life according to me

Tag: Learning

Fitting into my Skin

Still working on my blog skin. Still choosing. Still wondering what looks like, or at best may be a reflection of “me.” Something that isn’t beige or depicts “nobody.” A self portrait of sorts. Or composite. Isn’t that what this strange business of blogging is sometimes all about?

So don’t go away. I’ll figure it out. Billy Collins did in his “Instructions to the Artist”…

I wish my head to appear perfectly round

and since the canvas should be of epic dimensions,

please trace the circle with a dinner plate

rather than a button or a dime.

My face should be painted with an ant-like sense of detail;

pretend you are executing a street map

of Rome and that all the citizens

can lift thirty times their own weight.

The result should be a strained

but self-satisfied expression,

as if I am lifting a Volkswagen with one foot.

The body is no great matter;

just draw some straight lines with a pencil and ruler.

I will not be around to hear the voice

of posterity calling me Stickman.

The background I leave up to you

but if there is to be a house,

lines of smoke rising from the chimney

should be mandatory.

Never be ashamed of kindergarten —

it is the alphabet’s only temple.

Also, have several kangaroos grazing

and hopping around in the distance,

an allusion to my world travels.

Some final recommendations:

I should like to appear hatless.

Kindly limit your palette to a single

primary color, any one but red or blue.

Sign the painting on my upper lip

so your name will always be my mustache.

And don’t forget — an entity is the sum of its parts… Check it out and see what you think. You’ll have to read it five or six times before your eyeballs settle back down in their sockets, though. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

June 1, 2007
Upgrades, Blog Skin, and Patience
Count yourself lucky, because today, you were going to be subjected to either a commentary on last night’s “So You Think You Can Dance, ” or a scathing review of that book I’ve been trudging through. But I decided to do a bit of work under the hood, so to speak. I’ll subject you to the tortures mentioned tomorrow or the next day when you’re supposed to be out and enjoying the weekend.

Yes, it’s that time again. Time to pardon my dust. I’m working on a WordPress upgrade today, and most likely, a blog skin change. You might remember that not too long ago, I asked people about whether the Tree was doing it for me. I had lots of great responses that ranged from, liking the minimalist aspect of the blue against the white, to considering it presents a sort of Forrest Gump meets Andy Warhol. One person invisioned me sitting on the bench while thinking “all this stuff up,” and other questioned the relationship of the blue tree to my “science of grasping life by the short hairs” to my Warholled self. Schizophrenic sort of covers it. But the two column design is really not what I’ve wanted from the beginning, and the grey, very small font — although tasteful — is difficult to see for some. And I agree. There has to be a good mix of aesthetics and functionality. I’m more wrapped up in writing than playing around with the design because it’s a great excuse to effectively avoid learning how to do the CSS properly, or design my own. I have absolutely nothing but time, right? So what the hell.

Anyway, everything’s changing. Yes, again. Because I can. I don’t have many options for changing the furniture around in my house, or the clothes on my body, or my hair, or…..well, you get it. So why not take out my frustrations on my blob — which it could end up being a blob again if I’m not careful.

So I’m embroiled in reading WordPress support for the down load and reviewing installation guidelines on my hosting service, digging out my FTP client and wondering about the connectivity of all this and potential baldness.

But just in case you’re wondering what this may end up looking like, I’m thinking of: (and click on Test Run) under the image that comes up on the links if you want to check it out…)
- this, because of the changeable header, the three columns, general organizational quality, and clean-white look.
- this, because of the header again, the columns again, and the interesting addition of the two sections at the top that I could have some fun with; or
- this because it’s very different, the organization is cool, the font is very readable on the dark background, and I like how it’s set up for del.icio.us plus more in the post.
Who knows. I downloaded a bunch of others just to mess around with.

So cross your fingers.
May 31, 2007
How did Emily Know?

I was tagged a week or so ago, and haven’t reciprocated. Well, I have, actually, but I guess you’d have to pick it up by inference. If I remember correctly, the meme had to do with letting people know more about myself through an interview of sorts. I had already done the meme, as I was tagged by someone else first. So, I’ve been constructing a few posts that essentially do the same thing, but not in meme form. So Jo! I’m reciprocating — it’s just may not look like I am.

Well, I couldn’t ask for a better transition…

Last night while we were watching House, one of the characters said, “He’s not afraid to be you, he’s afraid of who you think you are.” I don’t want to get involved in which character said this, or reference about whom. That isn’t the point. Do you like how I’m circumventing that one? Because I probably don’t know their names. I know I should, because I often watch House, but they’re really only fictitional characters, right? So what difference does it make? Like I was saying, that isn’t the point.

The point is…that I immediately thought of my oldest son. The one who seems to be trudging through life — or flitting, depending on the observer’s perspective. My bets are on trudging, but I’ll get to that later. So what would make me instantly connect to him after hearing the line spoken? Because as a parent who has already raised two children to adulthood, I often wonder whether I did a good job. You know, whether the whole effort of creating two more humans has been a good thing for society. Of course I’m going to say yes immediately, but that’s the easy answer.

When my oldest son was about the age of 15 or so, I remember him saying that we — the MoH and I — made working look very difficult. That it was all we did, and that it seemed we weren’t very happy about it. My reaction was a combination of, “Wow, he noticed,” and “Crap, what the hell is that all about and what kind of an example is that to set for your kids?” My oldest son — MoS — is an amazing artist. He draws. He doesn’t sketch, or paint, or sculpt. He draws. He picked up a pencil very early, and just began to draw things he saw. He went through odd phases, where all his drawings were of empty intersections with complicated arrangements of stop lights and light posts. He also developed a very early fascination with how things work — in particular machinery, and buildings. So I probably don’t have to tell you about the number of Leggos we own, right?

He began building very complicated buildings with his Leggos by the age of 5. And then he began to invent strange things like those automatic door closers that are mounted up on the frame. So we had those made of Leggos taped to all our doors. We had Leggos everywhere. You do know what it feels like to step on one, right? It’s a very special kind of pain. And sucking them up into the vacuum? You also know that you have to get them out of the vacuum because each freaking piece costs about 25 cents. Plus if that particular piece can’t be found, hours will be spent digging through the box of Leggos. You can hear the sound, right? That “digging in the Leggos” clacking sound. And when the piece isn’t found, the “dumping the entire contents of the Leggo box on the bedroom floor” sound. You know, right? Leggos. Thousands and thousands of them.

I knew very early that MoS was an artist. So I made sure he had things to be creative with. But something happened along the way. This business of making work look hard caused a problem. Although everyone assumes when someone of MoS’ talent is plopped onto this Earth, that he will most certainly make a life and a living with that gift, sometimes they don’t. In fact, I know that lots of times very talented people are just square pegs in the very round hole that is our society. Especially in this country. MoS’ square pegginess is huge.

At the age of 15, he took a look at his resident role models and decided that he didn’t want to turn his drawing into study at school and then a career, because he loved to draw. That if it became his living instead of his love, that he wouldn’t enjoy it any longer. It would become work. It would be “hard.” About this time, he became extremely interested in cars as well. Yes, he drew them. Drew the outside, the inside, drew different views, and yes, drew very intricate pictures of their engines as well. Just any car? Nope. Corvairs. Go figure. And he didn’t just draw them. He could take an engine out of one and install another in the same car in less than three hours, and drive off to enjoy an afternoon. Really. He’s truly amazing.

So if he isn’t drawing, then is he working on cars? Nope. He still does both these things in his “spare” time. He has very little spare time because he is in school — finally — I think. We’re never sure. And he’s paying for it himself. We think. But we’re not sure about that, either. Because he works between 40 and 50 hours a week managing a pizza restaurant franchise for someone who is no longer interested in running the business. I know how hard it is to go to school and work, and I wonder if he’s making it. Remember what I said about trudging? Are you convinced? He spends ridiculous amounts of time hiring and firing extremely undependable high-school and college-aged kids, filling in for them when they don’t show up for their shifts, and loaning them his car for deliveries, because they wrecked theirs, or don’t have one, or?

What’s he studying in school? Architecture. What he was put on this earth to do. Draw. But we aren’t ever sure he’ll actually finish. He’s so busy making sure the damn pizza place doesn’t burn down, he barely has time for anything else. Maybe the problem is if he quits the pizza place, he’ll have to dedicate himself more seriously to school and therein lies the rub. He’s not afraid to be me, he’s afraid of who I think I am.

What did Emily Dickinson say?

I’m nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!

They’d advertise — you know!

How dreary to be somebody!

How public like a frog

To tell one’s name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

He’s not afraid to be me — a hard-working, serious nose to the ever-lovin’ grindstone kinda human. Never say die — just occasionally gasp for air — He’s afraid of who I think I am — nobody. Well, somebody, of course, but always trying to just be beige. At least that’s what I think I am. No?

Wow. That’s sobering.

May 30, 2007
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?”

“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.

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.

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.

May 29, 2007
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.

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.

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.
May 25, 2007
gratitude = sum of the parts > the whole

We used to live in a house 25 miles east of Paradise. Yes, still Paradise, but worlds away from here for all kinds of reasons. It was about as beautiful as the suburbs could be in a place that should still be a desert covered with scrubby bushes and hillsides speckled with strangely rounded boulders instead of houses and neighborhood malls. We were fortunate enough to happen upon this house at a time in our lives when we needed more space: my two older boys were just entering their adolescence, our youngest was still not one, and my mom was getting pretty tired of her life and wanted a change. Only one family had lived in this house before us — a family of three. The man had died 10 years earlier, so the woman had stayed until she could no longer care for herself and was moved to a care facility somewhere near her daughter on the East Coast. For the longest time, the house still felt as if it belonged to her. Her child had grown up in the house, and they had lived there for almost 50 years.

One of the things I loved about the house was the view. Nearly every window provided a pleasant treescape, or views of distant hills that, if you woke up early enough, afforded a gorgeous sunrise. And I was up early quite a bit in those days, because 6-month-old babies do wake up earlier than most of us want them to.

As my life became more crowded with the kinds of things we all grapple with, I found myself feeling put upon, and frazzled. At times, I swore that I could feel the person I was supposed to be sinking farther and farther away, as if drowning. Before bed each night most often after everyone else had long since retired, I’d quietly venture out into the yard and look into the dark sky to say my penance for spending so much of my day being dissatisfied with what I had.

I knew there had to be something up there willing to hear me list all the things I acknowledged I was thankful for — because I didn’t want to give the wrong impression. “I love my kids, I love my husband, I have a job, I have a nice house, we’re all healthy, we have food…” the litany went each night, attempting to seal in what I was thankful for.

Although I remember this with tiny shards of sadness, I reluctantly drag it to the surface as a sort of measuring stick. So much is different now. Time has a way of doing that. But time isn’t enough. Many other factors must be considered to acknowledge what I am truly grateful for without it being an apology to the night sky. I realize that if I hadn’t lived those days, I would be less than who I am now. It all adds up. So this is my contribution. Thanks to Dave for passing on the opportunity to convey my gratitude, although perhaps not as eloquently expressed as his.

So if you are someone who finds your cup a bit empty instead of full, take the time to make your own list. And if you’re someone who likes to create two lists — one with plusses, and one with minuses, I guarantee you’ll never get to the minus side of things if you always start with the plusses. Come on. Pay it forward. Do it now. There. I nodded in your direction.

I have gratitude for my family — but specifically my boys.

Mmmm….b-o-y-z. I love my men, men, men, men…because they are just flat out different. Refreshingly not like me. They just don’t get caught up in all the total crap that females do. They make life so much easier unless I want a reason to get worked up, and then they’re really good at being the reason I get worked up — because they’re not like me. You get that, right?

I’m thankful — so very thankful for the relationship that the MoH and the RT have.

They truly like one another. The MoH still gets warm & fuzzy attention from the RT who is very comfortable with hug & love stuff. The MoH and I must have done some pretty effective modeling in our spare time. I didn’t have a relationship with a father, and didn’t get to observe my brother having one, either, so I’m curious about the whole Dad thing. Curious — which is different than wanting, needing, or wishing. Or hoping. And put a cork in the guilt while you’re reading this, Mom because that’s a complete waste of time. Ahem…moving right along…

Though my intensity would rival that of a laser, I’m grateful for my ability to notice small things

that bring me to a screeching halt long enough to breathe and wonder about nothing in particular —

— like the way sun comes in to brighten up the house after so many days of grey.

Things sparkle, shine, and amazing shadows emerge for just a minute or two, and then are gone.

Somebody has to notice those things and share them with others, right? So I guess my tiny digital camera gets the nod as well. Now if I could only figure out the macro thing, I’d be set.

I’m grateful for that old Betty Crocker cookbook and a mom who shoved a cast iron skillet in my hand and said, “Make dinner for the family,” when I was still pretty young. I never cease to find pleasure in thinking about food, cooking food, serving food, and eating food. Oh — and the people who eat my food. Mmmmm…..food. I absolutely love it — and them for enjoying it.

So that leads to gratitude for my developing relationship with my scale, and the respect I have for my control or lack of control, which can be pretty powerful. Boy that’s a constant argument I have with myself. To have more, or not to have more…simply more…More tasty is working better than just more…Having a brain that processes this factors in here somewhere.

And I’m grateful for people like this who make me smile on my less than exciting walks,

because I just wonder, “What were they thinking?” and then have to be even more grateful that I could never be as hateful as the person who then threw something corrosive on her driveway and ruined the prettiness she was so proud of, and not wanting people to spoil with their “turning around in her driveway” tires.

And I would be even more grateful if people like that didn’t exist. But that’s asking too much, right? Because we’re all supposed to be thankful we aren’t them. But cockroaches are small enough to step on, so someone could have figured out how to rid us of the mean folk.

In my next life, I would like to hope and wish to be grateful for patience. If there’s a line for that somewhere, help me make sure I get in it.

May 10, 2007
Complexity + Change = Simplicity

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. 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. 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…

May 4, 2007
Blob-li-cate: How not to plug-in

Horror-scope for Today: You have the presence of mind to put your attention precisely where it’s needed. Whether this means doing feng shui on your office or answering emails rapid-fire, at the end of the day you go home feeling organized.

1. I have no presence of mind. I’m trying to fix my blob problem.

2. My attention span is non-existent.

3. I don’t have enough emails that aren’t junk to “rapid-fire” anything except mass delete.

4. What office?

5. What’s organized?

*breathe deeply*

…The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach — waiting for a gift from the sea… Anne Morrow Lindbergh

May 2, 2007
Will Schlep to Help Sale

My sister has had her former home on the market for months. Her husband retired from the navy and took a job across the country, so they slapped a For Sale sign out front and blew out of here in January. Unfortunately, the house is still there, unsold, and no one seems to love it. And it’s a bit stressful trying to manage this business when she’s so far away. Things just don’t go the way she’d like them to all the time.

So she flew out from VA this past weekend to make sure her recent investment in trying to get her house sold in East Paradise Gated McNeighborhood works. What that entailed was rounding up the family mules: Gramster Mule, Betty Mule (yours truly), and Officer Mule, the brother who keeps his distance from the female crazies in the family. It also involved rounding up as many yard tools as possible– either by begging, borrowing, or stealing — to get the whole curb appeal thing done, because all her yard tools moved to VA with the family. And most importantly, it meant checking out what she’d very recently paid $20K for on the inside to get the old homestead securely into someone else’s hands as soon as possible (new counters in the kitchen, new appliances, new light fixtures, new light switch plates — yes, I said light switch plates, and new hardware for the front door). It seems reducing the price $100K wasn’t enough for the fickle and taste-lacking Paradise bargain shoppers, (Example: two women who offered $70K under the asking price, with no money down, wanted $20K out of escrow in cash, and could they please rent it cheap and live there until escrow closed?) Uhhhhhh…..And the turnip truck you just got off of is parked where? So a bit of surface glam was called for, as well. You know, staging the house. You’ve heard about it on TV. But the price tag was so high to have furniture sit in the empty house, that props had to suffice. Tricky.

Who figured that after she took a red-eye flight out here and hit the ground running — or digging — that it would rain. And not just rain, but black clouds, wind, a perfunctory bolt of lightning and single clap of thunder just to make it official. But this didn’t stop our dusting and polishing, or our trip to The Home Depot for flowers and bark, our furious activity, or our end of the day sleepover in my mom’s absolutely freezing casita up in big, big hilly type mountainettes way east of Paradise. So freezing that we slept unshowered, with lots of clothes on, thinking that the dirt on us helped a bit with insulation, and that her head-light could double as a light to read in our dirt by. Or maybe ambient heat for our hands. Open and say Ahhhhh……

But we were halted in our fervor to get the place spruced up by the pond that the storm left on the side of the house. So much rain, that the “low spot” pond threatened to become a lake. The low spot that the realtor frets about where the downspout from the gutters sinks into the ground. Where the downspout appears to connect to some unseen drain that will conveniently, and efficiently take away the rain water. But no. The downspout just goes into the ground. There’s no drain. Not the thing an anxious to sell her house person wants. Not the day before the Grand Re-Opening Open House. Not.

The family mules set to the task of leveling a portion of the side yard, digging around the seemingly non-functional drain, and generally spiffing the place up and hiding the pond. And it worked pretty well until we wanted to walk on it, and it had a gelatinous feel to it — all quivery, and spongy. But we whistled while we worked, anyway, gossiping loudly about the neighbors who were in their yard next door, surrepititiously doing yard work even though my sister said they never went out in their yard. Some of us groused about the ridiculous hairs realtors split in doing their work, while blindly over-looking things that should be focused upon. I’m thinking you’ve got to have a bit of stoopidity in your system if you can say things like, “…and maybe you can put a bit of mulch around the roses while you’re at it…” on a Friday afternoon when a couple of rear ends are in the air , heads bent to their task of weeding, turning soil, and trimming brown plant edges. I just don’t think they get it. They seem not to see all the good things.

For example, you have to walk through the pool area to even see the roses. Or to wander up to the back part of the property to remember where the trampoline used to be, and where fruit trees are in bloom. And it’s quite the pool area that has hosted some pretty great parties over the years. My mom once broke some bones in her hand swinging on the rope before launching herself into the pool like the boys were doing. Pool floatie water polo battles were fierce. And many a young girl played water princess, exhibiting exotic underwater poses, and featuring gymnastic feats. The jaccuzzi? Well, the banana mudslides went down well as we stewed ourselves to a prune state. It’s a bit strange seeing it so empty and to know that as much as a family once loved it, others don’t seem to notice what made that family happy living here. In the end, it’s just a house, and there seem to be millions on the market in Paradise right now.

And the neighbors. Oh my gawd, the neighbors. Outside of one person who graciously invited the soaked, muddy, and fairly ugly group of us over to have wine and snacks after it became too cold and rainy to work, the rest were fairly grotesque in their behavior. Two were seen across the street smack-talking the fresh, deep green color of the front door, which couldn’t possibly pass the architectural committee’s approval. So we hopped into the car and took a cruise around McNeighborhood to write down the house numbers of those individuals who also had “painted” doors, instead of natural woodgrain doors — some in dire need of refinishing. Or houses that had beyond ugly screen doors, or fences in need of repair, yards in need of care, or just plain butt-ugly anything in front of the house. Routinely, neighbors drove by, slowed down to gawk like we were performing nude rituals in the yard, and to maybe slink over to the For Sale sign and take a flyer with up-to-date information. By the end of the day, the flyers were all gone. All in the hands of neighbors who anxiously waited with bated breath to see what the house could sell for. Waiting to know if they may continue to have the opportunity to brag to one another what they think their houses are worth — whether they actually are or not.

But my sister is going for the jugular. The house is going to sell or else. So she’s dug in there today with my mom, camped out in the back yard — mostly to keep the neighbors out, and to make sure the realtor is actually doing something to sell the house. — like answer questions about it that prospective buyers may have. What a concept, huh?

And when the house does sell within the advertised range this week, the McNeighborhood comps are toast. People will have to get off their high horses and get real about their property values in East Paradise Gated McNeighborhood. Perhaps thinking about the place where they live as being a home with a family and memories thrown in instead of a house that has a market value would be a great start. But the experience was enjoyable because my family did the work together — something that doesn’t happen often now. Being able to help in this little way just sort of cemented in the fact that my sister and her family are really gone from this home, and living on the other side of the country. Snif!

April 23, 2007
Teenagers and Circus Hoops

“Mom…MOM,” the RT rumbled yesterday morning, slinking around the corner to the kitchen in his new size 12 tennies. Do they even call them that anymore? And how can a 14-year-old have feet that big? His feel are suddenly the size of very large bricks.

“Huh? I responded, fumbling with the coffee grinder and looking at him cautiously, knowing he was going to ask for something that was going to be challenging for me with only three minutes left until carpool time. Something that may require I had to put clothes on to do. And I was already going to have to do that as the day wore on because I had a dentist appointment. Ugh. I am underwhelmed about ever going to the dentist, but they all know it and take very good care of me.

“When you get a chance today, can you go to Staples and get me a calculator?” he continued.

“What happened to the three we have? I asked patiently — well, it felt patient. Sort of.

“You mean this one?” he said, holding up an old Texas Instruments business calculator that the MoH used in college. Yes, it still works. “It doesn’t have tan, sine, or the other functions I need for math.”

“You have two of those already. Where are they? I saw you using one the other day, adding up stuff for your Warhammer game.”

“Imperial Guard,” he cut in.

“Huh? What guard?”

“You know, my game. Not Warhammer.”

“Uh…can we get back to the calculator, please? What’d you do with it?” He had that flat look he gets when his patience is being tried — like when I could never get Sun-jay’s name correct and he had to remind me every single time what the correct pronunciation of the former American Idolness‘ name was. “Sanjaya. Not Sun-jay.”

I could feel the beginnings of steam rising over this nonsense of the calculator, like it was something that really mattered — which it wasn’t. But it was an opportunity to make another point about his lovely bedroom. Dirty play by Mom sticking it to the RT again over one of his biggest challenges. “When do you need it? You don’t have a test today, do you? If your room was clean, you’d be able to find your stuff when you need it — like now. See what I mean?”

“Mom. I need it by Monday. Okay?” he said quietly before walking to get his backpack. It was time for the carpool and it was our day.

“You need to spend some time in your room today when you get home and find the calculator. It’s here. Are you going to need it in class today? Do you have a test?” I persisted because maybe it didn’t compute the first time I said it.

“Mom. No. I. Do. Not. Have. A. Test…Okay?” he said, looking right at me, and with the utmost control, as one might display when communicating with something which had little or no capacity for language. A boiled potato, maybe.

He’s such a good kid, but The Geometry Teacher’s class has been an up and down challenge all year, and this business of him being loosey-goosey about her drill sergeant tactics is getting old. He has conformed to some extent, and that actually makes me a bit sad because he has given in to someone who, in my opinion, should not be in a classroom with kids. She has sharp teeth and anti-productive hoops she’s installed for students to jump through like circus animals instead of actually teaching something. The fact that he was actually asking me to get something for him for the class was significant. It must be the excellent “B” he got on her last test that has perked him up. Her test, not his. It’s all about Her. In the past, we hadn’t found out he needed something until it was too late, and then we were forced to get out our “DORK PARENTS HERE” sign and stand under it for making it seem too challenging for the RT to ask us a simple question. Lecture avoidance technique strategy armed and ready.

Yesterday, when I was at the dentist’s office, a woman came in with her own teen-type. I think that’s what it was — a lanky sort of unhappy looking thing who had his attention glued to his cell phone. He must have been playing games on it or something, because at one point, the thing’s mom told him to turn it off, and he completely ignored her. Four times. Four. Then said, “What?” quite loudly in the small room, like she was some obnoxious creature who had slimed in from the swamp and had soiled his air space. I was dying to look at their expressions but was mortified for her and wanted to verbally wring his skinny neck myself with a terse, “Can you step outside for a minute, please?” just to see what he would do. But it was only a fleeting fantasy. To her credit, she persisted, and told him he had to turn off the cell phone because there were signs posted in the office. “Where? What sign?” he barked at her as he slid off his chair to glance over my shoulder at the sign. “That’s for when you’re back there, not here,” he finished, not looking at her. She sighed and picked up a magazine, and I carefully kept my attention on mine, even though I couldn’t see a damn thing because I’d left my glasses at home. All three pair.

The experience reminded me of just how pleasant our son is. By the time I got home from the dentist, he had found his calculator. He said it took him an hour to find it, wedged behind his bed, against the mattress and the wall. I got to hear all the colorful details of the closet and under the bed, too, where he said he spent ten whole minutes. Yes, I know. I’ve been there myself, far too many times, and for much longer.

So with the calculator tucked safely where he can find it himself next time (Yes! All children can learn!) we drove off to Friday morning at L-T-DHS, with no chance of sunshine, and a high chance of rain. But the car crew was bubbly this morning, with the princess grousing about an AP Euro exam like it was a badge of honor, and the two boys talking about the cold and a crash involving two semis being announced on the radio and hypothetically discussing what would happen if one was filled with fish and the other with chips. It’s not funny, but the RT is. His brain sees the world in comic strip form. At any moment, he breaks into dialog, or an announcement, or narration of some unseen event, reported in some accent that he’s picked up from Monty Python or somewhere. Half the time, I can’t understand him, but he clearly entertains himself. And he makes me smile every day.

So I’m off to my mom’s. You guys may have to live without me for a day because she lives in the serious sticks east of Paradise and has……Dial….Up. It should be illegal for anyone to have to suffer from a dial up connection. My sister is visiting from VA, and we have work to do on the house she hasn’t sold here yet. Anyone out there want to move to East Paradise? It has a swell pool, good schools, and a kitchen with a face lift.

On the home front, tax season is over, so the my husband is a human again. The Momolator or whatever the hell he’s calling our dog this week is happy to have him back, for obvious reasons. The Yack Star Fresh Face Prince Ass Fuzz Bag Flea Incu-Bus hasn’t graced us with a hairball in a week, and I finally completed one food blog obligation last night, with more to come this morning (or perhaps not).

A million thanks to a techie who, in response to a question I asked, put up a great post about transferring my blogs to my own domain, Thought Sparks. If you remember the laughing baby I linked in a previous post, that is courtesy of him, too. Such a nice guy!

Have a splendiferous weekend searching for something besides Sanjaya on Google. And then let me know so I can join in!

April 20, 2007