother, my grandmother, was born a Campbell. She saved several of R.J. Campbell’s letters written during WWII and later. I have these letters and treasure them. My father was J. Michael, not Michael J., but the strange thing is that my father was in one of these dream sequences, as a young man, carefully laying out some clothes. He was wearing a carefully ironed shirt and tie. He looked back at me and smiled – he was slender and young, looking like he did when I was a child.

The fact that Glen Campbell came out in this dream is a puzzle until I remember that I was watching and listening to a television music channel very briefly last night and one of the artists featured was Tanya Tucker. There were several pictures of Tanya Tucker flashed upon the screen – two when she was younger and one as she looks now. I swear that I did not make ONE connection to the fact that she used to hang out with Glen Campbell and shared an addiction to alcohol with him. I was not thinking about that at all – only the fact that Tanya Tucker was 16 when she released her first album and that I went out and bought it because she was my age. There is another connection, though, that brings this thing full circle – my father spent his entire life addicted to alcohol. Go figure.

It gets better. My Uncle Bob and Auntie Joycie had two sons and Rob, the eldest, posted on Facebook yesterday that he was visiting wine country this weekend. Rob’s middle name is Norman. He was named for his grandfather, my great grandfather, Norman Campbell. And guess what? Norman T. Campbell had a little problem with alcohol.

My father’s music tastes were eclectic but I don’t remember him having any Glen Campbell albums. But he did watch Glen Campbell’s show and would make comments about Bobby Goldsboro, who always sat next to Glen and played guitar. My dad thought Bobby was equally talented and voiced this opinion often. Bobby is, of course, short for Robert – like my Uncle Bob. And the name Campbell? I didn’t made THAT connection until I began writing all of this down.

During a sequence of this very strange dream, I picked up an armful of grass that had been mowed and was piled on a lawn. I proceeded to call the names of graduates and then hand them “leaves of grass” instead of a diploma. There was much consternation among the graduates but approval from Glen Campbell’s audience. I told them that handing out “leaves of grass” was MY IDEA. Of course, in the dream, I don’t remember saying anything about leaves of grass and Walt Whitman and the gift of poetry. That connection came later, as I attempted to deconstruct this dream.

Where did this idea come from, I pondered, since I don’t own any books by Walt Whitman or know any of his poetry except the Leaves of Grass title. I am reading a book about the history of reading, so perhaps the link is there since Whitman was a popular poet back in the 19th Century.

But here’s a connection, one I didn’t make until a few minutes ago as I straightened some books lent to me by a friend. Yesterday I considered one of these titles for future reading. What is the title? You won’t guess: Falling Leaves. (Get OUT!)

The very Reverend Reginald John Campbell would have been a Canon in the Church of England, but was denied this promotion because he went off on a tangent for awhile with some wacky theology. He eventually returned to the fold, but his penance, I suppose, was to remain the very reverend and retiring with a smaller pension. He wrote books. His brother, my great-great grandfather, James Johnston Campbell, was a writer. His books remain on a shelf in my father's library. He often referred to himself as "Jimmy," which lends credence to the idea that R.J. might have used the name "Jack."

What any of this has to do with Glen (Jack) Campbell and his magnificently lost song – the one I can’t remember – remains a mystery.

As a kid, I would flop belly down behind my grandmother’s couch and pore over a volume of British history. I looked for the exciting parts, like tower imprisonments and bloody executions. In my subconscious mind, I suppose, is the connection to Glen Campbell, who slept behind some woman’s couch in my childish mind’s eye, ever Gentle on my Mind.

James and the Giant Tooth~

2009-05-09T11:31:00.000-07:00

On Thursday, James had me at my wits' end. Knowing how short my wits are lately, he alone has the capability of finding them, nudging them, and stomping on them with his high-top black Converse tennis shoes. (The ones he takes off. In class.)

James joined my class last month. He has never been in school before and lacks all the social graces and academic finesse one would expect of a kindergartener at this time of year.

James has the patience of a gnat and the processing skills of .... let's see. I need a good analogy here. Suffice to say that James does not readily process ANYTHING YOU SAY to him in a timely fashion. Unless the response you give him involves dropping everything to replace a lost shoe, tie an errant lace, or be at his beck and call, he simply doesn't "hear" it.

James has cerebral palsy on his right side. Instead of fitting him with a shoe that will properly support his turned in foot, his mother laces up a pair of black
Converse high tops, which James promptly messes with and removes several times a day. Replacing this shoe involves unlacing the whole damn thing and shoving his poor twisted foot deep into the bowels of it, and praying that your efforts will result in the shoe remaining ON for the rest of the day.

When the shoe comes off or, in most cases, is removed by James, he will caterwaul and carry on in a fashion designed to send even the most patient of saints towards
the fava beans and nice chianti.

"TEACHER! TEACHER! TEACHER! FIX MY SHOE! MY SHOE CAME OFF!MY SHOE CAME OFF! TEACHER FIX MY SHOE! MY SHOE!"

This is repeated until the other children have covered their ears and dived under tables for safety. This, I presume, is the result of my careful Earthquake training.
When they add "stop, drop, and roll," I will be officially ready for retirement.

You can reassure James that you will "get to this shoe" as soon as you are damned good and ready, but all he processes is the word "shoe," coupled with a tone of voice that communicates to him that you are not ABOUT to stop what you are doing to spend 5 solid minutes replacing a shoe THAT HE TOOK OFF IN THE FIRST PLACE.

So, on Monday, James lost his first tooth. It was quite the experience for him. It was emotional, full of blood, and demands that I call an ambulance. I put the tooth into a little tooth necklace and convinced him to put the whole thing into his backpack for safekeeping.

On Thursday, James lost another tooth. I repeated the procedure with the tooth necklace but this time, James insisted on keeping it around his neck.

After many admonitions to leave his tooth alone,and NOT OPEN THE LITTLE TOOTH CONTAINER I CAREFULLY TAPED SHUT AND PUT AROUND HIS NECK WITH A CAREFUL LITTLE SQUARE KNOT, James interruped a beautiful rendering of "The Whales," by Cynthia Rylant.

Y'all KNOW how I feel about Cynthia Rylant. The kids were DEAD QUIET for once and actually enthralled by this book.It was - it was - dare I say it? A teaching MOMENT! They were in the palm of my hand and Rylant's carefully chosen words, complete with "feathers in a sky...." and "the rose being lost on them."

And what does James the now-front-toothless wonder do? HE starts SCREAMING AT ME.

"TEACHER! I can't find my tooth!"

And does he say it once and let it go so we can try to solve the problem!? NO! He begins that James-Caterwaul, repetively screaming it while I lower the book and say
something profound about James and his MOST OUTSTANDING LISTENING SKILLS.

Moment? Rylant Moment? HUH? (nnnnyeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrr! pffft!)

Did we find the lost tooth? Yes - it was next to the block pile. Everybody in class was on their hands and knees, searching for the lost tooth. You can imagine how quiet and peaceful it was in kindergarten right then. They found paper clips, some loose staples, and an old sticker, too.

Did James use the tooth, safely encased back into his tooth necklace, as a castanet during the rest of the reading? Why, YES, he did! (How did you know?)

And what did I find after the kids left that day?

1. An open plastic tooth container, empty of tooth.

2. A lime green plastic strand of filament, used to fasten
tooth containers into necklaces and tied around little...
NECKS. (grit teeth when you say that word. NECKS.)

3. A bit o' tape, affixed to outside of James's cubby.

4. The tail end of one of my wits.

;-)K

The Recalcitrant Door~

2009-05-03T10:35:00.000-07:00

On Friday, the kids and I noticed that we couldn't properly close the back door that leads into the classroom from the playground. All attempts to pull it shut resulted in the door swinging right back out. This caused quite the uproar since a recalcitrant door is not within the realm of usual kindergarten experiences. So, the kids practically dogpiled each other to get at the door and properly close it. After all, if I can't close the door, they reason, surely one of them can!

I redirected them and eventually we got down to the brass tacks of reading The Teeny Tiny Woman for the 17th time this week. Shouting "GIVE ME MY BONE!" quickly took their minds off the door that would not properly close.

Later that afternoon, after Julie and I put away the tricycles, we entered my classroom using the recalcitrant door.

"Your door won't close," said Julie.

"I know," I replied. "It started acting up today."

She examined the door from the outside and then from the inside before pronouncing that if the door won't close, the alarm can't be set, and this could be a huge problem.

We bent over to examine the door frame and the metal plate that holds the prongs that come from the doorknob.

"Look," said Julie, wiggling the plate, "this is loose." She began using her keys in an attempt to tighten the loose screws.

"Maybe we should get a screwdriver," I suggested. But Julie was successful with her door key. Since all jobs require just the right tool, she carefully tightened the loose screws.

Alas, having a screw loose wasn't the recalcitrant door's problem. It still wouldn't close. As before, it immediately popped back open when we pulled it shut.

"Hmmm," said Julie.

"Yeah. Hmmm," I answered.

We looked closely at all the scrapes, holes, and gouges up and down the door frame. It is an old door frame, so these imperfections are to be expected. There are probably marks on that door frame that go back to the 1950s. They are practically vintage.

"Check this out," I said, running my fingers along two particularly nasty looking horizontal gouges along the frame, adjacent to the metal plate Julie repaired.

"Wow!" answered Julie, running her own fingers in the grooves. "This looks like somebody tried to break in!"

"Oh my gosh! Yeah, it does," I replied, quickly looking around the room.

"Is anything missing?" Julie asked, looking alarmed. We looked at each other. This was not good.

"I don't think so, but who knows," I replied, turning my attention to the door itself. I began pushing on those protruding things that match the metal plate and are supposed to fit inside it when you close the door. They bounced back, which was a good thing. They were in working order.

"Hmmm," said Julie.

"Yeah. Hmmmm," I answered.

We pulled the door shut again and watched to see if we could get the metal door prongs into the hole in the metal doorplate.

"Oh, look," said Julie, "that's where the gouges come from."

It was clear that years of vigorously being pulled shut caused the gouges on the side of the door frame, two violent-looking parallel indentations. No attempted break-in, after all.

We gazed up - to the top of the door, noting that the door didn't shut up there either.

"Is Gary here?" Julie asked, referring to our trusty custodian who can fix just about anything.

"I don't think so," I said. "I think he's gone home for the day."

"Hmmm," said Julie.

"Yeah. Hmmm," I answered.

"Well," I said, after a pause. "I better tell Laura about this. She won't be able to alarm the building. She may have to call Gary and have him come back in."

"On a Friday night?" asked Julie. "Will he do that?"

"Yeah," I said with certainty, as if I knew for sure. "He will. He's a good guy."

"Okay," said Julie, walking towards her own classroom. "We tried. At least we tried."

"Yeah. We tried," I said, heading for the front door to find Laura, our night custodian. She is usually easy to spot since she pushes around a cart the size of a Fiat, loaded with buckets and mops and other large cleaning objects.

I located Laura across the Quad, in front of the first grade rooms. "Hey Laura," I called, "I need to let you know something!"

Laura emerged from one of the classrooms, holding a cleaning rag and looking at me inquisitively. Since I usually don't track her down to tell her important things, her curiosity was aroused.

"My classroom door won't close. Julie and I tried and tried. I just want you to know in case there is trouble with the alarm tonight."

"Which door is it?" asked Laura, heading for her cart.

"The back door," I reported.

I described in detail for Laura the problem of the recalcitrant door. She nodded, the grabbed a broom. We walked back towards my classroom. I wondered about the broom and worried that she might bang it on something to make the door close.

"Julie and I thought maybe somebody tried to break in," I said breathlessly, "But we realized it was just marks from the door lock thingy - hitting the doorframe. Then, Julie fixed the loose door plate with her room key," I added. "We really tried to fix this and not bother you," I said with pride and enthusiasm.

Laura said nothing.

"Since Gary isn't here, I thought it best to let you know," I said, as we entered my classroom from the front door. "We don't want any alarm trouble tonight. Do you think we need to call him? Or can somebody from maintenance come over?"

Laura didn't say anything. She approached the door and pushed it open, then looked down at the door jamb, where the door meets the threshhold. There was a rock, sitting right against the threshhold, effectively blocking the closure of the door.

Laura expertly wielded her broom and swept away the offending object. Then she pulled the door closed. It stayed that way.

My embarrassment was complete. To her credit, Laura only smiled, and opened the door again to sweep away some sand, pebbles, and chalk dust.

"Oh GAWD Laura... I am so sorry," I mumbled, unable to look her in the eye.

Julie came over and stood next to me. "Did you fix it?" she asked Laura. "What was wrong with it?"

Laura said nothing. She just smiled and finished her sweeping, then grinned at me and left the room.

"It was a rock. A boulder, really," I said, shuffling my feet and feeling quite stupid.

"A rock?" asked Julie. "Just a rock?"

"Yeah."

"Hmmm," said Julie, turning around to leave.

"Yeah," I replied. "Hmmm."

James and the Lost Tooth

2009-05-01T18:40:00.001-07:00

Today, James came to school with a look of consternation on his face. Something was up and I knew that in due time, I would hear all about it.

Sure enough, as soon as we started our Morning Meeting and began a lively discussion about our brand-new month of May, James blurted out, "TEACHER! My tooth is loose!"

The kids quickly abandoned the brand-new month of May and gathered around to peer inside James's mouth.

"Wiggle it," commanded Jovana.

"Yeah - wiggle it!" said Clinton.

I asked James if I could see his tooth and, sure enough, it was quite loose.

"Wow, James!" I said, "a loose tooth! How cool is that?"

I redirected the students and we were able to continue work on our calendar. We began a discussion of upcoming events and the number of days left in school. James continued to wiggle his tooth.

We began singing about the months of the year and then James interrupted us with a huge caterwaul and proclaimed that his tooth was BLOODY. He showed everybody two of his fingers, fresh from the inside of his mouth, glistening with wet spitty blood.

"Yes, James," I said calmly, "teeth will bleed when they are very loose." I asked the children to share out how many of them had lost teeth and how many had experienced blood. They all agreed that losing teeth was a bloody affair.

James was not convinced and stared at his fingers. I got him a tissue and told him he could use it to staunch the blood flow.

"Wipe your fingers, James," I said, trying once again to regain the students' attention and take notice of our brand new month and to begin counting down the days left in school.

"Teacher!" demanded James. "It's still bleeding!"

"Yes, James," I said, "it will do that for awhile. Just wiggle it and it will come out."

He looked alarmed. "YOU DO IT," he said, standing up.

"You want ME to pull out your tooth, James?" I asked.

James nodded very seriously.

"Are you sure?" I said, "maybe your mom will want to do this."

"No. YOU do it," said James.

The kids, sensing an event of great importance, gathered around and demanded that James open his mouth for consultation. There were many "ooohs" and "aaaahs" as the kids determined that YES, indeed, James had a loose tooth and TEACHER should definitely pull it out. Several of the students began telling old war stories about their own tooth-loss experiences. James's eyes widened a bit.

I pulled out a fresh tissue and asked James if he was sure. He nodded gravely. I approached his mouth with my tissued hand and he promptly leaned backward with alarm in his eyes.

"James," I said patiently, "if you want me to pull it out, I have to grab a hold of it."

He looked thoughtful, eyes still wide with concern, and then opened his mouth.

"Okay," he said.

I approached again. "Will it hurt?" he asked plaintively.

"Yes. A little bit." I put my thumb and forefinger together and indicated a space of about half a centimeter. "It will hurt this much."

James considered again and decided to go for it.

I used the tissue and expertly grasped the tooth and gave it a good yank. Out popped the tooth and the kids clammered around to get a good look.

"He's BLEEDING," yelled Carlos.

"Yeah, Teacher! He's bleeding!" shouted Justin and Manuel.

I instructed James to put the tissue in his mouth while I dug up a little tooth container. I snapped the container closed after depositing the tooth, then made James a necklace to carry around the lost tooth. I admonished him to be careful with it and warned him against losing it.

James sat on the rug in stunned silence and we slowly got back to normal.

A few minutes later, as we were taking attendance, James announced to the class that he was still bleeding.

"It will bleed for awhile, James," I said, continuing with my lesson.

About a minute passed. Suddenly, James looked up at me with total impatience.

"Is ANYBODY going to call an AMBULANCE?"

Floating Bananas

2009-05-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

Today I gave the kids a huge jug of water and asked them to explore sinking and floating. They tried various things like paper clips, popsicle sticks, marbles, cotton balls, crayons, rubber bands, and pencils. After awhile, I sat down with a group of them and asked them if they thought my apple would float.

No, they all said, it will sink. To their amazement, the apple floated. I asked if anybody had an orange. Isaias dug around in his backpack and came up with an orange - which promptly sank.

"I have grapes," said Madison with excitement, and ran to get exactly two. Both of them sank and much discussion erupted about grapes and oranges and apples.

"Does anybody have a banana?" I asked. For a split second, nobody responded and then Aaliyah piped up, "Teacher! I have a banana!"

"You do?" I asked, "Well, go get it!"

Aaliyah stood there smiling like a deer in the headlights.

"Aaliyah," I prompted, "go get the banana! Is it in backpack or the snack bucket?"

Aaliyah paused and then shook her head.

"No, Teacher," she said, "It's at my house!"

Eadie's First Hike~

2009-03-01T17:57:00.000-08:00

Today was Eadie's first hike.

I took her to the Joshua Ranch trailhead to see how she would do on the trail. Seamus and Augie came along with their usual pre-hike excitement.

After several minutes in the car, Eadie threw up. Since she threw up the last two times I've taken her in the car, I am getting the sense that Eadie throws up in the car. This does not bode well for a dog that is supposed to be my newest hiking companion. In order to be my hiking companion, she has to travel in the car because that is how we get to the trails.

Eadie didn't know what to make of all the new smells. The uphill portion of the early hike bothered her and she didn't like her new harness.

After about 20 minutes, Eadie had an encounter with a stink bug. This did not go well for her. The stink bug scurried away while Eadie shook her head a lot and began sneezing.

A few minutes later, I gave the dogs some water. After politely waiting her turn, Eadie proceeded to empty the water bowl and look up at me for more. I poured more water and she drank that too. Five minutes later, she threw up.

Hiking is a new experience for Eadie and she is not in shape for it. The dog was a trooper and didn't complain or flop down under a bush the way Seamus does when he thinks it's time to rest. But I did not sense a love of the great outdoors emanating from Eadie and I don't believe I saw her smile. She ignored the wildlife after the stink bug incident.

After an hour and a half, we finished the hike and got in the car to go home. It is an eight minute drive from the trailhead. I cracked windows and opened the sun roof so Eadie could have air.

When we pulled into the driveway, Eadie promptly threw up.

Floss Promises~

2009-03-01T17:55:00.000-08:00

This week I had my teeth cleaned.

I have a mouth that makes a lot of plaque so I get to see Rhonda the Hygienist every four months. Rhonda replaced Gail, who retired from dental life. I referred to Gail as the Floss Nazi and made sure to use lots of floss in the days leading up to my appointments. Being a professional, Gail caught on to this ruse and managed to extract regular floss promises. I always reverted to haphazard flossing habits until the week before the next appointment. This behavior resulted in Gail following me out to the parking lot with extra floss samples and a shiny bullwhip.

My appointment with Rhonda lasted a long time because poor flossing habits have consequences. Sometimes, I neglect to brush well before going to bed.

These lazy dental habits pay off with a FULL PROBE EVALUATION. This includes a very sharp dental tool and numbers representing one’s gum health being called out while another dental worker records the shame into a computer, next to a diagram of your teeth. Rhonda pokes this sharp tool into the gums with too much gusto and my poor floss relationship is recorded for posterity. If my dental records are needed for identification after an untimely plane crash, my embarrassment will surely transcend the grave.

What you want are very low numbers. A one means dental sainthood and is reserved for people like Rhonda, Gail, and the doctor himself. I think they clean each other’s teeth weekly with the latest professional tools and gadgets.

A two is pretty damn good. If you get twos, admiration oozes from the dental staff and your picture goes on the Smiling Wall of Fame. Most dental patients are content with threes, interspersed with an occasional two (“good job!”) and a possible four in troubled areas (“uh oh!”).

Threes mean you don’t have to slink out of the office with your head down. You can make eye contact with the staff while promising to hit those trouble spots with extra vigor henceforth. You probably won’t be getting the FAQ brochure about dental implants.

But I reached a new low this time. Rhonda was very serious behind her mask and goggles as she called out the numbers in a strained voice. There was a three here and there, but she fixated on the number “four.” Fours mean you have been very, very bad. The lady imputing the numbers was practically snorting. I can’t PROVE that she actually snorted, but the vibe was palpable. I was mortified.

I can live with “fours,” since becoming toothless is not in the near future. It means hunkering down and bonding with dental floss and making sure a toothbrush is in the purse at all times. Fours mean the doctor might come in.

Then Rhonda barked out the worst number of all: A FIVE! I think she said it TWO TIMES. Fives mean that if you possessed a tail, it would be plastered between your legs because you are looking at periodontal catastrophe. There will be plans to peel back your gums and to scrape the teeth with scalpels and hacksaws. Whirring power tools are in the equation too, with liberal doses of consternation and a substance akin to Clorox for Dentists.

The worst part is when Rhonda produces a model of Mr. Mucky Mouth, a teaching tool designed to scare little kids into brushing and flossing. Mr. Mucky Mouth is the stuff of nightmares.

I think I shall begin wearing dental floss as jewelry. One visit with Mr. Mucky Mouth is enough.

This time I promise.

A Trip to the TheaTre~

2009-02-22T11:48:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my mother and I went to a play in Glendale, put on by a small theater company. The play was excellent, well-priced, and worth the drive.

It is an old building that has housed the theatre, a family venture, for years. The current manager is the grandson of the founders. The lobby employees pull double duty, collecting tickets, playing usher, and working in the small concession area.

The restrooms are upstairs. To their credit, the owner has installed at least 12 cubicles and a nice sink area in the ladies’ room. The women ALWAYS have to wait in line at intermission. As luck will have it, that is when all the women in attendance have to use the restroom.

I often tell the women towards the end of the line, where I usually am, that “we can storm the men’s restroom ladies, what do you say? Who’s with me?”

Usually there are smiles and some fake bravado, but yesterday there was just more grumbling. One woman in particular went ON AND ON about how SICK she is of climbing those stairs. She wasn’t feeble, she looked to be in good health and her age was somewhere around mine. Granted, she could have some debilitating illness, but she never mentioned that – only the fact that she, a well-dressed middle class woman well-acquainted with the risks and benefits of plastic surgery, was SICK of climbing a lousy set of stairs. Since the plays change about every other month, I am guessing those six trips a year are exhausting.

This was the same woman who whined about coffee not being included as part of the package. When you buy a ticket to the play, you get a complimentary soft drink. She stood behind me in line and bellowed about it to anyone and everyone who would listen. Since it is a small theater lobby, it is safe to guess that everyone had to listen, including the very pleasant and hard-working employees.

I forked over a couple bucks for a refillable cup of coffee. When I stepped aside, she began barking drink instructions to the young lady behind the drink counter. She wanted seltzer water – the kind used to mix the sodas, she said, but a bit of lemonade had to be added to the mixture with just the right amount of ice. NO… that was too much, pour it out. The drink has to be just THIS much seltzer water and THIS much lemonade and the ice has to be added AFTER the mixture has a chance to, you know, MIX.

This is a “theatre in the round.” There are no bad seats. But for a woman who has to have her lemonade and seltzer water mixed just so, the dearth of acceptable seats was just abominable. She stood on the stage, looking around, agitated and pontificating.

Apparently, the woman she picked up was LATE and spent TOO MUCH TIME IN THE BATHROOM AT MC DONALDS. So, they couldn’t get here in time to secure her “usual seats.”

An elderly gentleman sitting across the aisle caught my eye during this diatribe. He must have been present for the others, since his wife was rolling her eyes and hiding behind her program. He looked around and then leaned over to me and whispered, “it must be a BITCH being her.”

Cubicle Debacle

2009-02-04T20:04:00.000-08:00

A lot of people are annoyed at John Chiang. He's the guy in charge of California's money, and he didn't win any popularity contests when he threatened to stop paying bills and replace our tax refund checks with IOUs. The last time this happened, banks honored the IOUs and collected from the state when a budget finally passed. But since banks are taking bailout money to prevent insolvency, I am guessing that won't happen this time.

If there's no money, there's no money, and you can't blame the guy for being practical. When responsible individuals are out of money, they stop spending. It’s the same for state governments. Chiang’s checkbook is just bigger than ours. Pragmatic people understand these financial quandaries.

But this guy has really ticked me off because of cubicles, and I am not alone in my anger. Chiang is now fodder for the talk radio hosts who lambaste public officials on a regular basis. He is experiencing a “cubicle backlash.”

Cubicles, you may ask? Yes, cubicles. Nobody seems to like them much but they are ubiquitous in office buildings around the country. Workers toil away inside their portable walls. They hang up photographs, calendars, and posters about perseverance. People working in open office spaces talk too much and grate on each other’s nerves. So, office managers utilize cubicles in an effort to keep distractions to a minimum.

Apparently, the state controller has an affinity for them, so during this, the worst economic crisis in California's history, Chiang is processing purchase orders for a million dollars worth of cubicles - for the state controller's office! (Maybe the workers are talking too much.)

It's a bit disingenuous to tell working people that their tax refunds are not forthcoming. No paying off bills or funding home improvement projects just yet. But John Chiang can authorize overdrawing the state’s checking account for CUBICLES.

I keep hearing that businesses are leaving California to escape high business taxes. So, wouldn’t they leave behind some cubicles that Chiang could exchange for tax credits? And what about the businesses that are going bankrupt in this desolate economy? Retail outlets, chain stores, and small businesses are calling it quits in record numbers. I bet Chiang could settle a number of tax debts by trading for previously-owned office cubicles with low mileage and only a few sporadic thumbtack holes.

Local governments are feeling the pinch of Chiang’s pennies. There won’t be a lot of money in the city’s coffers for parks and recreation, after-school programs, youth sports, or stuff like libraries and public swimming pools.

The direct result of the state’s fiscal irresponsibility is being felt, quite painfully, by local school districts. Unprecedented budget shortfalls are wreaking financial havoc in classrooms across the state.

The Wilsona School District, with three schools, is considering closing a campus, cutting 25 teachers, and eliminating most classified support staff. What would a million dollar cash infusion do for this little district? What could it do for the countless other schools in the same precarious situation?

It is more than disingenuous for the state controller to spend a million dollars on cubicles when a fraction of that money could save jobs and keep schools open and operating. With higher class sizes, a skeleton support staff, and fewer classroom resources, there are serious consequences for California’s school children.

So why does Chiang need cubicles? He needs to focus on what is truly important.

Schoolchildren don’t need cubicles either. They need teachers dedicated to the business of education and not distracted by the ridiculousness of cubicle-loving bureaucrats and the frightening prospect of unemployment.

My Bodybugg

2009-02-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

I just love my Bodybugg. It is a device that keeps you honest. It tracks your steps and activities and lets you know how many calories you are burning. The accompanying computer program allows you to enter your food log and figure out if you are on track for weight loss, maintenance, or whatever your goal happens to be.

Here are some observations about the Bugg that I have been pondering:

Here are a few things I notice about my Bodybugg:

1. It likes to be clean. If I don't wipe it off every morning, it gets testy and reports that my metabolism belongs to a slug.

2. It is very egocentric. Once certain "goals" have been reached, you simply MUST wait for the readout to trumpet the feat TWICE. It does you no good to ask it to stop.

3. The bugg ignores cycling. It obviously prefers counting your steps and not the revolutions your thighs, buttocks, and calves make while riding a bicycle. It will count your calories, but only begrudgingly. An hour of cycling does nothing to increase your step count.

4. You can't wear it in the water. All that technology and it is not waterproof. Which means you never really know how many calories you burn swimming or participating in water fitness activities. You have to estimate just how vigorous your shower is - or take the program's word for it.

:-)K

Revisiting a Core Value: Grampy and the CCC

2009-02-01T11:56:00.000-08:00

Today's L.A. Times has an article about the original Civilian Conservation Corps, as developed by the Franklin D. Roosevelt administration. The CCC was envisioned as a way to fix the heart and souls of American workers during the Great Depression. The end results included infrastructure that survives today, the nation's first freeway system, and work for the National Parks system.

My grandfather signed up for the CCC during the height of the Great Depression. Born to Indiana farmworkers in 1913, he was 20 years old when the family moved from the midwest to California, searching for a better life. At some point after the move, unable to find work locally, he signed up for the CCC and began the hard work of rebuilding the state's National Park system.

The L.A. Times article cites numerous recollections of former CCC workers. The work gave them pride, good food, and gainful employment. The fact that it was difficult did not play into the equation. The workers felt valuable and respected for the work they were doing.

The article goes on to suggest that reviving the CCC and its core principles is an idea worth considering today. This suggestion has given me pause.

My grandfather, Paul V. Earl, was in his early 20s when this photograph was taken. Having worked from the time he was a child, this CCC work came easily for him. He went on to marry in 1937, when he could afford it, and had a job with the United Parcel Service, which he supplemented with carpentry and cabinet work. Several years later, he became a Los Angeles City firefighter - having circumvented the height restriction by wearing lifts in his shoes. Being 5'7" tall did not prevent him from working over 30 years for the fire department.

I wonder if today's generation of young people who would benefit from a CCC program would be successful. This is a generation raised in front of the television and adept at video games, computer applications, and loitering around malls and movie theaters. This is a generation with too many members who do not bend over to pick up trash and seem to lack the work ethic that made my grandfather's cohorts what Tom Brokaw dubbed "The Greatest Generation."

Today's young retail workers seem, for the most part, to dislike the entire idea of WORK. They are satisfied with "good enough" and quickly change jobs when the requirements to actually put forth effort becomes too apparent. This is the generation who rarely dressed for P.E. unless they were in that special class known as "athletes."

My grandfather always supplemented his work as a firefighter with manual labor. He was rarely idle unless "practicing" for a night's sleep by taking a short nap after dinner. He made cabinets and was a skilled carpenter, called upon often during his lifetime to build, re-build, and repair. His table saw was always buzzing and I delighted in gathering the mounds of sawdust and repurposing it for my wild and imaginary play purposes. He took time to fashion for me slender wooden arrows that I could fling with a notched handle and promptly lose in the yard next door.

My husband and son both work retail and often recount the frustration they feel when having to compensate for the lack of effort put forth by other employees in their work environments. Dan spends time every single work day cleaning up the mess left behind by employees who refuse to put forth even a minimal effort to work as a team. My friend Dave, a fast food manager, wages a constant battle to keep employees and to keep their respective operations running smoothly. The work ethic, he complains, is just lacking.

How many times have we entered retail establishments and left dissatisfied because customer service seems an antiquated value from the past? Too often, I venture to guess.

Do I paint with a broad brush? Of course I do. There are many hardworking employees in retail too young to remember vinyl records and life without cell phones. But they are under-represented in today's workforce.

I think the Civilian Conservation Corps is a good idea and worth revisiting. But I have to chuckle since most of the teenagers I am familiar with are loathe to bend over and pick up a piece of trash that doesn't belong to them. There is a sense of entitlement that was reinforced by my generation of parents, in a misguided attempt to make our children strong and responsible human beings.

My grandfather's work ethic was a model for my father, who rarely missed work during his 30 year tenure with the phone company and years of communications consulting that followed. It was ingrained in me and my sister by our parents and passed along to our children. I can count on one hand the number of times my husband and sons have called in sick to work in the past decade. My nieces do not shun hard work.

My grandfather would be proud - but only to the extent that this is how it is supposed to be. We must work together as a nation to dig ourselves out of the mess that our country is mired in today. It will take hard work - is the generation with the most physical energy up to the task?

Are we?

Crippled Ant Theory~

2009-01-17T13:12:00.000-08:00

Okay, I am not 100 percent sure of the efficacy of this method, but my sister swears by it and it makes logical sense to me.

Ants are terrific communicators. They leave scent trails and clean up after themselves, and manage to build entire colonies without spoken language. They also raise baby ants, bring food for the Queen Ant, and change trail directions when imediments get in the way. There is also a song about the ants going marching. Not many insects have songs about them. (La Cucaracha excepted.)

So - here is the theory. You select one of the ants for "maiming." You must be careful because ants are fragile and pinching off a leg or thorax with your fingernail MIGHT result in death. This does no good, since ants don't usually collect their dead. (They might. We aren't sure.)

The maimed ant hobbles back to the nest and leaves distress pheranomes along the way. The maimed one then collapses in the nest and the rest of the colony gathers around and demands an explanation. Who did this horrible thing? Why?

Meanwhile, other ants come streaming in, briefed by the distress scent and communicating that THIS PLACE is a BAD PLACE because look at "________!" He/she is MAIMED for life and will have to go on welfare (or get eaten).

The ants convene a council meeting, decide to change course, and leave the offending property.

You will then be ant-free.

My sister swears by this. (If it doesn't work, she gets a can of RAID, then calls her exterminator, who is on speed-dial.)

;-)K

A Dadism: The Chicken Plucker

2009-01-17T12:58:00.000-08:00

Driving back to my sister's house one day, my sister began talking about dinner.

My dad asked her if he could do anything to help and she jokingly replied that he could pluck the chicken.

My father said that he was not the chicken-plucker or the chicken-plucker's son, but he could pluck the chicken till the chicken-plucker comes.

Later that day, Sue and I took her very elderly dog, Nook, out for a walk. In recent weeks, Nook had started squatting on the pavement and letting loose, no longer waiting to eliminate on the lawn or grass areas. A simple plastic bag no longer sufficed, since the dog "went" about a dozen times during the walk. So, I had to follow along behind Sue and Nook, holding a shovel, which I put on my shoulder like a rifle.

Dad came out of the house and and asked me what in the world I was doing.

I told him that I wasn't the sh*t shoveler or the sh*t shoveler's son, but I could shovel sh*t till the sh*t shoveler comes.

;-)K

Hitting "delete" and holding.....

2009-01-17T12:48:00.001-08:00

I decided to take some time this morning to clear out some old stuff in my eMail program. Connectivity has been a problem for several days and the messages were piling up.

After initially browsing my inbox and replying to outstanding messages, I began the process of culling old messages. At some point, I hit some keys on the keyboard without meaning to and descended into a Twilight Zone of eMail Hell. I was only paying half-attention, so the transition was pretty flawless.

I began noticing that the messages I was deleting were from ME. WHAT, I asked myself. Did I mistakenly tell Outlook to send me a copy of any and all messages that I send out, reply to, or forward? What have I done? How do I fix it? I hate not being technical! Can I go Leo LaPorte the tech guy? Do I ask on Tnet? Will they laugh at me?

For 20 minutes, I leaned on my hand, dull and bored witless, trying to delete all these messages. Surely there is a better way, I thought. But I could not find one in all the drop down menus and buttons and other handy dandy features included in Outlook. I began timing the deletions so that I could just hit the button, delete, and then hit the button, delete, hit the button, delete. It was numbing. My appreciation of factory workers increased.

How long has this been going on, I asked myself, panicking. No wonder the computer is acting up and sounds like it is always processing something. I have really screwed up this time! I send out and forward a LOT of messages! Now I am reaping the consequences of being so communicative, so loquacious, so… VERBAL. Hit the button, delete, hit the button, delete. Good GAWED! Can't I just cut and paste and THEN delete? But NO.

And then I realized something, as I deleted messages from Thanksgiving, hitting the button, deleting, hitting the button, deleting. I received a huge jolt of clarity and tons of humiliation, embarrassment, and shock.

I was in my SENT ITEMS file.

I have an appointment with the Alzheimer's Specialist tomorrow.

Burrow Decor~

2009-01-17T11:02:00.000-08:00

In kindergarten this week, we have been talking about winter. Monday, I read the kids a non-fiction book about animals in winter and introduced the kids to vocabulary like "hibernation," "migration," and "burrow."

There is a place in the book that shows a woodchuck's burrow. The kids were very interested in the tunnels, bathroom chamber, and sleeping chamber. We discussed how many burrowing animals will have more than one entrance to fool predators. After discussing the book, we did a "directed drawing" of a woodchuck's burrow. We labeled parts and then some of the kids asked if they could color the drawings.

I reminded the children that this was a "science" drawing, so accuracy in color is important. The kids decided that brown was probably going to be the predominant color, since the picture of the burrow was under a winter landscape. Some children put green on a few trees and colored the hibernating woodchuck with tan and brown colored pencils.

I walked around the room, giving feedback. I stopped short when I saw McKenna, one of my most competent students and a very good listener, using a pink crayon inside the woodchuck's sleeping chamber. She was carefully coloring the outline of the chamber. Knowing that McKenna would not deliberately disregard my instructions, I stopped to inquire.

"McKenna," I said, "what's this? Is the sleeping chamber PINK?"

McKenna looked up and me and smiled.

"No. It has grass. And dirt."

"Well... what is the pink crayon for?" I asked.

She continued coloring and replied, "Wallpaper."

Snack Stealing~

2009-01-17T11:01:00.000-08:00

Kindergarten students often have difficulty understanding the concept of stealing. Over time, the idea of "right" and "wrong" begins to form, but this is a hard thing to internalize when a classmate has a really cool snack - and you don't.

I have had some "snack stealing" off and on in my classroom and I finally caught the culprits yesterday. Neither are sophisticated enough to pull off this kind of a lie, so finally BUSTING them was a real treat.

Today, Josias had a baggie with some cereal and a fruit roll-up inside. He decided he wasn't hungry and left it on the picnic table. At some point, it disappeared.

I rounded up the usual suspects before they could lawyer-up and began the interrogation. No shifty eyes, no suspicious pocket bulges, no tell-tale leftovers on faces. They swore innocence but couldn't provide good alibis. I gave the usual "stealing is wrong" and "choosing the right" speech and they all looked like deer in the headlights and swore to gawd they were in Montreal at the time of the theft.

I quickly dashed off a note to Mrs. Abrams, asking if any of her little miscreants had "made a mistake" and "borrowed somebody else's snack." Two of my future police officers gleefully took the note down to Room 4 and the class settled down and began working. Within minutes, Nathan comes in to my room, looking very sorry....sorry he got caught.

I had him apologize to my usual suspects because, I explained, they were wrongly accused (this time) for something HE did. Nate dutifully apologized. Then I had Josias come up to Nate and I instructed Nate to talk to Josias.

"What do you have to say to Josias?" I asked.

Nate just stood there, looking at Josias.

"Nate, you have something you need to say to Josias," I prodded, using my best teacher voice.

Nate inched closer to Josias but remained silent.

"Nate!" I prompted. "Don't you have something to say to Josias about his snack?"

Nate gulped, put his hands in his pocket, looked at Josias and said, "Can I have it?"

Who repaired this parachute? Would you jump?

2009-01-09T18:39:00.000-08:00

I guess Billy Mays is the pitchman favored by the "as seen on t.v." product producers. I personally like the ShamWow guy, but there's no accounting for taste in an industry that allowed Ron Popeil to stay on the air for so long.

Currently, Billy is pitching so many products I get them mixed up. The one perplexing me right now is Mighty Mend-It, which will is making sewing obsolete and will repair anything, even the levee holes near New Orleans.

So, Billy tells us, you can jump out of a perfectly good airplane with a parachute that has been repaired by Mighty Mend-It.

It took me awhile to digest this but, apparently, somebody had a RIP in a PARACHUTE. For those not familiar with parachutes, they save your sorry life when you make the booze-induced decision to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. This genius repairs this rip with Mighty Mend-it and then proceeds to hurtle towards the earth at 125 miles an hour before the parachute deploys.

Notice that Billy Mays does NOT jump out of the airplane. He just shouts at us above the din of the open airplane.

Now I ask: Would you? Would you use a parachute that was repaired with Mighty Mend-it, just because Billy yells at us that it is OKAY TO DO SO?

Wine and Cheese~

2009-01-09T12:08:00.000-08:00

I was teaching Kindergarten out in Rosamond and had a little boy in the class named Alex. When I first met him, I thought he was the cutest, sweetest, most adorable child on earth. He had this tiny little voice that was just so….so…. CUTE!

Well, after awhile it wasn’t cute because Alex had a tendency to whine. He whined when things went his way and when things didn’t go his way. He whined just because that is what got him attention at home and elsewhere. In fact, his major mode of communication was a variation on "whine." Light whine would give way to full-whine on days when I lacked the patience to professionally deal with it. It would grate on my nerves and I would urge Alex to use his “big boy voice” and not his “baby voice.” Sometimes this worked but it was slow-going. Being a professional, I resisted the temptation to scream STOP WHINING!

We were a year-round school and when our first break came in late autumn, I was ready. The track change coincided with the first trimester report card and I had parent conferences during our last week. I told Alex’s mother that, despite her son’s brilliance, cuteness, and excellent personality, his whininess could really get on my last nerve – the one quivering over there in the corner. She laughed and said something like, “ya think?”

The day we tracked off, Alex brought me a gift that was nicely wrapped. I waited until recess to open it, since none of the other kids had gifts, it was not traditional to bring gifts, and I didn’t want anybody feeling bad because they didn’t have a gift.

(All kindergarten kids believe that gifts are for THEM. Anybody receiving a gift instantly reminds them that they are not getting a gift. Then comes the question, “What about ME?”)

Anyway, I hoped the gift bag and unwrapped a huge hunk of very expensive-looking cheese. Attached was a note:

“Some cheese to go with the whine you will be missing.”

All because of a dog~

2009-01-08T16:09:00.000-08:00

Dan and I both learned early in life that money does not grow on trees. We have always been careful with money and plan major home improvement projects with an eye on how we are going to pay for it without long-term debt. This usually results in big plans for home improvement projects but very few actual home improvement projects.

We decided a few years ago that the ten-year-old carpet was going to be replaced, eventually with laminate flooring. At least in the downstairs portion of the house, since this area gets the most wear. We like laminate flooring and often visit the Laminate Flooring Shrines at all home improvement centers.

Then, last week we adopted a new dog. Eadie is a good dog and, despite always being outside in her first eighteen months of life, she is practically housebroken. She had two accidents the morning after we brought her home. This was after holding it all night and before I could get her outside to do doggy business. Suffice to say that new surroundings, new food, and nervous dogs don't lend themselves well to healthy dog business. The results were the worst smell in human and dog history.

Scrubbing the carpet in the affected area did much for looks but little for odor removal. To be blunt, the floor smelled awful. The whole downstairs smelled awful. No matter what we did, it smelled awful. We lit a scented candle. It started to smell like baking cinnamon bread over the smell of something awful.

So, I took a good look at the slightly textured white tile in the downstairs bathroom, the slightly textured white tile in the laundry room, and decided that Home Depot or Lowes must sell these slightly textured white tiles by the box. Why not, I suggested to Dan, just rip up the stinky carpet here and tile this little hallway ourselves? It will look normal, I said, and probably won't cost very much.

So Dan the erstwhile tiling man came over to look. When Dan is pondering things, he usually strokes his mustache and pulls on his beard. He did this a lot. Yeah, he says, we can do that. So I get out the measuring tape and find that the tile in the bathroom is 12 inches by 12 inches, exactly. A square foot. How easy!

The tile in the laundry room is exactly 11-3/4 by 11-3/4. I measured most of the tiles in both rooms and, crazy at it sounds, they are not the same size.

Of course not, says Dan, who is rethinking the whole tiling man business. Then he starts pulling on the beard and smoothing out the mustache. How about, he says slowly, we start putting down laminate flooring? We want to do that anyway... we could just start here and then continue when we have more money?

So I stared at the little hallway with the awful smell and agreed. That, I told Dan the laminate flooring man, is exactly what we will do.

I left for my water fitness class and when I returned, the offending carpet was pulled up and surrounding baseboard was yanked off the wall. Two boxes of "Old Hickory" laminate flooring was opened in the garage and the table saw was set up.

Then Dan started playing with the planks. They are just like a giant puzzle. After much smoothing of the mustache and pulling on the beard, Dan declared that he would rather start from the family room, even-steven with the hearth, and go from there into the hallway. It makes more sense, he says.

So, the attached picture is what the whole area looks like right now. The unplanned and not-in-the-budget home improvement project.

All because of a dog.

;-)K

Death by Hiking

2009-01-03T18:37:00.000-08:00

I never cease to be amazed by the beauty and proxmity of the Pacific Crest Trail - and how I seem to always be the only one on it.

I don't mean the WHOLE trail, of course, I refer to the section that is within a half hour driving distance of most denizens of the Antelope Valley. A half a million people - and very few of them hike along this outstanding and well-maintained trail.

Part of the problem is timing - I just don't happen to be on a particular section of the trail when other people happen to be on that same particular section of trail. I do see evidence of other hikers, like cars and footprints. But I rarely see hikers.

I have come to the conclusion, over the course of several years, that many people are afraid of hiking because they think they might die. I wish I had a buck for each time somebody at school made reference to my hiking obsession and then refer to death - their own. As in, "God, I would just DIE if I hiked that long," or "that far," or "that high," or just "in general."

I've brought a few people with me in years past - but most of them act like they are going to die. Like Becky, who hunched over with her head between her knees about a half hour in one afternoon and announced that she was, in fact, going to die. We turned around.

My Outlaw, Jim, uses a variation of that sentiment when I eMail him the highlights of a particularly good hike. "You'd have to carry me out on a stretcher," he responds. This from a guy who likes to walk and does so on a somewhat regular basis. I think that HE THINKS he is going to die. Which means he never offers to come hiking with me.

Then there is my cousin Terry. Terry is really more of an uncle to me, having grown up with my father with a "brotherly" relationship. But he is my second cousin, to be exact, and perpetually young and vigorous.

"How about making plans for a hike up the Angeles Crest?" I write, full of hope and optimism. He usually ignores these pleas but on occasion he will reply that such a hike is not conducive to the health of "old fat guys." I usually double-take at this point since, in my mind's time warp, Terry is just out of UCLA and in his early thirties. He was the first guy I EVER knew who sported a pony tail. He was so WAY beyond cool that mere words could never describe him. I told my closest friends that I sincerely LOVED him and wanted to marry him and that he actually looked like John Lennon. For real. Of course, I was fourteen and he was in his thirties. (Which I don't think he's seen since the Carter Administration.)

And now, my cousin Terry, who is married to the marvelous and sophisticatedly down-to-earth Sandy, tells me he is ready to retire soon and that hikes are out of the question, for now. He has to "get in shape" which is hard because, you know, he WORKS and does not have the time and energy and inclination. I think it is more of the latter, although he will probably tell me that his mind is willing but his flesh is weak. I am pretty sure that if I haul his John Lennon ass up Mt. Baden Powell, he will claim he is going to die. Then Sandy would be ticked off at me.

My sister Sue is an intrepid hiker and my best hiking companion. Her legs are longer which means she is always ahead of me and it doesn't matter how good of shape I am in, she will always mention something about my "breathing." I think this is a dig at my state of cardiovascular shape-ed-ness, which is just fine, really. But hers is always a tad better. When we do the really brutal "good GAWD I can't breathe" hikes, she is in the lower end of her cardio "range," while I am pushing the point of being almost damned uncomfortable.

In recent years, her fibromyalgia, bad shoulder, and sports-wracked knees have given her trouble, which means shorter hikes. But she never says she is going to die. She's said she needs a big bag of ice, or a jar of Advil, or a hot bath, but she never threatens death.

This is not to say that Sue and I haven't run across a few people over the years who appeared on the brink of death while hiking. These experiences always occur on a trail in the Sierra Nevada mountains. These are the trails way up high in elevation, full of breathtaking beauty, and sought after by dedicated hikers everywhere.

There was the Diabetes Family. We named them that because all four of them were either shooting insulin, on the verge of shooting insulin, or the recipient of a family doctor's "suggested diet." We came across them as we attempted the Fern Creek Trail. Now, the Fern Creek Trail is listed in the Eastern Sierra Hiking Guide as "difficult." If the hiking guide says it is difficult, then it is in a class with mountains like Everest and Whitney and Denali. This hiking guide calls trails we would rate "difficult" as "moderate." The author is obviously a smart-ass. But I digress.

So, Diabetes Family is on the way UP to where the Fern Creek trail forks away from the main trail. Sue and I were on our way down and were appalled to see two middle aged people, a man and a woman, with bright red faces, totally out of breath, leaning on walking sticks, trying to remain upright. They were both on the "hefty" side, to be kind, and looked like heart attacks ready to happen. They were accompanied by a boy and a girl who were collapsed on the side of the trail. They had NO WATER. They had NO IDEA WHAT THEY WERE DOING.

"This trail is difficult," Sue and I tell the Diabetes Family. "May we suggest a nice flat trail that runs behind Gull Lake?"

The family waved away our concern and Sue and I continued on our journey, certain they were all going to die.

Then there was Flip-flop Girl.

We pulled in to the Lundy Canyon Trailhead one nice summer day at the same time as the Flip-flop Girl's family. They were loud and argumentative, not dressed at all for a serious hike. Sue and I picked up our pace so we could sign the trail register before them and get a good head start. Nothing is worse than being stuck with people who resembled the family from "Roseanne."

This trail ascends steeply from 7,398 feet to just over 10,000 feet in about an hour and a half. This is not a beginner's trail. Yet, here was this family, with a surly teenaged boy wearing head phones and skater shoes and a little girl of nine or ten wearing.......FLIP FLOPS. Yes, flip flops. Mom was screeching, Dad was swearing, and Sue and I were certain that they must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.

The family had no food except the bag of Skittles in the boy's pocket, which he refused to share with FF Girl. The family had NO WATER. Sue and I gave them a half hour, tops.

"They're gonna die," Sue said, as we hurriedly tried to put distance between ourselves and the bickering brother and sister.

Near Mammoth Lakes, we ran into a young couple who had not seen a gym or serious exercise in quite awhile - if ever. She was looking like she needed an I.V., while he was paused on the trail SMOKING A CIGARETTE. It gets worse - they had a toddler with them. They were obviously new parents who sincerely believed that if they coaxed and yelled enough, the child would happily toddle along in front of them. The "happily" part was missing. The child was in full-whine.

"One of you is going to have to carry him," Sue said, as we prepared to overtake them.

The mother looked disgusted and the father looked annoyed. "He's fine," snapped the annoyed one, struggling for breath.

"This is a long trail - we've only just begun," I offered. "Perhaps he can ride on your shoulders?" I asked. It was the mother in me - I just couldn't help it. "You'll burn extra calories..."

Suffice to say that we didn't see them a few hours later on our way back to the trailhead.

They either gave up - or died trying.

Seamus the Greyhound

2008-11-24T13:07:00.000-08:00

Seamus, my dog with little brain, has finally found his calling. He is a greyhound in disguise. Who knew?

Jealousy led to the creation of this "incredible hulk"-type transformation. It is a powerful motivator.

First, let me backtrack a bit:

Ziggy, Danny and Brandy's 7-month old labrador, has been living with us since early August. It is quite apparent that a happy and peaceful house is predicted upon and inversely correlated to Labrador Exercise. It is not sufficient to take Ziggy for hour-long walks around the neighborhood. This activity is good only for dachshunds. The Zigrador requires vigorous exercise. Real vigorous - the kind that induces huffing and puffing and sweating on the part of the exercisor.

So - Brandy and I began taking Ziggy for runs. He runs while one of us pedals my bicycle. Over the past couple months, he has gotten quite good at running on the "house" side of the sidewalk and stopping (on a dime) when the pedaler yells "Stop!" (A good safety feature.)

A couple of weeks ago, the brown dog started going into jealousy overload. He just couldn't stand it when the puppy got to go running and he had to stay INSIDE. As a joke, I leashed Seamus up and took him for a lap. It was a disaster, with the brown dog all over the place, determined to knock me over and strangle himself - while in full motion, naturally.

But, because hope always springs eternal in my heart when it comes to the brown dog, I leashed him up and tried again. He tried to kill me several times with unfortunate leash entanglement accidents - always involving the leash, the running dog, me, and a high rate of speed. Staying on the same side of the fire hydrants and streetlights were merely suggestions for Seamus. Several instances of me sprawling out flat and the bike going sideways led to near strangulation for Seamus. Near death is a good teacher.

Seamus is not a natural hiker. He goes because we all go, but he starts making excuses early on to flop under bushes and take frequent breaks. He never wants to keep on going when we stop for water, like Duke and Augie. He would be perfectly content to turn around after about 8 minutes or so.

But for some reason, Seamus loves running. His short legs just pump away and there is a smile planted across his face as we fly around the neighborhood, up and down hills, in and out of driveways and avoiding trash cans and cars parked across the sidewalks.

On the downhill stretch, Seamus pulls ahead of me and it is all I can do to keep him from pulling me like a water skier around the corner, onto the flatland stretch behind the house. He runs on my right side, away from Ziggy, who is running off-leash on my left. Occasionally, Seamus cuts in front and then pulls to the left, just to ensure that the view on the laborador's side isn't better than his own. He gives token barks to the neighborhood dogs and just keeps right on running.

Today he ran 5 laps and didn't try to kill me at all. This is a new record.

I wonder if he thinks he is a greyhound?

Need Ink? Call Utah....

2008-11-09T12:51:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, one of my teaching colleagues stayed late to gather the materials needed for next week’s language arts lessons. She sorted the black line masters, made a list of which teacher on her team needed what, figured out the numbers of copies, and carefully paper-clipped everything together with detailed instructions for the clerk who does the school’s major copying.

When she arrived in the work room, however, she noticed a sign on the duplicating machine. It was out of ink – again. My friend then walked up to the school office to ask the secretary about the status of the duplicator’s ink order. The secretary replied that yes, she had placed an order several weeks ago for a box of ink. Each box costs $38.50 and holds two ink cartridges. The district office was holding the purchase order because the budget is frozen. No money can be spent from the district’s depleted coffers – so the duplicating machine has no ink and a fresh supply is not forthcoming because, Virginia, there is no Ink Fairy.

We discussed asking teachers to chip in so that a box of duplicating machine ink could be purchased. This would cost less than spending time and money at Kinko’s over the weekend. We discussed trying to do without copies at all – but some skills just have to be practiced with paper and pencil.

But the best idea is to go to the Mormon church and ask for a box of duplicating ink. Not all of my colleagues agree with me on this one, but my ideas tend to be a bit outlandish sometimes.

I figure it works this way: The Mormon church outspent every other denomination supporting efforts to pass Proposition 8 and deny homosexuals the right to marry. It bothers them immensely that “Adam and Steve” want a wedding cake, a gift registry, and to file a joint tax return. The church phone-banked out of Utah to sway California voters on this issue. Coupled with deceptive television ads that scared John and Jane Q. Public into thinking schoolteachers were drafting lesson plans to “teach same sex marriage,” the strategy worked and the Proposition was passed by a narrow margin.

America is a democracy and this church, along with countless others in our nation, have the right to express their opinions on this matter and put their money where their collective mouths are – such is the sanctity of freedom of speech. As any basic philosophy class will teach you, all rights are coupled with responsibility. If public education is “the great equalizer” in a democratic society, then the public has the responsibility to ensure that the institution of education is adequately supported.

Since Arnold and his fiscally irresponsible state legislature can’t seem to properly fund education in California, maybe the Mormon church can help out. A box of duplicating ink costs around $40.00 and we could use some a couple boxes of Kleenex too.

Family Drama Cycle

2008-11-02T18:23:00.000-08:00

This morning, I hopped on my bicycle to take the dogs for a run. I can’t run all the dogs at once so we take turns. First up is always Ziggy, because the energy of the Labrador puppy is something that needs to be expended early in the morning if you want to drink coffee in peace. I ride a quarter mile loop around the neighborhood, staying on the sidewalk for the safety of the dogs. I see neighbors on occasion, but rarely get entertained with family drama. This morning was an exception.

Loop 1: Ziggy is running at top speed and I am pedaling furiously. When we reach Argyle Lane, we see the garage door open at the corner house and Todd, the 15-year old resident, come out in his pajama bottoms, gray tee shirt, and a motorcycle.

Loop 2: Ziggy is still running at top speed and I am pedaling furiously. I am grateful that nobody has parked their car across the sidewalk and that the path has been clear of any obstructions. Todd is pushing the motorcycle up the street. I am venturing a guess that he is trying to start it. He looks pained.

Loop 3: Ziggy is running and I am pedaling. His tongue is hanging from the side of his mouth but he doesn’t let up except to double check that I am still there. Todd is now sitting on the motorcycle with a scowl on his face. He scowls at me and Ziggy. Ziggy runs over to comfort him but Todd does not respond and Ziggy catches up with me. My “good morning, scowling teenage boy,” went unanswered.

Loop 4: Ziggy is running at a fast trot by now and I am encouraging him by pedaling faster. Saliva is escaping the side of his mouth and I can hear him panting. Todd is now cursing the motorcycle and kicking it with his pajama-clad leg. The effect is somewhat comical but I refrain from laughing since snarling teenage boys lack a sense of humor, especially at their expense from middle aged bicycling women. Ziggy refrains from running over to Todd. I think it was the kicking – but I am not sure. Maybe the Zigrador was just getting tired.

Loop 5: Ziggy and I go around the loop on an even keel. He runs and I pedal and we reach Argyle Lane to hear Todd in the garage yelling at his mother. The motorcycle is on the ground and Todd is generous with words that include the Father and Son but not the Holy Ghost. I am not thinking these are church-going words or that Todd and his mother are having a prayer session. I pedal faster because this scowling mood of his has gotten worse and I don’t want him kicking anything else.

Loop 6: Ziggy has entered the house for water and breakfast. He is replaced by Seamus, the brown dog, who has taken well to bicycle runs. He is very cute with his short little legs pumping away and his pink little tongue hanging out. We see Todd’s mother backing the big blue truck out of the garage and Todd waiting on the motorcycle. He is shouting directions at her and she is looking wearing sunglasses and looking annoyed. I don’t look inside the truck long enough to notice details, but I get the impression Mom is wearing jammies and hasn’t brushed her hair yet.

Loop 7: Seamus continues to run and I continue to pedal. I am wondering if I should take him another loop. When we pass our house, the brown dog keeps going, so I guess the answer is YES. When we turn onto Argyle Lane, the big blue truck is slowly driving up the street. Todd has apparently affixed the recalcitrant motorcycle to the back of the truck. He is yelling at his mother to “F%$#%@ slow down!” as she guns the engine. I don’t think that Todd is happy. We cycle past and I call, “Good morning!” to Mom.“ She waves back and Todd continues to shower his mother with expletives. He is liberal with the F-word and I refrain from calling him a potty mouth. I reflect on his use of the word as an adjective and a noun. This is a versatile word.

Loop 8: Seamus is still going like the energizer bunny. We cycle at an even pace and I have to slow down a bit on Argyle because he is beginning to lag a little. Mom is still attempting to pull Todd and his motorcycle and she has inched up the street a few houses. Todd continues to scream at his mother and every other word begins with an F. She is, according to him, not only “F^%$#%@$ stupid,” she “F%$#%@ can’t hear.” I nod to Patty and she gives me a half wave. I reflect upon the disrespect that the scowly, potty-mouth boy is showing to his mother. I call out to her that she should run the motorcycle over. She smiles and nods and Todd unleashes a stream of expletives regarding his mother’s hearing, driving abilities, and intelligence level. He refrains, however, from kicking anything, since he appears pinned beneath the motorcycle. His NFL football jammies are getting dirty but I refrain from offering laundry tips.

Loop 9: Seamus still does not want to stop so we go for a fourth loop. The brown dog is slowing down but still trotting. We reach Argyle Lane and there is no big blue truck, no annoyed mother, and no snarling, potty-mouth teenage boy. There is no motorcycle and all is quiet. I wonder if she just gave up and pulled the truck back into the garage. Had she run over the motorcycle and the boy, it would have been messy. There is no evidence of carnage, no matter how well-deserved.

Loops 10 and 11: It is now Augie’s turn. There is no sign of life on Argyle Lane. In a way I am disappointed.

Loop 12: Duke trots along the bike for one lap. We stop and visit a neighbor for a few minutes and Duke shivers, shakes, and yips at me to get going. We finish our loop and head home.

So ends our Sunday morning drama.

Ghost Writing~

2008-09-14T17:31:00.000-07:00

Browsing at Barnes and Noble this afternoon, I noticed a display filled with books for the Halloween “season.” I looked over several titles and came upon a box, sealed in cellophane. The outside of the box said, “Ghost Writing.”

The box is sealed, but there are helpful pictures on the front and "directions" on the back. Apparently, with this Ouija-looking ‘planchette,’ you can contact the dearly departed. A special pen is provided that you insert into a hole in the palette thing. You put your fingertips on the edge and wait for the spirits to start writing. This contraption costs $19.95, before the membership discount.

Now, Barnes and Noble is a reputable bookseller. This isn’t some hole in the wall, San Francisco boutique that caters to the occult. This is a suburban retail outfit.

I would be thrilled if such a pen and planchette could actually be used by my dead family members to chat with me. Heaven knows we have stuff to talk about. Nobody wants to believe that this is possible more than I do. But something about this niggles at me and I just couldn’t add the “Ghost Writing” box to my stack o’ books.

I do wonder though – IF you buy the box and the contraption doesn’t work, will Barnes and Noble refund your money? Or will they blame the customer because the ghosts don’t want to write? Or will the harried, eyebrow-raising clerk inform you that since you didn’t BELIEVE hard enough, OF COURSE the damn thing didn't work?

K (who is scratching her chin hairs here….)

Bad Doggy Gramma

2008-09-13T13:21:00.000-07:00

Danny has reported to San Diego for Game Warden duty and Brandy is visiting family in Las Vegas. So, I am on Dog Sitting Duty.

This morning Ziggy awoke early. He is now five months old and at least 50 pounds. He is used to getting up with me at 5:30am but THIS is not a 5:30am day.

Saturdays mean nothing to him. My precious sleeping-in time is of no consequence to the black Labrador. It was O’Dawn Thirty when panting puppy breath, just at eye level, invaded my peaceful weekend slumber. I turned over. He licked my neck.

I am assuming he came upstairs because nobody downstairs would wake up. When licking my face didn’t work, he began working on the brown dog – trying to get his attention. Seamus was having none of it. He growled at Ziggy, sighed a doggy sigh, and went back to sleep.

So naturally, Ziggy attacked the bath mat. He killed it and then killed it again. Then he shook the carcass and ran it around the house, announcing his victory. Next came the bathroom trash can and its plethora of fun contents.

When the spewing of old tissue and the chewing of used Q-Tips failed to elicit response, Ziggy went after clothing on my closet shelf. Down came the brand-new, white and fuzzy hooded sweater, the one on sale. He killed it. Then he shook it and paraded the remains around the house. Nobody applauded his victory. I opened one eye while Dan yelled at him to SETTLE DOWN! He didn’t.

So, back to my face with his puppy panting. I noticed white sweater threads and a piece of toilet tissue around his snout. Feeling suspicious, I got up.

I took him outside and ordered him to “go potty.” He gave me a “pity pee” and began running around the yard. I threw toys, his ball, and an old bone. He dutifully ran after them and plowed into my legs with all of his overgrown puppy force. I stepped in mud trying to avoid broken bones. I found bathmat and white sweater wreckage around the family room. He attempted to wrestle the parts from me and kill them again.

I went upstairs to take a shower.

Now, Ziggy thinks all bathroom activities require canine attendance. A closed shower door is an invitation, apparently, to hurl his 50-pound-plus body against the glass and howl miserably, demanding entrance. Huge puppy paws clawed at the glass. The idea of sharing shower space with a stinky dog first thing on a Saturday morning is less than appealing, so I told him NO and he flopped down to wait. Mostly.

In between waiting episodes, he tried to get the brown dog to play with him. Seamus wouldn’t budge. He jumped on the bed but that didn’t work either. The brown dog does NOT get up early unless hell has frozen over. The weather has cooled, but there is no evidence of freezing over.

So, Ziggy tried to get into the closet but I ordered him, through soapy hair and water-blurred vision, to LAY DOWN! He did, temporarily.

But what does a moving bath towel mean to a Labrador puppy? YES! Tug! Tug! Tug! This explains the loose threads in my favorite $50.00, extra-plush bath towel. All mysteries are eventually explained.

FINALLY, Ziggy got breakfast. A few more throws of the ball were obviously NOT going to cut it, so I saddled up for a bike ride around the block to tire the dog out. The loop is hilly and Ziggy runs like he’s possessed. This is a GOOD thing for exercise so we rode around and around and around and around. He kept up with me until the fourth go-around, so I slowed down. Then we went around some more. He kept running, smiling his doggy smile, panting his doggy pant.

Until he stopped running. Just like that. No warning, no slowing down, nothing. Just… errrrk!

I noticed he was sending doggy saliva all over the place. We stopped at a corner house down the street where a pair of nice ladies were watering. They were more than happy to hose down the hot puppy and provide water.

“I don’t think dogs are supposed to foam at the mouth,” one of the hose ladies said.

“He’s not just tired?” I asked, feeling like Gramma of the Year.

“Um, no. He’s getting over-heated,” she replied, covering Ziggy with cool hose water. The dog flopped onto the shade of the sidewalk, licking up water and looking generally exhausted. It was really pitiful.

“Well, shoot. I’m not a very good doggy Gramma,” I confessed. Ziggy rolled over so the nice lady could hose down his belly. He snorted and looked more pitiful.

“Let’s just hope you do a BETTER job with the real thing,” said the hose lady. Her tone of voice indicated that SHE would never encourage a dog that kills bath mats and new sweaters to run around the block to the point of exhaustion. SHE would know when to stop.

Feeling contrite and wracked with guilt, I walked Ziggy home. To add to my misery, he began limping.

When we reached the house next door, Ziggy revived. He ran at the neighbor, rolled on the grass, and demanded a belly rub. Then he did a somersault and tried to bit the neighbor’s inert weed whacker. Then he resumed limping home.

I think I am forgiven because the black lab is asleep ON my foot right now and the bath mats of the house are safe from doggy destruction.

K (Bad Doggy Gramma)

Our House... is a very, very, very, fine house...~

2008-09-01T20:11:00.000-07:00

My house is an insane asylum.

Brandy and Danny left their animals with us for a few days while they take care of some business.

Ziggy, the 12-week old Labrador puppy, can’t stand it that Duke, the 14-year old dachshund, doesn’t like him. The solution is to stalk the poor geriatric dog all over the house.

Seamus goes ballistic if Ziggy comes near me. Ziggy always comes near me. Seamus needs Prozac.

Tallulah, the cat, can’t stand the fact that she was moved without her permission. She is pissy, nasty, and actually HISSES at me in my own house. Every move she makes attracts the attention of Augie, who won’t let her be. This adds to her “mood,” I am sure. Augie sits for hours on “point” outside Danny’s bedroom door. The cat sits inside, plotting my demise.

Koka, the red-tailed boa, won’t eat. “Little Guy,” the ball python WILL eat. I am tempted to smear the cat in mouse droppings and have her “ visit” the snake enclosure “by accident.”

Otis refuses to come inside, favoring the garage and the back patio. Until the Zigrador figures out he is there – then the gray cat hides behind the compost pile or jumps into the yard next door, where there are only 3 dogs in residence.

Dan keeps trying to “talk” the dogs into calming down. During the last negotiation session, I took the Zigmeister outside to run around. He promptly mistook my hand for a tennis ball. It still throbs. When the swelling goes down, I will check for broken bones.

And Dustin won’t believe me when I tell him that the dachshunds just belted out the last portion of the Jeopardy! theme song. He served up some leftover dinner, ate standing up, then drove out of here like a bat out of hell, saying something about me seeing the Virgin Mary in the Grilled Cheese Sandwiches next.

He didn’t take ANY of the dogs with him.

If the ball python won't dispatch Tallulah, I’m going to put that bitchy little feline in HIS room and won’t HE be surprised…….

:-)K

A Report from Tallulah~

2008-08-31T11:42:00.000-07:00

This is my second report on Day 2 of my captivity. You will note that one of the ugly animals from my Male Staff Member's former home has breached the security gate. He is even worse than I expected and dared to IGNORE me after glancing at my comely face and beautiful body.

This despicable creature actually JUMPED onto my throne and proceeded to chew on one of MY toys. The woman who wants to be a staff member, actually LAUGHED at this and I shall not forgive her.

Her resume will be placed in my litter box along with my latest aromatic deposit.

Tallulah

Tallulah: Report from Captivity

2008-08-31T11:38:00.000-07:00

Notes from the Trenches: Report by Tallulah the Cat.

This is my second full day in this hellhole known as my Male Staff Member's former home. There are big ugly animals everywhere and they keep coming to my gate. Luckily, they are too stupid to climb over so I am safe from their slobbering, ugly, disgusting faces for now.

The woman, who needs to submit a resume in triplicate, keeps coming in the gated room to see me in an attempt to placate and curry favor. It is not working. The ugly animals follow her and she is too nice to them. Her position as a future staff member is very much in question.

I allow petting, but only because I need it at particular times and places.

Send tuna and be quick about it.

Tallulah

Couch Cushions

2008-08-24T16:19:00.000-07:00

Today I got off on a cleaning tangent and went after the family room couch cushions. They are dirty and this has been bothering me. The main reason is that my daughter in law is moving in next weekend and I don’t want her to think I put up with dirty couch cushions on a regular basis. I would like her to think that dirty couch cushions are an anomaly in our house.

The dogs like to lick the couch. I am sure this is just a "dog thing," but no amount of harping, yelling, clapping, or "pssting" at them makes the licking stop. They just like to lick. After awhile, the couch cushions have little spots that are probably full of dried dog-spit residue. They also come in from outside and go straight to the couch. This is AFTER rolling in something smelly and dirty. Although they do lick their paws on occasion, it is rarely before jumping onto the couch after digging in the mud.

Cleaning these couch cushions are an effort in physical strength. It takes a lot to get the cushion covers off the bottom cushions so that they can be put in the washing machine. It also takes a lot of strength to put them back on – this is not an easy task.

The most annoying thing about this whole endeavor is that I cannot do the job well. The bottom cushions and the matching pillows have zippers for somewhat-easy removal. But the top cushions are affixed to the couches and big chair. You cannot remove them for proper cleaning.

This makes me wonder what in hell the couch designers were thinking. “Oh yes, let’s make this furniture family-friendly. Let’s put zippers on the cushions so that the covers may be easily removed for cleaning! We will use a microfiber that looks a lot like suede! This couch will look rich and inviting.!” I can almost hear hands clapping together in delight at the prospect.

“Well, uh… what about the top cushions?” asks the smart-aleck young design assistant. “You show these top cushions as being sewn into the back of the couch and chair – how will the owner remove THOSE for easy cleaning?”

The designer probably gave the youngster a withering look and said something about creative license and his or her complete misunderstanding of the whole design concept. "My furniture is ART," the designer undoubtedly cried out. "Don't bother me with insignifant little details!"

The smirky young assitant might have mentioned something about the magnetic attributes of dog hair and the oily residue of human heads that rest after a long and hard day of toil.

The designer then said something about “steam cleaning,” which is what one must do with all the fabric covering the furniture anyway. "So what difference will it make," was the final comment, said through a clenched jaw and a mouth full of pins.

We all know that steam cleaning and other methods of dirt and stain removal on furniture is half-assed at best. Where does all that crud GO once the hot water and cleaning fluid is shot straight into the attached cushions and furniture frame? It simply cannot come out with the poor amount of suction used by whatever piece of equipment is being employed. The dirty liquid and dirty stuff is THERE forever, under where you are sitting, festering and becoming more and more disgusting as time passes. You can vacuum and dab with a wet cloth until the cows come home, but you will never, EVER, get that part of the furniture as clean as the portions you can throw into the washing machine.

Despite the whole couch getting a good vacuuming on a somewhat-regular basis, there is always dirt and cherry pits and dog hair under the cushions. I often ponder how all that stuff gets there in the first place because I don't remember SEEING anybody actually put little rocks and tiny safety pins and coins under the couch cushions. And for what purpose, anyway?

There is little posterity for old couches. They get dumped somewhere or carted away by charities who take them places where they are bought by people who are probably not bothered by the lack of removable top couch cushions. Some people put their old couches on their lawns in an effort to return to white-trash roots. But the last time I tried this, the couch was gone the next day.

My next batch of family room furniture will have 100% removable outer wear. What is left should be able to withstand a good hosing-off. In fact, lawn furniture just may be the way to go.

Leo Drives~

2008-08-24T12:48:00.000-07:00

I admire the way Leo drives. He has his eyes on the road and he isn't distracted by the radio or other vehicles. He just pays attention to what he is doing. I think that is commendable. There are so many drivers who could learn from Leo's fine example. He has excellent driving habits.

The best thing about Leo, as a driver, is the absence of a Bluetooth. Leo does not feel the need to be constantly connected to a cellular phone and the incessant demands of human conversation. He chooses not to look silly and ostentatious with an earpiece attached to his head, talking to himself while he drives. In fact, Leo doesn't talk at all while at the wheel.

Leo just......drives.

Clayton on Friday

2008-08-23T11:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I opened the classroom door and I saw Clayton across the lawn, standing by the outside cafeteria door. He was supposed to walk to the room, but for some reason he was just standing there. The custodian was telling him, not too kindly, to go to his classroom. Clayton was just standing there.

I propped open the door and looked over at him, then waved. He saw me, bolted across the lawn, and flew into my arms. (Then he asked if he could go play on the trikes.)

Right before we went home, Clayton looked up at me. I was certain he was going to ask about the trikes again. “Teacher,” he said.

“Yes, Clayton,” I responded.

“I love you teacher.”

“I love you too, Clayton. I am happy you are in my class,” I said, as I leaned down to hug him.

“Teacher?” asked Clayton when I stood up.

“Yes, Clayton,” I said, stepping over backpacks to reach the front of the rug area.

“Can I go home now?”

The Long Trike Trail Home

2008-08-21T19:59:00.000-07:00

Clayton is truly one of the only students I’ve had that has a slack-jaw. I know this is unkind and that I will be dipping the soles of my feet in hell for this, but the boy is out to lunch and has room to rent upstairs. He processes only key words that mean something to him. These are his favorite:

1. Play
2. Recess
3. Eat
4. Cars
5. Tricycle
6. Home

I tell him where to go sit and his jaw drops. One minute later, as the kids are settled at their tables, he will at my side, demanding to know where to go. I resist temptation and repeat my instructions. He usually tells me that he doesn’t want to go there. I again resist temptation and lead him to where he needs to go. If he goes limp, I threaten the loss of the toy cars. He relents but makes it clear he is NOT happy about this.

He never remembers to hang up his backpack when he comes in. He just plops down and starts playing. If the cars are not out yet, he will wander the room looking for them because he can’t remember where they are stored. If I remind him to hang up his backpack and take care of business, he ignores me, snarls at me, or just says “NO.”

Tuesday, I introduced the trikes to the class and painstakingly went over rules and procedures. In doing this, I created a monster because now, no matter what, Clinton doesn’t wish to do anything that doesn’t pertain to the tricycles.

He began asking about them when he arrived this morning, during group time, during group time again, during rug time, and during story time. He spent all recess on the trikes and then demanded to be let out to play on them again when we came in. He asked about them during lunch and after lunch. During P.E., he refused to step away from the trikes and rode around the track again and again – until somebody else wanted a turn and he impatiently waited to ride again.

After P.E. he demanded that I let him go ride the trike because “I never let him ride the tricycle.”

When I said no, that we have other things to accomplish today, he demanded that I take him home RIGHT NOW. I said no, he would ride the bus home later. He said, “NO, drive me home RIGHT NOW.”

It’s been a long two weeks with Clayton. This is the boy who pushes his work towards me when we work at the tables and says that he “doesn’t want to” do what I am asking him to do. He ONLY wants to ride the trike. This is the boy who snarled at me all day Monday and when I said he was grumpy he snarled at me again that he IS NOT GRUMPY!

“Somebody needs to go to bed early tonight,” I said, feeling every inch of my years and carefully cultivated patience. “NO,” was the immediate response.

“Oh yes,” I said, “I will be calling your daddy when you leave today and I will tell him that Clayton needs to take a NAP!”

“NO!” he says in response. “No nap!”

So, his demand that I take him home “RIGHT NOW” really spoke to me.

Because I am evil and going to hell anyway, I told him that if he really wanted to go home “right now” he could ride the tricycle. He just stared at me. Then I pushed it even further and told him to stay on the sidewalk, be safe, and look both ways when he crosses the street.

Five minutes later I look up and he is standing near the back door with his backpack on, trying to reach the key to the tricycle shed.

I could almost feel the flames licking my feet.

Hey! A Rooster Shaw!

2008-08-21T19:13:00.000-07:00

I have this little character in my class named Victoria. She thinks my name is “Hey!” although we are working on this. Victoria loves me dearly but listening to me is a different thing all together. Victoria would rather talk than listen. Victoria is up in everybody’s business. I need to appoint her Prime Minister or something.

I made the mistake of measuring her first on our class growth chart. Every morning, after she yells, "HEY!" at me, she demands that I "see how tall" she is. I keep telling her that her height has not changed since yesterday, but she only processes the part about "growth" and "blah blah blah blah."

She has been singing this little ditty for days now – to the point of distraction on my part. She sings, over and over again, “A rooster shaw, a rooster shaw, a rooster shaw shaw...” She does it during group time. She does it loudly in the bathroom. She sings it before recess. She sings it after recess. She is loud and proud in the cafeteria, “A rooster shaw, a rooster shaw, a rooster shaw shaw!”

I have been going nuts. I could not figure it out. She is an English language learner, so it is even more strange, since I can’t think of anything in Spanish that even closely resembles “a rooster shaw.” She even does this without an accent and during the most inopportune times. It is a brain worm, I thought, at its worst! All day long Victoria sings, “A rooster shaw, a rooster shaw, a rooster shaw shaw!” (And then she yells for me, “HEY!”)

So today, I put on a little movement song by Dr. Jean that gets the kids moving when they need to get the wiggles out. It is perfect for the end of the school day. The song is called “A Tooty Ta.”

We were all singing and swaying, “A tooty, ta, a tooty ta, a tooty ta ta….,” gyrating our hips and pointing our thumbs. And there is Victoria, singing at the top of her lungs, “A ROOSTER SHAW, A ROOSTER SHAW, A ROOSTER SHAW shaw!”

HEY! I am really dense. It takes SO LONG to get it sometimes.

The Missing Carrot

2008-08-19T19:18:00.000-07:00

Today my kinders were sitting at the tables "following directions." They were to color each picture to match the color word that appears on the page. They are making a little book called, "Orange is a Carrot." We do this book one page at a time, with me carefully controlling the crayons.

The kids were supposed to be coloring the carrot orange. I did not give them access to any other colors because my experience has taught me that they don't CARE if the color matches the color word. Purple carrots are just fine in KinderWorld. Normally, I could care less - but THIS project requires adherence to the directions in order to achieve a product that practices emerging skills.

Isaias decides halfway through coloring the carrot that he needs to get up and go to the restroom. His book falls on the floor and when he picks it up, he places it back on the table upside down.

When he returns from the restroom, he opens his book from the back cover and smoothes it down. Then he sees the blank backside of the last page of the book. He begins hollering at me, "Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!"

"What is it, Isaias," I say with kindness and patience. "What is the matter?"

His eyes are wide as saucers as he looks down at his book and then up at me. "MY CARROT IS GONE!"

The Possibilities: What if People Cleaned Up After Themselves?

2008-07-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

Today’s paper ran a story about a new park opening in downtown Los Angeles – the first open space made available to residents since the late 19th century. While the article was very upbeat about this, my first reaction had me wondering how long it would take before the park became dirty, vandalized, and dangerous. The local residents interviewed for the story seemed happy about the park and called it a refuge and a place to run and play.

But how long before the lavatory doors are ripped off their sparkling new hinges and sold for scrap or taken to the nearest recycling center and exchanged for cash? How long before broken sprinkler heads shoot water in every direction except the new grass that depends upon the irrigation to stay alive? How long before picnic tables and building surfaces are covered by gang graffiti and turf wars erupt over the coveted open space?

Call me a cynic but these were my thoughts as I read the article and shook my head reading the sound bites offered by the city’s politicians who stopped by to take credit for the 10.5 acre site. I had to ponder – who is going to take care of the litter? Who is going to weed the planters of soda cans and clean up after the numerous family picnics that will descend upon these grounds while the weather is still warm? Will those families take care of the city-provided restrooms and teach their children to do likewise? One look at any public restroom in any public place and the outlook is not good. It never ceases to amaze me how many women have difficulty getting dirty paper towels INTO the provided receptacle. And what is it about cleaning up after yourself when you use a toilet? Does anybody in their right mind honestly think somebody else wants to be confronted with your private mess? Or is the anonymity of the whole thing the perfect camouflage for our most basic instincts?

People are notoriously unwilling to clean up after themselves. A visit to any discount store will illustrate that reality. Clothing, shoes, and other store merchandise is often picked up, examined, and then discarded – on the floor, thrown across shelves, and under displays. At some point an apathetic clerk will come along to replace the jumbled items, but it is a Sisyphian task. These minimum wage earning individuals do nothing their entire shifts but clean up after people who are perfectly capable of cleaning up after themselves.

Carts are abandoned in parking lots because many people are too lazy to return them to the store. How long, really, does it take to bring a cart to the parking lot area designed for carts? Entire companies are in business to retrieve carts from people who think nothing of removing them from parking lots altogether.

And litter? It is ubiquitous. Any neighborhood walk will reveal trash that didn’t make it to the trash can or was hurled from a passing car. School grounds are full of trash that blows out of poorly-designed receptacles. Parks and other recreation areas are strewn with the remains of some family’s good time.

I often wonder at the loss of productivity we as a society experience because people are rarely taught to clean up after themselves. What if retail store clerks did not have to spend time picking up and replacing items tossed aside by lazy customers? Would it be possible for “customer service” to make a comeback? How about teaching school children to clean up playground litter – would a respect for the environment and the world around them be encouraged? How about just an old-fashioned sense of responsibility for the world around them?

With regularity, I have my students clean up common areas in the school. I am regarded as eccentric for doing this. Many teachers and most school children walk by the campus litter regularly. Bending over and picking it up is a possibility that rarely enters the repertoire of possible actions. It is amazing and it is sad. In Japan, school children actually clean up their own schools. In America, the classified workers unions and middle class parents would go ballistic at such a suggestion. But think of the possibilities: If school children cleaned up after themselves, classified employees charged with those thankless tasks would be free to work on other neglected areas of the school, things they cannot do because school children think nothing of creating messes and then skipping away from them.

What if park-goers actually cleaned up after picnics and parties and made sure their children put trash in the wastebaskets? Would a message be sent to criminals that this place is valued, cared for, and inappropriate for graffiti and other acts of vandalism? What kind of respect for humanity might be engendered in that instance?

I had a neighbor once who swept his sidewalk and driveway every weekend. He also scooped up all the debris that collected in the gutter in front of his house. I have to wonder – what if everybody did that? What if the city-financed street sweeper crew could actually work on other, more public areas and keep them pristine and attractive? Would people then be less likely to hurl beer cans out of their cars?

It is utopian, my view of a world populated by responsible people. The idea that people could actually clean up after themselves – such an idealistic concept.

I wish the people of downtown L.A. good luck with their park and an abundance of trash cans.

Hiding the Bones: Another Dog Tail

2008-07-06T11:31:00.000-07:00

Today, I gave each dog a meaty bone.

Duke’s was heavier than he is but he solved the problem by dragging it to just the right spot and then putting his paw on it for stability while he went to work. He was busy for a long time and I am not sure where the remains are located. The chewing and gnawing and paw-steadying wore him out – he’s asleep on the chair.

Augie took his meaty bone under the table and made quick work of removing the meat and marrow. He’s outside on the patio “digesting.” He’s placed the bone on the grass, in the sun, for proper “drying.”

Seamus, however, is beside himself. After working on what was probably the biggest bone in the package, he took it upstairs. There was much thumping and bumping as he relocated the laundry basket, the trash can, my shoes, the sheets on the bed, and my pillows, in search of the “perfect” spot for hiding. Dog compels the brown dog to bury the bones and the questionable meaty parts he is saving for later. But what he lacks is the understanding that 2-story houses built on concrete foundations lack the necessary components for appropriate burying of bones.

Upstairs, laundry is dragged all over the room. My pillows are off the bed, the stack of books on the floor are now a pile, and several shoes are in the bathroom. Standing amid this disarray is Seamus, with the bone in his mouth, looking perplexed and agitated. Hanging off the bone is a rather brownish piece of meat that has to be harboring bacteria that is rapidly multiplying while the poor dog looks for adequate storage.

He eventually settled on my bed and began what sounded like an expedition to China. Then he plopped down on the bunched bedclothes and expelled a very angst-laden canine sigh.

Somewhere in between my blanket and top sheet is my dog’s prized possession. On top, is Seamus – sleeping a righteous sleep and dreaming big doggy dreams.

It’s time to change the bed anyway.

Hiding the Bones: A Dog Tail~

2008-06-24T13:43:00.000-07:00

I have been giving the dogs real meaty bones lately. They seem to enjoy them but I am concerned about Seamus.

The brown dog spends an inordinate amount of time with his bones and then more time trying to figure out where to HIDE them.

I hear wild scratching at all times of the day and night - only to see my dog-with-little-brain trying to "unbury" a bone from the couch cushions, the throw pillows, a carpet runner, or from where he WEDGED it under the couch. (How he gets in under that far, I have no clue.)

This morning, after my bike ride, I jumped in the shower. When I emerged, I heard a ruckus in the closet. I see Seamus dragging the laundry basket around with his teeth - he has a hold of Dan's underwear and is trying to pull it through a slat in the laundry basket.

He is very intense about it. I tell him to leave Dad's tighty-wighties alone and push the basket back into place.

A minute later, same issue - the brown dog is trying to pull the drawers through the slat.

Now, Seamus follows the motto, "No brains, no headaches." But he usually leaves DH's underwear alone. So, I investigate and SURE ENOUGH... he has yesterday's meaty
bone wrapped up in Dad's "yesterday" underwear.

THIS explains the "clean" meaty bone in the dryer last Sunday.

Ball Changes

2008-06-13T12:52:00.000-07:00

Today Doctor Dave's evil assistant called to invite me back in to the surgical center to replace my testicles. It seems the plastic things floating around inside do nothing for the aesthetics of these instruments of torture and Doctor Dave simply will NOT have me going around looking like that.

I dressed for the occasion, including underwear and a sports bra. Lacking a decent place to properly pin the balls to my clothing, I gave up and inserted one on each side of the bra - where the bra's "cups" would be if I had breasts. Since the balls are deflated due to this giant suction thing they are performing, the effect was a like oversized and inverted nipples.

For some reason, this made my appearance rather humerous. The office staff frantically grasped their collective sides and appeared to wet their collective thongs. The Evil Assistant then took a series of pictures reminiscent of the good Doctor's "before" and "after" shots that document his careful work.

She is of the opinion that Doctor Dave will either become very annoyed with her for using his camera on "breast work" he did not perform, or he will wet his drawers.

Since I get to see the good Doctor tomorrow for a tube change and a bandage-check, I think it would be decent of me to bring a gift. But I am at a loss: Tighty-wighties or Scooby Doo boxers?

Lightbulb Ideas~

2008-06-13T12:43:00.000-07:00

My friend Kelley is very annoyed about having to use to new energy-efficient, enironmentally-safe, mercury-filled "last forever" lightbulbs. She feels that we, as consumers, are being forced to buy them and she will never do so. Since incandescent lightbulbs will be out of the stores within a few years, she and her sister plan to hoard the incandescent versions. They will stockpile them in garages, attics, cupboards, and unused nooks and crannies around the ol' homesteads.

Me? I am not in agreement. At all.

Personally, I prefer candlelight. I have hoarded candles since 1980 and dutifully recycle the wax to make new candles. My "candle recycling" enterprise is crude but efficient. I waste tons of natural gas heating up all the chips, chunks, and other waxy droppings. I do this on our stove! Then I pour the melted wax into various containers I have recycled over the years - soda cans, peanut butter jars, wine bottles, yogurt cups, and pickle jar lids. I buy wicking by the mile and store it in old wrapping paper tubes.

I am currently experimenting with outdoor lighting by pouring a bit of wax from each melting session into an old PVC pipe I found along the side of the road. Somebody actually threw it out! The form is perfect for creating what I hope to be a huge "torch" that will light part of my patio and enhance my garden daycore. I will "plant" these in my yard! Solar garden lights? HA! They will PALE in comparison to these babies. I just need to ensure that the plants in the vicinity are non-flammable.

We have had many close calls over the years with pesky little house fires, but worry not! I save all the charred materials and either continue to use them, recycle them into wall and yard art, or burn the remainders in my fireplace very winter. I repaint the damaged walls every spring - just like changing out the batteries in the smoke detectors - I repaint and caulk damaged surfaces! And those smoke detectors work, believe me. With a bit of engineering ingenuity, an engineer-pal of mine got our smoke detectors to play guitar riffs from "Smoke on the Water" and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." Now, annoying little fire mishaps are transformed into musical interludes!

Oh yes.. there have a few other 'unfortunate' incidents involving my long-haired cat. Suffice to say that he sleeps hangs out in the closet now and the latest skin graft is healing nicely.

Incandecent lightbulbs? PUHleeeeze. Y'all are so backwards it's laughable!

Advice from Jim, my favorite Outlaw~

2008-06-12T19:52:00.000-07:00

Since Jim and Anita are Brandy's parents, I get to call them my "outlaws." I was pleased to get an eMail response from them today regarding my surgery and what Jim refers to as my "newly acquired hotness." He warns that I must use my powers for GOOD.

I chuckled when I read it. Then I laughed out loud. I would have gone into a full knee-slap, but my tender post-surgical areas disallow that. So, I carefully considered this new illusion of "hotness" and then replied accordingly:

Oh yes, dear Jim….. I am hot. And then I am cold. And then I am hot again. I drip sweat while shivering… this is because of “reduced body volume” and my newly hot body attempting to get used to it.

I have two hand-grenade things attached to tubes that that go into delicate body areas. They drain a lovely color of liquid constantly. I finally grew balls! I am wearing a strait-jacket thing that velcroes well to itself and to delicate lower body hair. It has sharp edges that are gouging my upper legs and hip areas. Since I have reduced sensation, I don’t notice these secondary injuries until they start bleeding or the irritation causes me to look. (That or Augie Doggie attempting to “clean” the wound.)

My back aches from taking over from my newly tightened torso muscles – which were in good shape to begin with but couldn’t be seen or heard. Now they are on a 15-day strike because their delicate sheaths have been stitched and yanked and heaved into a new location.

I have the stamina of an sloth, drink water constantly, pee hourly, and have to sleep with every pillow in the house. I am awake every 2 hours to pee or turn over so I don’t get bedsores. The only good night sleep I’ve had in 6 nights was on Tuesday – when I took an anti-anxiety pill and chased it with a pain pill. I slept for 12 solid hours. I did not get up to pee and I did not turn over. It took me 20 minutes to unwedge myself from my pillow cocoon. Then I had to hobble to the bathroom with a bladder worthy of a racehorse. Something tells me this little drug cocktail would have gotten me on television if my last name were "Hilton" or "Spears."

When I finally got to shower, after three long days, I couldn’t do it alone. Only a TRUE best friend would come and help with such a task. And I have one. The only downside is the fact that three of us know about this little arrangement, and one of them is my husband who was at work at the time. He said he wished he’d known – he’d have come home with his camera. (Yeah, to two middle aged women taking a shower… one of them wearing party beads and plastic testicles.)

I have to shower with the testicles slung through bright green Mardi Gras beads since those were all I had handy in the bathroom when I needed something to keep the 17 yards of aquarium tubing from sliding out of my body when the hand grenade portions hit the ground. Not that they could – they are sutured to a very delicate area in the body that is not reacting well to its unexpected shave and foreign objects of attachment. Re-read that part…SUTURED. I want you to picture 17 yards of aquarium tubing SUTURED to an area within centimeters of YOUR, uh…. “drains.”

Oh yes, dear OutLaw Jim.. I am HOT.

Kim

New Computer

2008-06-12T16:31:00.000-07:00

The old computer has been on its last legs for a long time. It has been sluggish and unreliable the last few months and a game of Free Cell caused an automatic shutdown in the afternoons if the humidity was under 65%.

I tried to buy one from a local vendor but had no luck. The local vendors were either closed when I went looking or were staffed by fat foreign guys who tried to sell me what I didn't need while constantly flipping open their cell phones. This happened twice.

I went to the big box store and was amazed at the variety of computers. What amazed me more was the variety of teen-somethings with big-box name tags and absolutely nothing to do. When it dawned on me that customer service from these sloths was not forthcoming, I fled the store and came home to hide.

With credit card in hand, I went online to Dell and ordered this new machine. It is very nice. It lacks a media card reader, but I didn't know what a media card reader was when I was ordering, and when Dell "strongly recommended" one, I clicked on by. Now it seems I need one in order to use the memory stick for the camera. Go figure! Seems to me if something is "strongly recommended" as a component, then maybe Dell should just include it as part of the package.

The new machine arrived but I had no time to clean files off the old one, dismantle it, and then set up the new one. For two weeks the boxes sat in the living room, rather forlorn.

There were two graduations. There was a wedding. There was a quick trip up north. And then I had surgery.

No problem, I thought - I will set up the new computer a few days after surgery.

It took me hours BEFORE the surgery to clean out the files and copy them. It also took me hours AFTER surgery to unplug all the cords. I would travel to the computer, unplug a cord, and then go rest. Since the machine has many cords, you can imagine how many days this took.

Once the cords were unplugged and tied with little bread wires, they had to be moved into the livingroom next to the old keyboard - the only component I could move off the desk myself. Then I had to wait for the Y-chromosome people to find time and MOVE the computer carcasses off the computer desk and into the livingroom, next to the neatly wrapped cords.

And DUST? Can we just talk a minute about the dust? You can't set up a new machine in old dust. So - it took several trips to the hall closet to get the vacuum, remove the carpet attachments, roll the vacuum into the computer room, and then go rest. It took a few more trips to actually VACUUM.

Dustin came home at one point while I was vacuuming the middle portion of the computer desk. "You shouldn't be doing that," he said, leaning against the door frame.

"Yeah, I know. Feel free to jump right in," I replied, moving slowly around to face him. By the time I pivoted enough for a full-face conversation, he was gone. So I turned off the Dyson and went to rest.

The other Y-chromosome guy in this house said he would move anything I needed - just ask. When I asked, after resting, he said just a minute because the mother of all horse races that won't be repeated for another 30 years, is coming on. Then it was the U.S. Open. So I rested some more.

Then I decided to open the boxes. I got some nice scissors and settled down to the task from a seated position on the couch. It took me an hour to open them all. It took the Y-guy 30 seconds to pull out anything he didn't deem important and pile the unimportant stuff and the computer packing materials into one of the boxes. In the time it took him to move the new components to the nicely dusted computer desk, I was able to fish out the Owners' Manuals, the back-up CDs, the power cords, the Quicken software box, the Norton Anti-Virus package, the packing slip, and the computer mouse.

"Did you vacuum?" he asked, all indignant.

"What makes you think that?" I asked, gently easing myself up from the floor with about a thousand dollars worth of unimportant stuff.

"Okay, because I told you I would do that..." he says as he heads back to express his preference for Tiger Woods and horses with original names like "Brown Horse."

After proudly connecting the keyboard and the mouse to the appropriate places, I went to rest.

The next day, Ann came to the rescue. We set up the computer in a timely manner. This involved Ann vacuuming, Ann removing excess cords from computers long dead sent to electronic heaven, and Ann setting up and initializing the computer. I watched and she let me push a button. Then I rested. Ann installed the computer speakers and registered all the software.

Now I am going to go rest. It is strongly recommended.

Jordan's Bad Day~

2008-05-15T16:28:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in each teacher's life for writing a letter home to parents. Today, I had to write a letter to Jordan's parents. Below is a copy.

Dear Jordan's Parents,

Jordan had a bad day today. I am writing because this was a really bad day. Normally, I would have sent Jordan to the office and the principal would have contacted you, but I have reached the point in the school year with Jordan that I need to try something different.

During Group Time we have 4-5 activities. Today, one of those choices was the completion of a May calendar. The children were asked to fill in the dates, which they could copy from our class calendar. They had to mark two upcoming events and then color the flowers if they wished. This is good numeral practice and good for vocabulary development. We also practice patterning because the students color the date boxes to match the pattern for the current month.

Jordan didn’t want to do it. He made this perfectly clear from the minute he ran from the bathroom and did a perfect slide into home base. He flipped around on the floor, did a headstand and a back flip. Had I been grading for P.E., I’d give those maneuvers an 8.1. Then played with his friends – who somehow managed to finish.

Jordan chose not to complete the work during recess or lunchtime. He managed to bang his head against the wall (check for bruises), roll on the floor, visit the restroom several times, fall of his chair, and sit in the recycling bin.

None of this helped him to finish the calendar.

He stabbed his shoes repeatedly with classroom pencils. Luckily for me, we have a pencil sharpener.

Jordan is fine example of stubbornness in action. Hopefully this will pay off in the future when he goes to college. In the meantime, please help him complete the calendar. I am enclosing the original work for you to admire.

Please sign the completed calendar and return it to me.

Thank you for your continued support. School is out in 11 days. I send my condolences.

Sincerely,

Jordan's Kindergarten Teacher

The Slow Fall~

2008-05-13T20:27:00.001-07:00

During recess today, Andrew ran up to me, upset because Diego had pushed him down. Not only did Diego push him down, he added to the indignity of the whole thing by pushing him down OFF the swing.

Diego was on Andrew's heels, coming to defend himself, at all costs.

"Diego," I said, "Andrew tells me you pushed him down."

"Off the swing," added Andrew.

"NO," said Diego, shaking his head. "I didn't! I didn't!"

"He pushed me down off the swing. It hurt me," said Andrew, rubbing his rear end for added emphasis.

"No, no, no.........." argued Diego, "I didn't push him down! I didn't!"

"Yes. Yes. He pushed me down," said Andrew.

"No," said Diego. "I didn't. I didn't."

"Okay," I said, mustering up some patience. "Diego. Why did you push Andrew down?"

Diego is silent for a few seconds, considering whether to lawyer-up. Then he says quietly, "I didn't."

"Diego. If you didn't push Andrew down, how did he fall off the swing and land on the ground?"

Diego pauses to think. Then he says, "Verrrrry slowwwwly."

Bicycle Ruminations

2008-05-10T19:36:00.000-07:00

Today, I bought a new bicycle. This was not an impulsive purchase - I have been thinking about bike riding for a long time.

Influencing my decision was my dear friend, Ann, who used to ride fanatically but now rides regularly. She has an almost vintage racing bicycle that has logged many miles. She is very attached to it and lifts her eyebrow at the mere mention by Jim, her bicycling spouse, that the trusty steed could use some updating.

The new bike is a Scott racing model. I like it for many reasons. It is lightweight, white like my favorite car color, and damn good-looking. There are other, technical reasons, but I am reluctant to go into them here. When I know what those technical reasons are, I will pontificate accordingly.

I took it out for a ride this afternoon and noticed a few things that I never really considered before. I will list them since I am a good list-maker:

1. Bicycle shorts are not merely an affectation used by cyclists to look professional. That extra padding around tender areas comes in handy after about 4 minutes.

2. Brakes need to be at the top of the handlebars, not in front of the bike. Aerodynamics, shmerodynamics - when I want to stop, I want to stop, not give my hand ligaments a good stretching.

3. Bike lanes shouldn't be politically correct after-thoughts. Bike lanes should be mandatory on all roads.

4. Bike lanes are for bikes. They are not right turn lanes for cars.

5. There is an abundance of crap all over the road. Isn't somebody in charge of clearing crap from the road? SHOULDN'T somebody be in charge of clearing crap from the road?

6. Speaking of crap, what is with all the broken glass? Do people just go outside and fling glass for the hell of it? I don't get it.

7. Road surfaces are not even-steven. They should be even-steven. In Spanish-speaking neighborhoods, they should be equal-pasqual. This is not a mountain bike.

8. Driveways are rarely flush with the street. Why IS that? It makes no sense. Aren't these things generally done with an eye on meeting up at some point?

9. Some cars are too quiet. They sneak up on you. Cars shouldn't be sneaky. It hurts the neck to look back on the left side.

10. Dogs are more interested in chasing a cyclist than a walker with 3 loud and energetic weinie dogs. Does that chihuahua down on Argyle Lane really think he can catch me?

11. Does the bicycle seat make my butt look fat?

Diego and the Duck Joke

2008-05-06T17:24:00.000-07:00

There is a joke I like to tell my students towards the end of the school year. Kindergarten kids, for the most part, don't understand jokes unless they have something to do with "underwear" "the bathroom," or "naked."

If the kids can retell the joke, it is always a good laugh and I often hear from parents later that they "loved the duck joke."

Okay. So the joke goes like this:

Duck walks into a supermarket and looks around for the manager. When he finds the manager he waddles up and says, "Hey! You got any gwapes?"

The manager says, "No. I don't got any gwapes."

Next day, the duck walks into the supermarket and looks around for the manager. When he finds the manager, he waddles up and says, "Hey! You got any gwapes?"

The manager answers, "NO! I don't got any gwapes!"

Next day, duck walks into the supermarket and looks around for the manager. When he finds the manager, he waddles up to him and says, "HEY! You got any gwapes?"

The manager stops what he is doing and yells at the duck. "NO! I don't got any gwapes. You come in here tomorrow and ask me for gwapes, I'm gonna staple your feet to the floor!"

Next day, the duck walks into the supermarket. He looks around for the manager. When he finds the manager, he waddles up to him and says, "HEY! You got any staples?"

The manager says, "No. I don't got any staples."

Duck says, "Good! You got any gwapes?"

*****

Sometimes the kids get the joke and sometimes they don't. This is a "don't" year but that didn't prevent them from asking me to tell the joke again at lunch today.

Diego stops eating and excitedly tells the class that HE knows the joke and will tell it.

"Duck walks into the market. He says, 'hey, you got any grapes?'"

Then Diego stops. He is clearly thinking.

"What happened next, Diego?" I asked.

"Oh yeah!" he yells, getting up on his knees, arms waving wildly.

"Duck looks for the manager. He finds the manager."

"What did the manager say," I prompt.

Diego doesn't miss a beat.

"Manager says... GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

Bad Words

2008-05-04T11:55:00.000-07:00

Upon returning from the computer lab last Thursday, they just couldn't wait to descend upon me, one after the other, to share the news that "Alyssa said a bad word!" I half-ignored them in my attempts to hurry them along so they don't miss the bus. "A bad word? Really? Alyssa?" I say incredulously, when several more approach me to share the exciting news.

Alyssa vigorously shakes her head. "NO!" she says with vehemence. "I did not!"

"Yes she did!" shouts Raymond and Brandy gleefully. "In the computer lab!"

Alyssa keeps shaking her head and contorting her face in a wild attempt to stem the tide of eager tattling over her newly-discovered truck-driver mouth. Figuring that, since Alyssa was relatively new to our classroom, she didn't know about the "shut up" admonition, I did what all harried teachers do while trying to hurry an excited group of kindergarten children out a doorway that is suddenly much too small.

"What did she say," I asked Jessica, lowering my voice in case it was "stupid" or worse, like "idiot."

"She said F*#k!" reports Jessica dutifully. The kids unanimously agreed.

"I did not say f&^k!," yells Alyssa, folding her arms and sticking her head out and bobbing it in front of Jessica's face.

"You did! She did, teacher," says Brandy, eyes wide and flashing, "she said f^&k!"

"I did not! No, I didn't say f&^*!" Alyssa shouts, whirling around to face down each of her accusers.

Raymond approaches me seriously and tugs on my shirt. I lean down, while putting my hand out in a vague attempt to stop the yelling of "f%$k" each time Alyssa denies it. "Teacher. She did. She said "f&%k," intones Raymond. "I heard her."

"Me, too," says Tabatha, thrilled that it is somebody else getting in trouble over the uttering of bad words.

I send the other kids to the bus line and signal for Julie to take my kids with hers, holding on to Alyssa's backpack as she attempts to skitter away towards her dad, who is waiting outside. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and Alyssa senses it as I lean down and whisper into her face.

"Tell me the truth. What happened?" I ask in my best no-nonsense teacher voice. She caves and looks down. "Okay, I said it."

"Were you mad?" I ask.

"No," responds Alyssa, shrugging at me and smiling.

"Were you annoyed?" I ask.

"No," she replies, kicking at the cement with her shoe and watching her dad out of the corner of her eye. As he comes closer, she whispers, "I made a mistake. I was just talking to myself."

Still wanting a reason for such uncharacteristic behavior, I ask if she was wearing the headphones and didn't realize other people could hear her.

"No!" she laughs, finding that notion clearly ridiculous.

"Well then, WHY, for heaven's sake? That is an awful word and it doesn't sound right coming from your mouth," I say.

Alyssa nods solemnly. "Okay, teacher. I won't say it anymore."

"What's going on?" asks Dad.

"Alyssa said a bad word. But she won't be doing that anymore, will you, Alyssa?" I say, raising my eyebrows.

Dad looks surprised. "What?" he says, peering down at his daughter, folding his arms.

"I won't anymore," she promises, grabbing her dad's hand in an attempt to stop this conversation from going any further.

"What did she say?" asks Dad, falling into the same trap I did, but sensing that we aren't having a face-to-face over "stupid," "idiot," or "shut up."

"Um... it rhymes with truck," I say, "And she won't be doing it again."

"Oh," says Dad, putting his hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry. I let that one slip now and again."

"Yes well.....," I begin, but Alyssa is dragging at his hand, clearly embarrassed for both of them.

"He won't say it again," the child assures me, leading her mortified father down the sidewalk towards the parking lot, pausing only to turn around and yell back to me.

"If he does," Alyssa shouts, "I'll tell you, teacher!"

Laundry Day

2008-05-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

Last week the PTO sponsored a Pioneer Days assembly. It was an interactive activity that the children adored because they could go from station to station, experiencing life just like 19th century pioneers.

Well, not exactly like the pioneers. It was as close as you can get when housed in the cafeteria of a somewhat rural school in the middle of the Mojave Desert, with air conditioning and plenty of adult help for the more difficult tasks, like carding wool. And there and no wild animals, infectious diseases, or sod houses close by.

For 45 minutes, three classrooms of children worked side by side, playing with authentic wood toys, making authentic dyed-pasta bead necklaces, shaving with authentic shaving brushes and real butter knives, panning for real fool's gold, and grinding real corn in an authentic grinder. There were no behavior problems the entire time. They waited patiently for turns at the grinder, yielding enough corn meal to make a mini-muffin, after much hard work. They gladly sifted their fruits of their efforts, over and over again.

The biggest hit, without a doubt, was the washboard and wringer. The kids took turns washing a towel and then putting it carefully through the wringer, only to wash it again. And again. If they weren't involved with the washing, they watched, eyes round and mouths agape - fully entranced by the whole process.

So, the next day I brought in a vintage washboard that has decorated my laundry room for several years, serving as a reminder that I must always be grateful for Maytag and Sears & Roebuck. I put the washboard in a plastic tub filled with soapy water and scrounged around for the one and only towel in the classroom.

I wasn't sure how they would react when faced with this little set-up, which I'd placed on an old wood table that was abandoned in the kindergarten yard years ago. The fact that they were enamored is putting it mildly. They vigorously scrubbed the towel against the rusty washboard, rocking the rickety table in the process.

Tricycles gleamed in the sun, unridden, while the children lined up to "wash" the towel. Jump ropes were forgotten and the play equipment sat abandoned once Raymond realized that his attempts to coax his buddies onto the slide was for naught. "Come on, guys!" he shouted hopefully. "I'm a superhero!"

Seeing that his friends would have none of it, Raymond got in line for a turn, only to become exasperated when the current washerwoman wouldn't relinquish the coveted spot. Calls of "hurry up!" soon became screeches, as each launderer pushed the bounds of kindergarten reason and washed until anarchy and chaos was threatening. I suggested that they count to 50. Might as well make it academic.

I don't know why I was so surprised at the popularity of the old washboard. These are the same kids who yawn at carefully constructed phonics lessons but "oooh" and "ahhhh" over my cleaning of the whiteboard. "Look! A rainbow!" they exclaim, as the dark ink drips down the board and changes into a plethora of inky paints and blend again to create more color spectacles. "Do it again!" they shout, convinced that one MORE squirt of the noxious whiteboard cleaner will yield another batch of drippy rainbow colors.

"Hurry UP!" they shout at each other, becoming impatient with the current washer person. "Hurry UP! TEACHER! Raymond is taking too long!"

"Count to 50," I reply serenely, thrilled with the spectacle of Raymond's look of complete wonderment and concentration as he vigorously rubs the soapy water along the old ridges of the washboard. I am secretly pleased with myself for thinking of this and happy that the accumulated dust is now swirling around in the tub.

More pushing ensues and Raymond flounces off when he can't convince his buddies to extend his turn to the count of 60. I am pleased that Raymond understands that 60 is ten more than 50.

This is the same group that laughs when I drop something and snickers at words like "underwear," "snot," "poop," and "naked."

They are belligerent with turn-takers who keep scrubbing after the count of 50. Almost as appalled as the saying of "bad words," which usually elicits repeated rounds of breathlessly excited tattling. For Kindergarten kids, "bad words" include "shut-up," which I declared off-limits early in the year, and "stupid," which loses its shock value around second grade.

When they reluctantly leave the washboard to return to the classroom, I notice there is a fringe benefit to all this scrubbing. For the first time all school year, my kids will go to the cafeteria with sparkling clean hands.

Is it today?

2008-05-02T21:00:00.000-07:00

Below is a transcript of a phone conversation I had this morning with Tabatha's grandmother.

The phone rings. I pick it up and answer in my usual manner.

Me: "Lengning."

Gramma: "Hi Mrs. Lengning. This is ____ _____, Tabatha's gramma."

Me: "Good morning, Mrs. ________."

Gramma: "What time is Tabatha coming back from the field trip today?"

Me: "Today?"

Gramma: "Yeah. The field trip. What time is she coming back?"

Me: "The field trip to Placerita Canyon is on Monday, Mrs. _______."

Gramma: "No. It's today. I need to know what time she comes back 'cause I have to go to the valley."

Me: "The field trip is Monday, May 5, Mrs. _________."

Gramma: "SHE thinks it's today! She keeps telling me it's today!"

Me: "Mrs. ________, SHE also thinks Diego is going to marry Hannah Montana."

Gramma: "It's supposed to be today!"

Me: "Every homework packet since early April has said that our Placerita field trip is on MONDAY, MAY 5, Mrs. ______. We also sent home a reminder, and Tabatha got TWO permission slips, which you signed. They all said Monday, May 5. Cinco de Mayo."

Gramma: (sounds of exasperation)

Me: "I will be sending home a paper today with the afternoon drop-off time on it. She will be coming home with the big kids on MONDAY AFTERNOON."

Gramma: (More exasperation.)

Me (deciding to take the high road): "I am sorry for any confusion, Mrs. ____________. "

Gramma: "Yeah. Well. I'm just glad I CALLED."

I resisted the urge to retort something that would underscore how ludicrous this entire conversation was, given that the woman obviously doesn't READ what we send home.

When Tabatha arrived at school, I said, "Hey, dippity doodle, WHEN is our field trip?"

Tabatha paused and looked at me like I was only employed because the district gives equal employment opportunities to middle-aged Boneheads. "TODAY," she says, rolling large brown eyes.

"When is our field trip boys and girls?" I called to the children, who were gathering on the rug for our Morning Meeting.

"MONDAY!" they shouted, "3 more days!"

Tabatha looked disgusted. Then she mumbled something under her breath.

"What was that?" I asked her, "I didn't quite hear you."

The child folded her arms and flounced down to the floor. Then she said, rather loudly, "I wanted it to be today!"

Lost Things and Dog Hair

2008-04-27T16:26:00.000-07:00

This morning the unthinkable happened: Mom lost her Address Book. This isn't just any old address book, it is the ADDRESS BOOK. Everything is in there with the exception of the last novel by Dickens.

I've seen this book and it amazes me. Phone numbers and addresses are only part of the bounty to be found in this book. Mom has birthdays, anniversaries, blood types, complete health histories, clothing sizes, yoga workouts, and dog names in that book. The complete maintenance history of her last two automobiles is in there somewhere, along with the names of her favorite mechanics at PACC Auto.

It has a filing system that only she understands. There are rubberbands, paperclips, and sticky notes holding important places and delineating special sections. When she can't remember the names of family pets, she finds the special page that has all that information, in her compacted and unique penmanship.

The loss of this book was huge. It was all Mom could do to concentrate on her telephone call with me. Finding this book was so important that she was considering the possibility of going through the trash can.

Mom doesn't like trash and the idea of going through the trash is so unappealing that I could hear the stress in her voice and the feel the tension of her muscles, steeling themselves for this most distasteful of chores.

"Why would you have to go through the trash?" I asked, "You would never throw it away!"

"I might have forgotten and thrown it away," Mom replied.

"I don't think so, Mom... it's too important. You wouldn't do that, even if you were distracted."

"You never know. I've been really distracted lately."

She told me to wait while she checked one more place. "No, it's not there..."

"Where?" I asked.

"A place I didn't check yet. It wasn't there."

"Oh... have you checked all your purses?" I asked.

"Yes. All of them. If I don't find it soon, I will HAVE to go through the trash before it gets picked up tomorrow." She was sounding anxious.

"When did you use it last?" I asked, trying to be helpful.

"I used it to mail back Haley's phone charger. I had to double check. I know the address, but I just had to double check. So I had it open. When Haley was here, she left her phone charger."

"So it's all HALEY's fault," I said. But Mom didn't laugh. She was clearly very agitated. I told Mom that I always have to check too, because I forget the zip code.

"Well, THEN what did you do with it?" I asked, trying to sound thoughtful, "after you double checked?"

"If I KNEW that, I would know where it is," said Mom.

"Did you take it with you to mail the phone charger?" I prodded.

"No. At least, I don't think so. No. I can picture it... it was open."

"So you didn't mail it to Haley with the phone charger?"

"Mail it? Why would I mail Haley my address book? No. No. I don't think so," Mom replied. But the pause in conversation lead me to suspect she was considering that possibility. Then she was probably mulling over how she was going to call Haley and ask about the address book.

"Okay. Well, think carefully about where you were when you had it open. Then what happened next?"

"I don't know. Maybe I just won't think about it."

"Yeah, Mom.. if you don't think about it, you will remember."

It sounded like a plan.

"I will go take a shower. The hot water will sooth me. Maybe I'll remember."

"Good idea," I said, trying to sound cheerful.

"I really don't want to go through the trash," Mom said again. "I really have to find it. EVERYTHING is in that book."

"Maybe you should do that prayer... to the Patron Saint of lost things."

"The saint of lost things? Who is that.... I can't remember." Mom was born half-Catholic and dragged to Mass often enough but that wasn't helping in this situation.

"What was it that Auntie Chickie said about finding lost things... the prayer?"

"I can't remember," sighed Mom.

"Okay, I hope you find it," I said, before hanging up.

It came to me later, something about dog hair. My aunt had read this wacky thing about using dog hair to find lost items. My Mom and sister and I had chuckled over it.

But I was about to call Mom to tell her about the dog hair when she called me back.

"I found my address book," Mom announced with relief. "It was in the car. In a plastic bag. I looked one more time."

"Oh good.... so you DID take it with you," I said.

"I don't know why, but I did. Thank goodness. I didn't want to go through the trash."

"Dog hair, Mom," I said.

"What?"

"Dog hair. Auntie Chickie said that Dog Hair helps find lost things."

"Oh. Okay. Whatever you say," said Mom, clearly not remembering the whole laughing-out-loud conversation we'd had in November about Auntie Chickie and the Dog Hair.

Mom signed off and probably spent a few minutes wondering about dog hair. I, for one, will be brushing Seamus tonight and mailing Mom some dog hair.

You just can't be too careful. I mean, that book has EVERYTHING.

Strange Fruit

2008-04-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

There is an abundance of this botanical specimen growing all along the Lake Hughes portion of the Pacific Crest Trail. Its interesting shape demanded a picture.

Mike, a fellow teacher and one of my hiking partners for the day, carefully picked it and began opening it with his pocket knife. His efforts were hindered by my dogs, who wanted to get at it. The fact that we found it interesting was enough for them.

It looked and smelled a lot like a cucumber on the inside and Mike and I double-dawg dared each other to taste it. "I'm sure it's fine," I said.

"I bet the Indians ate it," added Mike.

"I don't THINK so," said Heather, Mike's fiance. She tossed the halves into the underbrush.

Further along, we spied some fruit growing off a different shrub - this one looked remarkably like apples, only smaller and not as round.

"Looks like an apple," I remarked to Mike and Heather.

"It's NOT an apple," she replied.

"Hey! Remember when we picked one on that one hike?" recalled Mike, suddenly animated as he aimed his camera. "It tasted...what? Kind of sour?"

"Yeah, it was sour," I said, continuing to walk. "It had kind of a dry after taste."

"You tasted it?" asked Heather with incredulity. "You are kidding, right?

"Yeah..it was kind of sour," said Mike.

"Not like an apple at all," I added.

"Good heavens," said Heather, with a tone in her voice that lead me to believe she didn't share our courage and unsettling willingness to try new things.

"We're still here," said Mike, rather smugly.

"It's a wonder," said Heather.

"Why? What's a wonder?" asked Mike.

Heather sighed and shook her head. "It's a wonder," she said, "that the human race has survived this long."

Cave Explorers

2008-04-26T19:49:00.000-07:00

Today, the dogs and I joined Mike, Heather, and Nellie (Mike's mom) for a hike along the Lake Hughes portion of the Pacific Crest Trail.

The trailhead going northwest has some interesting features, including some mine shafts that look a lot like caves. I knew Mike, a fellow teacher and hiking enthusiast, would love them.

Nellie and Heather weren't so sure, choosing to stay outside while Mike prepared to explore a little. Unsure of what wildlife may be resting inside, I kept a handle on Duke and Seamus, but Augie would have none of it. If Mike was going inside, Augie was going inside, preferably AHEAD of Mike. This is a pack leader kind of thing that Augie finds extremely important.

"Don't go in there," warned Nellie. "You don't know what's in there."

"It's okay," Mike assured his mother, as he entered the opening and disappeared into darkness.

"Mike! Don't go in there... come back out of there," coaxed his mother.

"It's okay, mom... really," said Mike, from somewhere in the bowels of the earth. Nellie said something in Spanish that I loosely translated to mean blood, guts, gore, snakes, and certain death.

"Heather!" called Mike, an echo radiating off the walls of the cave and wafting outwards to the bright sunlight. "Come on in. It's nice."

"Um. No," replied Heather, "I don't think so."

"It's great.... oooh look.. there's a jar with something in it...."

"Um. No. Not unless you found yourself a flashlight," retorts the fiance, not moving a muscle and fixing the cave's opening with a baleful stare.

Nellie murmured something that sounded like "mi dios" and again exorted Mike to come back out.

"Hey! There's fresh scat in here," called Mike, with much excitement. "And look.. a nest!"

Heather put her hands over her face and sighed. Nellie looked like she was ready to start praying the rosary.

"Mike, you come out now," she said. Nellie is living proof that mothers continue to worry and cajole, long after their offspring pass thirty.

When Mike emerged, he had a plastic jar with numerous messages written on scraps of paper and crammed inside. He pulled them out, examining each one like an archeological treasure.

After taking pictures of the messages, Mike and Augie returned to the back of the shaft to return the jar to its original place.

"Your dog insists on being ahead of me," said Mike, attempting to find his way with only the camera flash and the light from his cellphone to guide him.

"He's showing dominance," I said.

"So...he'll protect me?" Mike calls from the darkness.

"Uh.... I don't think so. He just likes to be first," I said. And sure enough, Augie emerged from the cave first, with Mike behind him. I'm sure Mike appreciated the view of Augie's butt as he tried to climb out.

We continued along the trail, stopping to wonder at the wildflowers and occasional lizard.

"If a snake surprises me," I said, "I may utter an expletive. I apologize in advance."

Mike and Heather laughed.

Nellie looked worried.

I hope it was because of the possiblity of more caves, snakes, and lizards... not because of me uttering swear words.

Too Many Cats

2008-04-24T20:11:00.000-07:00

Because the kids are grasping addition and subtraction concepts so readily, I decided to challenge them a little bit and assess how easily they are transitioning to more abstract approaches to solving equations. They are still in kindergarten, but their sense of number is developing rapidly.

Most of them still require something concrete to solve for the sums and differences, as I expected. Some of the kids just whip through the problems and ask for more. Being a glutton for the punishment only small children can dish out, I decided to bump up the instruction a knotch and see what happens.

I worked with the class in small groups to help them figure out how to solve equations that don't give them anything to count or cross off. I showed them how to use their fingers or to draw dots on the paper to help computation.

Kael was doing pretty well on his own but was stumped with 0 + 6. The "finger" method wasn't quite working for him, so I tried to make it more concrete.

"How many cats do you have, Kael?" I asked.

"I don't have any cats. My gramma won't let me."

"Okay.. so you have what...? Zero cats?"

"Yeah. I can't have any cats. My gramma is allergic to cats."

"So, you have zero cats."

"Yeah, I can't have a cat. My gramma... her eyes get all puffy and then she can't breathe......."

"Okay, Kael," I interjected, sorry that I ever mentioned cats. "So you have zero cats. Let's say that SIX cats came into your yard."

I quickly drew six little dots to represent cats.

"Now, how many cats do you have?"

Kael stared at the six dots.

I waited.

"Kael. If you had zero cats and then six cats walked into the yard......how many cats do you have?"

Kael stared at the dots some more. Then he looked up at me with alarm and replied loudly, "TOO MANY!"

The Sneezes that Seizes~

2008-04-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

This morning I awoke and remembered that I ate some ice cream sandwiches when I got home last night. I do not know how many and perhaps this is best. Naturally, I feel fat and bloated.

I went downstairs to have breakfast before swimming, which starts at 9:00 on Saturday mornings. The best part is that we get to stay and swim longer, something I dream about all week. I was looking forward to swimming immensely. Last Saturday we couldn't swim because Robin was busy. Next Saturday, I have plans.

There are allergens in the air so I sneezed. It was one of those Big Bad Wolf sneezes. I blew loose a rib or something. I am grateful I didn't pee, but upsetting the balance of ribs, muscles, and joints in the upper core region isn't that much better. Especially since I am supposed to be in good shape.

I babied myself during my breakfast and then went to get my swimsuit. It was hanging on its nice wooden hanger in the laundry room. I reached way up to get it down and promptly finished the job on my upper back and ribcage.

Now, I don't think I would have been so upset about this had I not sent my upper legs into spasms earlier this week attempting to repeat a stair-stepping move over and over again with my kindergarteners, all of whom wanted to do "20 of them holding Teacher's hand," followed by "lunges because those are so much fun." I repeated sets of 20 many times during recess that day. I felt virtuous, until the muscle soreness set in the next day. And the next.

So here I am, virtually immobile in my lower body and wracked with pain in my upper body. I remind myself again how lucky I am that I didn't pee. Some people pee when they sneeze. I didn't do that. I am in good shape!

Swimming, I tell myself, is going to feel SOooo very good in the warm water. I can stay late, as usual on Saturdays, and swim, swim, swim. My damaged upper body will unseize and my throbbing legs will untighten.

I mince my way to the car and drive carefully the half mile to the wellness center. In the left turn lane, the car stalls because I forget to keep enough pressure on the clutch. I park and it takes me awhile to disengage from the driving position.

I decide against my water fins for today and hobble into the lobby to sign in. I am SOOOOoo very much looking forward to swimming. I need to get into that water and just..... be.

There is a note on the sign-in sheet. "Sorry. Water fitness ends at 10:00 today."

I make a noise that must have sounded somewhat like a gasp. I stare at it. Then I flick it with my finger - since my fingers don't hurt. "Sorry, Kim," says Renee at the front desk, "Robin has an appointment this morning." Yeah, yeah, yeah. But what about ME?

When I get into the water I am so upset and I hurt so badly I can't look at anybody. And the water? It is tepid. It is lukewarm at best. It is NOT warm and comforting. It seems SOMEBODY forget to adjust the thermostat last night. I silently curse SOMEBODY because this water is not meeting with my very rigid expectations.

I begin my warm-ups and burst into silent tears, feeling like an idiot. Everyone is staring at me. Nobody wants to say anything. I know they are thinking that somebody must have died or that one of my dogs is sick. I can't say anything because I feel so stupid for crying in the first place.

I say nothing until Elyssa asks if I need a hug and I tell her I feel ridiculous. She responds that I look ridiculous, so I laugh.

Then I tell her I sneezed this morning and something came loose. Half the class is menopausal women so they all laugh in commiseration.

"Yeah, we understand," calls Barbara. "Just don't sneeze in the pool."

;-)K

The Unbearable Lightness of Napping

2008-04-10T20:57:00.000-07:00

Otis J: The picture of contentment.

Food Fight~

2008-04-10T20:43:00.000-07:00

Today, when the kids were finishing up Group Time, I let them play for about 10 minutes while we finished up a few things. I walked over to the rug area and noticed that several students had dumped ALL the classroom beads onto the metal trays we use for magnetic letters. Every single bead in the classroom - mini-beads used for stringing and patterning, beads used for counting and sorting, and the larger beads used at the beginning of the year.

"Yikes," I said, "what are you all doing?"

"Making food!" replied Alyssa.

"Yeah," said Jason with way too much enthusiasm, "we're COOKING... making food!"

Several other kids nodded in agreement, happily pretending to mix, stir, and allocate portions.

"Okay," I said, "But this mess will have to be cleaned up as soon as I get back from the restroom."

They nodded their assent and continued to "make food."

"Don't burn anything," I warned as I left.

Five minutes later, I returned to the classroom. Mrs. Aguilar was standing at the rug area, hands on her hips, looking very unhappy. My parent volunteer was shaking her head and the student assistant was hiding her face in her hands, trying to control her laughter. There were beads EVERYWHERE, all over the place. They were under the tables, in the workroom, strewn about the rug, and scattered in all directions.

"What happened?" I asked.

Jason and Alyssa answered with much excitement.

"FOOD FIGHT!"

Senseless Death~

2008-04-06T11:39:00.000-07:00

This morning I opened the L.A. Times to find the death of a 21-year old local boy in on the front page. He was killed in Iraq. His body was flown by the military to the local airport. The photographer took the picture as the mother and sister were leaning over the casket.

I read about this stuff all the time. A couple weeks ago, it was another SoCal boy - I cried then and I just let loose this morning. His mother was hugging a flag-draped box. Cold comfort when your child is dead.

I don't know this boy. He attended the local Christian high school. The hearse carrying his body drove by the school and teachers and students lined the sidewalk to pay their respects.

I know devastating loss. We all probably do - and the older we get, the more familiar we become with the shock, the pain, the grief - and the anger.

When my father died, I felt all these things and continue to mourn him. But he was 67 years old and in poor health for years. In a way, his death wasn't senseless in the way this boy's death is senseless. My father lived his life the way he wanted to live it - this boy never had that chance.

The Times reported that the young soldier joined the army against the wishes of his parents. He wanted to be a teacher and spoke of it often to his high school counselor and often returned to the school after graduating to sit in on his favorite teacher's class.

Not thinking he was ready for a full-time college career yet, he joined the army. He wrote to his father while in Iraq, telling him he still wanted to teach. He just wasn't sure how to go about it yet.

I think of the mother and grandmother and the sister and the father. I think of them and the awful grief they endure, because of circumstances. What happened to their son was certainly nothing they planned or wanted. What happened to him was the result of policies by people in power - who get to make these decisions. Death was not on this boy's mind when he joined the army - life was on his mind. He needed time to think and to grow. He thought joining the army was a good thing.

I also think of this teachers. They taught him. He sat in their classrooms and he joked around and he did his work, or he didn't do his work. They scolded him, they talked to him, they made marks on his paper. They read his words. Maybe they smiled and shook their heads when he cocked his head just so.

I work with teachers who have lost students to senseless death. We don't talk about it much. We just say something in passing, or poke a finger at a picture in the paper and someone says, oh yeah, I had him. Or somebody plants a tree in memory of a child who was the passenger in a car that was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. The tree grows and half the students don't know this girl's name anymore. Her teachers remember, but nobody goes out to the tree - or trees. There are more. But most people at school don't remember anymore. Just the families recall.

My first class of students will graduate from high school this year and they don't look or sound anything like the little kids who rolled around on the rug and painstakingly learned how to write the letters of their names. I have lost only one of them to senseless death. She was ten years old and died in an off-road vehicle accident. She would be in high school now, being a mean girl or sending text messages to her friends. But she died a completely preventable death and I grieve for her when I think about it.

I can't know how this young soldier's teachers feel. I think they are very sad and some of them are taking his death harder than others. Sometimes it is just a matter of personality. There are teachers who love each and every student and there are teachers who keep them at arm's length, letting close only a chosen few. Me, I love them and let them go. I cried when my first batch of firsties left for middle school. Now, I think, I won't see them anymore unless they come back.

I think that some of his teachers are proud of him and his sacrifice for our country. Like me, they are patriotic. But maybe they are unlike me in that I am getting cynical about this need to be in another part of the world, policing them, when we have so many reasons to spend that energy, that time, and and that money here at home.

The money it cost to transport his body to the regional airport could have paid for tuition, books, and clothes to wear to an interview.

He wanted to be a teacher. And he can't come back.

Snakes on a Plane....

2008-04-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

....well, cobras anyway. Or huge anacondas with murderous eye gleams. Or, mambas. I don't care for those. Especially the green ones with those whippet-thin bodies and lightning fast reflexes.

That is what it would take to get me to JUMP from a perfectly good airplane. This is a philosophy that has suited me well in all my years and I rarely have to revisit the whole idea. I mean, you never know if you are going to be happily ensconced on a plane, reading a magazine, when some drunk herpetologist's menagerie gets loose and begins to wreak havoc on the plane.

Well, my niece is going to jump from a plane for her 18th birthday. She and I share a birthday, which I feel a bit guilty about since her mother, my only sister, had to push and shove and grunt and break blood vessels for hours in order to give birth to my niece on my birthday. Although touched by the sentiment, I just knew it would come back to bite me in my significant ass one day, snakes not withstanding.

My sister told me, via eMail, that I could "contribute" to this little endeavor as an 18th birthday present, considering, she writes, that I am having "a significant"
birthday this month. I replied that I would happily send a check. But thoughts linger.

How often, I wonder, will my niece and I have SIGNIFICANT birthdays the same day in the same year? I guess not ever. This is the year she turns 18, old enough to vote and be drafted for war - but not old enough to buy a drink or play cards in Nevada. This is the year our birthdays are like Halley's Comet. They mathematically coincide and need to be celebrated in a big way.

I am supposing that my contribution isn't just monetary. I ask my sister for birthday suggestions and infer that I am to abandon my perfectly good nasty-snake theory of jumping from planes and actually hold hands with the niece and JUMP?

It would be historical. I turn 50 - a half century. She turns 18 - legal adulthood. We would do this in Lodi, of all places. A place familiar to me because of a song that was played on the radio each morning my father would drive me to school during the period my mother was in the hospital. I was around 10 years old. I rode in the front seat of the Mustang. A band sang about Lodi and being stuck there. Lodi is a place where wine is put up and people get stuck.

I find the whole idea of jumping put of a plane in Lodi beyond preposterous. Ludicrous to the Nth degree. My formerly-hospitalized mother would kill me if the fall did not.

I have, in my lifetime, conquered my fear of snakes. Except for the ones mentioned above. But I consider that fear an issue of safety and sobriety. It is reasonable to be fearful of green mambas curled up where they don't belong and just waiting to do damage - like chasing significant birthday holders from planes.

Diego and Power Tools: Don't Forget.

2008-04-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

Like most teachers, I work hard to plan classroom activities that promote learning in many curricular areas. Literacy is first and foremost, but I can integrate it with science most days of the week. Then there is math, something we do every day because the kids need to develop number sense so they won't get taken advantage of by eMail SPAM and sneaky mortgage broker scams.

Every morning, after we complete our morning business and I determine that most of them still have no idea how many days there are in a week, I briefly explain what we will do during group time. Group Time is my favorite part of the day. It is a series of open-ended learning experiences that engage the kids and allow me to assess their progress.

Today, I begin explaining what we are doing. Diego, who has been practicing a triple back-flip on the rug, leaps up quickly on his knees and asks, with very wide, smiling eyes and much enthusiasm, "What about woodshop?"

I am speechless for a moment or two. I've yet to discuss wood-working with them in any way. In fact, I am 100% certain the subject has never come up. Not even in a story. So his question surprises me.

I do remember, though, that earlier in the week, Diego had asked for a piece of wood. I tried to steer him towards the blocks but this just annoyed him more. What he wanted was a PIECE OF WOOD so he could BUILD A CAR.

So, maintaining my professionalism, I repeat his question.

"Woodshop?" I ask, maintaining a straight and very quizzical teacher-face.

"Yeah.. you know. Where you... you... where you.... build things like book cases and drawers and things."

"Well, Diego.... I don't think we can do woodshop today," I reply.

"Why?" he asks. He is completely guileless, in his own world most of the time but sharp as a tack on most academic measures. He just doesn't understand some things - like the failure of his classmates to hand over their snacks at recess, or their general unwillingness to give him anything of theirs that he happens to want. That just boggles his mind.

"Gosh, Diego," I say, "I didn't bring the power tools."

"Oh," he says and then sinks back down onto the rug. I am half afraid he will ask me why. But he doesn't and this avoids a circular conversation that I can't get out of unless I use a teacherism or change the subject very quickly and get all excited about it.

During writing time, I model for the children how writers make lists and then show them how I make one when I want to remember things.

"Good," he says, while using his journal as a waving-palm fan and warming up for a triple somersault with a twist.

"Yes, Diego.. it IS good. This way we don't forget things."

The children proceed to write and I wander around, looking and listening.

A minute later he yells to me from across the room.

"TEACHER!"

"Yes, Diego?" I answer, deciding if I should admonish him for shouting across the room when he is supposed to be writing.

"Don't forget."

"Don't forget what, Diego?" I ask.

"Don't forget. You have to write it."

I am busy trying to redirect two boys who are mistaking their journals for medieval weaponry.

"Write WHAT, Diego?" I ask, hissing to the dueling knights and tossing each journal to a different location in the room.

"Don't forget. The POWER TOOLS!"

Comprende teflon?

2008-04-05T14:45:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Ann had a classroom story to tell last week. All the better when you consider that a teacher just can't make this stuff up.

Ann has been beside herself lately with the lack of listening skills exhibited by her second grade students. We often vent to each other about how stuff goes in pretty well but comes out sounding a lot like crickets. Ever the intellectuals, we just don't understand why the kids don't process what we try to teach them. Nothing, we complain on the drive home, seems to stick. Except how to clog up the toilet with paper towels or how to spray water all over the floor from the sink.

In frustration, Ann put down her overhead pen the other day, in the middle of a lesson they just weren't getting, and talked to the kids about the importance of LISTENING and keeping what is said IN the brain. Being an engineer by training, Ann wanted the children to remember this important information and went about it scientifically. She decided to use "analogy" as her method and then repeated herself, with much seriousness, "Boys and girls, we want to have VELCRO brains, not TEFLON brains."

Once the crickets clear, she showed the children an example of VELCRO, which just so happens to be on her watchband. She made that hideous velcro noise that all teachers hate and said again, "velcro - this is VELCRO. Things STICK to velcro. We want words and ideas and information to STICK in our brains like VELCRO." She makes the awful noise again with the velcro on her watchband. (When I tried this the next day with my kindergarteners, we never got past the "making noise with velcro" part.)

Then, she added, "Boys and girls, we don't want our brains to be like TEFLON. TEFLON coats a non-stick frying pan." The children assure Ann that they understand the properties of teflon and velcro.

Having finished her explanation and demonstration, she returns to the lesson that was interrupted because of teflon brain activity. Within 10 seconds one of her second graders, Tillie, asks again what she is supposed to do. This, despite the fact that the procedure HAS been explained several times, modeled, and reinforced with the velcro/teflon analogy.

"Tillie," says my dear friend wearily....."WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"

"I don't know," replied the girl, swishing her dark blonde ponytail and fixing Ann with a look of total indignation, "I don't understand Spanish."

:-)

Visualizing Victoria~

2008-04-05T13:40:00.000-07:00

I am happy to report that I have finally talked with Victoria. This lovely young lady has been Dustin's girlfriend for quite awhile now, but I have only seen her in fleeting flashes or heard her laughter as they visited in the next room.

In the old days, when people came to visit, they would come to the door and knock. Then whoever was closest to the door would open it and exchange pleasantries while the intended recipient of the visitor gathered thoughts, straighted hair, and tucked in clothing.

I guess that was BD - Before Dogs. Dogs have a tendency to loudly announce visitors at the door and then carry on for some time afterwards, each demanding to be acknowledged, petted, and admired. Sometimes belly rubs are called for - and this really elongates the "entrance" and makes a lot of noise.

So, Victoria calls from her car and Dustin does the old O.J. Simpson ad, leaping and bounding through the house to let her in before the dogs have her arrival figured out. Sometimes it works, but these aren't hound dogs for nothing.

I have "met" Victoria, of course, but only in passing. I think each encounter involved me wearing my pajamas and working furiously at something on the computer while she looked like a deer in the headlights. I guess I am THAT intimidating. Especially if my jammy top doesn't match my jammy bottoms. It has been known to happen.

So, the other night, I finally get to talk to Victoria the Dancer and Speaker of Russian. What to say when you find out that somebody is a dancer and speaker of Russian? Something stupid - like, "Gosh, I have been wanting to teach my kids how to dance but I am SO not a dancer." How lame, and made worse by Dustin saying, "What are you saying, Mom?" (No, not that I want Victoria to teach my kids dancing. AS IF the girl has any spare time at all.)

And the Russian? Heck, that is quite the feat. The Russians use an entirely different alphabet. I know because I get SPAM from cyrillic-writing people all the time. They must be under the impression that I speak it, read it, write it, and spend money in it. Otherwise, why would I get it?

So I admired her prowess with dancing and her tenacity with her studies and the speaking of Russian. I also admired the ability to pronounce those pesky Russian names and read those feather-light tomes of Russian literature.

Last night, Dustin and Victoria went to the ballet. She actually convinced him that was an endeavor worth his time and energy. He bought a new sweater and wore coordinating VANS.

I was very proud.

So many books, so few shelves...

2008-04-05T13:36:00.000-07:00

Today is the day I promised myself that I would organize my books and find places for the piles that have somehow sprung up around my house.

I am not sure how this happened, but there are books in many places where books don't generally hang out. This has occurred over time - a matter of days, and weeks, and months. I will admit that several trips to Barnes and Noble, armed with gift cards, have contributed to this local diaspora of the written word.

There are, however, problems with just putting the books away. I like my books organized by genre and author. I have become lazy during the past few years with reshelving the titles I pull for this purpose and that - and my system is not as svelte and delineated as I like. So, in order to add the bevy of new books to the library, I have to find my system and start repairs.

Complicating matters is the fact that Dustin's college texts now constitute their own shelf, but they haven't been placed with my college texts, and this creates dichotomy and divisiveness. It bothers me every time I look at it.

Another problem involves my family pictures. When I first arranged the framed photographs, there were places for all of them and the effect was aesthetically pleasing. But as I began shelving new titles, the pictures got rearranged. Now they look crunched and uncomfortable, which was not what I had in mind when I carefully placed them.

Bookshelves are for books, not knick-knacks or bric-a-brac. It is fine to have a framed photo here and there, if there is room, but it simply doesn't DO to have the visages of treasured family members scrunched in among the books - as if I were trying to find a place for them.

When Dan installed the latest set of bookshelves for me, I happily placed the pictures and they looked okay. Not fine, not wonderful, but okay. It was a temporary arrangement because I knew it was only a matter of time before books would take over, kind of like crab grass and wisteria.

The walls hold photographs, artfully arranged. But with the addition of more books, their days of hanging around in here are numbered. Too many frames on the wall and the room begins to look cluttered.

I may need more bookshelves. It is only a matter of time. I am thinking that construction, to expand this room eastward, may be in order. In the meantime, I may have to canvas the house for the placement of possible book annexes.

Hot Potatoes

2008-03-21T19:08:00.000-07:00

My sister and her husband were preparing dinner tonight. I asked if there was anything I could do to help and Sue told me to open the oven door and "check on the baked potatoes."

I opened the oven door, looked at them, and my glasses got all steamed up. I shut the door and told her they were still there and send their regards.

She got all exasperated with me and told me to FEEL them to see if they were done.

I told her they were HOT and I sure as h*ll was not going to stick my hand in the oven.

"Then use a POTHOLDER," she says, "if you are that much of a big baby."

I nosed around the kitchen but couldn't find a potholder.

"I can't find a potholder," I said.

"Just FEEL that d*mn potatoes to see if they are done," she says, with that TONE in her voice.

"No. They're too HOT," I say.

"Big baby," she says.

"Not either," I say.

Then she sticks her hands in the burning hot oven and feels the potatoes and pronounces them DONE.

She proceeds to pull them OUT of the oven and put them in a bowl. She does this without a potholder, just to spite me.

"Are too," she says

"AM NOT!" I say.

Under her breath, during dinner, she says, "ARE TOO!"

"I am NOT!" I hissed back.

Nobody in the family is sticking up for me.

Would YOU stick your hand in the oven to FEEL baked
potatoes that have been in there long enough to burn the
first layer of skin off your hand?

Keep Your Hands and Arms Inside the Car at all Times~

2008-03-13T20:19:00.000-07:00

To put it mildly, I have a very active and talkative class. I seem to be blessed with one every year, but the current crop burns more calories with jaw-flapping and body movements than any previous class I have taken under my teaching wing.

Instructional time, in their view, is perfect for gossiping, back-flips, and arm wrestling. They talk through lessons. They talk through stories. They talk through math activities and center time. When visiting the bathroom, they sing. LOUDLY.

During Physical Education, I can keep them active, but it is nothing compared to the gymnastics they practice while on the rug for whole-group instruction. I am often tempted to hold up a score card after maneuvers that deserve taping for the U.S. Olympic team. I'm thinking Raymond may be scholarship material.

They really outdo themselves when lining up. This is the time most appropriate, in their view, for pushing, shoving, bouncing, jumping, can-can dancing, and breathless communications about who is who's friend and who is currently out of favor. This is the time for touching, poking, leaping, and hopping like rabbits. It is also the time for loud wailing and gnashing of teeth as "the chosen ones" find out they are out of favor.

Walking in a line has been especially difficult for this class. Colored masking tape on the rug did nothing for them. Line "rules" are viewed as "suggestions" and nothing more. Repeated practicing, with arms folded and feet quiet, lips pursed, and shoulders straight, result in a perfect line - one time.

Lining up means picking up sticks from the grass, manipulating every prodruding handle on the custodian's truck, and ballet leaps that are noteworthy - and loud. The side wall of the cafeteria is rubbed continuously or kicked with loud grunting noises. They don't walk ANYWHERE to which they can run.

I admonish. I scold. I have them do it again. And again. Repeated practice means more sticks, more leaps, more kicks, and more efforts to rub the concrete off the cafeteria wall. Repeated walks "in order to get it right" mean more practice with foot moves that look mysteriously like cross-country skiing. I often add these minutes to my plan book and label them, "P.E."

Today, I forewarn them about appropriate line behavior. We are walking to the cafeteria and it is ESSENTIAL, I tell them, that they walk with quiet hands and quiet feet. I stand over them with my best teacher scowl and I say, "No kicking, no running, no jumping, no leaping, no bouncing, no binging, no hopping, no hair pulling...."

"AND," yells Diego, in his best immitation-teacher voice, "NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY!"

Knitted Brow

2008-02-24T16:41:00.000-08:00

It is extremely disturbing for me to accept this, but... books lie. Especially the covers of Do it Yourself books or manuals. They are the worst - almost as bad as the tabloids in the supermarket check-out line or the endless parade of women's magazines that promise, I mean PROMISE that you will lose weight if you just follow this simple little formula buried on Page 183.

If you look closely at the print under the lying-through-the-teeth title of the above book, you will see, on the left side two little words that simply suspend belief: Simple Instructions. There is more but I really don't need to include any more because this is a simple enough little promise, isn't it?

The instructions are NOT simple. They are not clear, self-explanatory, easy to read, simple to understand, or broken down either! They are deceitful. There ought to be some kind of regulation about this blatant disregard for the truth here.

My intentions are completely ordinary. I want to learn to knit, again. I have these fantasies of creating knitted masterpieces for every member of my family - future heirlooms, treasures to be stroked lovingly with fond memories long after I am gone. I would like to throw together little scarves and sets of mittens, and sweater dresses for a few of my closest friends.

"Oh, you MADE that?" they will gush, when the handmade and exquisitely detailed garment is pulled from the coordinating tissue out of the carefully selected box. "Yes," I will say modestly, "I did."

So, maybe I got a little ahead of myself. First, I need to learn to "cast on." This is the process of actually getting the yarn onto the knitting needles. When the instructions were clear as mud the first time I read them, I decided to roll the skein of yarn into a nice ball, just like the professional knitters do - one must always start things off the right way.

Then I read it again.

"Do you know how to make a slip knot?" I asked Dan, who can actually tie fishing lures with needle nose pliers and both his thumbs. "No," he replied, looking quizzical. After all, I was a Girl Scout and should remember how to tie a slip knot. So I just played around with the yarn for awhile and then suddenly made a slip knot. I couldn't tell you how I did it - I was just ONE with the yarn. My fingers have muscle memory.

My guess is that you are then to create a series of slip knots all down the knitting needle. I say this because the book takes time to congratulate you on the slip knot, "it counts as your first stitch."

In Lesson 1, there is the "Thumb Method" and the "Two Needle Method" for casting on. I appreciate the variety, but I think they should have taken a little extra time to make at least ONE of these methods crystal clear to the novice user. They could leave the other method out.

After making the slip knot and placing it on the needle, you are to hold it with your right hand. Then...

Place short end of yarn (measured length) over the left thumb from front to back, and bring yarn from ball up and over left index finger, then hold both yarn ends in left palm with the 3 remaining fingers.

There is a picture. It took me 20 minutes, but I finally got what was in my hand look kind of like the picture. But then it gets worse.

Insert tip of needle under yarn on left thumb from front to back. Bring needle over and under strand on left index finger. Draw needle and yarn back through loop on thumb. Slip thumb out of loop and gently pull loose end to secure new stitch on needle.

One question: What new stitch?

I tried again. And again. I decided to let the whole thing "cool" for a couple of days.

I called Dustin over to help. He can take apart and reassemble a car engine. He can figure this out, I thought. Dustin furrowed his brow and read and looked at the knitting needles. Then left me for a date with some cute little Asian girl he met at work.

"Give up on knitting, Mom?" came his smart-aleck voice from the couch the other day. To my credit, I did not say, "Shut up!" to him. I bit my tongue and then replied, "No. I just time to figure this out."

"Oh," says Engine Boy, running upstairs to do something productive that I am pretty sure won't include knitting.

I took the whole "Learn to Knit" kit with me to bed the next night and sat there trying again to get this right. I didn't.

I am not stupid. I have two master's degrees and I was accepted into a Ph.D program for gawd's sake. I can write a perfectly-formatted APA-style position paper. I win big bucks on Jeopardy! every night. But I don't get this and I have to blame the book people. "Simple Instructions and Clear Diagrams" my smart toe! They lie, lie, lie! Just so they can sell their books and more yarn and silly little accessories, knowing you will be too embarrassed to bring the whole thing back for a refund.

The worst part isn't that I can't figure out how to knit using a lying and cheating book. It isn't the money or the embarrassment over the whole thing. The worst part is that the Lovely Brandine figured it out with a book on Christmas night. She called the next morning, very proud of herself.

Her book didn't lie. She just picked up those needles and did it.

I am sure I will be fine once I get past the "casting on" part. With all the muscle memory in my fingers, I am sure to just begin to knit - one stitch at a time, needles clicking away.

I either need Brandy's book or an empty drawer.

Save a tree: Invite by Phone

2008-02-24T15:45:00.001-08:00

HP Photosmart C6180 All-in-One Printer: $750.00

One Package embossed and perforated, printer-ready wedding invitations: $5.95

One ultra black inkjet printer cartridge: $29.99

One package matching lavendar envelopes: $6.95

One permanent marker, silver: $2.25

Blessed privacy as you plead with printer and hurl epithets at computer: Priceless

Missing: One Public Outcry

2008-02-23T13:59:00.000-08:00

Our governor, in concert with the California state legislature, has announced an unprecedented $4.8 billion dollars in funding cuts for education. The day this happened, I waited for the outcry but it never came.

Are we so overwhelmed by big numbers that $4.8 billion dollars means nothing to us? Are we so complacent that the mere idea of such a shortfall, in the world's eighth largest economy, means nothing? Are we so used to the appalling mismanagement of public money by elected officials that we barely yawn before flipping the channel to something more "interesting?"

We were collectively appalled by budget cuts to public health. The remedy, say public health officials, is to cut back on public health services. We were indignant when the governor threatened to close down state parks. Several media outlets carried the story of the Will Rogers family threatening to take the park back if such a thing happened. Then it was quietly announced that the state would merely increase admission fees to state parks. No cuts in services needed.

Other state services will also feel the knife. It stands to reason that cuts in services will occur or prices for such services will be raised. There will be grumbling, perhaps, if not an outcry.

What about public education? Where is the outcry for the 107,000 layoff notices being printed for almost a third of California's teachers? I am not hearing it.

Public schools cannot cut services. We are mandated to give each and every child who arrives at our schools a free and appropriate public education. We do not charge admission. We don’t invoice for the countless extra hours devoted to students and their families. School employees never begrudge providing that most basic gift of an enlightened society: an education. We take our students in, we care about them, and we teach them.

So, California’s mismanaged state budget will be balanced on the backs California's teachers, auxiliary staff, and school children. Teachers and remaining classified staff will be expected to shoulder an increased workload - adding hours to the typical 9-12 hour day. More family and personal time will be spent grading student work, planning lessons, preparing and evaluating assessments, and completing progress reports. (Contrary to popular opinion, the school day does not end when the students leave.) There will be more extra-duty assignments, more committees, more meetings, and more mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion. Why? Because most teachers are not satisfied with "good enough" and will continue to work harder than expected in order to give our children the best.

What about our students? Do you think an increase in class size won't affect them? Think again. This isn't the good old days when most discipline problems were handled at home and the parental rank and file stood firmly behind the teacher when a student misbehaved. This is the era of entitlement and litigation. This is the era of parents defending what the previous generation would have called abhorrent and abysmal behavior - sometimes at all costs.

An increase in class size means the likelihood of behavior issues directly impacting the quality of the education of every child in that classroom. Time spent dealing with inappropriate, rude, and disrespectful behavior will be at the expense of quality instruction. This means less time teaching and less time learning. The research is clear on this one, folks: Time spent learning is important. The quality of instruction is critical.

My school district has three schools. We stand to lose 29 teachers, according to the worst-case scenario put forth by our superintendent. Wilsona Elementary School has, through hard work and extreme commitment, raised its Academic Performance Index (API) to an unprecedented 762. This means that Wilsona Elementary, a Title 1 school that serves at at-risk and geographically isolated community, is ranked #10 in the Antelope Valley. Almost half our student body does not speak English as a native language. All of our students qualify for free lunch.

Now, we will be punished for doing an outstanding job. Along with every other public school in California, we will lose a third of our staff, be required to shoulder a disproportionate share of the collective burden, and be expected to maintain this API score with no additional assistance forthcoming.

I keep waiting for the outcry. I pray it is brewing into the “perfect storm” of common sense and a re-evaluation of fiscal and ethical priorities.

The Ubiquitous Doctor's Visit

2008-02-19T13:56:00.000-08:00

Over the years I have come to the conclusion that there is a certain ubiquity to visiting a doctor's office. While some procedures, office decor, personalities, and competencies can be found along a predictable spectrum, it all boils down to the commonalities - the sameness of each and every experience.

This struck me yesterday as I waited for quite a long time to see a doctor at a local walk-in clinic. I avoided the Urgent Care I was familiar with because I knew it would be horribly crowded and I would need to take provisions. I didn't feel strong enough to haul provisions.

I have a "real" doctor. But in all the occasions I have visited his office, I have never actually seen him. I saw his colleague when I had pneumonia in 2001 and the nurse practioners when I visited with minor ailments, but never the man himself. I didn't go there yesterday because they were "closed" for two hours for "lunch." I knew from previous experience that I probably wouldn't get an appointment anyway, due to the flu bug going around, and tendency of his office to over-book. Time and again I have sat there, wedged in between other hopeful and weary patients, competitors for time and attention. There was a time or two when I visited and there was nobody there - yet I waited at least an hour to see somebody. I couldn't help but wonder if the "somebody" I would see was piddling around back there, ensuring and maintaining the balance of power. The balance of power here will never, ever, be in favor of the one seeking medical care. Unless you are President Bush or Leonardo diCaprio.

So I went to this clinic with the tentative hope that I could see a doctor. I have been sick with the flu and its plethora of unpleasant symptoms for two weeks as of tomorrow. The traveling virus lodged itself over the weekend in my ears - probably migrating from my throat, where it had moved in and set up camp, in preparation for colonization.

There were few people in the waiting room and they all had appointments. As I waited, I reflected on the things that make these visits, although conducted rarely, familiar and predictable.

1. The procedures: There is always a clipboard with paperwork attached. This paper work requires signatures and information. It asks all kinds of irrelevant questions that I doubt the doctor actually sees. I think the answers serve as fodder for the morbid curiosity of the staff member who inputs the stuff into the computer. You have to fill out the paperwork on the clipboard if you haven't seen the doctor in awhile. I can understand this to a degree, but really - the dates of my childhood apendectomy and gall bladder surgeries never change. I make the effort to make the appointment and keep it - surely they can make the effort to keep that information in some sort of permanent file. Ask me if I hemoraged last week or had any major collisions with immovable objects. That makes more sense. Ask me about my aversion to needles.

2. The Waiting Room: Doctors with decent cash flow often hire decorators to spruce up the waiting room. The best feature of my "real" doctor's office is the fish tank. It is a saltwater wonder, filled with beautiful fish, exquisite hardscape, and clear, clean, bubbly water. It sits on a shelf that separates two waiting rooms. Other than the fish tank, the decor is interchangeable, dark, and lacking in warmth.

Most of the decor from "decorators" looks like it came from the same stash used in hotel rooms. The furniture, the bland "artwork," the shelving, knick-knacks, wall-mounted television - all the same. The color scheme is a variation of pastel with little to no interest or texture whatsoever. One of my doctors has a mural on the wall, which is interesting but loses flavor after about five years. I am past that now and really wish I had the nerve to offer my decorating services. But this doctor has access to needles.

Most doctors seem to just have a family member or a staffer add "daycore" to the waiting room. Off-balance pictures are placed willy-nilly with medical supply posters suggesting we ask the doctor about this drug or that treatment, and some variation of potted or artificial plants. The magazines are spotty in variety and not recent. It is all I can do, at times, to not get up and fix things. "How 'bout some color on this wall?" I want to shout.

3. The appointment: The cardinal rule about appointments is that they are merely suggestions or guidelines. God help you if you are late for the appointment. The punishments vary but suffice to say that there will be one. But for the staff, appointments are merely a mechanism for adding you to the pool of waiting applicants. There is a point of "critical mass" the scheduler will not exceed. They don't want you waiting outside, for example, because they don't want to be to be viewed as "tacky." Which is humorous when you juxtapose the condition of the waiting room.

They think nothing of giving you a time, expecting you to be there, and then closing the little window with an invitation to "have a seat" so you can develop bedsores while you wait. And wait. They open the door and call a name and for the longest time the name isn't yours. Sometimes it belongs to somebody you didn't realize was there. You wait. Nobody talks. You adjust yourself in the seat, pulling up the legs, crossing and uncrossing ankles, slouching, jerking upright, and perhaps getting up to peer at something.

4. The second wait: This occurs once you have been weighed and measured and led to an examining room. The weighing and measuring always occurs, even if you are coming in for an infected hangnail. The fact that you are wearing five pounds of clothing is never accounted for by the staffer who does the weighing. The disapproval and barely masked glee that registers when your weight comes past the point of social respectability, oozes as the staffer records it on the chart. Don't bother to bring up the heavy clothes thing or the fact that you ate before arriving. The patronism just oozes. The ironic thing is that they are usually housed in scrubs or clothing that disguises their less-than-perfect physiques. If the staffer is obese, the irony fairly drips.

In the examining room you wait. How long you wait is variable because sometimes the staffer stays with you and continues with the measures and terse questioning about why you are here today. Sometimes the tone of voice is a kind of boredom verging on hostility. You carefully explain but for naught because you have to tell the doctor all over again. Clearly, the doctor has not read or heard any of this - which makes you wonder why the staffer asked in the first place. Maybe it is triage.

Then you wait and it is not comfortable. Sit here, lay there, perch on this chair, it doesn't matter. You will wait. The doctor rarely comes right in and this is a fact. You are moved from the waiting room just to keep the assembly line moving. There are mild diversions, if one is brave enough, like the rolling stool, the drawers and countertops, the posters on the walls ("The Amazing Knee;" The Circulatory System;" "Advanced Heart Disease.")

In the veterinarian's room, there are cross sections of dog and cat anatomy, kitchy plaques about dogs having owners and cats having staff, and posters explaining obesity in dogs or the importance of regular teeth-cleaning. This doesn't distract the dog or cat of course. The dog or cat is too busy dropping hair and fur all over the floor, in anticipation for what is bound to be animal cruelty that borders on abuse.

5. The knock: The knock comes after you are finished with all the diversions in the examining room. Rarely, the doctor will catch you looking at the poster or sitting on the stool. Sometimes they look bemused. I think you garner a few points if you look like you have used your time productively. If you had to disrobe for the visit, there is always fear that "the knock" will come while you are in a state of nakedness. This never happens, but the fear remains.

6. The protocol: You must never complain about the long wait or the discomfort of the room temperature, or the tackiness of the waiting room decor. This just isn't done. You are free to go elsewhere and this is understood. Doctors have emergencies and some patients don't arrive exactly on time or require more attention than the time allocated. You won't get an apology for this - it is just understood and accepted. This protocol shows up on the final examination in medical school. Any inclination to do things differently is beaten out of them by the fourth year.

I made the mistake once of questioning the nurse practicioner about the long wait, which was almost an hour, when I had made the appointment more than a week earlier. She looked appalled. "We have patients!" I felt like a third-grader questioning WHY the cursive "Q" looked like the numeral "2."

I explained my rationale for asking but her countenance told me I had crossed a line. Their failure to properly plan somehow constituted inconvenience on my part and the fact that I questioned this was simply beyond her comprehension. It was lucky my visit didn't require a needle that day.

7. The aftermath: The visit itself is a nanosecond compared to the wait time. Questioning, examining, perhaps another question, brief discussion, diagnosis, protocol for treatment, and follow-up. Then, like a flash, off the doctor goes and you won't see the likes of him/her again - unless you are brazen enough to catch him/her in the hallway with a new question. The staffer completes the visit and you either leave or schedule another appointment.

I am often tempted, when I look at the appointment books they keep, to ask the scheduler to block out the appointment in front of me - so I won't have to wait so long.

But one never knows if the next visit will will require a needle.

:-)K

Needful Things

2008-02-18T11:38:00.000-08:00

The kids in my class need some things. I don't mean material things, I mean experiences.

I came up with a list because I am a great list-maker. I love marking things off a list. Sometimes I will put something on the list that I've already done, just so I can mark it off the list. What an accomplishment!

My kids need things that suburban kids get without a second thought. Suburban parents think about signing their children up for something and then they do it. The cost is there, but it won't be at the expense of groceries next week or paying the electric bill.

I am not defending the choices some of my parents make when it comes to money - but people in generational poverty think about money differently than people in middle class. That doesn't make it right, it just explains it.

I have a list of things I want my kids to have:

1. Music lessons: I want the kids to learn how to play an instrument. The latest brain research about music shows that it uses some of the areas in the brain used for mathematics. Music enriches life and it is a skill that nobody can take away from you. I haven't met ONE person, ever, who complained about having music lessons when they were younger. This is not to say that they didn't balk at practicing or try to get out of a lesson or two or three - but the payoff in adulthood is priceless. I get all goosebumpy just thinking about all those extra neural pathways that get built when one learns to play a musical instrument.

Here's the catch and here is why I can't mark this off my list: I don't know how to play a musical instrument. Other than "Silent Night" by numbers (9, 10, 9, 7... 9, 10, 9, 7...) and the two-fingered version of Chopsticks, I can't play a thing. And singing? I am the reason God invented CDs.

2. Art: All of my children have such potential. The directed drawings we do on a regular basis are getting better and better. Their recent portraits of President Lincoln are breathtaking. They are so good I am mounting them and laminating them. If money were no object, I would mat and frame them.

They love painting but get so few experiences that most of their attempts are filled with the enthusiasm that results in repeated applications of paint. Then they wonder why everything looks brown and their masterpiece resembles a Brawny paper towel. This same problem occurs when they use chalk, water colors, and tempera.

I don't know the first thing about properly teaching children about art. They need real lessons from a real teacher of art, in a setting that doesn't rush them because of all the academics we are forced to cram into our school day.

3. Dancing: They love to dance and so do I. But having no formal training, and being only lukewarm-successful on any dance floor, ever, the only thing I can do is move around with the rhythm and hope for the best. I loved Tap Dancing as a child and teenager - so much so that I still "tap" when the urge compels me. But, here's the thing - I remember about five tap steps. That's all. The tap shoes I could get - I could find used shoes online and rassle up some music. But 5 dance steps does not a dance teacher make.

4. Sports and P.E.: I need to teach them how to play certain games. This I think I can do. But I need to learn how to be a P.E. teacher for my kids and I learn best by doing. My sister shows me stuff and then I forget most of what she said by the time I get back to school.

5. Gardening: This I can do but you would think the school was being asked to excavate graves or something with the tepid support I get when I broach the subject. We can't compost because of mice. Never mind that mice won't bother a properly maintained compost pile - somebody once told somebody else that mice are attracted to compost piles. With mice come snakes and that is something we don't need. We can plant - but there is no water supply and no promise of a water supply and the dire warning that NOBODY will maintain what we plant in the summer. This I was told in an eMail.

The school will create a sprinkler lake in the front lawn every third day, allow sprinklers to cover sidewalks and driveways, fail to collect rainwater, throw out perfectly compostable food and let trash accumulate all over the campus - but no support for a teacher's effort let her children work with the soil.

That is my short list.

I would like to cross something off.

Missing: One Voice

2008-02-14T12:12:00.000-08:00

I am staying home today, on orders from my colleagues and principal. I have been sick with this virus that is bringing down about half the school and local population and I just can't seem to shake it. Other people shake it. But I am not shaking it. It is shaking ME.

The symptoms are varied and they take turns being prominent from day to day. The sore throat usually lays low, but for several days in the past week, it has been at the forefront, making swallowing and eating difficult.

The coughing joined the symptom group around Sunday. This I could have done without. Coughing encourages the aching, which goes along with the fever and sore muscles.

Every morning I have to check around the bed to make sure I haven't coughed up any necessary body parts, whole or in chunks. My cursory knowledge of human anatomy tells me I might need them - if not sooner, then later.

This morning, I awoke with no voice. This became apparent when the brown dog, relieved that I was FINALLY awake, began his usual face-kissing routine. I had no voice to order him OFF me. I finally had to fling his rather dense and beefy weinie-dog butt off the bed so that I could get up.

If I try really hard, using deep breathing and strong exhaling, I can croak out a voice that will last for 4-6 phonemes before giving way to the hoarse and vague whisper that has become my verbal communication for today.

The cough is also nasty in that it makes my muscles sore - I hurt in the core area and lower back from trying to bring up my left lung. Fortunately, the left lung is fastened securely in place and doesn't come up too easily.

Last night I finally slept most of the night. I think it was because I was dead tired and so achy I fell into bed after Jeopardy! ended didn't wake up until 10:45am, much to Seamus's relief.

I always feel guilty missing work. But word of my suffering made it around campus and finally, somebody took action. I went into the lounge for some coffee after my lunch, and found the entire third grade team, the custodial staff, the reading coach, and one of the Instructional Assistants staging an Intervention. Not only did they call me in sick and order me home, they went, enMasse, to see Ann and tell her I could not take her home and that one of THEM would be doing that duty. Then they went to the principal, who actually came by the classroom to reiterate the order.

I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Especially since they have all had it or shook it off quickly. Maybe there is collective guilt there, I don't know. But nonetheless - I feel loved. Did I mention warm and fuzzy?

Maybe it's the fever breaking.

Or, maybe I am having a hot flash.

Safety First~

2008-02-10T10:05:00.000-08:00

During my first year at my current school, I was a fish out of water and miserable with the change. I was teaching a first grade class when I had been hired for Kindergarten, and wasn't exactly 'feeling the love' from the Queen of First Grade.

I focused on these kids and worked late hours to ensure they got exactly what they needed academically. I tried to ignore the climate of the school and tended only to my own classroom. This is how I got through the year.

One day, the kids did a wonderful job with an art project. The pictures were beyond awesome and I told them so - then I decided to hang them up. It was one of those afternoons in which everybody was working quietly and on-task - so I took advantage and began pinning up the artwork.

There was a spot over the window PERFECT for the remaining pictures but very inaccessible without breaking every safety law ever enacted by a school. But I was adamant about getting those pictures up so I decided to step up on the chair and then up onto the table.

Then came the part next to the "over the window" section - it was above the sink.

"Teacher, you be careful!" warned Stephanie. I think she even wagged her finger.

"Yeah," echoed several of her classmates. I assured them that I would, of course, be careful.

I stepped onto the chair, up to the scooted-over table, and then up onto the sink area. I hung the last of the pictures with a grunt of satisfaction. They were all watching me at this point, so I hammed it up a bit, throwing my arms up and shouting, "I'm King of the World!"

Most of them laughed but a few just shook their heads and kept working. My silliness was a constant source of embarrassment to those few - although I often found them cracking a smile when they thought I wasn't looking.

I stepped down to the chair, but missed it - whacking my back on the sink area, hitting the table, and landing on my a$$ with a huge "umpft" - the wind knocked out of me.

I lay there stunned - the children didn't miss a beat. They rushed over to me, and knelt down. They were noticeably upset, and a few of them tried to tug me upright while others clambored onto the table to peer over at me and make sure I was alive.

I kept hearing, "Are you okay, are you okay?" from the group. The room was dead silent. I struggled to sit up and say something teacherly.

Then Stephanie pushed her way through the kneeling students, put her hand on shoulder, peered into my face, waved her free arm and said, "I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL, didn't I?"

:-)K

The Quail Family

2008-02-03T16:50:00.000-08:00

We are lucky to have a covey of quail living in our neighborhood. They used our backyard as a nursery last summer - all the little baby quail running around were sight to see.

I strongly suspect it was a Mama Quail who pecked Otis in the head to protect her babies. It worked - Otis never went back outside until the Quail Family moved to the front yard.

Several times a day, the family returns to the backyard to eat. Keeping them in birdseed is becoming quite the chore - there are at least 20 members of this covey right now.

After filling the feeders, I noticed that the quail cannot get onto the swinging versions. Their body-types don't allow for the balance needed to sit there and eat. "I'll have to put some feed on the ground for them," I said to Dan, "I want them to get enough."

Dan looked at me strangely. I guess the fact that these quail appear ready to hibernate with plenty of "storage" had something to do with it. "They eat what the little birds knock over," he said.

A few days ago, when the weather was decent, Duke spent the afternoon lounging around the backyard. The quail got used to the littlest dachshund and came to feed once they ascertained that Duke's bird-hunting days were over.

Today they are roaming around out in front, looking for eats and trying to remember how they get into the backyard.

Cat Drool

2008-02-03T16:32:00.000-08:00

As Otis's Chief of Staff, I am in charge of his health issues and make all decisions pertaining to his comfort and care. In return, he sits on my lap occasionally and impresses my friends with how "friendly" he can be.

He also throws his entire body down, sideways, across concrete when he sees me and we are sharing concrete space. I would like to think that, like the dogs, he is showing me respect by doing this, but I sense that he is really showing me that HE can throw HIS body down on concrete.

Lately, Otis has been drooling. At least, I think it is drool and not a runny nose. My suspicions were confirmed last week when I heard my husband, the cat's most-favorite person, yell out in digust, "Did you just DROOL on me?"

This got me to pondering WHY the cat is drooling. As a rule, I don't think cats drool. Dogs drool - nothing is beneath their dignity - but cats? I am not thinking it is a normal turn of events.

I am worrying that, after all these years, Otis's lack of oral hygiene has caught up with him and he needs dental work. The dogs get their teeth cleaned regularly but not Otis. It is hard enough to get Otis into his travel crate for shots on a yearly basis. There have been years he has gone without shots because drawing blood from the hands that feed him was preferable to a trip in the CAR in the CRATE. Feline leukemia, parvo, and rabies were preferable to a trip in the CRATE. Not that he understands the nature of disease, but he acts like he does.

Do I feel guilty that, as a pet owner, I have neglected my cat's teeth? Yes. But Otis has sharp claws, a tenacious temperament, and he really, really, hates the CRATE. The path of least resistance was easier and didn't hurt as much.

Otis won't let me examine his teeth without a fight. The rare glimpses I get of his front fangs assure me that they are not show-cat quality. But the drooling has to be coming from somewhere - and I am suspecting that all is not well in his mouth. Plus, and this is a big clue, Otis has terrible breath.

Otis never USED to have bad breath. Rare whiffs near his mouth area have always been rewarded with the pungent aroma of Fancy Feast, never yicky ol' Cat Breath.

I am going to have to call the vet tomorrow and make THE APPOINTMENT. This will most likely be within a week's time - enough time for planning HOW to get him into the CRATE without great bodily harm. All adult members of the house will have to help. We may need to call in neighborly reinforcements.

Or - I can hold out hope that he just has a runny nose.

The Ointment Flies

2008-02-02T15:29:00.000-08:00

It's tough to decide who to vote for on Tuesday because each of the candidates have flies in their respective ointments. It's hard to see the ointment for all that fly.

Obama: It rhymes with 'Osama,' 'llama,' and 'Not Your Momma.' "Barak" sounds like something you do after a good meal. How do you keep a straight face with a name like that?

Hillary: Her voice grates on my last nerve. If she were president she would be talking all the time. My nerve would be shot. I would be a wreck.

McCain: He has a trophy wife. He looks ready to drop dead any minute. He also gets this rash on his face that looks angry. Angry rashes upset me. And what happened to the original wife?

Romney: He's from a church that thinks women are second class citizens. There are a lot of women in congress. Will he even TALK to them? Will he ask them to serve coffee during important goverment meetings? This would grate on that last nerve AND upset me.

Huckabee: He tied his dog, in a crate, to the top of the car for a family vacation. He told the media that the dog "loved the wind in his face." At 65 miles per hour? Head ON? He used political pressure and got his son "off" on animal cruelty charges when he hung a stray dog at Boy Scout camp. Apparently mistreating animals is okay with him. Don't serial killers start out that way? That's all we need - rumors of a serial killer in the White House. Any person from the DC area could be a victim. We just can't take that chance. And if he had a "first dog" like all the other presidents, I would worry about it all the time.

Ron Paul: Who IS this guy? He reminds me of Pat Paulson's many runs for the presidency. Pat Paulson never won. That should say something. Ralph Nader doesn't win either. And Ron Paul ain't Ross Perot.

Guiliani: He was a good mayor. He needs to stay that way.

It's hard to get fly wings out of ointment. Your nails get all ointmenty.

Celebrating Hands and Feet

2008-01-28T20:16:00.000-08:00

My sister says that it is important to love our bodies. Healthy individuals must look at their bodies and praise what is good about them. In order to be cooperative, I hereby praise.

I like my hands and my feet. My left hand looks a lot younger than my right, although I am pretty sure they were born at the same time. My nails usually grow well and I get a lot of compliments on them.

My hands don't match. The thumbs and middle fingers look like they belong to different people - related, but different. The index fingers are slightly different, much like the ring fingers. Only the pinkies match.

Maybe I absorbed a twin during gestation and ended up with one of her hands. A gestational souvenir, so to speak. When I think of this, it makes me sad. One shouldn't "absorb" one's siblings. It just isn't nice. (This makes a lot of sense since I tend to fall right between democrat and republican.)

My right second toe was broken a few years ago and this makes it a bit crooked although you have to do a real 'toe exam' to figure this out. This toe is smarter than the others because it knows the cold weather. Experts will tell you the broken joint is now susceptible to arthritis but the real reason is that it is just a smarter toe. Some digits are just like this. One must celebrate smart digits.

My fingers have gained weight. Although they are slimmer than they were 40 pounds ago, they are still too pudgy for me to wear my original wedding ring. This ring is a Size 4 and my current ring is a 5. Since I am 30 pounds over my marriage weight, I can see how this can happen. At least a couple ounces are stuck in my ring finger.

I had to have the ring cut off one day a couple years back because it was about to give me gangrene. I was certain of this and insisted that the nice jewelry gal cut the ring off. She didn't want to and said she was pretty sure I didn't have gangrene. I told everybody I had a spider bite that swelled the finger but I lied. I didn't wish to tell people I was too damn fat for my wedding ring anymore.

When I retrieved the ring from the jeweler who cut it off, it was nice and shiny and all welded back together again. I would really like to wear it. Instead, I wear a vintage ring I found online that is very simple and goes with another ring Dan bought for me years ago. It looks like a wedding set but again, I lie to the world.

This year I will buy toe rings and ankle bracelets to celebrate my feet. I am also considering microdermabrasion for my "older" looking hand. This way it will look as smooth and lovely as my "younger" hand.

I hope my absorbed twin won't mind.

Writing a Paper: Dreamscapes

2008-01-20T10:11:00.000-08:00

Five summers ago I had nothing to worry about but decorating my new house. It was a fun time, picking paint colors and buying more antiques and arrangning things. My dreams were variations on the house theme with many rooms and infinite possibilities. The house in this dream is not my house or any house with which I am familiar. It is the house in my mind - with endless rooms and some unknown places and rooms nobody else knows about that I want to use. The decorating possibilities, I must say, are fantastic. There is a whole section on the bottom floor that is in a constant state of construction. One area is a double room I really want to use someday. There is construction debris everywhere - plaster, sawhorses, and piles of building junk.

Lately, the dream-state house is a mess. I am happy to report that this house is not the house I grew up in that I have to clean before my mother, The Queen of Clean, gets home. Nor is it the home of my grandmother, which was in my dream night before last. (I needed to get things out of it and I could not. It was a very stressful dream.)

As usual, I am attempting to clean up a horrendous mess. The disarray looks manageable but it takes the whole dream before I can find any semblence of order. The stuff in this dream is outstanding. I mean, it is stuff I would really like to have. I just can't remember what all the stuff is - I just know it is excellent stuff.

Once again, there are children in the dream and I am responsible for them. None of these children belong to me and they are not my students. In my dream state, however, they are my students-children and they have really made a mess this time. Last night, I had to get the house in order for Christmas. Then I had to get them all to bed and they were not of a mind to do this. At times, the "house" began to look a bit like a variation of my first house - the one the boys really grew up in and shows up a lot lately.

At the end of the dream the areas I want cleaned are finally in order and I skip off to a "guest room" where I can sleep until the morning comes. But I haven't laid out any of the presents or worked on any Santa stuff - yet I know the students-children will have a delightful Christmas morning, but it won't be my doing and there will be a mess for me to clean up. There will be harsh judgment about my lack of preparation, but there is only so much I can do and I have to get to sleep.

There is water everywhere around the house and pools inside the house. I work my way around these and notice the tastefully exquisite decorating in this guest room. I can't recall anything about it, which is totally frustrating because I come up with the BEST decorating ideas while dreaming. My best window treatments ever were designed during a fever-induced dream while I had pneumonia and fell asleep during a Home and Garden Television program.

The dream is an endless variation of itself. Sometimes I am in "June Lake," one of my most favorite places, but this doesn't look anything like June Lake. There are trails that run next to emerald mountains and flowing streams and these are so beautiful they are surreal - and nothing like any place I've ever been except that I have been there numerous times. This place is "my most favorite place" and I feel bad saying it because June Lake has always been my most favorite place. I know June Lake well but I know this place better.

The dream house is sometimes in June Lake and sometimes near a huge airport and mall complex where there is a restaurant I like but can't seem to get to while it is still open. There are clothes I like - but I cannot find them because I have to leave - the place is closing.

I wish in this dream I could write a paper. It is the paper due next week that I do not want to write. I can't get a handle on it and stress is building by the minute. Most papers flow and then get tweaked and flow some more. Then, they are almost done and I can let them "get cold" before I go back in and stick a fork in them.

I need to find all that outstandingly excellent stuff that was in the kitchen. If I arrange it just so, maybe that paper will be finished.

Chomp Marks

2008-01-01T11:47:00.000-08:00

I am working in my classroom today, puttering around and cleaning up areas that usually get wiped down and organized about twice a year.

In cleaning up my easel area, I begin organizing my magnetic money and pattern blocks - things the kids had gotten into despite admonitions to the contrary. There is enough dust on the easel shelf to build a new easel. All the magnetic manipulatives are scattered about. So I gather and sort.

Then I notice: My magnetic pennies have CHOMP marks on them. That's right, BITE marks (looking like molars, but I'm not Grissom).

My questions are these:

1. Who did this?

2. Why?

3. Why chomp down on MOST of them and not just a chosen
few?

4. When did this happen - over time or in one sitting?

And here is the scariest one of all...

5. Where was I and what was I doing so as not to notice a
kid trying to eat magnetic money?

Of course, If I ask the kids about this they will claim to have been out of the country at the time it happened. If I press the issue, one of them will blame Diego and the rest of them will chime in with sudden "eye witness" accounts.

If Diego THINKS eating magnetic money is a good idea, he will either agree to the crime or put the event into his long-term memory so he can be sure to sample the pennies when I am not looking.

Skeery.

Seamus Gone Wild: Adventures of the Off-Leash Brown Dog

2007-12-30T18:50:00.000-08:00

What is the definition of insanity, anyway? I've heard several times that is repeating a behavior, expecting a different outcome.

Well, that would be me, I guess, although it is difficult to admit publicly that I may just be a bit unbalanced when it comes to the brown dog.

Going back years and years, ALL of my dogs could go off-leash in appropriate hiking areas, away from traffic, cats, and other people. They all learned how to do this quickly and with little trouble. They listened. They came back when they were off on a tangent and called back to the trail.

Even Little Beans, our puppy visitor, could go off-leash. He just followed Augie and Duke.

But not Seamus. My dog with little brain just doesn't get it. He WANTS to go off-leash like the black-and-tans. He WANTS to chase lizards and bunnies into the bushes and come back full of foxtails and cockleburs and a wide doggy-grin. But it never happens because he forgets the "come back" part.

The very first time I lost Seamus I was in tears. He went off the trail at the top of a hill, into the brush like he was on a mission. Augie went in after him and would return every minute or so to reassure me, then go back in, hunting for the brown dog.

When Augie chased him back out to the trail, I swore NEVER AGAIN and didn't - for about 3 months. Then, I rationalized that I really WANT Seamus off-leash because he will get better exercise with all the running they do, be happier because he is unfettered, and (here's the biggie) IT IS EASIER ON ME not to hold a leash.

So, he went off-leash again and was a Good Dog for about 10 minutes. And then he saw a rabbit and all heck broke loose and I couldn't locate him. It was long enough for panic to set in, me calling and calling, and Augie going in looking, and Duke just wanting to GET GOING. I picture mountain lions, dropping temperatures, and big black bears. It is awful.

So, I swore this time NEVER AGAIN. And I stuck to it. But then, I rationalized how much better he was listening at home, really, and how if I work with him, and teach him, he will be a GOOD DOG and stay on the trail.

We were doing a really good job. I praised him each and every time he returned to the trail after a bush tangent. I have him a piece of dog bisquit. I should have known, though. He was on a mission, with that look in his eyes, running a bit further ahead of me than I like. “Seamus!” I called. “Come back!” HA! He just goes faster. No more loping and moping.

But I was calling to no avail – the brown dog took off like a bat out of hell at a fork in the trail. Instead of staying on the well-maintained Pacific Crest, he veered right and went straight up a trail that hasn’t seen clippers or hikers in years. Off I ran. The faster I ran, the faster HE ran. It was a vicious circle. Augie and Duke struggled to stay caught up while Seamus ran like his fur was on fire. I am panting and my lungs are burning. We are going UP a mountain. And the dog just keeps running.

Eventually, after about 20 minutes of “chase,” I knelt down on the road up top and, because God is good, the brown dog came right to me, pleased with himself, fishing for a bisquit.

This was about a year ago and he hasn’t been off-leash again. But he HAS been listening better at home and I began wondering today if maybe, this time, he could do it. I am nothing if not optimistic, right?

Now, Seamus on a hike is a bit like Eeyore. He lopes along with a pained expression on his face and flops down in the shade about every tenth bush. He pants like he’s running a marathon and eventually ends up behind me, which is a very pathetic thing indeed.

So, after an hour of hard hiking, I decided Seamus was tired enough to trust. I unfastened his leash and let him go.

It is always at this point that Seamus turns into a different dog. Loping and moping is replaced by leaping and scrambling. Panting is replaced by exciting yipping and doggy smiling. And, for the first 10 minutes he is a Good Dog. He comes back to the trail when called and accepts praise like it’s his due.

As we run down the trail, I recall the time at Devil’s Punchbowl when I let him off-leash and he promptly ran DOWN a steep incline after a bird. Since we had been hiking awhile, he was tuckered out and REFUSED to move. I had to climb down to get him and then haul his burly butt all the way BACK up. This took thirty minutes, with me pushing him and cursing him and swearing to GOD I would never, ever, let this dog off-leash again.

But Seamus is being good. Until he isn’t good anymore and goes off the side of the trail, into some bushes. And he doesn’t come out. I call and call. Augie goes in looking but comes back alone. Duke begins the anxious pacing, ready to just leave the brown dog if necessary. For Duke, stopping is painful and unnecessary - unless he has to mark a bush. Even that he does mid-pace.

Seamus is gone for 10 minutes, long enough for me to bargain with God and swear I will never, ever, again let this dog off-leash. When he comes back, panting through the bushes on the UP side of the mountain (??), I hitch him up and the spring in his step leaves and his doggy smile is replaced by loping and panting.

This time, I mean it. Really.