I must be mellow today. I’ll credit the heavy fog blowing across my patio right now, and the drops of water left on my plants and spider webs high in the trees. It doesn’t look or feel like late summer, but this happens when the desert to the east of us is hot, pulling moisture off the ocean. I love it, and if I hadn’t already been out this morning before sunrise, I’d go out again, just to walk in it and enjoy the dampening effect fog has on the hustle bustle of the morning commute.
I find myself again thinking, as I often do, I should go down to the beach knowing that it’s most foggy there, but won’t. I’ll stay here, mentally building a list of all the things I could do — things like read a book, or watch an old movie on television.
Or write.
No, I’ll busy myself with things I should do, like sorting through old magazines, filing personal papers, and making a feeble attempt to remove even more carpet damage caused by our cat.
I’ll also get up and turn off the noise on the television the MoH left on this morning, talking heads frantically discussing the demise or buyout of huge corporations. The effect of that should be something new and interesting to concern ourselves with since there seems to be absolutely nothing else going on right now. Well, unless one considers that eBay is now selling coffee mugs and tee shirts with Lehman Bros. & Merrill-Lynch logos on them, first come, first serve. I think I’ll pass regardless of how “storied” these “venerable” Wall Street firms have been, and beg to differ about whether I consider it sad they no longer exist.
At least we can all cheer that oil is at least under $100 a barrel, now, though, right? Feh.
Clearly, looking out the window on an unexpectedly foggy day is far more interesting.
Besides, it will burn off very soon, and I’ll be reminded yet again that we’ve got a ways to go here before getting out a sweater, or cozying up on the couch will be something to look forward to.
This is not a light-hearted post, so if you’re just not in the mood to be real, that’s fine. But right now, I’m thinking that blogging about my patio flowers, or thoughts about floor covering choices for a remodel, or how much I’d like to mail my flea-ridden pets to Siberia are not worth spending time on.
My mind is heavy with the election, and decisions, policies and issues, and I have to pull the plug sometimes. I’m listening to 911 coverage in the background, remembering, and thinking how strange it is that seven years can go by so quickly, yet so slowly…
Yesterday morning after I returned from dropping the MoH off at work, I had the dubious pleasure of listening to NPR report on local attitudes about sex education for 5th graders. Obviously, there’s been quite a bit of talk on the subject since McCain was forced by the GOP bigdogs to chose Sarah Palin as his running mate.
In the sound byte, a woman squealed in a key that would rival that of a soprano, that her son was “toooooooooooooooooooooo young for that!”
That.
“That” would be learning about his body. Learning to understand how it works and feels and how not to feel strange or guilty over any of it.
I believe that parents should talk to their kids about hormonally charged bodily functions, puberty, and sex — preferrably before a teacher does. In today’s world, that means before the age of 12 in many schools. But I know absolutely that many parents don’t.
It doesn’t seem to be a conscientious decision on their part not to as much as one influenced by discomfort, although those quoted on the radio had definite opinions about it:
5th graders are too young to hear about “that stuff”
“it” will make them uncomfortable about their bodies
“it” will make them wonder about it, thereby increasing the likelihood that they’ll become sexually active sooner than they may have had they not heard about it.
blah, blah, blah
yadda, yadda, yadda
Give me a break. I’m thinking that digging a hole in the backyard just big enough for one’s head may help with ignorance of this magnitude.
Then there’s the other side: if you don’t speak to your kids about sex, they’ll hear about it elsewhere.
Okay, so unfortunately, there is some truth to that. I used to be amazed by what kids brought to school. Whether it was from their parents, older brothers and sisters, observation, watching television, movies, or surfing the Internet, they knew about “it.”
When the time for “SEX ED” rolled around each year, I winced and groused about why the P.E. or Science teachers weren’t given the responsibility of teaching the subject matter instead of myself, an English teacher. After all, I’d have looked forward to eating glass more than yet again having to instruct a room full of snickering adolescents from a giant penis displayed from the overhead projector.
Kids would peer through the window first thing each morning to see what topic was on the agenda for the day, just waiting to sit down and write their private questions to be put in the box and drawn out to be addressed during open discussion. I had to censor a few from time to time because I was surprised about what some of my 11-year-olds already knew, and there were distinct limits to what the coursework entailed: physiology, function, reproduction, and disease. Absolutely nothing about birth control and definitely nothing about sex.
At our house, the RTR learned about the birds and the bees first through informal questions and natural curiousity. Then, when he was in the 4th grade, he learned what the school described as “human physiology” and was required to give a comprehensive report to the MoH and myself to get credit for his learning.
The philosophy for why the kids were taught so young was because they wouldn’t deal with the information in a way that was goofy, or silly. That because they hadn’t reached puberty yet, they wouldn’t be squirmy about the information and would handle it like all the other information they were learning.
I thought at the time, fine. And the RTR did stand in front of the two of us with composure and confidence while the two of us squirmed a bit with discomfort about our then 9-year-old talking about penises and breasts, testicles, and vaginas complete with labeled diagrams all tucked nicely in his project folder.
But I also know that kids can behave in a particular way depending on how something is handled at home. If something isn’t discussed, or treated as if it’s inappropriate to think about, or worse, joked about, then guess what? That’s how they often act when it comes up at school. Big surprise, right?
"Sarah Palin is trying to seduce independent voters. But she comes across like a whip-wielding mistress who wants to discipline a naughty America" (Slate)
With the first week of school under our belt, life should settle into a comfortable, but relentless pace. Sounds dramatic, even if it isn’t wholly accurate. Suffice it to say it should be relentless for the RTR and I, who are most comfortable in our house potato state.
We prefer to characterize ourselves as easily entertained. Simply entertained? Okay, how about low maintenance in the entertainment department.
The junior year in high school blew in for my youngest this past week, and with it the expectations of a cool 150 pages of U.S. History and exam each week, and a studio art class that will, by the end of the year, allow him to produce a portfolio that is quite the humdinger. There’s a project due every Friday and with the supplies and studio fee, the MoH’s plastic is about $375 heavier. Unbelievable.
The decision to take Statistics instead of Calculus seems to be working — sure there’s homework every night, too, but it’s the “easy” class and he gets that done first. Physics fits in here somewhere, but I haven’t figured that out yet. The English teacher seems to be nowhere in sight. AGAIN. I know that this recurring theme is some perverse punishment meant solely for me — dedicated English teacher and passionate writing teacher that I once was.
The English teacher is the only one of his teachers that didn’t send home a syllabus. I’ve never figured out how that’s even ethical… Okay, so, here’s my kid for a year. Teach him, but I don’t need to know anything about any of your plans because I’m just supposed to trust that you’re a professional, because you know, all teachers are professionals and have the exact same practices, right? And that when my kid begins to show signs of faltering, and he will, trust me, that we will have absolutely nothing to go on to pitch in and support him like we know you expect us to, or we’ll be forever known as slacker parents, which wouldn’t be true, but you’d think it anyways.
You can tell I’m pretty much over school right?
Between my own education, my career, my boys education…I dunno. I think I gave at the office. But I think I’m going to enjoy my job as Chief Buttress in the History and Art departments this year.
Today is my birthday. And as much as I can say that many women my age choose not to admit their age, I’m proud of mine.
I’m 52 years old. Not 52 years young, or 52 years better. It doesn’t need to be made into something other than what it is.
Fifty-two.
The year I was born, The Platters recorded “The Great Pretender,” Elvis made it to U.S. hit charts for the first time, and Doris Day’s serenade of “Que Sera, Sera” let all who listened know that the future was not for us to decide.
I beg to differ.
Carousel was playing in theaters, and The Edge of Night could be seen on television. Jackson Pollock died in a car crash, Eisenhower was re-elected President, and IBM invented the “Hard Disk Drive.”
Not that long ago, but at the same time, several lifetimes ago.
I have fond memories of growing up in the latter years of that decade and the earliest of the next, but would love to forget many of the years following, until high school was nearly half over. Yes, there were good things about those years, but I’d never live them again if given the opportunity.
Um, no thanks.
I’ve learned quite a bit in all this time, so indulge me, and I’ll give you the short version:
Be an optimist. It’s more efficient. But Murphy does exist, so if you acknowledge that and prepare yourself, things actually work out.
Really bad things can happen to you and you will get over them, but may always struggle to find even a thread of patience with those who insist upon wallowing in self pity. Try anyway.
You can find beauty in just about anything with little or no effort. People who can’t see it aren’t looking close enough.
Be generous with yourself. It makes no sense to wait around for someone else to do it.
Absolutely nothing horrible happens when you leave dishes in the sink at night, or your bed unmade in the morning.
Acknowledge and work on your own shortcomings and you’ll be so busy you won’t have time to criticize others for theirs.
It is more than possible to enjoy your own kids as teenagers. I’ve done it three times, and wouldn’t trade those years for toddlerhood if you paid me.
Life is too short to eat packaged food made with highly processed ingredients. Learn how to cook with fresh ingredients. Yes, you have time. You’re welcome.
The concept of Family is not something to be taken lightly. A bottle of wine can help.
Quiet times during the day are the best, even if they’re only five minutes long and in a dark closet.
It isn’t possible to watch Pride and Prejudice too many times no matter how much my son rolls his eyes.
It’s important to pay attention to what’s going on in the world. It doesn’t always make sense, but ignoring it makes even less sense.
Good friends are priceless.
Deep and lasting love is about Learning, Appreciation, and Compromise. Being silly frequently doesn’t hurt, either.
It is more than possible to appreciate the way your body looks, even though it’s rounder and more soft than it used to be, and lined and marked where it used to be smooth. Well, mine is.
So, Happy 52nd Birthday to me! Since most of the Bloggosphere seems to be made up of twenty and thirty somethings with very young children and who often write about aging, I hope this helps you know that life is good after 39 — in fact, better. It’s all about attitude.
And and occasional masque using French clay and lots of moisturizer.
The long Labor Day weekend always marks the official end of summer here, with people heading to the beach one last time. And just like that, it’s over.
The three days yawned on for what seemed like five with the three of us taking it easy. Other than spending Saturday at the horse races with the RTR and a cousin (who decided that picking horses is a lot more challenging than playing Texas Hold’em), we made like house potatoes. I put off the perfunctory school shopping until yesterday when we hit the sales Macy’s advertises so well, and then doubt if we actually picked up anything on sale. Funny how that works, isn’t it? The total time to choose and try on four shirts and three pairs of shorts was less than waiting in line to pay for those school clothes. Nice. Well, the wait time — not so much the price tag.
Yes, summer is definitely over.
There’s more traffic in the morning going past our house and with us in it, the school carpool started up again. Same kids, new clothes, different school year. Talk of how it feels on the first day, the first class, and how by the second day, it’s all old news. By the time we pulled up to the curb, they were talking about when the first three-day weekend would be, then the week off for Thanksgiving. Then the Christmas break.
It was pretty funny, actually, because I know that some teachers were most likely feeling the same way. In fact, during my second student teaching assignment, on the first day of school, I overheard a teacher in the bathroom stall next to mine, talking to a colleague about how many days were left until Veteran’s Day.
So in celebration of the first day of school, I’ll pass along to you something I was sent in an email yesterday. Although when I read it, I knew there could be no way it was true (see this at Snopes), I know from experience that the feeling behind it can, for some who work in schools, definitely be true. Seriously. Let’s face it — kids have to go to school, kids have parents, and those parents aren’t always delightful humans to work with. Although I have some interesting stories of my own about working with parents, the stories I have about working with teachers are just as interesting.
People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones…
SCHOOL ANSWERING MACHINE
This is hilarious – no wonder some people were offended! This is the message that the Pacific Palisades High School California staff voted unanimously to record on their school telephone answering machine.
This is the actual answering machine message for the school. This came about because they implemented a policy requiring students and parents to be responsible for their children’s absences and missing homework.
The school and teachers are being sued by parents who want their children’s failing grades changed to passing grades – even though those children were absent 15-30 times during the semester and did not complete enough school work to pass their classes.
The outgoing message:
Hello! You have reached the automated answering service of your school. In order to assist you in connecting to the right staff member, please listen to all the options before making a selection:
To lie about why your child is absent – Press 1
To make excuses for why your child did not do his work -Press 2
To complain about what we do – Press 3
To swear at staff members – Press 4
To ask why you didn’t get information that was already enclosed in your newsletter and several flyers mailed to you – Press 5
If you want us to raise your child – Press 6
If you want to reach out and touch, slap or hit someone – Press 7
To request another teacher, for the third time this year – Press 8
To complain about bus transportation – Press 9
To complain about school lunches – Press 0
If you realize this is the real world and your child must be accountable and responsible for his/her own behavior, class work, homework and that it’s not the teachers’ fault for your child’s lack of effort: Hang up and have a nice day!
If you want this in Spanish, move to a country that speaks it.
(The last line wasn’t in the piece I linked from Snopes, so someone must have added it as it made its way through the email highway. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t get political today, so I’ll just leave it there like an elephant in the livingroom.)
It’s kind of sad how days go by and this space sits waiting to take on the color of my days. It waits quite a bit now, but not by design. I haven’t lost interest, though.
Most of the time, I feel like one of those clowns that shows up at a kid’s birthday party who works his ass off and nobody gets it. Maybe I should start a link train. Or present poorly written content laced with spelling errors about products and information thinking others will actually read it so I can make millions from the page views.
Trick.
I do have quite a bit to say about how obnoxious I find all the pundits backpedaling over McCain’s VP nomination. You know, Obama doesn’t have experience, but she does. Blah, blah, blah. I don’t have an issue with “her.” I have an issue with the extent to which some politicians find voters stupid — women voters in particular.
That they’ll vote for McCain now because he’s got a woman on his ticket who is pro life and eats moose burgers.
And maybe some of them will.
How sad is that?
Very.
Even more sad? The number of whackos who respond to forums and the disgusting content of their comments regarding race and gender.
As much as I have enjoyed watching men and women athletes compete in the Olympic games over the years, and successfully pushing out the political crap that inevitably surrounds the games, I can say that I’m not sad I will no longer have the sound of the games on our television being the soundtrack of my day to day existence. Yes I loved Dressage even though I wondered how someone could spend tens of thousands of dollars on having the perfect score composed for her horse to compete to. And I truly enjoyed all the diving, although the gaunt bodies of some of the young Chinese women was disturbing. We jumped from our couch potato positions and cheered when Matthew Mitcham of Australia nosed out the Chinese diver for the gold medal in the high platform competition, and grinned each time he smiled and waved at the camera.
But there’s a political campaign going on. Still. At last. Finally.
And I’ve kept my eye on it all the way, which has been fairly painful considering all the talking heads I’ve had to sort through, enduring opinions and hair-splitting analysis of nothing. Trying to know what is really happening. Waiting.
I haven’t been one to watch the conventions in past years, because it always appears staged, and forced. I’ve always pictured a score of producers and marketers, advisors, and aides positioning the political puppets for those who may watch and, they hope, believe that it’s all true. They don’t think we’re very smart, and sometimes they are right.
But last night, I watched the before show. I watched CNN and MSNBC listening for the always present biases each has, and skipped whomever spoke (Pelosi…) until Caroline Kennedy spoke to introduce her uncle. I had to watch.
I was seven years old when I first saw Caroline Kennedy, at her father’s funeral, on our small black and white boxy television set. It’s the first time I realized that the world was bigger than my family and my home, and that sad things happened to people as young as I was. So when she speaks, I have to watch and think about the life she’s led and how it’s been shaped so differently than mine has been.
I watched Uncle Teddy, too, and listened to him, thinking more about the effort his presence there took than his words and respecting him for that alone.
But it was Michelle Obama I wanted to see and hear. She’s smart. She’s opinionated. She says what others think, but won’t say because they’re more comfortable criticizing others instead of standing up for what they believe. She won’t be someone who smiles demurely for photo ops when the new wing of a hospital opens somewhere or take on Literacy like it was something new that needed to be paid attention to. Her self-admitted “loud mouth” will be available on a regular basis, and to me, will represent more accurately what matters to me as a woman in today’s world whether I’m a “sister” or not. I believe her and respect women who are outspoken a hell of a lot more than those who feign disdain and then snark outrageously behind closed doors.
And for the polled 27% who are still pining for the loss of Hilary and are holding their potential votes hostage by actually saying they’ll vote for McCain? Give me a break. It truly reminds me of a child who, at someone else’s party, can’t deal with not being in the spot light so dumps over the punchbowl. Constructive if you’d like to spoil the party and leave everyone else remembering you for the giant red stain on your party dress. Get over yourselves and plug in your brains. Pull your heads out of your rumps, quit whining, and pay attention. It’s embarrassing.
To all the pundits who say this election is hinged upon independent votes? That would be me. But I’ve been decided for quite some time. My vote just keeps getting more solid with time, and nothing the GOP’s spin machine comes up with will distract me.
I will, however, have to quietly pardon myself to violently empty the contents of my stomach if I EVER have to listen to the truly obnoxious Ben Stein who was on CNN last night after Michelle Obama spoke. It was bad enough have to watch Larry King, but Ben Stein?
Once in a while, if I’m waiting in the line at the grocery store long enough, like others, I scan the covers of magazines. I glance past Gourmet, Bon Appetit, and Food & Wine, because I have those and others at home in some state of being dissected, stickered and splattered with my latest gastronomical creation. Instead, Style, Town & Country, or Vogue coerces me to lift it from the rack after a silent argument with myself about not needing another magazine in the house, a five-dollar magazine, a magazine that has absolutely nothing to do with me.
But right before the clerk grabs the last item on the conveyor belt, I throw the glossy—and not quite as thick as the September issue will be—August issue of Vogue toward her, and avert my gaze from her glance as she correctly sizes me up as the poser I am.
I have succumbed to “The AGE(LESS) ISSUE,” it seems which is “Vogue’s Guide to Looking Amazing at Every Decade, On any budget, Through Every Season.”
And then there is always that piece on “Beauty Fixes for Your Knees & Arms.”
Knees, maybe, since I’ve always thought I had knees that resembled those of a cow. But I’m sort of speechless over the idea of someone being insecure about a flap of skin on her upper arm. Not the one in the back, or the one that sort of waggles when your arm isn’t flexed. The one on the front.
Go to a mirror right now and look. Look at that place right where your chest meets your arm. You know— in front of your armpit. Yes, there. Poke it.
You have a fold of skin, right? Sure, yours may be larger or smaller than mine, but it’s most likely there. Or, maybe not. It seems it has little to do with weight considering the venerable Vera Wang believes that, “The armpit is nasty, nasty. Even young girls can have this problem.” How sad considering young girls already have so many far more important problems with measuring up to others’ standards. But evidently, this armpit debacle is extremely disturbing to some women—or the men who live with them and who tell them halter tops shouldn’t be worn.
The MoH is far too intelligent a human to even consider suggesting that I should or shouldn’t wear a particular item, not only because he knows I’ve already scrutinized myself a thousand times over, but that my heat-seeking missles would in an instant vaporize his tongue before his brain could transmit the thought.
The article, which to be fair, is written with some self-deprecating humor (the author tells of being obsessed about one part of her body or another (her fat thighs, nasolabial folds, elbows, but just wasn’t ready for the armpit), but I don’t think it’s all that funny. I’m stuck on the concept of the armpit flap and how women can’t see what is lovely about their bodies, and unique. Individual.
I try to understand that as much as I search for the perfect light cast on an artistically mussed salad or perfectly shaped peach, some women obsess about armpit folds. They do exercises for their armpit folds, and search for designers whose style works to hide that apparently unsightly flap of skin. They wonder whether there is a procedure or treatment to rid themselves of its offensive presence.
Who knew?
I’m still looking at my arm pits and wondering—not about my armpits—but about women who routinely have something nipped and waxed, sanded and plucked, injected or tucked and pay handsomely for it.
Supposedly, it’s all the rage to make small adjustments along the way so no one notices.
Somehow, I can’t take any of it seriously. Another article illustrates how women should dress in each decade of their lives is unrealistic, that is unless I want to spend a fortune to look great on my leg of carpool duty, or when I pop the garage door open to roll in the trash cans. Surely my neighbors would talk if I appeared to be too fashionable on these quotidian occasions.
Or would they simply not notice, distracted by my armpit flap and wanting desperately to recommend me to their plastic surgeon?
I must be mellow today. I’ll credit the heavy fog blowing across my patio right now, and the drops of water left on my plants and spider webs high in the trees. It doesn’t look or feel like late summer, but this happens when the desert to the east of us is hot, pulling moisture off the ocean. I love it, and if I hadn’t already been out this morning before sunrise, I’d go out again, just to walk in it and enjoy the dampening effect fog has on the hustle bustle of the morning commute. 
