kellementology

life according to me

Category: Learning

  • Best Buy: I’m their poster sucker.

    Clearly I’ve uploaded a new version of WordPress and well…I have a mess to clean up now. At least I won’t be bored this weekend, huh?

    There is simply nothing quite like waking up on a Friday, looking forward to actually eating something before 1pm and screaming at the latest supervisor on the phone with Best Buy. But I’m not going to bore you with the sordid details because I’ve recovered from my searing anger, am no longer shaking, and have managed to pull myself up knowing that sometimes, telling myself that I should have more patience simply does not work. I ran out, okay?

    Best Buy Smile #1

    I opened a book my mother-in-law gave me a few years ago called Simple Abundance. It’s one of those hefty tomes that is somewhat of a day book with a page designated for each day of the year. January 11th’s entry for thought is entitled, “Is it Recession or Depression?” It begins with some words from Hellen Keller: “No pessimist ever discovered the secrets of the stars, or sailed to an uncharted land, or opened a new heaven to the human spirit.” The entry then proceeds to inform me that I must put thoughts of lack behind me, but to do that, I must change. I must make a fundamental change — but have to take a deep breath first. I have to learn to be an optimist.

    Um.

    (more…)

  • SPAM: Earning Money From Home & Man Units

    Smothered in SpamCan someone please tell me what in hell is going on with all the spam already? It’s completely out of control. Wasn’t the Spam King thrown in the slammer? Well, at least one was, but wait, isn’t this guy a spammer, too? And, uh, this one? Okay, so maybe all the spam spawn have hatched, or closet spammers have come out to infect the rest of us with their completely ridiculous crap. Who are these crack dwellers?

    I’ve thought about this. I picture a seedy room with an unkempt individual who hasn’t seen the light of day in weeks, (no, not me — my office is pleasant looking) and is maniacally hacking into others’ computers, networks, and lives. I know. Pretty naive, huh? Okay so my revision of this diabolical scenario would be that the sleezy creature is wearing Gap cargo pants, flip-flops, and a Grateful Dean tee (a Beatle shirt?) cracking its whip at a bank of orgasmic spam bots. (You, Too Can Have A Home-Based Business). The whole concept is just bizarre. And I just don’t see how they can actually make money.

    Seriously.

    Well, so maybe they do make money. And the source quotes that “spam will overtake human-sent email sometime in 2007.” So, I guess that time is close to being now. And AOL will change their little email voice to greet people with, “Damn. You’ve got Spam!” At least I haven’t had to deal with the fake greeting cards. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
    I’m sure I’m not alone. Yes, of course this site gets spam, but Askimet catches 99.9% of it and all I have to do is open my spam window and flush the toilet. Right now, it’s a toss up between the guys who are rabid car sales freaks and the seriously pathetic cockroaches who all want us to sport enormous penises and engage in unmentionable activities with various and assorted females, males, and sheep. Honestly.

    Sheep? Ahem.

    And then there is the email spam group. Unfortunately, that’s primarily my fault. You’re all dying to know why, right? It’s Friday. You have time.

    Well.

    Last October when I was beginning to feel as if my entire life was ready to cave in, (tune in to channel 11 on Telemundo…) I began to think about Working From Home. Big. Mistake. All you have to do is have an inkling of a glimmer of a seed of a thought, and your phone rings all day. Your snail mail box begins to fill with offers of wonderous wealth, and spectacular imaginings of shiny, sleek cars, McMansions, and yachts the size of battleships. And the email. My goodness. You get to learn about what affiliates are. You get to find out who The Rich Jerk is. Sorry, no link. I don’t want to encourage him. And don’t Google him, either, unless you love being verbally abused. Okay, so if you like Dr. Laura, you might enjoy The Rich Jerk.

    At one point, I physically couldn’t keep up with the amount of pure manure I was receiving. It took a good amount of time each day to filter through it to find real emails. Nearly 2,000 of them. Yes, I know. Why didn’t I get another account? Uh, I’m stubborn? I shouldn’t have to? I didn’t ask for the spam mail? I know. I should have gotten another account. You’re correct. Print this and frame it, because I never concede. Never.

    Anyway, the most annoying of the emails must come from some pyramid scheme having to do with home mortgages. They have continued for more than 10 months now. Long enough for me to wonder what the hell is going on when I don’t get one. The poor saps have been sold a list of names (mine must be on 10,000 of these lists) and told that whomever is on the list is a “lead.” You know. I’m going to be a sucker, respond to their email, and then they’re in. Someone, somewhere told them they could make a zillion dollars doing this, Working From Home. They’d be able to get hold of me and sell me something. Anything. Because I was desperate. Uh…not. Delete, delete, delete. And I completely love that there isn’t a link to “unsubscribe,” like I actually subscribed to something in the first place, allowing them to send inane emails. I don’t want a free laptop, a Gucci purse, fake Rolex, or any of that Adobe software that is discounted 75% with a poem thrown in for good measure. Huh?

    And I definitely, absolutely am not interested in “Extra Size your man unit with Extra Size Plus.” Man Unit? Uh…No. Do people actually answer those emails? They can’t. Really? If you’ve actually gotten something worthwhile from one of those stoopid emails, I’d love to hear about it. Well, not if it’s about the man unit.

    Speaking of subscribing. Don’t tell me I’m the only one on this earth who has clicked on a link to see what is “free” and then before you blink, you’re getting items in the mail that you are automatically billed for. And it’s a recurring bill. A big one. Hoodia? Did I order that? “Ma’am, it was in the small print. And I actually lost 10 pounds on Hoodia. It is pretty expensive to grow,” the phone person confided.

    Whatever. Just don’t ever answer your phone when the area code is 866. Ever.

    Or open the grant writing disk that comes in the mail.

    Or the foreign language instruction cd.

    Coffee beans from Florida (huh?)

    Secret shoppers offers.

    Travel club teasers.

    Graduate degrees.

    Affiliate this, affiliate that.

    Employment typing at home.

    And no, I don’t want a free Kaboom thingy to scrub my toilet with unless you’re going to send someone to scrub it for me as well, thankyouverymuch.

    OR, an exclusive membership to a secret, ancient organization of people who have been wildly successful and are eye-poppingly wealthy. Totally creepy. Didn’t they make a movie about this starring Tom Hanks? Jeez.

    I was able to break most of the connections I had with all of the crazies who seem to be Pod people from the planet Twylo people like you or myself, and who were stuck with a name to contact. They’re just trying to make us all want to reach through our monitors and rip their eyeballs out of their sockets Earn Money From Home.

    Although most of the emailing nightmare was months ago, a new wave has come, and I think it’s because instead of just deleting the emails, I’ve been clicking the unsubscribe link. So call me Pollyanna for truly believing that since they legally have to post that link, I should be able to click it to be removed from their list. Excuse the hell outta me.

    BBC News

    Whatever. So I’m gullible.

    And since everyone now knows this, if you’re going to send me spam, could you just spell correctly, please? Would that be too much to ask? And use English at least semi-properly.

    Or teach the bots how to spell since the mud suckers haven’t a clue. Shit. They must have skipped Kindergarten. And I thought there was No Child Left Behind.

    p.s. Don’t ever believe anyone on the phone who says they will build you a web site with guaranteed traffic to a site like Amazon or E-Bay.  A “website” that is something I now know enough to put together myself.  A website that will somehow make you money.  In your sleep.

    It was an expensive lesson.

    Yes, my mother did teach me not to talk to strangers.

    And yes, I do know about that statistic on suckers.

     

  • Hoop Jumping and Birch Swinging

    Hoop Jumping and Birch Swinging

     

    My head and heart are full.

    It isn’t that on most days they aren’t, but the sense of fullness is different today. The difference is the result of something I’ve grappled with for many years — a by product of raising my sons. The result of years of observation, interaction, angst, and tribulation coming to a conclusion milestone by sometimes painful milestone.

    My youngest finished his first year of high school today, and in a few weeks, will be 15. But he did not beat The Geometry Teacher. He received a “D” for his hoop-jumping efforts in her class. In this newly completed step toward the rest of his education, I’m left wondering so many things about what I have strongly held on to about learning and raising humans:

     Some humans are better at being trained to jump through hoops than others. In fact, some are so good at it—it’s the point of their existence. Their day revolves around how many hoops are lined up, how far apart they are, and whether each successive hoop is positioned higher than the last. Whether the person jumping next to them is quicker, or more graceful in their quest to finish first. It isn’t about what is at the end of the hoops they crave. It’s the hoops.

    Some humans are more easily missed than others. Or skipped over—like one skips a step when jogging up a flight of stairs to get to the next floor more quickly. Their non-hoop jumping idiosyncrasies are not easily understood by others, and often difficult to tolerate. They are more than capable of jumping through the hoops than many others. Many. But they don’t seem interested. What they see in the world and think about from one day to the next is difficult to know. They are quiet about much that matters, and talk about things that don’t. Hoops are not one of the things they think or talk about.

    They even bruise differently than most. They haven’t figured out how caught up in the hoop game most people are. So when a zealot moves a hoop at the last minute to trick them, it takes them a while to start the game again. They are only just beginning to understand, or,  if they do understand, have a tendency to forget that there are people on this earth who live to have power any way they can get it. It’s probably another reason that hoops don’t interest them. It’s all so petty.

    I am not a mother of hoop jumpers. And I am routinely reminded of this fact.

    I have diligently tried to raise my offspring to understand the construct of the world. But they are very content to think about, getting around to, considering, being involved, possibly participating, in life’s basic rules of engagement at their own pace. They construct their own hoops. Unfortunately, when you’re their mother, the hoops resemble hurdles. Large ones.

    It’s not supposed to matter to me that so-and-so’s daughter is in “advanced this” or AP that. Or that this person’s son was recommended for such and such. That this acquaintance has a daughter that crosses all her T’s and dots all her I’s all the time. Sometimes those same people don’t understand how hard it is has been to let my children be who they are instead of what I want them to be. What I believe they can become. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.

    I’ve tried many years to act like not having a hoop circus at home doesn’t matter. I believe strongly that many have been duped about the educational system so many of us willingly send our children to each year. “All children can learn,” is what that system blithely professes. We have so willingly trusted that it will meet their every need beyond what we have worked to meet ourselves at home. But not every child fits into that system. It’s not supposed to matter. But it does. It always has.

    I cringe every time I realize that my nobly held philosophy could be a sham by wanting more for my boys than they seem to want for themselves. I argue with myself that I don’t really want them to care. I swear I’m not interested in wanting them to want what society expects them to want. The way society expects it. The way the system acts like it’s structured to prepare them for.

    How sad to have to admit that I want for my sons something I say I don’t believe in. I would never tell them because I have acted like a hoop jumper most of my life. And they probably figured that out a very long time ago.

    One could do worse than be a mother of non-hoop jumpers. Perhaps my boys were born knowing that life is a birch and that their job on this earth is to teach me so that I will know, too.

  • BBQs & Choosing Happiness at The Home Depot

    Virgo I forgot to look at my horoscope yesterday morning, and therein lies the rub.

    You see, I never have been very good at running errands. I’m especially poor at it now that I rarely have to leave the house if I choose not to. The whole idea of putting on make-up, shading in my sad excuse for eyebrows, and tying back my unruly hair just to take care of the odds and ends of our life is tiresome. All that starting and stopping — getting in and out of cars. So gauche. So we tolerate things that don’t quite work, or need adjustments, or go without something that needs replacing. Shabby chic?

    I spent years semi-silently grousing about not being able to take care of such things because I was teaching and couldn’t call for appointments, let alone actually go to an appointment. If I could only find the time…It seemed that everyone else in the world had closed up shop before I could get there. Poor, sad creature. Mistreated and maligned soul.

    I shouldn’t be complaining because my exercise in futility yesterday couldn’t have been for a greater cause. Last Sunday, the MoH and I went on a BBQ finding expedition. Our beast has seen better days, and although still functional, it’s only a matter of time that the cooked-on grease holding it all together finally gives way and it collapses right in the middle of a swanky get together with just a few of our very dearest friends. Okay, well it sounds good, right? The swanky part. Not the crashing thing.

    We looked at BBQs with stainless steel exteriors, ceramic grates, steel grates, drawers, and cabinets. We looked at rotisseries, burners, split lids, and sliding propane holders. Did we purchase one? No. Because we don’t have a truck. So I called a few days later to graciously inquire as to whether there is a cost associated with putting a BBQ together. I imagined that I might tackle it, but my dremel would most likely not get the job done. And the image of a crazed woman, hair on ends, a hammer and wrench clutched in a vise-like grip, and crouched in a corner of the garage waiting like a fiend for the MoH to arrive home did cross my mind. No, I would not be putting the BBQ together, so purchasing the big box wasn’t going to happen. Besides, I could also picture the big box falling out of the trunk of my car while driving up the hill, rolling backward for some distance, and picking up speed until it crashed into the brand-spanking new Mercedes CL550 coupe following me up the hill. Oops.

    Perhaps I could have the BBQ delivered? “Can’t you borrow a friend’s truck?” the man on the phone from customer service inquired. I wondered whether his ingenuity had allowed this question to come forth, or if he’s coached to ask this of customers. I quickly searched my mental Rolodex of friends, woefully knowing before I became too engrossed in the task that we knew of only one person who owned an SUV. No one who owned a truck. Well, my brother owns a truck, but he’s an hour away, and all that hullabaloo just to get a BBQ to our house?

    So I doctored up my face, made sure my arm pits were smelling fresh, and just for good measure, spritzed on one of at least ten flavors of body sprays I’ve collected from the RT’s gift giving, before backing out of the garage smelling like a cross between a cucumber and a melon. You know. Fresh. Salad-like? Ready to take on the day. The sunroof was open, and the new CD I burned yesterday was playing on the Bose. Good attitude, right? Making the best of a situation I don’t prefer. Going to buy my sweetie a BBQ for Father’s Day. He’s worth it — fab Dad that he is.

    Do I have to tell you that they didn’t have any of the BBQs we picked out Sunday?

    • There was no one to answer questions once I arrived. Even after I stood near the BBQs, waiting, patiently.

    • No one came after I asked the customer service lady about getting assistance. Nicely.

    • The second time I went to customer service, the young man followed me to the BBQs but couldn’t answer my questions, so had to call someone else for help. I looked at the new Weber’s grilling recipe book. Patiently.

    • The next guy confirmed they had 5 of the model we liked in stock, but couldn’t find one anywhere — in or out of a box. I followed him on an in-store field trip looking for BBQs. But would I like him to call another store?

    • Yes, he called another store, who said they also had 5, already put together, and would I like one reserved, and 25 bucks off for my trouble? An officer and a gentleman, that guy. Things were certainly looking up!

    • I couldn’t find the other store — 20 minutes away. Even after driving down the rather lengthy road. It wasn’t where I thought it was. There was not a single gigantic orange Home Depot sign in sight.

    • I wondered what my horoscope had been for the day.

    • 411 knew of no Home Depot on that street.

    • I called 411 for the first store to confirm that there IS a Home Depot on that street. They insisted it was.

    • I pulled into the Bank of American ATM to get cash because I never have money in my wallet.

    • I then pulled into the Mc Donald’s to order a Big Mac meal (non-super sized, thank you — at least I hadn’t completely gone berserk) and stuffed my face while driving back down the very lengthy road, getting secret sauce on my face all the while, and guzzled diet Coke which I really don’t like.

    After finding The Home Depot, which actually did have a sign, around the corner on the other street, my stomach quite full considering I haven’t slummed at Mickey D’s for months and months, my guilt about eating Muck Phood just beginning to bloom, the 9 million calories… I cheerfully shopped and gathered hickory chips, a light for the BBQ, and raided the plant section to spruce up my patio. I approached the customer service desk, my basket a raucously colorful display of flowers, and myself, cheerful just by association. “Hello,” I said, knowing that I’d soon be done and home.  The such and such store called about reserving a BBQ for me? It has my name on it and should be here.”

    • They sent me to the contractor’s counter.

    • The contractor people didn’t know what I was talking about so sent me back to the customer service counter.

    • The lady at customer service greeted me with an, “Oh. You’re back,” and smiled sweetly with no discernible hints of sarcasm. I asked her again about the reserved BBQ, and she said I needed to go outside to the “Summer Sale” jumble of BBQs, lawn sets, and other seasonal stuff.

    • I did. There was no BBQ with my name on it, but there were three that might be kind of like the one I’d been trying to valiantly less than half-heartedly purchase for my MoH. The employee was squeezing through the rows of BBQs raising covers and looking at tags. She wasn’t sure. I asked her about delivery or truck rental while she was looking, but she had little information. She told me I had to go back inside to take care of that. “But we only have one truck,” she adds, “and it’s on a first come first serve basis. We don’t call you to let you know it’s back. You have to wait for it.” I pictured myself, sucking on the warm Diet Coke left in the car, waiting for the rent-by-the-hour Home Depot truck to get the BBQ home. I pictured myself driving the truck.

    • I called the MoH and told him he would to have to rent the truck after work.

    • I went back inside. “Oh, you’re back,” the perky person I had spoken to earlier said again. “Do you have a SKU?”

    • I wondered again what my horror-scope must have been.

    • I didn’t have an SKU. I turned to go back outside, but she stopped me, and said she’d go instead. You think it may have been because my face was five shades of purple by this time, and I was totally over this shopping experience? After she returned, she wanted me to go back out and choose the one I wanted. I followed her. Smiling.

    • We got out to the sale jumble area again, and the employee I spoke with earlier avoided making eye contact with me. She was now very helpful, suddenly more alert, informative. My BBQ was tagged. It said S-O-L-D in very large letters on a piece of paper stuck to the tags that showed it had been marked down 60 bucks since Sunday.

    • I paid for my things, was handed a direct number to the customer service desk to ask about the truck rental just in case I had any more difficulty.

    The MoH went to the store last night after work and saw the truck sitting there, but someone else had already called and was coming to get it. First come first serve? So he came home without the BBQ after waiting an hour for the truck. Taco Bell on the way home seemed to make it all right. No, I absolutely did not have Taco Bell.

    But this morning, I did read yesterday’s horror-scope:

    Invite as many people as you can to the party because it’s truly a the-more-the-merrier type of day. The power of your personality is what influences people. Keep smiling. Happiness is a choice.

    I should really go rent that big damn truck today and bring that BBQ home myself. I just don’t know how I’d get it off the flatbed after I got it here. So the MoH will have to try again to get his BBQ home tonight. And I’ll be happy to go with him, because happiness is a choice.

    And if we’re lucky, The Home Depot will not have sold our already paid for BBQ.

    I wonder how we’re going to get the old beast out of here after the new one arrives? Anyone want a free BBQ? It still works.

  • Genetically Meandering and Goal-Free, or Something

    Funny how a subtle change in a suffix or hyphenation can significantly change the connotation of something. As in goal-less or goal-free. One clearly implies not only lack — but a negative one at that, and the other, a sort of liberating, non-shackled state of being. Sort of the difference between:

    • the sad sack who hits the alarm button in the morning with a mental list of, “get up, take a shower, feed the animals, take the car in, pay the bills, defrost the Thanksgiving leftovers for dinner, label my linen closet…” and

    • the ebullient chap who bounds out of bed each day exclaiming, “Yes! The whole day is ahead of me and I can’t wait to find out what amazing things will come my way!”

    Okay, well, maybe the contrast is a bit strong, but I came across this site not too long ago, and am probably one of the few who didn’t learn about it on Oprah, because I sort of forget to actually watch Oprah. Yes, I’m home. No, I just don’t think about it. The television doesn’t usually go on until about 7 or 7:30 so we can trash our brains family style watching things like Jeopardy, So You Think You Can Dance, Hell’s Kitchen, and — well, you get the idea. We are sort of in the “goal-free” category of television viewers. We “meander with purpose” to borrow Stephen Shapiro’s phrase.

    My mom often tells me she hasn’t had a goal in her life. This admission often comes after we’ve been discussing “stuff.” The stuff can be any number of “things.”

    Things like life.

    Not so small a thing, or even closely related to stuff. But if I listen carefully, the goal issue usually connects to the idea of planning on, organizing for, going through, and/or getting a career. Not a job or work. A career. Why other things don’t seem to be considered that took her determination and perseverance is beyond me.

    IMG_0892 I’ve noticed that people have a tendency to lord it over those who haven’t jumped through life’s hoops. Like there are a set of rules somewhere that we have to follow so that we can be recognized at the end of The Road. Kind of like a graduation. You get there, someone reads your name, and then there’s a list of what you’ve “done” with your life. Career seems to be at the top of the list. Especially a career that is connected to education. A formal education. One that was obtained at an easily recognized and even prestigious institution.

    But what if you haven’t done those things? What happens if you have a completely different set of rules that you live your life by? What if your life is goal-free instead of goal-less? More importantly, what if your goals have always been things like:

    • keep your children clean, fed, and well clothed;

    • be relentlessly productive because it is an end in itself;

    • teach your children to be practical;

    • make sure your children do their homework, and clean their rooms;

    • be extremely organized and tidy;

    • make sure your children understand that manners are important, and that they are a reflection of the entire family while in public;

    • focus on functionality;

    • teach your children how to cook, sew, garden, and take care of the house;

    • take time to grow, appreciate, and smell flowers;

    • pay your children an allowance even though you shouldn’t afford it, and teach them how to save that allowance;

    • buy musical instruments and pay for lessons when you know you can’t afford it;

    • tolerate inane jobs to earn a paycheck to feed your children;

    • make sure your children understand that nothing in life is free, so working very hard is how you get ahead;

    • have a day job and a night job;

    • make sure your children understand that education is important;

    • try different jobs when you no longer have to worry about feeding your children;

    • keep reaching because you know there’s something out there for you, just waiting, if you could only see it more clearly, and so many other things didn’t get in the way, distracting you, making you wonder if you should be afraid of reaching.

     

    Yes, what if your life has been filled with those kinds of things?

    Are you goal-less, or goal-free? The whole concept fascinates me because it is easy to line up a few people we can all identify as being successful without too much analysis. We default to the “who’s productive and wealthy” criteria that is so often the crux of  our society. But then, after assembling these iconic individuals, we have to examine whether they’ve all jumped through those hoops I mentioned earlier. Often, they have not. What we learn is they had their own set of hoops, and that the hoops were of varying sizes, movable, and sometimes intentionally avoided, or dismissed as being a waste of time.

    Hoop-less, or hoop-free? Maybe you think it’s all just Hoop-lah.

    What do you want to do? What matters to you? What is important? What will sustain you — and not just your bank account? Because I think that’s the key. If this whole business of making lists and setting goals is never going to be more than crossing off the things on your list, or checking off those boxes, then all you’ll end up with is a list of things you crossed off. Or maybe not.

    What if that list says things like:

    Travel around the world?

    • You have to want to do this, of course…

    • You have to at least think about how to begin or where to begin

    • You will need to consider how much or little to take with you

    Read untranslated works of Gabriel Garcia Marquez?

    • You might want to consider learning Spanish…and practicing a lot

    Be famous?

    • This is relative considering the guy who just got caught for spamming up our emails. Okay, so infamous. But still…

    • You can’t just sit and wait around for it to happen.

    • You have to at least learn what spam is and how to make everyone else miserable with it.

    • Or lose a lot of weight eating Subway Sandwiches instead of home-baked chocolate cookies with macadamia nuts.

    Winged Victory

    People who want to do things just do them. That’s why Nike tells us to “Just Do It.” What they really mean is, “Shut the funk up and get off your arse. Go brush your teeth and quit stinking up the air space with your monotonous jabbering about what you’re going to do or want to do or wish you could do if only you could do it.” Nike knows us. Well, they really just want us to pay a fortune for their products made for a fraction of a penny on the dollar in third world countries, but that’s another topic. So their marketers know us. Or get paid to act like they do. A lot.

    The problem is, when your head feels like it’s going to pop off every minute of every day because you’re just trying to make ends meet (whatever ends are pertinent to an individual’s life) heading in a semi-focused direction beyond survival can feel a tad bit overwhelming. Making that list may seem easier than doing something unfamiliar. Articulating those goals make seem like organizing for action. Being industrious and productive can look great on the surface because you’re “getting things done,” but that just takes up time. The rest of it is horribly messy and doesn’t really fit in any kind of a list, so you never really have to do it. Right?

    And when you run out of time at the end of the day, you can get into bed and dream about what you’d really like to do, if only you had the chance.

    I am a meanderer. I waver toward whatever I am interested in. Detour here, wrong turn there. Learning and taking notes along the way, but rarely with the journey being described as the shortest distance between two points. The plan would be to get there in the shortest amount of time, but there are just too many shiny things I have to wonder about and understand along the way.

    So probably more goal-free than goal-less. But always purposeful.

    Unflaggingly. Thanks for the genes, Mom.

  • If I Dream It, They Will Come: Bird by Bird

    The whole spider dream thing has been on my mind since early yesterday when it woke me up. I hear others talking about their dreams, and it’s always interesting to wonder why we dream about what we dream. I almost always remember my dreams, so it seems like second nature thinking about them. Although they can often be quite strange, I don’t have memories of issues dreaming about bugs or snakes, or creepy creatures. So it was a completely perfect distraction for me to investigate yesterday while I was reading through the Word Press codex on headers to also have alongside a variety of windows open to learn about what others think about dreams featuring spiders + babies + moms. Who knew!

    Well Dave did, because he chimed in before I could finish my research, let alone draw my conclusions. Now, I’ve suspected for a while that Dave is a seriously deep thinker, but a soothsayer? Whoa. How cool is that?

    To begin with, this source slotted spiders in the bug category, which is a problem to begin with. Cockroaches are bugs. Spiders are spiders. It’s that whole six legs versus eight legs thing. Anyway, the source indicated that seeing a spider in my dream was a toss up between:

    feeling like an outsider in some situation, or that [I] may want to keep [my] distance and stay away from an alluring and tempting situation.

    Okay. I confess. I do often feel like an outsider of sorts when I visit blogs that have a gazillion devoted followers who gush over them daily. I feel like an outsider when I add my pithy comment to the preceding string of 247, like, they’re gonna read mine? Not.

    As far as allure and temptation are concerned, I’ve succumbed. I ate three of the chocolate cookies left over from the ice cream sandwiches I made a couple of days ago — after I ate one of the ice cream sandwiches. What can I say? It was phoodplan weigh-in day, and I didn’t like my numbers. So I treated myself to my baked goods. Yum.

    Back to the dream analysis…

    The spider is also symbolic of feminine power. Alternatively, a spider may refer to a powerful force protecting you against your self-destructive behavior.

    Feminine power and chocolate are somewhat synonymous, aren’t they? And I guess the spider was supposed to be a warning to step away from the cookies, but because I hadn’t read the helpful information yet, I was stuffing cookies in my mouth while I was reading and clicking. They washed down quite well with the ice cold glass of whole milk I poured to accompany them. I need calcium, you know.

    But I’m not being exactly forthright about the information I found on dreams about spiders. My dream specifically contained a tarantula. Not a skinny, bald spider; a large, hairy, black tarantula. Of course, one site tells me that dreaming about spiders means that fortune will come — except if the spider is a tarantula. What are the odds? There have got to be thousands of varieties of spiders and I have to dream about a tarantula. Specifically, this site claims:

    To dream of a spider, denotes you being careful and energetic in your labors and fortune will be amassed to pleasing proportions. Domestic happiness.

    Conversely:

    To dream you see a tarantula, denotes disagreeable prospect for health or for pleasure.

    Fine. I’ll just have to walk even farther tomorrow to rid myself of those choco-cookie bombs. It will be a disagreeable prospect to trudge with my VBF knowing that I’m defeating myself by snorting sugar during the day instead of nibbling on celery and plain lettuce. Or crunching on ice cubes. Or macking down carb-free rice cakes.

    But there’s hope because there was also a baby in the dream. You know, the one I passed to my mother while I was in bed?

    To see a baby in your dream signifies innocence, warmth and new beginnings. Babies may symbolize something in your own inner nature which is pure, vulnerable, and/or uncorrupted. Babies may represent an aspect of yourself that is vulnerable and helpless…

    Yes! Uncorrupted new beginnings! Tomorrow is another day that I can begin to avoid — or, just flat out avoid shoving unnecessary calories into my face as if tomorrow, all the world’s food might evaporate.

    And mothers in dreams? That’s a bit strange to weave into this mix — at least from the sites I was distracted by. The idea of mothers being nurturing, offering comfort and guidance seems pretty basic to me.

    So in attempt to put it all together — because I have nothing but extremely long stretches of time to waste create with daily — I kept looking until I found this:

    Spider teaches you to maintain a balance — between past and future, physical and spiritual, male and female. Spider teaches you that everything you now do is weaving what you will encounter in the future.

    The spider awakens creative sensibilities. It weaves a web of intricate and subtle fabric, as if to remind us that the past always subtly influences the present and future. The spider found within the web reminds us that we are the center of our own world. Spider reminds us that we are the keepers and writers of our destiny, weaving it like a web by our thoughts, feelings and actions.

    Spider is the guardian of the ancient languages and alphabets. Many believe that the alphabet was formed by the geometric patterns and angles found withing the spider’s web. To many this was the first true alphabet. This is why spider is considered the teacher of language and the magic of writing.

    No, there wasn’t a web in the dream, but I can make some sense of all of this now, without joking about cookies.

    My mom’s appearance in my dream supposedly represents my wish for reassurance about the way my life is going. Even though I am content to “not work,” there is sure to be work on the horizon — because I want there to be. I’m a worker. Or, better said, I create. The issue is to grapple with the temptation to be very practical about finding “work” instead of finding time being willing to devote the same amount of time to create. And people who see themselves as workers or “do-ers” can struggle with the idea of taking time to create, which isn’t often seen as being productive. So I guess, with respect to my dream, I have to keep listening to “my mother,” and not make hasty decisions about what my “work” will be. I will get there.

    The baby represents something that is new. An opportunity, a beginning, a new mood of optimism. So the idea that I’m handing the baby to my “mom” is significant because it means I have to really nurture that seed of a what if that I’m growing, instead of worrying about it. The motherly reassurance will help it grow.

    And the tarantula? Not sure about that one because most sources I checked stated:

    To see a tarantula in your dream, signifies enemies are about to overwhelm you will loss.

    I don’t even know who my enemies are. That’s a pretty strong word for my world. Don’t you have to be in a particular frame of mind to even consider what an enemy is, let alone whom?

    Ohhhhhhhh……I get it. My “enemies” are those doubting voices. The ones Anne Lamott writes about in Bird by Bird. The voices that play on KFKD who tell you that you suck, and that you’re a loser, and that you can’t do anything right. The ones that play incessantly no matter how hard you work, but that you just have to turn the volume down on so that you can hear what matters. Because you have to hear the stuff that matters.
    The stuff that is the seeds of possibilities that need to be attended to, and nurtured to grow.

    If you build it, they will come. Right? I really, truly believe it with all my heart and soul whether they’re wearing baseball suits or not.

    Do you?

  • Twenty Years and Blinking

    Nice guy that he is, the MoH gently reminded me that I had carpool responsibilities this morning. It’s Tuesday already, and not Monday, so perhaps I was in a Monday frame of mind. The RT and I slunk to the car, I put ‘er in reverse and sat outside The Princess’ house for a few minutes until she graced us with her flowery scented presence. “Good morning,” I began, as usual, attempting to present an image of one who, although wearing pajamas and a rank sweatshirt, was chipper and ready to take the week by the horns. “How was your weekend?”

    Umbrella

    “Ohmygodyesterdaywasthemostbeautifulday,” she trilled, her eyes wide as I sneaked a look in the rear view mirror. “We went to the beach and everything was just perfect and you know how there are little sand places between the rocks? Well the four of us fit right in there, and well, it’s kind of a coveted location, so when we were ready to leave people were right there ready to take our spot,” she continued, rapt in her recollection of what I remembered was a pleasant day, but not that special. Oh, that’s right. I went outside late in the afternoon to pretend like I was going to finish my book, and ended up lazing in the sun, nodding off occasionally to make up for two late nights in a row. “Only 15 days of school left,” she finished, the non sequitur ending her atypical morning liveliness.

    Only fifteen days left. That’s always significant if you are in any way connected to school: you’re a student; your kids are in school; or, if like me, an erstwhile educator who recognized that the countdown to summer posted on the board would get you some points from your students, whether my principal liked it or not — thinking it “negative.” Uhhhh…what rock did she crawl out from under? Doesn’t everyone look forward to summer? Why act like that isn’t the case? Ahhh….summer. The Beach Boys and “No more homework, no more books.

    Dirty Looks

    No more teachers’ ‘dirty looks’” or whatever the words of that schoolyard chant are. Vacation. Ten. Whole. Weeks. Of sleeping in. Of lazing around the house. Of re-runs on television and sweet oblivion.

    It’s a bit strange now since I am only marginally connected to this annual ritual that has been a part of my life in some way for about 40 years. Yes — I know. Longer than some of you have been alive. Through my childhood and college years, my two older boys’ school years, my re-entry to college, and then finally my career in education. Nearly my entire life has been filled with the peculiar ebb and flow of time related to school years. The RT is of course still connected, and will be for many years even after we pack him up kicking and screaming, and throw him on a train and off to college.

    It was 20 years ago that I was beginning my career as a teacher. It’s pretty frightening how quickly 20 years can fly by. In 1987, I was ready to take on my first class of Third Graders, and finally do what I had always longed to do: teach. It was exhilarating after waiting so long. From the time I was in junior high, school counselors had gently tried to talk me out of the profession. Really. I’ve tried to remember the details of those conversations, but it was so long ago, it’s difficult. Besides, do adolescents really listen the way we want and need them to when we are gifting them with our experienced advice? Do pigs fly? Does a chicken have lips? Like I said — difficult. And now I don’t need the details, because I recognize their quiet words as something designed to open different worlds to a young person — one more exotic, more glamorous, and most likely, less practical. Perhaps they were at a point where they imagined something different for themselves, so that yearning influenced their words to me.

    Regardless, I heeded their advice, and went off to college declaring my major to be Family Studies and Consumer Sciences in order to become a Therapeutic Dietitian. Why this? I had to choose a different, but still practical something to replace my dream of wanting to become a teacher, and I had read something in Time magazine about careers in the health industry, so that made sense. Why not? Are hospitals and schools all that different? Um…never mind. You don’t even want to know what I think about that one.

    I never became a dietitian. In fact, I changed my major to Library Science because I really did want to be involved in education on some level. And there were very few jobs available for teachers then, so why not be a Librarian? I loved books, after all, and if I couldn’t be a teacher, I could hover in their vicinity. But I ended up leaving school.

    The part time job I had was paying more than what first year teachers made, so it was easy to leave the books and the routines to get married and have two boys. Easy until I felt my brain begin to rot with inactivity. So I finally found myself back in college to pick up where I left off with two young children in tow, the same part time job, and an ex-husband left somewhere in the dust — an unfortunate casualty of someone who should have stayed the school course to begin with. But my two boys were the silver lining of that detour, and they are worth it.

    Completing a degree and a credentialing program with kids in tow was crazy on several levels, but lots of people do it today. What was gruelling was subjecting my kids to the insane rigors of a new teaching assignment in an inner city school, and master’s degree work all at the same time. That’s why I have such a high regard for the MoH. He helped all three of us survive those years.

    “Kids come out, summer has arrived” by broma on flickr

    Twenty years. Don’t blink. You may miss them. Now, I’ll have to live vicariously through the RT’s last few days of school wondering if he’s as ecstatic as I would be if I was still counting down to summer.

    I know. I’ll post it on the fridge.

  • Adolescent Milestones and The Geometry Teacher

    Ninth grade is one of those really big milestones for me. No, I’m not talking about my completion of ninth grade, but as I think about this, perhaps so. Tenth grade signaled the end of an awkwardness that took up residence around the age of 11 and sowed many seeds of doubt about who I was to become in this life. But it’s the RT I’m talking about at this point, and not me. With just 18 or so days left of school this year, I find myself taking stock of this very soon to be young man — the youngest of my three, and the only one I’ve had the pleasure of “mothering” for the past six months without the distraction of my own career.

    So what has brought this on? It’s one of those things that has been on the back burner, simmering, festering, wanting to be put down in written words. Spoken words have all been used throughout the year — and some not so kind. And now it’s just a story. Another story that will sit alongside so many others in the volume we’ve created as parents of the RT. And it’s unique, because neither of my other two boys ever had an experience with a teacher quite like that of the RT and The Geometry Teacher. Yes. Her.

    Photo 6 When the RT got in the car after school a couple of days ago, it took little time after he had slung his 80 lb. back pack into the trunk before settling into the passenger seat and exclaiming, “Today was the most efficient day I’ve ever had in school.” Well. If that didn’t stop me in my tracks, then nothing ever would. It was one of those moments that had to be written down, as monumental as it seemed, or become lost in all the others that accumulate over time. One, because they — adolescents — just don’t say things like this often; and two, they aren’t often recognized for routinely sharing their revelations — especially with one of their parents. Whether the relationship with the parents is a comfy one, is a completely different issue.

    Don’t get me wrong. The RT is an exceptional human — if you can get over his slovenliness — but that’s really not anything we pull our hair out over. It just makes him more warm and fuzzy to us. I know. Gross. But it’s true. He’s a nice kid. Very. And his outlook on humanity is a model for others to consider. If you ask him about what he thinks the biggest problem the world has to deal with, he will tell you that it’s global warming. He can also tell you why he thinks that, throwing in the scientific theory behind the concern. He will also say that he believes obesity is our country’s biggest concern because it’s creating significant health problems for people who aren’t getting proper care. He genuinely likes people and sees good in everyone. He has absolutely no expectation that many people can be very cruel, and like spiders, ready themselves to dart across carefully crafted misery webs to trap unsuspecting humans and wrap them in darkness. Oh…*ahem*…got a bit carried away there. Still… The Geometry Teacher. The award goes to her for being the first person — not just teacher, but person — to have alerted the RT to another kind of human in this world. IMG_0842

    I knew things would be less than great when the MoH called me at school one night very early in the school year while I was still at work. He had attended another Open House without me and when my cell rang, I glanced at the clock and thought it odd, because he had only been at the school for a short while. What could be going on? “The Geometry Teacher’s a freak,” he began, in a very terse voice. I could tell he was walking as he spoke because he had that shaking kind of sound going on with this voice. Either that or he was ready to blow.

    “What’s going on?” I asked.

    “Nothing. I just walked out in the middle of her presentation. She’s a complete freak,” he continued, clearly pissed off. And that’s odd, too, because the MoH never gets that worked up over school stuff. Well, except for that first grade teacher. And maybe that one math teacher in middle school. Okay. So I lied. Anyway…it quickly became evident that we’d have quite the discussion when we both got home that evening.

    How can I explain the feeling of being between a rock and a hard place with a teacher who:

    • Puts a zero on homework because the notebook paper we purchased for the RT was not exactly 8.5″ x 11?” That’s right. The paper was 10.5″ x 8.” Three different stores sold paper this size, so you just don’t think about it because, hell, maybe it’s about conservation — you know? So the RT received many zeros before we realized that we were at fault here and that his paper was a half-inch too small on two sides. Wait. I could give you the difference in area…..
    • Won’t respond to emails because of some phobia about having her writing in print like evidence that could be used against her in a court of law;
    • Makes her students copy the problem. No, I’m not just saying that she asks them to copy the algorithm — I mean like, “The given vector represents the velocity of…” You get the idea. Some of these scenarios are almost a paragraph long and when there are 20 or more problems to complete, what is the kid spending most of his time doing? Copying the problem or doing the geometry? Right.
    • Takes points off if she can’t read the part that was copied, so when the grade comes, it isn’t clear whether the kid is being evaluated on his knowledge of geometry, or copying. And since the RT has dysgraphia, I can guarantee you her routine red-ink evaluations have been on his ability to copy — not do geometry. Oh! But you can photocopy the “problems” and paste them onto the homework paper if you’d like. Uh….I’m supposed to go out and buy a photocopier and do this nightly? Didn’t cutting and pasting happen in Kindergarten? Oh, I forgot. All I ever really needed to know I  learned in Kindergarten.
    • Allows students to make 3″ x 5″ cheat cards for quizzes and exams, but collects them at the door when students are done with their exams. That means that instead of being able to reuse the cards for future tests — because knowledge is built on what precedes it, right? — they have to create new ones. I created the RT’s cards on the computer just once and it took a very long time. His handwriting is so illegible,  he can’t even read it at times, so my eyeballs were popping out of my head, and my drug store glasses not getting the job done with their .5 magnification lenses.
    • Won’t attend meetings that the parents request and the school holds to discuss student need. Like, we get it that our kid has a problem, so what can we do together to help him? But the instigator, the one making it worse, can’t even come to the table to work out a solution? This is extremely challenging when I’ve done what she has done — been in her situation — had teachers on my staff in her situation -and never — EVER — have I seen this kind of unprofessional behavior. Ever. In the real world, she would have been fired so long ago.
    • Review test answers with students the day after the test by working out problems on the board, but does not allow them to take notes so they can actually LEARN from the experience. And they’re not allowed to have a pencil out when this whole thing is going on. Huh? So this would be an exercise in long term auditory memory — well visual if you count being able to memorize what she had written on the board — and not geometry.

    So the RT’s very excellent and efficient day? Well in spite of The Geometry Teacher — or because of The Geometry Teacher, part of the thing we’ve been working on since I’ve been at home is to encourage, support, cajole, reprimand, and force him to be aware of and responsible for his learning. That is huge. It isn’t that we weren’t working on those things before, because those are things that have to be worked on. But it doesn’t mean sitting down with him as he does his school work — although we’ve done that. It doesn’t mean digging through his back pack to find missing assignments he has completed but hasn’t turned in — but we’ve done that, too, finding 4 fermented apples and all. It doesn’t mean that I ever do his work for him, which would mean that I’d have to relearn it myself — although I, too, have at least done the “copying” of the completely ridiculous geometry problems so Her Highness could read his papers. And it absolutely doesn’t mean that I paid a tutor $75 an hour to tutor him. But that was the next thing on my agenda. Of course, I’d have to get a job to afford it, but goodness. I could tutor middle school students in English for $75 an hour and then use the money to pay for the RT’s tutoring. Or barter — you tute my kid and I’ll tute yours.

    It means he finally took himself to the library to work with junior volunteers after school — kids who actually like math, and understand math differently than the RT may, and who have survived THE GEOMETRY TEACHER. They survived her — not just her class.

    And you know what? The RT got a B+ on his last test — only 2% from an A-. Woo-Hoo! Now are we sure that means he understands the concepts? Who knows? But what it does mean to me — his mom, and erstwhile English Teacher? It means that I suppose you can force your kids to do what you want — what you believe is good for them — like these folks — but ultimately, I think it’s about persistent talk, nudging, suggesting, telling, expecting, and relentless questioning, so they’ll get there themselves. So they feel it was their accomplishment, because it should be theirs. They deserve that very important feeling as they mature into adults.

    The Geometry Teacher will always represent this important time in our lives when my youngest, and very accepting son, not only realizes that life is often like a game, and that sometimes, there are people who make it more challenging for us to succeed, unlike others who thrive on supporting success. Ironically, the unsupportive people we happen upon exist to help us learn more about ourselves. It’s not especially pleasant to realize, but sometimes, those who are supposed to help the most, don’t.

    Sobering lesson for an almost 15-year-old to learn, but he’s feeling “efficient,” so heartfelt congrats to the boy who was just a baby not so very long ago.sc00b2fe69

  • Complexity + Change = Simplicity

    IMG_0925 The following segment of Julius Caesar by Shakespeare used to be posted on a bulletin board above my desk a few years ago:

    There is a tide in the affairs of men,

    Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

    Omitted, all the voyage of their life

    Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.

    On such a full sea are we now affloat;

    And we must take the current when it serves,

    Or lose our ventures.

    On first glance, it seems to be a bit gloomy, fatalistic. On another — and to me at that point in the extremely difficult work we were engaged in — it meant something very hopeful, promising. It meant that if what we were trying to do was going to work, then it was going to be “now,” and that everyone needed to join in to make it happen. Unfortunately, I also knew that many of those involved did not want to be a part of any change, for any reason. Being involved wasn’t on their agenda. They were mired in their day-to-day existence, and not loving it. Often, that routine — whether enjoyable or not — is something concrete that can be depended upon. IMG_1051 The tension around the idea of “letting go” and trying something different, or learning and growing as a common endeavor was too enormous for many, and so, our work failed. That sounds so dismal.

    To think about it in a different way, you have to picture a surfer who is waiting for that perfect wave. She gets ready, is up, is going to go for it, begins to coast up that curl toward the seemingly elusive tunnel ahead of her as the wave grows, but somehow the power is just not with her. She misses it and rides over the back of the wave, watching it rush to the shore without her. IMG_1045 Of course there are other waves…Other beaches…

    During that time, I was recommended a book by Margaret J. Wheatley called Turning to One Another: Simple Conversations to Restore Hope to the Future. It’s a beautiful book I had hoped to glean something from to encourage the work I referenced above. In leafing through it now — several years past — I know now what I suspected then. Ideas of this kind would have been scoffed at by those who were afraid of opening themselves up to change. Ideas of this nature were threatening to them. Ideas about “the courage of conversation…”

    Where can we find the courage to start a good conversation? The answer is found in the word itself. ‘Courage’ comes from the Old French word for heart (cuer). We develop courage for those things that speak to our heart. Our courage grows for things that affect us deeply, things that open our hearts. Once our heart is engaged, it is easy to be brave. ( p. 25)

    Ideas about “willing to be disturbed…”

    We can’t be creative if we refuse to be confused. Change always starts with confusion; cherished interpretations must dissolve to make way for the new. Of course it’s scary to give up what we know, but the abyss is where newness lives. Great ideas and inventions miraculously appear in the space of not knowing. If we can move through the fear and enter the abyss, we are rewarded greatly. We rediscover we’re creative. (p. 37)

    Ideas about being “willing to reclaim time to think…”

    If we can pause for a moment and see what we’re losing as we speed up, I can’t imagine that we would continue with this bargain. We’re forgetting the very things that make us human. Our road to hell is being paved with hasty intentions. I hope we can notice what we’re losing — in our day-to-day life, in our community, in our world. I hope we’ll be brave enough to slow things down. (p. 96)

    So it’s Friday. Time to slow down, time to converse about possibilities, time to reflect, and be creative. For me, that means giving Photoshop some time and learning how to create different images with the photos I’ve taken around here. Here’s a sample of what I’ve done so far. The one below — not above. The RT did that one. Not bad for a mouse potato, huh? Well, actually, a pair of mouse potatoes. Now I just have to figure out how to get mine into the header on my other blog. But not today. That’s a working kind of webmastering thing. I just want to create. Well, I may have to do some housework. Feh!

    Have a peaceful weekend…
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  • Carpool Flunky

    Carpool Flunky

    My husband used to be Mr. Mom in our family before I dropped off the face of the working planet. Yes, he works too, but somehow over the years as I became more and more involved in my career, he took on more of the domestic responsibilities. No one had to ask — it was by osmosis. He’s like that.

    (more…)