I come from a military family. The military is all about promptness. If you are a soldier and you are supposed to be somewhere at 0500 hours, you darn well better be there or there would be consequences. My father took that promptness habit very seriously. That means that if we were supposed to be somewhere at ten in the morning, we were there a half hour early. I was always the last one ready to go. I hated having to sit around and wait for anything, and I would do everything I could to delay. I was a kid with no intention of watching the clock, ever.
My parents were determined, however. As a result of their endeavors, I have become a bit of a clock-watcher. I always wear a watch so I know what time it is and how much time I have to be where ever I am supposed to be. I also always feel like I am rushing from one place to another. That rushed, stressed feeling brings to mind a song I heard a long time ago, by Alabama. (Don't judge me--I like the old country)
I'm in a hurry to get things done
I rush and rush until life's no fun.
All I really gotta do is live and die,
But I'm in a hurry and don't know why.
I'll bet that most of you have this Pink Floyd song in your head!
Run, rabbit Run
Dig that hole, catch the sun
When at last the work is done
Don't sit down it's time to dig another one.
Even though I work in education, I don't usually have my entire summer off like teachers do. I usually end up with days scheduled here and there throughout, so that I work a couple of days a week. I never really feel like I have a break, because I don't have time to get used to being off of work. Add to that our 'summer' hours, which are from 7:30am to 5:00 Mondays through Thursdays, and it makes everything worse.
This summer, I had the entire month of July off. I arranged all the days that I had to work in June, and I don't have to be back at work until August 8th. I worried about this time off. I thought, what is a clock-watcher like me to do with all that unscheduled time? How will I be able to let go and just relax until it is time to return to work?
It was suspiciously easy.
I took off my watch. I put my calendar away. I haven't looked at either of them until recently, when I discovered that my watch battery had expired. I suppose that it died of loneliness, since I unceremoniously dumped it on the counter in the bathroom. I lost all feel of time passing. Only when I happened to glance at the wall clock would I notice what time it was. It was kind of liberating, to lose awareness of the number of hours in the day.
My family did just fine without me to remind them of events or the time. We left when we wanted and since I didn't care what time we got to our destination, I wasn't screaming at anyone to hurry. I wasn't hurrying myself along, either. It was miraculous how unchained I felt!
I slept late when I wanted.
I went to bed when I wanted.
I read all day long on a couple of occasions. I've actually lost count of the number of books I was finally able to read.
I worked on my beading and jewelry making.
I surfed the web, and I blogged.
And most importantly, I spent time with my family. We went on two mini-vacations together. We went to the movies together. We played Rock Band. We played Lego Batman and Robin. We even went swimming, because I finally felt relaxed enough that I could put on a swim suit and get in the pool with my boy. I actually swam across the pool a couple of times! It has been glorious to be cut loose from those things that make me feel tied up and cornered. My time off has been much more relaxing this summer, and I've been able to breathe.
But it will soon be August 8th, and I will have to reattach myself to the time. It is necessary for work--I have to be on time to collect a paycheck, and other people count on me to be on time to appointments, meetings, staffings, observations, etc.
There's a reason they call it the "Grind". Can I keep this feeling of summer, this feeling of relaxation?
Probably not.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Contemplating Underpants
I was conducting my never-ending battle with the laundry yesterday, and as I was pulling items out of the dryer I noticed that my son has Green Lantern underpants.
I did not buy any Green Lantern items for my son--my husband and his mother did that. The Green Lantern movie came out this summer(for those who pay attention). Our house has been inundated with GL sheets, GL toys, GL towels, GL jammies, GL t-shirts...you get the picture. All of these items have the Ryan Reynolds version of Green Lantern because they are all based on the movie. There are enough pictures of Ryan Reynolds on enough items to qualify us as the home of a stalker. My husband and son are just average fanboys, so it's all good. Looking at those underpants, however, I suddenly realized that my son has been running around with Ryan Reynolds' picture on his little backside.
Do you know how many women would be fighting to have Ryan Reynolds on their backside? Even with my math skills being horrible, that is an extremely high number! So why don't they sell this sort of garment to women? Think how many women would pay a heck of a lot of money to have a picture of their favorite celebrity hunk on their underpants. They may not ever meet George Clooney, but they could 'wear' him out for a night on the town.
Someone might mention the whole "my man won't find those underpants sexy in the least" aspect to this discussion. Fair enough. We all want to wear the sexy underpants that are most likely to flip the passion switch. Remember that scene in Bridget Jones' Diary, where Bridget excuses herself so she can change into her sexy underpants while an unexpected date waits in the other room? Who over thirty hasn't done that at least once?
But what do we usually wear on days that aren't date night? Plain old cotton--whether it's a bikini, a thong, boy short, or briefs. There is not a darn thing wrong with cotton--it's comfortable, and most days cotton underwear doesn't get bunched up, which is a definite bonus.
Women are major purchasers of underpants in this country. We do most of the shopping for our families, and that includes unmentionables. If we asked for pictures on our underpants, companies would have to listen. I've seen underpants for women that have writing on them. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch to have a picture instead. And what is wrong with having a picture of Ryan Reynolds* on the backside of those underpants?
Not a darn thing.
*Disclaimer: I have no wish to wear underpants with Ryan Reynolds on them. He is merely an example. I promise! And no, you can't have the pair pictured!
I did not buy any Green Lantern items for my son--my husband and his mother did that. The Green Lantern movie came out this summer(for those who pay attention). Our house has been inundated with GL sheets, GL toys, GL towels, GL jammies, GL t-shirts...you get the picture. All of these items have the Ryan Reynolds version of Green Lantern because they are all based on the movie. There are enough pictures of Ryan Reynolds on enough items to qualify us as the home of a stalker. My husband and son are just average fanboys, so it's all good. Looking at those underpants, however, I suddenly realized that my son has been running around with Ryan Reynolds' picture on his little backside.
Do you know how many women would be fighting to have Ryan Reynolds on their backside? Even with my math skills being horrible, that is an extremely high number! So why don't they sell this sort of garment to women? Think how many women would pay a heck of a lot of money to have a picture of their favorite celebrity hunk on their underpants. They may not ever meet George Clooney, but they could 'wear' him out for a night on the town.
Someone might mention the whole "my man won't find those underpants sexy in the least" aspect to this discussion. Fair enough. We all want to wear the sexy underpants that are most likely to flip the passion switch. Remember that scene in Bridget Jones' Diary, where Bridget excuses herself so she can change into her sexy underpants while an unexpected date waits in the other room? Who over thirty hasn't done that at least once?
But what do we usually wear on days that aren't date night? Plain old cotton--whether it's a bikini, a thong, boy short, or briefs. There is not a darn thing wrong with cotton--it's comfortable, and most days cotton underwear doesn't get bunched up, which is a definite bonus.
Women are major purchasers of underpants in this country. We do most of the shopping for our families, and that includes unmentionables. If we asked for pictures on our underpants, companies would have to listen. I've seen underpants for women that have writing on them. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch to have a picture instead. And what is wrong with having a picture of Ryan Reynolds* on the backside of those underpants?
Not a darn thing.
*Disclaimer: I have no wish to wear underpants with Ryan Reynolds on them. He is merely an example. I promise! And no, you can't have the pair pictured!
Friday, July 29, 2011
Red Writing Hood: Revision
Prompt: Go back in the archives and pick a fiction or nonfiction piece. Perhaps something you posted on your blog, or an old Red Dress Club prompt? Find something that you're proud of, but something you haven't read for awhile. Do a complete overhaul. Okay...so I am trying for poetry. No, I never actually touched lightning. I did however, stick a hair pin in an electrical outlet when we lived in Germany. It was a bit of a let down, for obvious reasons.
Originally published 2-9-2010.
As a child
I could reach
into the sky
and hug the lightning.
The bright currents
passing through
the tempestuous clouds
called to me.
I would step outside
embrace the electricity
and move swiftly
through the darkness.
Belief sustained me
tingling under my skin
until I felt as
illuminated as the angry sky.
My storm has passed
yet the sparks of me
have coalesced
to become my son.
Originally published 2-9-2010.
As a child
I could reach
into the sky
and hug the lightning.
The bright currents
passing through
the tempestuous clouds
called to me.
I would step outside
embrace the electricity
and move swiftly
through the darkness.
Belief sustained me
tingling under my skin
until I felt as
illuminated as the angry sky.
My storm has passed
yet the sparks of me
have coalesced
to become my son.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Goodbye, Old Friend
My cat Morris came into my life on October 17, 1998. It was a day when it started raining buckets at five in the morning and was still raining buckets at noon--what my father calls a "frog choker". All around, the water started to rise. First Cat Isobel and I were watching the reports of all the places that were now underwater, when we heard a soft knocking at my door. There on the doorstep was a soaking wet, bedraggled looking, pissed off yellow cat. He was staring at me. He looked so utterly pitiful that I let him in. He even let me dry him off a bit so he wouldn't soak my carpet.
After figuring out that Morris did not have front claws and trying to find his human, I took him to the vet. This was not fun for Morris, and therefore was not fun for the vet. Morris suffered from post-traumatic stress, likely from when he was declawed, and he was not about to let any person in a white coat touch him. I just stood back and watched the fur fly while the vet figured out that Morris was a)a boy, and b)probably about three years old, and c)fixed. Subsequent visits to the vet involved the use of those long leather gloves used for working with birds of prey, every available able-bodied person, and some forms of anesthesia. Morris never did get over his vet-phobia, but thankfully vet visits were a once-a-year thing.
Morris was a cranky cat from the very beginning, and as a young cat was as likely to bite you as he was to purr. In fact, he would purr to distract you and THEN bite you. He was an extremely messy eater, who would shovel in as much food as possible instead of eating daintily like other cats. Morris demanded to be fed at all hours of the day, and he didn't take no for an answer, following me around the house until I put a couple of kibbles out. He answered to no one except for the dinner bell; if you said the words "Morris, dinner!" that cat would immediately materialize at your feet.
Morris wasn't the sharpest cat. Many times I wondered just how he had survived being abandoned until he showed up at my house. His reflexes were very slow, he wasn't the least bit playful, and he wasn't sociable. He also wasn't afraid of things he should have run from. He once faced down a German Shepherd like he was the same size; and it was only luck that the dog ran off instead of eating him.
I used to wake up in the morning with Morris' face three inches from mine. He would be purring. Morris would also curl up behind my knees on cold nights, and he would purr. Occasionally he would show up while I was watching television and would sit in my lap. He would purr. If you pet him, especially underneath his chin, he would purr.
At approximately 16 years old, Morris was spending more and more time sleeping. He wasn't taking care of himself; his fur was matting in areas he was no longer able to reach. He was moving slower, and was starting to have difficulty getting up the stairs or jumping onto the bed. Morris did enjoy going outside into our yard. As he got older, a little sun seemed to help with his arthritis. Every now and then he would ask to go outside at night, and he would hide in the bushes until I called him. Except last Saturday night, when I let him out, he disappeared. We have searched for him in our yard, behind the house, and in the woods, but there's a lot of places that a yellow cat can hide.
While Morris would miss many things, he would never miss dinner. I will keep looking, because I don't like to give up. Morris has a collar, and someone might find him. I still have a tiny spark of hope, but that spark is fading with each passing day. I have come to the unfortunate conclusion, given his age and the horrific heat outside during the day, that Morris went out into the night and died.
He showed up suddenly, and Morris left me just as suddenly. I wish I had known, so I could have said goodbye. This is the best that I can do.
Goodbye, old friend. You sent me to the ER with puncture wounds, you peed on my shoes at least once, and you left clumps of yellow fur all over no matter how much I brushed you. You also made me laugh often, listened to me when no one else would, and you showed me lots of love and purrs. I will miss you.
After figuring out that Morris did not have front claws and trying to find his human, I took him to the vet. This was not fun for Morris, and therefore was not fun for the vet. Morris suffered from post-traumatic stress, likely from when he was declawed, and he was not about to let any person in a white coat touch him. I just stood back and watched the fur fly while the vet figured out that Morris was a)a boy, and b)probably about three years old, and c)fixed. Subsequent visits to the vet involved the use of those long leather gloves used for working with birds of prey, every available able-bodied person, and some forms of anesthesia. Morris never did get over his vet-phobia, but thankfully vet visits were a once-a-year thing.
Morris was a cranky cat from the very beginning, and as a young cat was as likely to bite you as he was to purr. In fact, he would purr to distract you and THEN bite you. He was an extremely messy eater, who would shovel in as much food as possible instead of eating daintily like other cats. Morris demanded to be fed at all hours of the day, and he didn't take no for an answer, following me around the house until I put a couple of kibbles out. He answered to no one except for the dinner bell; if you said the words "Morris, dinner!" that cat would immediately materialize at your feet.
Morris wasn't the sharpest cat. Many times I wondered just how he had survived being abandoned until he showed up at my house. His reflexes were very slow, he wasn't the least bit playful, and he wasn't sociable. He also wasn't afraid of things he should have run from. He once faced down a German Shepherd like he was the same size; and it was only luck that the dog ran off instead of eating him.
I used to wake up in the morning with Morris' face three inches from mine. He would be purring. Morris would also curl up behind my knees on cold nights, and he would purr. Occasionally he would show up while I was watching television and would sit in my lap. He would purr. If you pet him, especially underneath his chin, he would purr.
At approximately 16 years old, Morris was spending more and more time sleeping. He wasn't taking care of himself; his fur was matting in areas he was no longer able to reach. He was moving slower, and was starting to have difficulty getting up the stairs or jumping onto the bed. Morris did enjoy going outside into our yard. As he got older, a little sun seemed to help with his arthritis. Every now and then he would ask to go outside at night, and he would hide in the bushes until I called him. Except last Saturday night, when I let him out, he disappeared. We have searched for him in our yard, behind the house, and in the woods, but there's a lot of places that a yellow cat can hide.
While Morris would miss many things, he would never miss dinner. I will keep looking, because I don't like to give up. Morris has a collar, and someone might find him. I still have a tiny spark of hope, but that spark is fading with each passing day. I have come to the unfortunate conclusion, given his age and the horrific heat outside during the day, that Morris went out into the night and died.
He showed up suddenly, and Morris left me just as suddenly. I wish I had known, so I could have said goodbye. This is the best that I can do.
Goodbye, old friend. You sent me to the ER with puncture wounds, you peed on my shoes at least once, and you left clumps of yellow fur all over no matter how much I brushed you. You also made me laugh often, listened to me when no one else would, and you showed me lots of love and purrs. I will miss you.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Now With More Sand!
The beach and I have generally had a love-hate relationship.
I love walking along the water line early in the morning.
I hate stepping on jellyfish and some sort of unidentifiable icky thing that gives me the dry heaves.
I love building sand castles.
I hate sand getting into everything I own, even stuff that I did not actually bring to the beach. (Physicists should be studying THAT phenomenon.)
I love listening to the waves roll in, and sometimes standing in the surf.
I hate not being able to see what is in those waves. Thank you, Stephen Spielberg!
After several attempts to work on our relationship, the beach and I parted ways amicably. I didn't even request joint custody of the sand.
We didn't travel when Zane was younger because we weren't sure how he would do sitting for lengthy periods in his car seat, or how he would deal with sleeping in a strange bed, or what he would eat if there were no chicken nuggets or waffles to be found. We decided this summer that it was time to try a "mini" vacation of a couple of days to see how the boy did. Our first little trip, to Grapevine, Texas(did not actually see any grapevines, but still a very nice town), was a rousing success. This encouraged my husband to suggest a second short trip, this time to Corpus Christi.
"That sounds great," I said, but I was thinking about the sand.
"Why is your eye twitching like that?" Larry asked me.
Once I got over the idea of all the sand, I got a little excited about our trip. It would be my son's very first trip to the beach! I was also very excited that it was my husband who suggested that we go, because he doesn't really like to be outside of his comfort zone.
We explained to Zane that we were going to the beach a few days early, to get him used to the idea. This was a mistake, since three-year-olds have not adapted to the concept of time, and most of them do not understand words like "tomorrow", "next week", or even "five minutes". It's funny how we as adults take those words for granted. But Zane was very excited about the trip, and he talked about the beach every day like we were going that day.
Then it was time to pack. I picked out some toys for Zane to take with him.
"No," my boy told me.
"No?"
"No." Zane repeated. "Shark will eat them."
"Shark?" I shrugged. "Okay."
We drove to Corpus Christi, which is the closest beach from where we live. The first day we were there, we went to the Texas State Aquarium(we had to see Dory and Nemo), the USS Lexington, and then we went to a beach that was actually in Corpus Christi. Zane loved it. He liked the waves and how the water seemed to chase him where ever he went.
Larry had had the idea that he and Zane could build sandcastles together; Zane liked the idea, but wasn't all that into actual construction.
No, my child was all about the waves and the water. We got tired of yelling at him not to go to far out, so I sat beside him. All around us, the sand was pulled inexorably into the ocean. This too was wondrous for Zane. We stayed at the beach in Corpus until the sun was almost out of the sky.
When we got back to the car, the sand had followed us. We attempted to dust off as much as we could, but it was a futile effort. We drove back to the hotel, and after showering and rinsing all of our clothes, we figured that we had removed at least a gallon of sand from the beach. That did not include the amount of sand that we left in the car.
And it was only our first day!
I love walking along the water line early in the morning.
I hate stepping on jellyfish and some sort of unidentifiable icky thing that gives me the dry heaves.
I love building sand castles.
I hate sand getting into everything I own, even stuff that I did not actually bring to the beach. (Physicists should be studying THAT phenomenon.)
I love listening to the waves roll in, and sometimes standing in the surf.
I hate not being able to see what is in those waves. Thank you, Stephen Spielberg!
After several attempts to work on our relationship, the beach and I parted ways amicably. I didn't even request joint custody of the sand.
We didn't travel when Zane was younger because we weren't sure how he would do sitting for lengthy periods in his car seat, or how he would deal with sleeping in a strange bed, or what he would eat if there were no chicken nuggets or waffles to be found. We decided this summer that it was time to try a "mini" vacation of a couple of days to see how the boy did. Our first little trip, to Grapevine, Texas(did not actually see any grapevines, but still a very nice town), was a rousing success. This encouraged my husband to suggest a second short trip, this time to Corpus Christi.
"That sounds great," I said, but I was thinking about the sand.
"Why is your eye twitching like that?" Larry asked me.
Once I got over the idea of all the sand, I got a little excited about our trip. It would be my son's very first trip to the beach! I was also very excited that it was my husband who suggested that we go, because he doesn't really like to be outside of his comfort zone.
We explained to Zane that we were going to the beach a few days early, to get him used to the idea. This was a mistake, since three-year-olds have not adapted to the concept of time, and most of them do not understand words like "tomorrow", "next week", or even "five minutes". It's funny how we as adults take those words for granted. But Zane was very excited about the trip, and he talked about the beach every day like we were going that day.
Then it was time to pack. I picked out some toys for Zane to take with him.
"No," my boy told me.
"No?"
"No." Zane repeated. "Shark will eat them."
"Shark?" I shrugged. "Okay."
We drove to Corpus Christi, which is the closest beach from where we live. The first day we were there, we went to the Texas State Aquarium(we had to see Dory and Nemo), the USS Lexington, and then we went to a beach that was actually in Corpus Christi. Zane loved it. He liked the waves and how the water seemed to chase him where ever he went.
Larry had had the idea that he and Zane could build sandcastles together; Zane liked the idea, but wasn't all that into actual construction.
No, my child was all about the waves and the water. We got tired of yelling at him not to go to far out, so I sat beside him. All around us, the sand was pulled inexorably into the ocean. This too was wondrous for Zane. We stayed at the beach in Corpus until the sun was almost out of the sky.
When we got back to the car, the sand had followed us. We attempted to dust off as much as we could, but it was a futile effort. We drove back to the hotel, and after showering and rinsing all of our clothes, we figured that we had removed at least a gallon of sand from the beach. That did not include the amount of sand that we left in the car.
And it was only our first day!
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
RemembeRED: Lesson Learned
Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned." Word limit: 400 words.
Some life lessons take a while to germinate. It can take years for the moral of the story to come to fruition. When I was in my twenties, for example, I knew everything. I was a college student. If someone had a question, I always knew the answer and I would tell them so. If someone needed advice, I always knew exactly what to do and I was always very sure of my answers. I was never, ever, without some kind of answer for anything and everything.
When I was in my thirties, I knew some things. I was a professional. If someone had a question, I sometimes knew the answer, and if I didn't, I would pretend that I did. If someone needed advice, I sometimes knew what to do and wasn't really sure of my answers. I occasionally had some kind of answer for most things.
Now I am in my forties, and I don't know anything. I am the parent of a three-year-old. If someone has a question, I have no idea what the answer is and I will tell them so. If someone needs advice, I stare at them blankly until they go away. I never have the answer to anything, and even have difficulty remembering the questions.
It turns out that when you don't know, you can enjoy the journey a whole lot more.
Lesson learned.
Some life lessons take a while to germinate. It can take years for the moral of the story to come to fruition. When I was in my twenties, for example, I knew everything. I was a college student. If someone had a question, I always knew the answer and I would tell them so. If someone needed advice, I always knew exactly what to do and I was always very sure of my answers. I was never, ever, without some kind of answer for anything and everything.
When I was in my thirties, I knew some things. I was a professional. If someone had a question, I sometimes knew the answer, and if I didn't, I would pretend that I did. If someone needed advice, I sometimes knew what to do and wasn't really sure of my answers. I occasionally had some kind of answer for most things.
Now I am in my forties, and I don't know anything. I am the parent of a three-year-old. If someone has a question, I have no idea what the answer is and I will tell them so. If someone needs advice, I stare at them blankly until they go away. I never have the answer to anything, and even have difficulty remembering the questions.
It turns out that when you don't know, you can enjoy the journey a whole lot more.
Lesson learned.
Monday, July 25, 2011
An Old Dog Has to Learn Some NewTricks
My boss got our department iPads. Uck.
Let me elaborate. I am a PC girl. Not born a PC girl. I was actually introduced to computers via Apple. I had an Apple II as a matter of fact, but I never got all that excited about them. My coworker deleted her entire hard drive just by dragging it to the trash while she was talking on the phone, for example. Who the heck decided that THAT would be something that nobody would ever do?
I got a PC and never looked back. I like the logic of a PC, mostly because I can figure out how to do most things on a PC without asking anyone. I can play and explore and click all I want, and if I am about to do something stupid, a message pops up telling me so. I also love my PCs because I can play games on them, games that you can't play on Apple stuff.
My biggest beef with Apple has always been their tendency to make you only buy their stuff. If I want a larger hard drive for my computer and it's an Apple, I have to buy a new hard drive from them. If my monitor breaks, I have to take it to Apple or have it fixed by Apple affiliated repairmen. If you think about it, it is an ingenious business model--if you own everything about the product, including all the peripherals, you can charge whatever the heck you want and there isn't a danged thing that anyone can do about it. I don't like that. It goes against my natural aversion to being told what to do.
It's like there is someone selling ice cream. I can buy the ice cream and take it home. If I want chocolate syrup on it, however, I can't just run out and buy my own. I have to buy this special 'approved' chocolate syrup, or else I've violated some sort of EULA that causes my bowl of ice cream to explode. (I am not saying that Apples will explode. Please don't call anyone.)
What if I don't like that 'approved' syrup, I like the one I bought? Then you buy the PC ice cream, and you can pick your own bowl, spoon, syrup, sprinkles, etc., all from different companies that are not paying kickbacks to be affiliated with anyone. That is another thing that I do like about PCs. If I don't like the video card in the computer I have, I can change it myself. Okay, not me, because I couldn't tell you what a video card even IS, but you get my point.
You can see that I have a few strong feelings about this subject. I may sometimes get a little overzealous about it. I apologize for that, because I also strongly believe that people should be able to choose whatever kind of computer they want. I never want to be accused of evangelizing to anyone about their choice of computers and I will never pretend that I am superior to others just because of the computer I use. If Apple works for you and you are happy, that is just fine with me. I am only discussing MY reasons for choosing PCs. Don't hate me, Jillsmo!
But now I have a work iPad. So I have to use it. At least, I have to figure out HOW to use it. I did find the 'ON' button, eventually. It took me a bit, because it didn't look like an 'ON' button, but I did find it. I should probably be embarrassed to admit that. I've found the web browser. I do not like the keyboard. I keep having to stop and switch to the number part and then switch back, and that could present a problem if I am in a meeting taking notes. What I would eventually like to use my iPad for is to complete observations in the classroom, or to eventually administer some quick tests to students(I would really like to be in the room when Apple meets the Psychological Corporation. Talk about proprietary!).
I will say that Apple products are great for small children. My son, who is three, wandered up while I was trying to figure things out. I got up to get something, and when I came back, he had opened a drawing application and was happily drawing pictures. I didn't even know there WAS a drawing program on there.
For a couple of moments, I seriously considered cutting him out of my will.
Let me elaborate. I am a PC girl. Not born a PC girl. I was actually introduced to computers via Apple. I had an Apple II as a matter of fact, but I never got all that excited about them. My coworker deleted her entire hard drive just by dragging it to the trash while she was talking on the phone, for example. Who the heck decided that THAT would be something that nobody would ever do?
I got a PC and never looked back. I like the logic of a PC, mostly because I can figure out how to do most things on a PC without asking anyone. I can play and explore and click all I want, and if I am about to do something stupid, a message pops up telling me so. I also love my PCs because I can play games on them, games that you can't play on Apple stuff.
My biggest beef with Apple has always been their tendency to make you only buy their stuff. If I want a larger hard drive for my computer and it's an Apple, I have to buy a new hard drive from them. If my monitor breaks, I have to take it to Apple or have it fixed by Apple affiliated repairmen. If you think about it, it is an ingenious business model--if you own everything about the product, including all the peripherals, you can charge whatever the heck you want and there isn't a danged thing that anyone can do about it. I don't like that. It goes against my natural aversion to being told what to do.
It's like there is someone selling ice cream. I can buy the ice cream and take it home. If I want chocolate syrup on it, however, I can't just run out and buy my own. I have to buy this special 'approved' chocolate syrup, or else I've violated some sort of EULA that causes my bowl of ice cream to explode. (I am not saying that Apples will explode. Please don't call anyone.)
What if I don't like that 'approved' syrup, I like the one I bought? Then you buy the PC ice cream, and you can pick your own bowl, spoon, syrup, sprinkles, etc., all from different companies that are not paying kickbacks to be affiliated with anyone. That is another thing that I do like about PCs. If I don't like the video card in the computer I have, I can change it myself. Okay, not me, because I couldn't tell you what a video card even IS, but you get my point.
You can see that I have a few strong feelings about this subject. I may sometimes get a little overzealous about it. I apologize for that, because I also strongly believe that people should be able to choose whatever kind of computer they want. I never want to be accused of evangelizing to anyone about their choice of computers and I will never pretend that I am superior to others just because of the computer I use. If Apple works for you and you are happy, that is just fine with me. I am only discussing MY reasons for choosing PCs. Don't hate me, Jillsmo!
But now I have a work iPad. So I have to use it. At least, I have to figure out HOW to use it. I did find the 'ON' button, eventually. It took me a bit, because it didn't look like an 'ON' button, but I did find it. I should probably be embarrassed to admit that. I've found the web browser. I do not like the keyboard. I keep having to stop and switch to the number part and then switch back, and that could present a problem if I am in a meeting taking notes. What I would eventually like to use my iPad for is to complete observations in the classroom, or to eventually administer some quick tests to students(I would really like to be in the room when Apple meets the Psychological Corporation. Talk about proprietary!).
I will say that Apple products are great for small children. My son, who is three, wandered up while I was trying to figure things out. I got up to get something, and when I came back, he had opened a drawing application and was happily drawing pictures. I didn't even know there WAS a drawing program on there.
For a couple of moments, I seriously considered cutting him out of my will.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Yes, Yoda, There is a Try
My son has recently picked up a very bad habit, and I am very concerned.
This habit is worse than kicking a puppy.
It is worse than cussing in church.
It is worse than smoking, drinking and general carousing on a school night.
It it much, much worse than forgetting your mother's birthday.
It's so bad that I am embarrassed to even be talking about it.
My son, my precious child, my one and only son, has started to say "I can't".
Somewhere along the way, my son heard those words. Worse, he likely saw that the person who used those words was fussed over and given positive attention. Darn that vicarious learning! Now he expects the same treatment from his parents. I can tell by that expectant look on his face. Zane expects us to fuss over him and hold him and worse, tell him that he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to do. But we aren't going to do that. We are going to make him try.
Being a child is about experiencing the world first hand. Children are natural explorers. They are natural risk takers. They seek knowledge where ever they can find it.
Childhood is about trying. At least it should be.
No young child on this planet should ever say "I can't" before they've even tried. They should never say that they can't; that has to be a violation of some sort of law of the universe. To quit before you've even tried must cause some sort of ripple in the Matrix.
One of my favorite movie quotes is from the movie Batman Begins. Bruce Wayne's father asks his son, "And why do we fall, Bruce?" Thomas Wayne then answers the question for his son, "So we can learn to pick ourselves up."
A child tries something, falls/fails, and learns to pick themselves up so they can try again or try something else. That is how they learn persistence, self-reliance, resiliency--all those wonderful things that will ensure their independence as adults.
We must let the child try. We must allow them to fall, so they can learn to pick themselves up. This is especially true of children with special needs, because they have to work harder than others. We may make accommodations or adaptations, but it is the child who must make the effort, not us.
There are going to be many adventures for my child to experience as he grows up. Some of those adventures will be fun, some will not. Zane will fall/fail many, many times, I know that, and it is my greatest hope that he learns to pick himself up and move forward. I do not want him to shy away, I want him in the thick of life, where he belongs. He's not going to get there by saying "I can't".
We have our work cut out for us.
This habit is worse than kicking a puppy.
It is worse than cussing in church.
It is worse than smoking, drinking and general carousing on a school night.
It it much, much worse than forgetting your mother's birthday.
It's so bad that I am embarrassed to even be talking about it.
My son, my precious child, my one and only son, has started to say "I can't".
Somewhere along the way, my son heard those words. Worse, he likely saw that the person who used those words was fussed over and given positive attention. Darn that vicarious learning! Now he expects the same treatment from his parents. I can tell by that expectant look on his face. Zane expects us to fuss over him and hold him and worse, tell him that he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to do. But we aren't going to do that. We are going to make him try.
Being a child is about experiencing the world first hand. Children are natural explorers. They are natural risk takers. They seek knowledge where ever they can find it.
Childhood is about trying. At least it should be.
No young child on this planet should ever say "I can't" before they've even tried. They should never say that they can't; that has to be a violation of some sort of law of the universe. To quit before you've even tried must cause some sort of ripple in the Matrix.
One of my favorite movie quotes is from the movie Batman Begins. Bruce Wayne's father asks his son, "And why do we fall, Bruce?" Thomas Wayne then answers the question for his son, "So we can learn to pick ourselves up."
A child tries something, falls/fails, and learns to pick themselves up so they can try again or try something else. That is how they learn persistence, self-reliance, resiliency--all those wonderful things that will ensure their independence as adults.
We must let the child try. We must allow them to fall, so they can learn to pick themselves up. This is especially true of children with special needs, because they have to work harder than others. We may make accommodations or adaptations, but it is the child who must make the effort, not us.
There are going to be many adventures for my child to experience as he grows up. Some of those adventures will be fun, some will not. Zane will fall/fail many, many times, I know that, and it is my greatest hope that he learns to pick himself up and move forward. I do not want him to shy away, I want him in the thick of life, where he belongs. He's not going to get there by saying "I can't".
We have our work cut out for us.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
How Not To Play With A Cat
Zena, our youngest cat, is at that "playful but predatory" stage. This means that all the ankles in the house are to be stalked and pounced upon at any time, without warning. Zena is also a jumper, so elbows are also considered to be likely prey. Actually, anything that is moving is considered to be prey to this cat. My older cats don't do this. They never did. I'm not used to being pounced on by things with claws.
I had the bright idea that if I played with Zena, maybe she wouldn't be so eager to pounce on everything. I couldn't find any of the toy mice we had for her. So I sat on the floor, placed my hand on the carpet and moved my hand back and forth quickly.
Zena's eyes locked on my hand with laser precision. She put her head down and her butt in the air. Her head moved with the motion of my hand. Her back legs did a little two-step, and then she was airborne. She landed on my hand and immediately started to bite me as she gripped my hand with her front paws. And claws.
That was when I remembered that you aren't supposed to DO what I was doing, because it teaches the cat to bite hands that might want to pet instead of be clawed. I bought all kinds of books when I acquired my first cat, Isobel. That was over ten years ago, and I've slept since then. But it was too late. Zena's back paws were digging into my palm and her front claws were digging into the top of my hand and she had my index finger in a death grip with her teeth.
Ow.
I was feeling like an idiot and hoping that I don't drip blood on the carpet. I remembered that you aren't supposed to pull away when a cat has their claws in you, because that makes any injuries worse. I did try to get Zena to loosen her grip, but that just seemed to make her dig in deeper.
So I sat there and was as still as I could be in spite of the pain, but Zena determined that my hand was not dead for several more minutes. Finally, she was satisfied that my hand had been vanquished, and she released me and loped off. Only a couple of the puncture wounds were bleeding, so I cleaned them as best I could, and we all went about our day. I felt very stupid about the whole episode.
Zena just took a nap. Cats are cool like that.
I had the bright idea that if I played with Zena, maybe she wouldn't be so eager to pounce on everything. I couldn't find any of the toy mice we had for her. So I sat on the floor, placed my hand on the carpet and moved my hand back and forth quickly.
Zena's eyes locked on my hand with laser precision. She put her head down and her butt in the air. Her head moved with the motion of my hand. Her back legs did a little two-step, and then she was airborne. She landed on my hand and immediately started to bite me as she gripped my hand with her front paws. And claws.
That was when I remembered that you aren't supposed to DO what I was doing, because it teaches the cat to bite hands that might want to pet instead of be clawed. I bought all kinds of books when I acquired my first cat, Isobel. That was over ten years ago, and I've slept since then. But it was too late. Zena's back paws were digging into my palm and her front claws were digging into the top of my hand and she had my index finger in a death grip with her teeth.
Ow.
I was feeling like an idiot and hoping that I don't drip blood on the carpet. I remembered that you aren't supposed to pull away when a cat has their claws in you, because that makes any injuries worse. I did try to get Zena to loosen her grip, but that just seemed to make her dig in deeper.
So I sat there and was as still as I could be in spite of the pain, but Zena determined that my hand was not dead for several more minutes. Finally, she was satisfied that my hand had been vanquished, and she released me and loped off. Only a couple of the puncture wounds were bleeding, so I cleaned them as best I could, and we all went about our day. I felt very stupid about the whole episode.
Zena just took a nap. Cats are cool like that.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Red Writing Hood: The Camera Never Lies, But It Sometimes Steals
Prompt: Write a short fiction or non-fiction piece inspired by any or all of the photo(a picture with cameras) This is fiction. My camera is a Kodak and I have no special lenses for it. I promise.
"Take your picture here!" I announced to the crowd from the front of my little shop. It had been a long day of fat tourists in shorts and honeymooning couples. It paid the bills, but it was boring. I kept the fatigue out of my voice, however. "Let me take your picture and capture your beauty forever!"
The woman was beautiful, and she knew it. Long-legged, with a body men would fight to the death over, her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders like water. I pepped right up at the sight of her. She moved gracefully along the boardwalk, pretending to look at the items on display in the shops, when it was obvious that she was soaking in the admiring glances of the men around her. They were like moths to a porch light, I thought with disgust. I kept my smile pasted on my face, my sales pitch rapid.
Most of the crowd ignored me, but I was used to that. People look away from ugly people. The beautiful woman, however, was looking in my direction. I turned away from her. The best way to draw the suckers in was to pretend not to notice them. She moved closer. Beautiful women just can't resist having their picture taken.
"Take your picture, folks! Capture your memories of your boardwalk vacation to show back home! You only pay for the pictures you want!" I had to pitch my voice just right to be heard above the noisy evening crowd, but my effort was rewarded. I turned to find the beautiful blonde looking down her nose at me. Gracing me with her business.
"Are you a professional photographer?" She asked me. "I'd like you to take my picture."
"Yes, ma'am," I replied. "I am very much a professional. Step right into my studio and I'll capture your beauty forever!"
I held my right arm out in a gesture for her to proceed, and I followed her inside the shop. I directed her to stand before the white backdrop on the yellow X, then went to the tripod to set up my camera.
"I haven't seen your shop on the boardwalk before." The blonde asked, while I was changing the lens of the camera.
"I just set up shop here this very week." I finished my adjustments to the camera and set it on the tripod. "I've got this special lens here I think will capture your beauty perfectly. You just start posing and I'll start shooting and we will see how things turn out."
I stepped up to the tripod and looked through the camera's eye, while the beautiful woman posed herself with a hand on her hip. She pouted, model perfect.
I pressed the button, and the camera made a clicking sound.
The woman changed positions, looking over her shoulder.
Click.
The woman smiled, uncertain.
Click.
She looked stunned.
Click.
She frowned.
Click.
Horrified.
Click.
"Everything all right, miss?" I moved my head alongside the camera to look at her.
I smiled.
A hunched crone stared back at me with unseeing eyes, wild gray hair forming a nimbus around her head. She opened her mouth to reveal rotting black teeth, but the only sound that came out was a rattling breath. She reached out a hand to me in supplication, as if I would give her back what she had lost. Instead, I pressed the button one more time, and the once beautiful woman disintegrated into a gray dust. A dust that was indistinguishable from the sand on the beach.
Later, I would print out the pictures. Later, I would glory in my stolen riches.
I picked up a broom and began sweeping, whistling while I worked.
"Take your picture here!" I announced to the crowd from the front of my little shop. It had been a long day of fat tourists in shorts and honeymooning couples. It paid the bills, but it was boring. I kept the fatigue out of my voice, however. "Let me take your picture and capture your beauty forever!"
The woman was beautiful, and she knew it. Long-legged, with a body men would fight to the death over, her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders like water. I pepped right up at the sight of her. She moved gracefully along the boardwalk, pretending to look at the items on display in the shops, when it was obvious that she was soaking in the admiring glances of the men around her. They were like moths to a porch light, I thought with disgust. I kept my smile pasted on my face, my sales pitch rapid.
Most of the crowd ignored me, but I was used to that. People look away from ugly people. The beautiful woman, however, was looking in my direction. I turned away from her. The best way to draw the suckers in was to pretend not to notice them. She moved closer. Beautiful women just can't resist having their picture taken.
"Take your picture, folks! Capture your memories of your boardwalk vacation to show back home! You only pay for the pictures you want!" I had to pitch my voice just right to be heard above the noisy evening crowd, but my effort was rewarded. I turned to find the beautiful blonde looking down her nose at me. Gracing me with her business.
"Are you a professional photographer?" She asked me. "I'd like you to take my picture."
"Yes, ma'am," I replied. "I am very much a professional. Step right into my studio and I'll capture your beauty forever!"
I held my right arm out in a gesture for her to proceed, and I followed her inside the shop. I directed her to stand before the white backdrop on the yellow X, then went to the tripod to set up my camera.
"I haven't seen your shop on the boardwalk before." The blonde asked, while I was changing the lens of the camera.
"I just set up shop here this very week." I finished my adjustments to the camera and set it on the tripod. "I've got this special lens here I think will capture your beauty perfectly. You just start posing and I'll start shooting and we will see how things turn out."
I stepped up to the tripod and looked through the camera's eye, while the beautiful woman posed herself with a hand on her hip. She pouted, model perfect.
I pressed the button, and the camera made a clicking sound.
The woman changed positions, looking over her shoulder.
Click.
The woman smiled, uncertain.
Click.
She looked stunned.
Click.
She frowned.
Click.
Horrified.
Click.
"Everything all right, miss?" I moved my head alongside the camera to look at her.
I smiled.
A hunched crone stared back at me with unseeing eyes, wild gray hair forming a nimbus around her head. She opened her mouth to reveal rotting black teeth, but the only sound that came out was a rattling breath. She reached out a hand to me in supplication, as if I would give her back what she had lost. Instead, I pressed the button one more time, and the once beautiful woman disintegrated into a gray dust. A dust that was indistinguishable from the sand on the beach.
Later, I would print out the pictures. Later, I would glory in my stolen riches.
I picked up a broom and began sweeping, whistling while I worked.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The Plank
There was a time when I was quite a bit more active. I lifted weights. I did Jazzercise. I walked the park with my neighbor. I did Curves. I had to quit all that when I was pregnant because it was an extremely high risk pregnancy and my team of doctors told me to limit my activities. I really never got back into the exercise routine, and so I would describe myself as sedentary.
Some of the people in my office are not sedentary. Their "chocolate to workout ratio"(1 piece of chocolate for every fifteen minutes of exercise) is much more healthy than mine. I often buy extra chocolate to compensate for this.
The lady in the cubicle next to mine, Kim, was talking about doing the "Plank", and how it was very good for your abdominal muscles. That got my attention; I had to jump over the cubicle wall to hear all about it. Actually, I sighed heavily, pushed myself out of my chair and walked around the cubicle wall so I could give proper eye contact. But jumping over the cubicle wall sounded pretty awesome in my head, and that thought was more exercise than I usually get.
Anyway, THIS is the Plank. Go look at that picture; I'll wait. (You have to click on the link because I haven't figured out how to get the picture to show up over here. Sorry!)
You are supposed to be able to hold that position for 30 seconds.
More of our coworkers showed up to talk, one thing led to another(it usually does that) and then suddenly we ALL had to try it. This sort of competition is usually observed in the males of our species when beer is present, and I wondered briefly why we needed to do this. In the inevitable flow of peer pressure, however, I had to agree to try it. Yet I will admit that inside my head I was cringing in a corner.
The first person, who is only a few years younger than me, was able to do it.
The next person, who is a few years older than me, was able to do it.
The only guy in our office, of course, had NO DIFFICULTY.
One by one, the other five were able to pull it off.
I hated them all at that moment, but it was a hatred born of fear. The only strength exercise I had been doing was picking up my son. Would I be able to do this? Would my arms fail me?
I got down on the floor and 'assumed the position'.
"Okay, start timing," I said.
"Your butt is sticking up," Kim helpfully pointed out.
"Yeah," another coworker seconded. "Your body needs to form a straight line."
"I am straight," I said. "Start timing."
"Really," Kim said again. "Your butt is sticking up."
She meant well; good form and alignment is important in these situations. Except for the fact that I have a larger than average sized butt.
My arms were burning like they were on fire.
"My butt is sticking up because it is a BIG butt," I growled through clenched teeth. "Now. Start. Timing."
I know that I had been holding that position for WAY longer than thirty seconds, and I was ready to punch someone right in the face. Too many timekeepers spoil the Plank competition. As soon as my time was up, I let my knees hit the floor. It was a few seconds before my arms unclenched enough for me to use them to get up and hobble back to my cubicle.
And people wonder why I am so cranky at work.
Some of the people in my office are not sedentary. Their "chocolate to workout ratio"(1 piece of chocolate for every fifteen minutes of exercise) is much more healthy than mine. I often buy extra chocolate to compensate for this.
The lady in the cubicle next to mine, Kim, was talking about doing the "Plank", and how it was very good for your abdominal muscles. That got my attention; I had to jump over the cubicle wall to hear all about it. Actually, I sighed heavily, pushed myself out of my chair and walked around the cubicle wall so I could give proper eye contact. But jumping over the cubicle wall sounded pretty awesome in my head, and that thought was more exercise than I usually get.
Anyway, THIS is the Plank. Go look at that picture; I'll wait. (You have to click on the link because I haven't figured out how to get the picture to show up over here. Sorry!)
You are supposed to be able to hold that position for 30 seconds.
More of our coworkers showed up to talk, one thing led to another(it usually does that) and then suddenly we ALL had to try it. This sort of competition is usually observed in the males of our species when beer is present, and I wondered briefly why we needed to do this. In the inevitable flow of peer pressure, however, I had to agree to try it. Yet I will admit that inside my head I was cringing in a corner.
The first person, who is only a few years younger than me, was able to do it.
The next person, who is a few years older than me, was able to do it.
The only guy in our office, of course, had NO DIFFICULTY.
One by one, the other five were able to pull it off.
I hated them all at that moment, but it was a hatred born of fear. The only strength exercise I had been doing was picking up my son. Would I be able to do this? Would my arms fail me?
I got down on the floor and 'assumed the position'.
"Okay, start timing," I said.
"Your butt is sticking up," Kim helpfully pointed out.
"Yeah," another coworker seconded. "Your body needs to form a straight line."
"I am straight," I said. "Start timing."
"Really," Kim said again. "Your butt is sticking up."
She meant well; good form and alignment is important in these situations. Except for the fact that I have a larger than average sized butt.
My arms were burning like they were on fire.
"My butt is sticking up because it is a BIG butt," I growled through clenched teeth. "Now. Start. Timing."
I know that I had been holding that position for WAY longer than thirty seconds, and I was ready to punch someone right in the face. Too many timekeepers spoil the Plank competition. As soon as my time was up, I let my knees hit the floor. It was a few seconds before my arms unclenched enough for me to use them to get up and hobble back to my cubicle.
And people wonder why I am so cranky at work.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Semi-Wordless Wednesday: A Boy of Summer
My son's first trip to the beach happened today. He loved it! He especially sitting there and letting the tide carry him down the beach.
He did not like all the sand all over him when we left, but I told him that he had to take the good with the bad.
I don't think that he bought it, but that is okay. I never did, either.
Monday, July 18, 2011
RemembeRED: Rhythm, Or The Lack Thereof
Prompt: Write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word “rhythm.” Maybe it’s a time that you danced to a special song. Maybe it’s a period of your life during which the days were marked by a distinct pattern. Or maybe it’s a time that you couldn’t catch your breath because life just kept coming at your randomly. This is not fiction. Unfortunately for my tail bone.
Up.
Down.
Up.
My head bobbed nervously as my eyes tried to stay attuned to the movement of the jump rope.
Focus on the tempo, I told myself.
Up.
Down.
Up.
The girl before me was already jumping, her pigtails keeping time. Soon she would be jumping out, and it would be my turn.
Up.
Down.
Up.
I usually volunteered to hold the rope for everyone. There was a reason for that.
I had never "jumped in" before.
Up.
Down.
Up.
I had watched other people "jump in", and it looked so simple. Effortless and graceful, a bit like dancing.
Focus on the tempo, I told myself.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Occasionally,someone's foot didn't quite get the cadence.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Occasionally someone got smacked on the head by the rope as it descended as the result of a misstep, a break in the pattern.
Up.
Down.
Up.
It was now my turn. I psyched myself up. Deep breath.
Focus on the tempo of the rope!
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
I threw myself under the arc of the rope and I began to jump.
I felt a sense of triumph--I did it!
I was too slow, and I was facing the wrong way. I did not see the rope coming.
It caught the back of my ankles and the momentum of the turn sent my legs skyward.
I looked straight up into the blue sky of a summer day.
Then the arms of gravity threw me back to earth, and I landed very, very hard.
There were suddenly stars in my blue sky.
I was also not breathing.
A ring of shocked kid faces appeared above me, obscuring the blue sky. Then someone's father leaned over me. He reached down and touched my hand. With that touch came the pain, the pain that stalks your brain and pounces, claws and teeth bared.
That racing pain releases my lungs from their stillness.
I take a breath, a huge gulping breath, as if air were water and I had just spent the day in the desert.
It hurt to breathe, but at least I was breathing, still.
I had to sit on pillows for a week.
It was worth it.
Up.
Down.
Up.
My head bobbed nervously as my eyes tried to stay attuned to the movement of the jump rope.
Focus on the tempo, I told myself.
Up.
Down.
Up.
The girl before me was already jumping, her pigtails keeping time. Soon she would be jumping out, and it would be my turn.
Up.
Down.
Up.
I usually volunteered to hold the rope for everyone. There was a reason for that.
I had never "jumped in" before.
Up.
Down.
Up.
I had watched other people "jump in", and it looked so simple. Effortless and graceful, a bit like dancing.
Focus on the tempo, I told myself.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Occasionally,someone's foot didn't quite get the cadence.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Occasionally someone got smacked on the head by the rope as it descended as the result of a misstep, a break in the pattern.
Up.
Down.
Up.
It was now my turn. I psyched myself up. Deep breath.
Focus on the tempo of the rope!
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
I threw myself under the arc of the rope and I began to jump.
I felt a sense of triumph--I did it!
I was too slow, and I was facing the wrong way. I did not see the rope coming.
It caught the back of my ankles and the momentum of the turn sent my legs skyward.
I looked straight up into the blue sky of a summer day.
Then the arms of gravity threw me back to earth, and I landed very, very hard.
There were suddenly stars in my blue sky.
I was also not breathing.
A ring of shocked kid faces appeared above me, obscuring the blue sky. Then someone's father leaned over me. He reached down and touched my hand. With that touch came the pain, the pain that stalks your brain and pounces, claws and teeth bared.
That racing pain releases my lungs from their stillness.
I take a breath, a huge gulping breath, as if air were water and I had just spent the day in the desert.
It hurt to breathe, but at least I was breathing, still.
I had to sit on pillows for a week.
It was worth it.
Food That Is Comforting
I love comfort food.
I love meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, fried catfish, collard greens, chicken fried steak, fried chicken, sweet potatoes, cornbread, among others. Jello salad doesn't count.
There is something extremely suspicious about a person who doesn't like at least one type of comfort food. You look at that person just a bit differently after learning that.
Most of us can make it through life, most days, without needing comfort food. It's not exactly the most healthy of meal choices, definitely not low calorie or low sodium.
And yet...there are days.
Days when the skies are overcast or it's raining and cold.
Days when you wanted to stay in bed.
Days when everything is going wrong.
Days when you just want your Mama to come hold you close and whisper that it is all going to be okay.
That's the day for comfort food.
Comfort food is food that makes you think of the home that you grew up in, and the happy times.
It's a temporary blanket of serenity, those mashed potatoes, that roast beef. For the time it takes to eat a meal, you can imagine that you are back home, where ever that may be.
Whenever my mother made meatloaf, that was the very best thing EVER, as far as I was concerned. That meatloaf felt like LOVE, at least until the last crumb had been eaten.
All those deep fried, fatty foods also make me feel like I'm at my grandmother's house, sitting in the kitchen and looking out the window at the corn rustling in the wind. As a kid, I was also terrified that Bigfoot was living in that cornfield, but that's a story for another time.
Of course, after thinking about comfort food, I'm hungry for some.
What is YOUR favorite comfort food???
I love meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, fried catfish, collard greens, chicken fried steak, fried chicken, sweet potatoes, cornbread, among others. Jello salad doesn't count.
There is something extremely suspicious about a person who doesn't like at least one type of comfort food. You look at that person just a bit differently after learning that.
Most of us can make it through life, most days, without needing comfort food. It's not exactly the most healthy of meal choices, definitely not low calorie or low sodium.
And yet...there are days.
Days when the skies are overcast or it's raining and cold.
Days when you wanted to stay in bed.
Days when everything is going wrong.
Days when you just want your Mama to come hold you close and whisper that it is all going to be okay.
That's the day for comfort food.
Comfort food is food that makes you think of the home that you grew up in, and the happy times.
It's a temporary blanket of serenity, those mashed potatoes, that roast beef. For the time it takes to eat a meal, you can imagine that you are back home, where ever that may be.
Whenever my mother made meatloaf, that was the very best thing EVER, as far as I was concerned. That meatloaf felt like LOVE, at least until the last crumb had been eaten.
All those deep fried, fatty foods also make me feel like I'm at my grandmother's house, sitting in the kitchen and looking out the window at the corn rustling in the wind. As a kid, I was also terrified that Bigfoot was living in that cornfield, but that's a story for another time.
Of course, after thinking about comfort food, I'm hungry for some.
What is YOUR favorite comfort food???
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Silly Sunday
My son, like all kids his age, brings home thousands and thousands of pieces of paper. Most of these papers have scribbles or paint or glitter on them. Occasionally there is glue and what remains of whatever was stuck to the glue(Glue use must be supervised by the teacher. You cannot just give a three year old a bottle of glue and walk away. Serious shenanigans often result.). The mass of paper is kind of appalling; his daycare appears to be sending home a tree a week. However, this is my precious baby boy, and all these scribbles just reveal his inner creativity, so I must save every scrap!
Nah.
My mom didn't save every single item I ever brought home. She saved a piece of string art that I did when I was five(you dip a piece of string in paint and then put it on a piece of paper and fold it). She decoupaged it onto a piece of wood, which was pretty cool of her. But most of my 'masterpieces' went into the trash, because we were in the military and moved often, and the military makes you meet weight requirements for your stuff.
When Zane started bringing home his little art projects, I had a plan: save the good stuff and toss the rest. By "good stuff", I mean art work that actually looks like something recognizable. I'm no art critic, but if I can't tell what a picture is supposed to be, and Zane can't tell me, then it's probably just busywork. That goes into the recycling bin. But sometimes I get stuff like this:
It does sort of look like a bear, although I don't think that Zane is the one who put those googly eyes on the page. What likely happened is the teacher put the eyes on the page and then let the kids do their thing. Maybe it was supposed to be something else and Zane winged it. Whatever, it's a cool picture, I think. I can't imagine how his teachers manage to get him to sit still to complete art projects, since I haven't seen my son sit still and color longer than two minutes.
Zane's constant movement is just a boy being a boy, I've come to realize. Girls explore their world through language, boys explore their world through movement. I've got a typical boy doing typical boy things. When he starts kindergarten, I pray that he gets a teacher who understands that need to move around, that need to explore through movement. If he gets that kind of a teacher, he will blossom.
Nah.
My mom didn't save every single item I ever brought home. She saved a piece of string art that I did when I was five(you dip a piece of string in paint and then put it on a piece of paper and fold it). She decoupaged it onto a piece of wood, which was pretty cool of her. But most of my 'masterpieces' went into the trash, because we were in the military and moved often, and the military makes you meet weight requirements for your stuff.
When Zane started bringing home his little art projects, I had a plan: save the good stuff and toss the rest. By "good stuff", I mean art work that actually looks like something recognizable. I'm no art critic, but if I can't tell what a picture is supposed to be, and Zane can't tell me, then it's probably just busywork. That goes into the recycling bin. But sometimes I get stuff like this:
It does sort of look like a bear, although I don't think that Zane is the one who put those googly eyes on the page. What likely happened is the teacher put the eyes on the page and then let the kids do their thing. Maybe it was supposed to be something else and Zane winged it. Whatever, it's a cool picture, I think. I can't imagine how his teachers manage to get him to sit still to complete art projects, since I haven't seen my son sit still and color longer than two minutes.
Zane's constant movement is just a boy being a boy, I've come to realize. Girls explore their world through language, boys explore their world through movement. I've got a typical boy doing typical boy things. When he starts kindergarten, I pray that he gets a teacher who understands that need to move around, that need to explore through movement. If he gets that kind of a teacher, he will blossom.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The Earworms Scare Me Sometimes
I woke up this morning humming "Tennessee Waltz". Before I was even fully conscious, before I had my coffee, that song was looping on a tape in my brain. I even started singing it to myself in the shower, and with that realization came a niggling fear.
WTF? Because that is really the only thing that you can say to yourself at that point, when you realize that you are doing something that is weirder than normal.
It was an earworm. For those who are not sure what exactly an earworm is, it's a song that gets stuck in your head on a loop, and it won't go away. It's usually a song that you hate with the passion of ten thousand suns(like "Riders On The Storm" or that awful song about Barbie), but it can also be a song from your past. Like the "Tennessee Waltz".
It's probably been more than twenty years since I actually heard that song; my tastes run more toward metal-ish, classic rock-ish type stuff. It wasn't likely that I would hear it on the radio.
Where the heck did that earworm come from?
As the day progressed, another earworm showed up, this time it was the theme from the Batman movies. I knew where this one came from--we've been playing Lego Batman and Robin. Larry and I play, at least. Zane seems to think that the game is a movie, and when we give him the controller he seems to enjoy flinging poor Batman off of buildings or into toxic waste. (He also thinks it is hilarious when I accidentally smack Robin around.)
Since I could trace the origin of that particular earworm, it did not cause me the same sort of concern as the "Tennessee Waltz". In fact, it was almost a relief.
My grandmother has dementia. She's in a nursing home, where she is no longer cognizant of anyone or anything that is going on around her. She just lays in a nursing home bed, wasting away. I doubt that my grandmother knew that her memories were being sucked away from her until it was too late, and most of the time people with dementia are pretty good at hiding their deterioration, so there were probably some early signs that everyone missed. I am terrified of that happening to me, because how would I be able to tell something was wrong?
I already have trouble calling family members by the correct name--is that a sign? How would I know if it is? Am I going to be wandering down the road at three in the morning and not know how I got there? What if random earworms are a symptom?
As if I didn't have enough things to be anxious about, now I have to worry about this too? WTF????
Finally, I just got annoyed, which I do more often than is probably healthy. (Is THAT a symptom?) There are TONS of other things for me to worry about, I told myself. Why am I still thinking about this?
Sometimes, as the saying goes, you just have to take a nap and get over it. So that is what I did. And I woke up feeling much better. Relaxed, even.
Until I found myself humming the theme song from...Green Acres.
Anyone else suffer from earworms?
WTF? Because that is really the only thing that you can say to yourself at that point, when you realize that you are doing something that is weirder than normal.
It was an earworm. For those who are not sure what exactly an earworm is, it's a song that gets stuck in your head on a loop, and it won't go away. It's usually a song that you hate with the passion of ten thousand suns(like "Riders On The Storm" or that awful song about Barbie), but it can also be a song from your past. Like the "Tennessee Waltz".
It's probably been more than twenty years since I actually heard that song; my tastes run more toward metal-ish, classic rock-ish type stuff. It wasn't likely that I would hear it on the radio.
Where the heck did that earworm come from?
As the day progressed, another earworm showed up, this time it was the theme from the Batman movies. I knew where this one came from--we've been playing Lego Batman and Robin. Larry and I play, at least. Zane seems to think that the game is a movie, and when we give him the controller he seems to enjoy flinging poor Batman off of buildings or into toxic waste. (He also thinks it is hilarious when I accidentally smack Robin around.)
Since I could trace the origin of that particular earworm, it did not cause me the same sort of concern as the "Tennessee Waltz". In fact, it was almost a relief.
My grandmother has dementia. She's in a nursing home, where she is no longer cognizant of anyone or anything that is going on around her. She just lays in a nursing home bed, wasting away. I doubt that my grandmother knew that her memories were being sucked away from her until it was too late, and most of the time people with dementia are pretty good at hiding their deterioration, so there were probably some early signs that everyone missed. I am terrified of that happening to me, because how would I be able to tell something was wrong?
I already have trouble calling family members by the correct name--is that a sign? How would I know if it is? Am I going to be wandering down the road at three in the morning and not know how I got there? What if random earworms are a symptom?
As if I didn't have enough things to be anxious about, now I have to worry about this too? WTF????
Finally, I just got annoyed, which I do more often than is probably healthy. (Is THAT a symptom?) There are TONS of other things for me to worry about, I told myself. Why am I still thinking about this?
Sometimes, as the saying goes, you just have to take a nap and get over it. So that is what I did. And I woke up feeling much better. Relaxed, even.
Until I found myself humming the theme song from...Green Acres.
Anyone else suffer from earworms?
Friday, July 15, 2011
Randomosity-Political Edition
I thought that I just made the word "randomosity" up, but I didn't. I'm annoyed about that, because it is my most fervent desire to invent a word that ends up in Merriam-Webster.
I can't actually talk about politics with people I know, because they get very emotional in their knee-jerk reactions and that makes me nervous. I do enjoy discussing/debating politics in a calm and respectful manner, because I always learn something, and sometimes after hearing another viewpoint, I may change my mind.
Politics is about COMPROMISE, not screaming that the other side is completely wrong about everything, no matter what they say. Politicians who don't understand that need to be sent home, immediately.
If you need an AK-47 to shoot a deer, then you suck as a hunter.
Also, putting out deer corn and shooting whatever shows up is not hunting. It's fishing.
If our children are truly our future, shouldn't we as a nation make sure they are all healthy and fed and educated? Seems to me that that should be our number one priority in any budget.
There should be some sort of guide out there that lists every single acronym and what they mean, because I sometimes get my ERAs and my PARAs with the NRAs mixed up. It's very embarrassing.
Geometry is a secret plot by mathematicians to take over the world. I'm not kidding. Just ask any high school student.
Do people who don't pay their taxes apply for Medicare or Social Security benefits? If so, does a government employee show up at their house just to slap them silly?
So you were sexually abused as a child, and now the world owes you for that. Guess what? Not gonna happen. Take responsibility and stop seeing yourself as a victim. You're only a victim if you choose to be.
Any non-government organization that says it's okay to use violence to get what they want is a terrorist organization. That means you, PETA and NRA.
If you're an adult and are thought to be reasonably capable of making a decision for yourself, and you choose not to have health insurance, that is okay by me. As long as you understand that the government will not be picking up the tab, and that includes disability payments.
If drugs and prostitution were legalized and regulated and then taxed heavily, that would likely eliminate the national debt. In a week.
I read that people sent Casey Anthony money for her prison account so she could buy some extra cheese doodles. Her own parents wouldn't give her money for a reason. Did anyone think to ask why?
If you feel that the government 'oppresses' you, then leave the freakin' country. Nobody is stopping you from going somewhere else where you won't be 'oppressed'. If you choose to stay, then quit whining.
I hope that I didn't get anyone up in arms about what I wrote about today. If you feel differently, tell me in the comments, but try to keep it civil. I don't have any tissues in the house right now.
I can't actually talk about politics with people I know, because they get very emotional in their knee-jerk reactions and that makes me nervous. I do enjoy discussing/debating politics in a calm and respectful manner, because I always learn something, and sometimes after hearing another viewpoint, I may change my mind.
Politics is about COMPROMISE, not screaming that the other side is completely wrong about everything, no matter what they say. Politicians who don't understand that need to be sent home, immediately.
If you need an AK-47 to shoot a deer, then you suck as a hunter.
Also, putting out deer corn and shooting whatever shows up is not hunting. It's fishing.
If our children are truly our future, shouldn't we as a nation make sure they are all healthy and fed and educated? Seems to me that that should be our number one priority in any budget.
There should be some sort of guide out there that lists every single acronym and what they mean, because I sometimes get my ERAs and my PARAs with the NRAs mixed up. It's very embarrassing.
Geometry is a secret plot by mathematicians to take over the world. I'm not kidding. Just ask any high school student.
Do people who don't pay their taxes apply for Medicare or Social Security benefits? If so, does a government employee show up at their house just to slap them silly?
So you were sexually abused as a child, and now the world owes you for that. Guess what? Not gonna happen. Take responsibility and stop seeing yourself as a victim. You're only a victim if you choose to be.
Any non-government organization that says it's okay to use violence to get what they want is a terrorist organization. That means you, PETA and NRA.
If you're an adult and are thought to be reasonably capable of making a decision for yourself, and you choose not to have health insurance, that is okay by me. As long as you understand that the government will not be picking up the tab, and that includes disability payments.
If drugs and prostitution were legalized and regulated and then taxed heavily, that would likely eliminate the national debt. In a week.
I read that people sent Casey Anthony money for her prison account so she could buy some extra cheese doodles. Her own parents wouldn't give her money for a reason. Did anyone think to ask why?
If you feel that the government 'oppresses' you, then leave the freakin' country. Nobody is stopping you from going somewhere else where you won't be 'oppressed'. If you choose to stay, then quit whining.
I hope that I didn't get anyone up in arms about what I wrote about today. If you feel differently, tell me in the comments, but try to keep it civil. I don't have any tissues in the house right now.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Things I Do For My Kid
When I was a teenager, I would be at the pool every single day during the summer. Of course, I had a pretty nice body back then, before life hit me like a Peterbilt. And back then I was all about boys, so showing off my bathing suit, and what was in it, was sooo very important. I stayed out of the deep end, because I absolutely MUST have one foot on the ground at all times(a sensory processing issue) so I don't freak completely out.
These days, I have absolutely no desire to be anywhere near a pool, for several reasons. First, I haven't swam in ages, so I am definitely out of practice. Second, I have exercise-induced asthma. Third, due to previous misadventures, aka being on a respirator, I have developed a strong aversion to anything that might inhibit my breathing. Fourth, I sunburn easily because my skin is extremely pale, and when the sun hits it just right I can probably be seen from space.
And finally, I look simply awful in a swimsuit.
I am not trying to garner sympathy by saying that I look terrible in a swimsuit. I am acknowledging a fact. Swimsuits just don't seem to fit me in the right places, no matter what size I try on. I've accepted it and moved on. I am not bitter; I have just tried to stay away from swimming and bathing suit competitions.
To sum up, I now avoid pools. Except that now there's this little dude:
And he wants me to take him swimming. My kid doesn't just love the water to splashy-splashy and look cute. Zane likes to put his head underwater and 'swim like a fish'. He doesn't even want to get out of the pool when the lifeguards signal a break.
This has required an adjustment on my part. I can't very well refuse to take my son swimming just because of my own reluctance. It would be wrong of me to visit my own anxieties on Zane, no matter how "reasonable". He is an adventurer at the moment, and I will not take that away from him. So I dug out a swimsuit, slathered on 4000 SPF sunscreen, and went to the pool with my husband and son. I even got into the water with them!
The worst thing that happened was that I got sunscreen in my eyes. And that call from NASA about my being visible from space.
These days, I have absolutely no desire to be anywhere near a pool, for several reasons. First, I haven't swam in ages, so I am definitely out of practice. Second, I have exercise-induced asthma. Third, due to previous misadventures, aka being on a respirator, I have developed a strong aversion to anything that might inhibit my breathing. Fourth, I sunburn easily because my skin is extremely pale, and when the sun hits it just right I can probably be seen from space.
And finally, I look simply awful in a swimsuit.
I am not trying to garner sympathy by saying that I look terrible in a swimsuit. I am acknowledging a fact. Swimsuits just don't seem to fit me in the right places, no matter what size I try on. I've accepted it and moved on. I am not bitter; I have just tried to stay away from swimming and bathing suit competitions.
To sum up, I now avoid pools. Except that now there's this little dude:
And he wants me to take him swimming. My kid doesn't just love the water to splashy-splashy and look cute. Zane likes to put his head underwater and 'swim like a fish'. He doesn't even want to get out of the pool when the lifeguards signal a break.
This has required an adjustment on my part. I can't very well refuse to take my son swimming just because of my own reluctance. It would be wrong of me to visit my own anxieties on Zane, no matter how "reasonable". He is an adventurer at the moment, and I will not take that away from him. So I dug out a swimsuit, slathered on 4000 SPF sunscreen, and went to the pool with my husband and son. I even got into the water with them!
The worst thing that happened was that I got sunscreen in my eyes. And that call from NASA about my being visible from space.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
One Cent
My kid hearts McDonalds. Actually, he's a bit of a fanatic, thanks to 'evil' marketing people. I was okay with that. I was okay with the chicken nuggets and fries/apples. I was okay with the cheap toys. I was okay with a backseat sticky with apple juice. After all, buying a happy meal meant money going to the Ronald McDonald House. Since some of the money I was spending went to a worthy charity, I rationalized that my purchase was a good thing.
Until yesterday in the drive-thru. I happened to be looking at the same sign that talks about the Ronald McDonald House and how some of the money from Happy meals goes to that charity. The sign is at driver level, so you really can't miss it, and even though I've read it a thousand times, I always read it again while I'm waiting.
And this time I noticed the asterisk. I was close enough to read the tiny print: "one cent from every happy meal goes to the Ronald McDonald house".
One cent.
A Happy Meal costs around five bucks, give or take. The actual cost of a happy meal, including the box/bag and the toy, is probably around two bucks, if that. Then there's the markup, because a business has got to prosper. There must be profits for the shareholders, even if it means gouging the peasants who buy and use the products. That's the American Way, aka Capitalism. I suck at math, but that's a LOT of markup. A lot of profit.
One cent.
I understand that McDonald's sells bazillions of Happy Meals a day, and so that's a bazillion dollars that go to the Ronald McDonald House Charities. The Ronald McDonald House is a fine institution which has helped many, many people over the years, and for that it is to be celebrated.
Forgive me, however, if I think that a gargantuan, international organization like McDonald's should be giving more than a single cent to the charity associated with its namesake. The fact that this particular corporation only gives one cent says volumes about corporations and how they choose to contribute to the communities in which they prosper. But I digress.
One cent.
This particular blog post isn't about boycotting McDonald's. This is about the power of a penny. What if everyone out there made a pledge to save up their pennies for their favorite charity? Just about everyone can afford a penny here and there, and some of us can even afford one penny a day. (If you're like me, you probably have quite a few pennies at the bottom of your purse.)
Charities are desperate for funds right now, and since times are tough a lot more of us need the helping hand that those charities can provide. I've come to the realization that all those pennies adds up to money for food kitchens, animal shelters, community services, etc.
I am not writing this to demand that everyone follow me and save up their pennies for a charity.
I am not here to judge anyone about their charitable giving.
All I would like people to do is consider giving up a few pennies, and maybe pass it on.
One cent.
Think about it.
Until yesterday in the drive-thru. I happened to be looking at the same sign that talks about the Ronald McDonald House and how some of the money from Happy meals goes to that charity. The sign is at driver level, so you really can't miss it, and even though I've read it a thousand times, I always read it again while I'm waiting.
And this time I noticed the asterisk. I was close enough to read the tiny print: "one cent from every happy meal goes to the Ronald McDonald house".
One cent.
A Happy Meal costs around five bucks, give or take. The actual cost of a happy meal, including the box/bag and the toy, is probably around two bucks, if that. Then there's the markup, because a business has got to prosper. There must be profits for the shareholders, even if it means gouging the peasants who buy and use the products. That's the American Way, aka Capitalism. I suck at math, but that's a LOT of markup. A lot of profit.
One cent.
I understand that McDonald's sells bazillions of Happy Meals a day, and so that's a bazillion dollars that go to the Ronald McDonald House Charities. The Ronald McDonald House is a fine institution which has helped many, many people over the years, and for that it is to be celebrated.
Forgive me, however, if I think that a gargantuan, international organization like McDonald's should be giving more than a single cent to the charity associated with its namesake. The fact that this particular corporation only gives one cent says volumes about corporations and how they choose to contribute to the communities in which they prosper. But I digress.
One cent.
This particular blog post isn't about boycotting McDonald's. This is about the power of a penny. What if everyone out there made a pledge to save up their pennies for their favorite charity? Just about everyone can afford a penny here and there, and some of us can even afford one penny a day. (If you're like me, you probably have quite a few pennies at the bottom of your purse.)
Charities are desperate for funds right now, and since times are tough a lot more of us need the helping hand that those charities can provide. I've come to the realization that all those pennies adds up to money for food kitchens, animal shelters, community services, etc.
I am not writing this to demand that everyone follow me and save up their pennies for a charity.
I am not here to judge anyone about their charitable giving.
All I would like people to do is consider giving up a few pennies, and maybe pass it on.
One cent.
Think about it.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
RemembeRED: Embarrassing
Prompt: Know what's NOT funny? People laughing at you. Take us back to an embarrassing moment in your life. Did someone embarrass you, your parents perhaps? Or did you bring it upon yourself? Are you still embarrassed or can you laugh at it now?
As an Army brat, we moved around a lot. I often ended up in places where the kids at my school had known each other since kindergarten. The pecking order had already been established; I was the outsider. Consequently, I tried extra hard to be 'cool', which was an exercise in futility.
I was a twelve year old starting seventh grade wearing hand-me-down clothes. This included polyester pants with a seam on the front crease. You read that right. Polyester. With a seam. On the crease.
Elvis himself wouldn't have looked cool in those kind of pants.
I couldn't wear jeans like all the other kids did. Not me. My mother refused to buy them. They cost too much, she said, completely oblivious to my pain.
I distinctly remember trying to explain to her that ALL the kids at my school wore them. Even the kid who wore a helmet all the time wore jeans, Mom! I really WAS the only kid, Mom!
My general lack of denim automatically placed me on the bottom rung of the social ladder, an object of ridicule for the free for all that is junior high. The other girls would smirk at me, then lean toward their friends and start whispering and giggling. I hated it, of course. To a teenager, negative publicity is traumatizing.
One day, I was morosely standing around by myself in the courtyard one morning waiting for school to start, and I noticed a group of boys looking in my direction. I warily moved a few steps over. Their eyes followed me. They were smiling, and talking to each other, but I was too far away to hear them.
Were they looking at me? I looked around again, certain that there was someone behind me or in my vicinity which was the object of their attention. I found myself alone; those boys WERE staring at me! ME. I stood up a little straighter at the happy thought that I had been finally noticed. My toes curled in delight at the idea.
"Hi." I turned. There was a girl standing next to me.
"Hi." I smiled, giddy at my sudden popularity. I remembered that this girl, who had curly blonde hair and thick framed octagonal glasses, was named Cathy. She was in my choir class; we sat in the soprano section together.
"Your pants are unzipped."
I looked down, horrified. The zipper on those stupid polyester pants had 'unzipped' on a day that I wore the only pair of hot pink underpants I owned. At that moment, my face turned the exact same shade as my underpants.
"Thank you," I managed weakly. I zipped that stupid zipper, and the boys lost all interest in me. As far as social status went, I was no longer on the bottom rung; I was underneath the ladder.
But then a funny thing happened. Cathy started talking to me! She wasn't sneering at my polyester pants! She wasn't looking at other girls and rolling her eyes! She wasn't laughing at me! I was nonplussed; this had not ever happened to me, and I wasn't sure if I could trust it. I was so desperate to have a friend, however, that I started talking to her back.
We are still friends.
As an Army brat, we moved around a lot. I often ended up in places where the kids at my school had known each other since kindergarten. The pecking order had already been established; I was the outsider. Consequently, I tried extra hard to be 'cool', which was an exercise in futility.
I was a twelve year old starting seventh grade wearing hand-me-down clothes. This included polyester pants with a seam on the front crease. You read that right. Polyester. With a seam. On the crease.
Elvis himself wouldn't have looked cool in those kind of pants.
I couldn't wear jeans like all the other kids did. Not me. My mother refused to buy them. They cost too much, she said, completely oblivious to my pain.
I distinctly remember trying to explain to her that ALL the kids at my school wore them. Even the kid who wore a helmet all the time wore jeans, Mom! I really WAS the only kid, Mom!
My general lack of denim automatically placed me on the bottom rung of the social ladder, an object of ridicule for the free for all that is junior high. The other girls would smirk at me, then lean toward their friends and start whispering and giggling. I hated it, of course. To a teenager, negative publicity is traumatizing.
One day, I was morosely standing around by myself in the courtyard one morning waiting for school to start, and I noticed a group of boys looking in my direction. I warily moved a few steps over. Their eyes followed me. They were smiling, and talking to each other, but I was too far away to hear them.
Were they looking at me? I looked around again, certain that there was someone behind me or in my vicinity which was the object of their attention. I found myself alone; those boys WERE staring at me! ME. I stood up a little straighter at the happy thought that I had been finally noticed. My toes curled in delight at the idea.
"Hi." I turned. There was a girl standing next to me.
"Hi." I smiled, giddy at my sudden popularity. I remembered that this girl, who had curly blonde hair and thick framed octagonal glasses, was named Cathy. She was in my choir class; we sat in the soprano section together.
"Your pants are unzipped."
I looked down, horrified. The zipper on those stupid polyester pants had 'unzipped' on a day that I wore the only pair of hot pink underpants I owned. At that moment, my face turned the exact same shade as my underpants.
"Thank you," I managed weakly. I zipped that stupid zipper, and the boys lost all interest in me. As far as social status went, I was no longer on the bottom rung; I was underneath the ladder.
But then a funny thing happened. Cathy started talking to me! She wasn't sneering at my polyester pants! She wasn't looking at other girls and rolling her eyes! She wasn't laughing at me! I was nonplussed; this had not ever happened to me, and I wasn't sure if I could trust it. I was so desperate to have a friend, however, that I started talking to her back.
We are still friends.
Monday, July 11, 2011
On The Other Hand...
Yesterday I blogged about wanting my son to find good friends. I was talking about boys, of course, since my son is a boy. I never gave a thought to how Zane treats the girls he meets, and I should have.
We went to a party for a beautiful girl, Maggie, who turned three. The very first thing Zane did was ask about the cake, because he is genetically programmed to like cake. Larry and I began attempting to do some mixing and mingling while scoping out the house to locate the bathroom. (First rule of going to a new place: ALWAYS locate bathrooms before you need them.) Zane had other plans; he wanted to see Maggie, a child he has only seen three or four times. We had to postpone our bathroom hunt while we searched for the Birthday Girl.
Zane approached Maggie, told her 'happy birthday' and tried to hug her.
Maggie, who probably saw Zane as a complete stranger, was having none of it. Her expression clearly said "Ew! A boy!" I didn't blame Maggie one bit for her reaction; I certainly would not want a strange boy to hug me without provocation.
Maggie walked off.
Zane followed her.
We followed him.
"Maggie!" He followed her.
"Maggie!" And followed her.
"Maggie!" And followed her.
Maggie kept turning around and eyeing Zane, but kept moving. My son was a man on a mission, but so was she.
At this point, I am getting pretty tired of doing all this following. It made me hungry, and also, my feet hurt. On my third time past the buffet table, I stopped to get some chips and salsa, and then some more, leaving my husband to continue following Zane by himself.
In my defense, it was really good salsa.
By then my quarry has disappeared, and I realize that I would be a terrible stalker. This depresses me for a moment, since I'd like to think of myself as relatively competent at something so simple as keeping my own child in sight.
I distracted myself from my general unworthiness with some more salsa.
Maggie wandered by, followed by my son. I picked up the trail.
"Maggie!"
"Maggie!"
"Maggie!"
My son is relentless in his determination to speak to Maggie. I start to intervene, to tell my only son that the way to a girl's heart is NOT repeating her name over and over until she likes you. But Maggie has been stopped in her tracks by the many adults around the food, and Zane finally catches up to her.
He grabs her hand. I cringe.
"Maggie! I your friend!" Zane said emphatically. Then he dropped her hand and wandered off. I looked over at Larry and Maggie's mom, and stifled a giggle.
Zane had said what he wanted to say and he was done.
Maggie stared at the back of Zane's head as he walked off. There was a nearly imperceptible shake of her head.
I swear I saw her roll her eyes before she wandered outside.
We went to a party for a beautiful girl, Maggie, who turned three. The very first thing Zane did was ask about the cake, because he is genetically programmed to like cake. Larry and I began attempting to do some mixing and mingling while scoping out the house to locate the bathroom. (First rule of going to a new place: ALWAYS locate bathrooms before you need them.) Zane had other plans; he wanted to see Maggie, a child he has only seen three or four times. We had to postpone our bathroom hunt while we searched for the Birthday Girl.
Zane approached Maggie, told her 'happy birthday' and tried to hug her.
Maggie, who probably saw Zane as a complete stranger, was having none of it. Her expression clearly said "Ew! A boy!" I didn't blame Maggie one bit for her reaction; I certainly would not want a strange boy to hug me without provocation.
Maggie walked off.
Zane followed her.
We followed him.
"Maggie!" He followed her.
"Maggie!" And followed her.
"Maggie!" And followed her.
Maggie kept turning around and eyeing Zane, but kept moving. My son was a man on a mission, but so was she.
At this point, I am getting pretty tired of doing all this following. It made me hungry, and also, my feet hurt. On my third time past the buffet table, I stopped to get some chips and salsa, and then some more, leaving my husband to continue following Zane by himself.
In my defense, it was really good salsa.
By then my quarry has disappeared, and I realize that I would be a terrible stalker. This depresses me for a moment, since I'd like to think of myself as relatively competent at something so simple as keeping my own child in sight.
I distracted myself from my general unworthiness with some more salsa.
Maggie wandered by, followed by my son. I picked up the trail.
"Maggie!"
"Maggie!"
"Maggie!"
My son is relentless in his determination to speak to Maggie. I start to intervene, to tell my only son that the way to a girl's heart is NOT repeating her name over and over until she likes you. But Maggie has been stopped in her tracks by the many adults around the food, and Zane finally catches up to her.
He grabs her hand. I cringe.
"Maggie! I your friend!" Zane said emphatically. Then he dropped her hand and wandered off. I looked over at Larry and Maggie's mom, and stifled a giggle.
Zane had said what he wanted to say and he was done.
Maggie stared at the back of Zane's head as he walked off. There was a nearly imperceptible shake of her head.
I swear I saw her roll her eyes before she wandered outside.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Finding Friends
We were in the Rainforest cafe in Grapevine last week. We were standing at the entrance, waiting for a table. Zane was wearing his Lego Batman shirt. Two little boys ran up, and I got nervous. Random children don't usually show up wanting to talk, and I immediately thought they were students that I had met through my job. Then I realized that these two boys weren't there to talk to me. As if!
"I have Batman, too!" One of them said to Zane. And he did. So did his companion. This apparently was a "HUGE-BIG" deal, to quote my son. These three boys all stood close together, examining their shirts with the intensity usually reserved for small reptiles and bugs. It was as if the matching shirts joined these three into a sacred fraternity; now they were all Brothers of the Lego Bat. Larry stood by, beaming, as if he also was a member of this club.
I found myself a little jealous. Nobody ever ran up to ME just because I was wearing a cool t-shirt! But I wasn't going to wallow in self-pity, I told myself.
Okay, maybe I did a little bit.
Then the moment was over, and everybody went to their tables to eat, all conversations drowned out by the loud noises of the robotic animals that are supposed to represent the ambiance of the cute creatures of the rain forests. (Drew Carey once pointed out that nobody ever wants to save the ugly animals. He's right.)
But the incident got me thinking about the spontaneity of children, their willingness to just like everybody, and forming friendships that last.
Children learn so much just by being around other children. Peers will instruct each other over the years about the general hierarchy of the classroom and what behaviors are okay and what are not acceptable. My kid needs to know this sort of information to be successful, and there isn't a class/course that he can take that will teach it to him. His peers are his teachers for these lessons, and each lesson is pass/fail.
That's a lot of pressure on a kid.
My son is an only child. Unless someone hands me a big wad of money or shows up on my doorstep with the gift of a baby to adopt, Zane will always be my only living child. He spends most of his time with adults or older children as a result. While this has given him a pretty large vocabulary in three short years, being an only child means less time interacting with his peers. I worry about that.
There are many things that parents can teach their children. How to throw a ball, how to make your bed, where the toothbrush goes after you use it, etc. Little things(ALWAYS put the seat down!) that make day to day life easier, and big lessons(NEVER date an adult woman who wears only pink,) that form the kind of person a child will eventually become. Children learn by always watching and listening to the adults around them. I relearned this the other day when I watched my son roll his eyes at me, throw his hands up as if in surrender, and say, "Jiminy Crickets, Mom!!!" (My nextexpletive colorful metaphor is going to be "Jumpin' Jehosephat!" You have been warned.)
But a parent cannot make friends for his child, although I am sure there are many who try. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't, but it is a rite of passage that a kid just can't avoid. The child must decide to approach another kid and initiate a friendship. He may be rejected. He may be accepted. Whatever the outcome, parents have to stay out of it other than to offer inconspicuous encouragement.
I don't have a lot of friends. The ones I have, cultivated like pearls over years, are the ones I want to keep. People who will be there for me, to listen to my troubles and then slap me into reality so I can deal with life. People who make me laugh when I am ready to just bawl my eyes out. People I can trust with my triumphs and my heartaches.
I want my son to have that.
I want him to find friends like those two boys, who used a Lego Batman shirt as an excuse to make a friend. Ones who don't care that Zane doesn't always speak well, often puts his pants on backwards, and occasionally hollers "Jiminy Crickets!" I want my son to have friends who accept him as he is for who he is, and then build on that.
But Zane will have to be the one to boldly go out there and make friends. So I worry.
"I have Batman, too!" One of them said to Zane. And he did. So did his companion. This apparently was a "HUGE-BIG" deal, to quote my son. These three boys all stood close together, examining their shirts with the intensity usually reserved for small reptiles and bugs. It was as if the matching shirts joined these three into a sacred fraternity; now they were all Brothers of the Lego Bat. Larry stood by, beaming, as if he also was a member of this club.
I found myself a little jealous. Nobody ever ran up to ME just because I was wearing a cool t-shirt! But I wasn't going to wallow in self-pity, I told myself.
Okay, maybe I did a little bit.
Then the moment was over, and everybody went to their tables to eat, all conversations drowned out by the loud noises of the robotic animals that are supposed to represent the ambiance of the cute creatures of the rain forests. (Drew Carey once pointed out that nobody ever wants to save the ugly animals. He's right.)
But the incident got me thinking about the spontaneity of children, their willingness to just like everybody, and forming friendships that last.
Children learn so much just by being around other children. Peers will instruct each other over the years about the general hierarchy of the classroom and what behaviors are okay and what are not acceptable. My kid needs to know this sort of information to be successful, and there isn't a class/course that he can take that will teach it to him. His peers are his teachers for these lessons, and each lesson is pass/fail.
That's a lot of pressure on a kid.
My son is an only child. Unless someone hands me a big wad of money or shows up on my doorstep with the gift of a baby to adopt, Zane will always be my only living child. He spends most of his time with adults or older children as a result. While this has given him a pretty large vocabulary in three short years, being an only child means less time interacting with his peers. I worry about that.
There are many things that parents can teach their children. How to throw a ball, how to make your bed, where the toothbrush goes after you use it, etc. Little things(ALWAYS put the seat down!) that make day to day life easier, and big lessons(NEVER date an adult woman who wears only pink,) that form the kind of person a child will eventually become. Children learn by always watching and listening to the adults around them. I relearned this the other day when I watched my son roll his eyes at me, throw his hands up as if in surrender, and say, "Jiminy Crickets, Mom!!!" (My next
But a parent cannot make friends for his child, although I am sure there are many who try. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn't, but it is a rite of passage that a kid just can't avoid. The child must decide to approach another kid and initiate a friendship. He may be rejected. He may be accepted. Whatever the outcome, parents have to stay out of it other than to offer inconspicuous encouragement.
I don't have a lot of friends. The ones I have, cultivated like pearls over years, are the ones I want to keep. People who will be there for me, to listen to my troubles and then slap me into reality so I can deal with life. People who make me laugh when I am ready to just bawl my eyes out. People I can trust with my triumphs and my heartaches.
I want my son to have that.
I want him to find friends like those two boys, who used a Lego Batman shirt as an excuse to make a friend. Ones who don't care that Zane doesn't always speak well, often puts his pants on backwards, and occasionally hollers "Jiminy Crickets!" I want my son to have friends who accept him as he is for who he is, and then build on that.
But Zane will have to be the one to boldly go out there and make friends. So I worry.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Jumping On The Bed
My son is obsessed with climbing up on our bed. It takes him a bit, because it's a king-sized bed that sits a bit higher off the ground, but he gets there eventually. Zane stands up once he has climbed his version of Mt. Everest, and never fails to throw both arms in the air in victory.
And then he jumps.
He jumps on the bed at least twenty times in a row. Zane throws himself onto the bed so he can feel his body bounce, and stands up again. Then he throws his arms in the air again, and leaps right off the bed to land on the ground with a distinct THUMP. He giggles, and then he climbs onto our bed to repeat the process, at least until I holler at him about dragging all the bed linens off to one side in his climbing efforts.
When Zane is jumping on the bed, I admit that I sort of wig out. I have visions of bleeding, ER visits, and stitches rolling through my head. And watching him also makes me think of that stupid Mama monkey who allows her five children to jump on the bed and get traumatic brain injuries.
Five little monkeys jumping on the bed,
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
"No more monkeys jumping on the bed!"
That stupid doctor never called child protective services after any of those monkey children "fell off and bumped his head"!
It seems like every child I have ever known, including myself, cannot resist jumping on a bed. You put just about any child in the middle of a bed, and within a few seconds that child will be jumping up and down, ruining your mattress. Why this obsession?
Is this genetic? If so, why can't there be a gene that makes a kid pick up all his toys or not leave his clothing dropped all over the floor? It's a known fact that children who pick up their toys live longer. That sort of gene would ensure survival of the species, I think.
Jumping on the bed probably did not happen "way back in the day," because that would have involved jumping on dirt, or sod, or corn husks, or whatever the heck people made their beds out of before electricity. Where's the fun in jumping on corn husks?
I hypothesize without any supporting data that this jumping on the bed thing probably started up when they started to sell mattresses with box springs. Some of those people purchasing those mattresses probably had kids, because during that time everyone probably had at least seventy kids so they would have cheap labor.
It would be natural for any kid to want to explore and experiment with the new item in the house. Soon that explorer would be standing on the mattress in the middle of the bed. Jumping would not seem to be the logical activity to engage in while standing in the middle of a mattress, but it made sense to that first kid to jump.
Who made that first leap into the unknown? Who took that first little hop and noticed the bounce? Which kid bounced so high that they touched the ceiling with their grubby fingers? Who thought that their jump would make them feel they were flying and make them giggle? Who was unexpectedly catapulted onto the harsh reality that is the floor? I'll never know, and that just makes me want to find the author of that rhyme with the five monkeys and punch them in the face every time that song gets stuck in my head. I hate not knowing stuff.
And then he jumps.
He jumps on the bed at least twenty times in a row. Zane throws himself onto the bed so he can feel his body bounce, and stands up again. Then he throws his arms in the air again, and leaps right off the bed to land on the ground with a distinct THUMP. He giggles, and then he climbs onto our bed to repeat the process, at least until I holler at him about dragging all the bed linens off to one side in his climbing efforts.
When Zane is jumping on the bed, I admit that I sort of wig out. I have visions of bleeding, ER visits, and stitches rolling through my head. And watching him also makes me think of that stupid Mama monkey who allows her five children to jump on the bed and get traumatic brain injuries.
Five little monkeys jumping on the bed,
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
"No more monkeys jumping on the bed!"
That stupid doctor never called child protective services after any of those monkey children "fell off and bumped his head"!
It seems like every child I have ever known, including myself, cannot resist jumping on a bed. You put just about any child in the middle of a bed, and within a few seconds that child will be jumping up and down, ruining your mattress. Why this obsession?
Is this genetic? If so, why can't there be a gene that makes a kid pick up all his toys or not leave his clothing dropped all over the floor? It's a known fact that children who pick up their toys live longer. That sort of gene would ensure survival of the species, I think.
Jumping on the bed probably did not happen "way back in the day," because that would have involved jumping on dirt, or sod, or corn husks, or whatever the heck people made their beds out of before electricity. Where's the fun in jumping on corn husks?
I hypothesize without any supporting data that this jumping on the bed thing probably started up when they started to sell mattresses with box springs. Some of those people purchasing those mattresses probably had kids, because during that time everyone probably had at least seventy kids so they would have cheap labor.
It would be natural for any kid to want to explore and experiment with the new item in the house. Soon that explorer would be standing on the mattress in the middle of the bed. Jumping would not seem to be the logical activity to engage in while standing in the middle of a mattress, but it made sense to that first kid to jump.
Who made that first leap into the unknown? Who took that first little hop and noticed the bounce? Which kid bounced so high that they touched the ceiling with their grubby fingers? Who thought that their jump would make them feel they were flying and make them giggle? Who was unexpectedly catapulted onto the harsh reality that is the floor? I'll never know, and that just makes me want to find the author of that rhyme with the five monkeys and punch them in the face every time that song gets stuck in my head. I hate not knowing stuff.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Red Writing Hood: The Last Dragon
Prompt: "What you know" doesn't necessarily always mean "your comfort zone." For this week, take what you know out of your comfort zone. Try a new genre, a new time period, a geography you've only dreamed of, fantasy or historical instead of contemporary fiction, try the male POV if you usually write women. Or vice versa. Of course this is fiction. No actual dragons were harmed in the making of this blog post.
In the beginning, there were dragons.
We were many.
Majestic creatures we were, proud of the sleekness of our bright rainbow scales, and the way our wings cut through the air.
And oh, what magnificent flames did we breathe across the sky as we flew!
We were many.
We were content.
We lived in our caves with our clans, guarded by our largest males. We mated for life. We birthed children, as warm-blooded mammals do, not by egg as the legends about us say.
We recorded our long history in the language of our people, written on rocks which were laid deep within the caves where we lived.
When the first Men came to our attention, we discussed what we would do at our yearly meeting of the clans. There were some who wanted to kill, others who wanted to show ourselves and strike fear, but the majority of us were determined to remain hidden, to watch and see.
We watched as the Men grew numerous upon the earth, and at first we did not understand our peril. We did not understand that Man did not eat the fire and rock of volcanoes as we did. We did not understand their need to hunt and kill. We did not understand their hunger to conquer.
We were fools.
And thus it was, that after so many thousands of years, our race began to die. One by one, we perished.
Those dragons who killed men were hunted down and killed themselves. Those dragons who appeared in the sky to seek food were also hunted and slain, and those were our strongest males, our Guardians. The mates of the Guardians grew despondent, and threw themselves at the Men so they could rejoin their mates in death.
Without our guardians, the smaller of us were defenseless, and were slain in turn. We hid deep within the mountains, but Man dug into the mountains for gold and silver and discovered our hiding places. Some of us entered the Sleep of Ages through our ritual magic, never to awaken until the world ended. The rest slowly died of despair, since we could no longer fly. There were no more pure dragons.
Except for me.
In the beginning, there were dragons.
We were many.
Majestic creatures we were, proud of the sleekness of our bright rainbow scales, and the way our wings cut through the air.
And oh, what magnificent flames did we breathe across the sky as we flew!
We were many.
We were content.
We lived in our caves with our clans, guarded by our largest males. We mated for life. We birthed children, as warm-blooded mammals do, not by egg as the legends about us say.
We recorded our long history in the language of our people, written on rocks which were laid deep within the caves where we lived.
When the first Men came to our attention, we discussed what we would do at our yearly meeting of the clans. There were some who wanted to kill, others who wanted to show ourselves and strike fear, but the majority of us were determined to remain hidden, to watch and see.
We watched as the Men grew numerous upon the earth, and at first we did not understand our peril. We did not understand that Man did not eat the fire and rock of volcanoes as we did. We did not understand their need to hunt and kill. We did not understand their hunger to conquer.
We were fools.
And thus it was, that after so many thousands of years, our race began to die. One by one, we perished.
Those dragons who killed men were hunted down and killed themselves. Those dragons who appeared in the sky to seek food were also hunted and slain, and those were our strongest males, our Guardians. The mates of the Guardians grew despondent, and threw themselves at the Men so they could rejoin their mates in death.
Without our guardians, the smaller of us were defenseless, and were slain in turn. We hid deep within the mountains, but Man dug into the mountains for gold and silver and discovered our hiding places. Some of us entered the Sleep of Ages through our ritual magic, never to awaken until the world ended. The rest slowly died of despair, since we could no longer fly. There were no more pure dragons.
Except for me.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Walmart Curse
My husband and I had an argument heated discussion the other day.
What did we argue about?
What do most couplesargue have heated discussions about?
Money. Well, money and the frequency of sex, according to the polls.
But weargued discussed money.
Larry says that I go crazy in Walmart. He says that I can't go in there without dropping over a hundred bucks. Even with a list, I come home with extra stuff.
So I am admitting it here on the interwebs so it's official and I will no longer have plausible deniability in the event of a futureargument discussion:
My husband is right.
I can't help it.
Even if I do make a list, and even if I try hard to just get the items on the list, the Walmart curse strikes.
I see it, and then I remember that we don't have it.
Even if we don't need it, we suddenly must have it. And that too, and ooh, we definitely need that... And bam! There goes a couple hundred bucks.
And I can't forget Target. I spent so much money in Target one day that they sent me a thank you card. Of course, it was all stuff that I needed and had to have. It was so nice of them to remind me.
It may drive my husband crazy, but it bothers ME even more.
I should know better.
Stores are specifically designed to get you to spend money. That is their sole purpose for existence. We all know this. Every single store is laid out, from the number of items on sale to the number of carts in the front, to get you to a)spend as much time in the store as possible, and b)to get you to spend as much money as possible. Walmart is better at this than most, except maybe for Disney(Disney pioneered the field of behavioral engineering, even if their name wasn't on it).
I know this because I read a lot about the study of behavior and some of that research has involved sales and marketing. People worry about the government getting our money, and that's kind of stupid. They need to be more worried about stores like Walmart.
I know, for instance, that the reason there are so few employees checking people out at Walmart(and other stores) is because research has shown that the longer you are in the store the more money you will spend(because you will think of something else you needed).
The candy at the checkout is there BECAUSE children are impulsive, and parents will often buy their children things to shut them up. Nobody likes a screaming child, least of all a parent.
The milk and eggs are at the back of the store BECAUSE you will likely think of something else you need as you pass all the other aisles.
They throw that extended warranty offer in at the last second BECAUSE you've already committed to spending money, so you are more likely to say yes to spending more.
It sometimes bothers me that I am such a easy target for stores such as Walmart. Oh, and Target, as well. They know my shopping habits better than I know them myself. That kind of sucks.
Sometimes I start to feel like a lab rat, except there's no cheese at the end of the maze. But then I see something else I forgot that I needed.
Hey! It's on sale.
What did we argue about?
What do most couples
Money. Well, money and the frequency of sex, according to the polls.
But we
Larry says that I go crazy in Walmart. He says that I can't go in there without dropping over a hundred bucks. Even with a list, I come home with extra stuff.
So I am admitting it here on the interwebs so it's official and I will no longer have plausible deniability in the event of a future
My husband is right.
I can't help it.
Even if I do make a list, and even if I try hard to just get the items on the list, the Walmart curse strikes.
I see it, and then I remember that we don't have it.
Even if we don't need it, we suddenly must have it. And that too, and ooh, we definitely need that... And bam! There goes a couple hundred bucks.
And I can't forget Target. I spent so much money in Target one day that they sent me a thank you card. Of course, it was all stuff that I needed and had to have. It was so nice of them to remind me.
It may drive my husband crazy, but it bothers ME even more.
I should know better.
Stores are specifically designed to get you to spend money. That is their sole purpose for existence. We all know this. Every single store is laid out, from the number of items on sale to the number of carts in the front, to get you to a)spend as much time in the store as possible, and b)to get you to spend as much money as possible. Walmart is better at this than most, except maybe for Disney(Disney pioneered the field of behavioral engineering, even if their name wasn't on it).
I know this because I read a lot about the study of behavior and some of that research has involved sales and marketing. People worry about the government getting our money, and that's kind of stupid. They need to be more worried about stores like Walmart.
I know, for instance, that the reason there are so few employees checking people out at Walmart(and other stores) is because research has shown that the longer you are in the store the more money you will spend(because you will think of something else you needed).
The candy at the checkout is there BECAUSE children are impulsive, and parents will often buy their children things to shut them up. Nobody likes a screaming child, least of all a parent.
The milk and eggs are at the back of the store BECAUSE you will likely think of something else you need as you pass all the other aisles.
They throw that extended warranty offer in at the last second BECAUSE you've already committed to spending money, so you are more likely to say yes to spending more.
It sometimes bothers me that I am such a easy target for stores such as Walmart. Oh, and Target, as well. They know my shopping habits better than I know them myself. That kind of sucks.
Sometimes I start to feel like a lab rat, except there's no cheese at the end of the maze. But then I see something else I forgot that I needed.
Hey! It's on sale.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Brat or Not?
I was reading this opinion column on CNN today. It kind of annoyed me.
I am just like everyone else in wanting to eat in a restaurant undisturbed by screaming children. I don't enjoy being out in public and having my enjoyment disturbed by rude children who are out of control. I laughed as loud as everyone else when Bill Cosby did a comedy sketch about a boy on an airplane named Jeffrey.
However, I have a problem with the assumption by Mr. Granderson that a child who is out of control in a public setting has a permissive parent who is allowing him to behave in that manner.
My child is not a brat. Let's start there. And I am not a permissive parent, by any stretch of the imagination. I don't allow my child to run amok in public places. I make every effort to keep him in his seat in restaurants. I make every effort to keep his volume level at an acceptable decibel level. I have regularly removed my son from public places when he is behaving poorly out of respect for others.
My son, however, is three years old.
He is going to be loud.
He is going to be messy.
He is going to want to play in places where playing is not allowed.
These are age-appropriate behaviors.
Am I to sequester my son from all outside contact with the world until he's 21 because he might irritate someone by behaving like a child?
What if my infant has an ear infection, or is sensitive to the pressure changes involved in airplane travel, and screams in pain when the plane takes off and lands? Am I being a permissive parent then?
What if my child has special needs, such as autism? Does it make me a permissive parent, then, when I suddenly have a child tantrumming because there's a new menu at Chili's or the tables have been rearranged at the local pizzeria?
I don't think so.
How is my three year old child going to learn how to behave in a public place if I don't put him into public places? How will he ever understand what is permitted in society, and what is not, if he never interacts with society?
It's easy to misinterpret and mislabel a parent's inability to control their children as permissive or lazy parenting. There may be something else going on, however, and it is ignorant to lump people into one group based on some characteristic that is deemed unappealing.
Yes, my child is going to misbehave in public on occasion as he gets older. I will speak to him in a low voice, give him a consequence, and yes, I will give him "The Look". And sometimes, despite all my efforts, my child will still run amok.
It has nothing to do with my being permissive, and everything to do with being a kid.
I am just like everyone else in wanting to eat in a restaurant undisturbed by screaming children. I don't enjoy being out in public and having my enjoyment disturbed by rude children who are out of control. I laughed as loud as everyone else when Bill Cosby did a comedy sketch about a boy on an airplane named Jeffrey.
However, I have a problem with the assumption by Mr. Granderson that a child who is out of control in a public setting has a permissive parent who is allowing him to behave in that manner.
My child is not a brat. Let's start there. And I am not a permissive parent, by any stretch of the imagination. I don't allow my child to run amok in public places. I make every effort to keep him in his seat in restaurants. I make every effort to keep his volume level at an acceptable decibel level. I have regularly removed my son from public places when he is behaving poorly out of respect for others.
My son, however, is three years old.
He is going to be loud.
He is going to be messy.
He is going to want to play in places where playing is not allowed.
These are age-appropriate behaviors.
Am I to sequester my son from all outside contact with the world until he's 21 because he might irritate someone by behaving like a child?
What if my infant has an ear infection, or is sensitive to the pressure changes involved in airplane travel, and screams in pain when the plane takes off and lands? Am I being a permissive parent then?
What if my child has special needs, such as autism? Does it make me a permissive parent, then, when I suddenly have a child tantrumming because there's a new menu at Chili's or the tables have been rearranged at the local pizzeria?
I don't think so.
How is my three year old child going to learn how to behave in a public place if I don't put him into public places? How will he ever understand what is permitted in society, and what is not, if he never interacts with society?
It's easy to misinterpret and mislabel a parent's inability to control their children as permissive or lazy parenting. There may be something else going on, however, and it is ignorant to lump people into one group based on some characteristic that is deemed unappealing.
Yes, my child is going to misbehave in public on occasion as he gets older. I will speak to him in a low voice, give him a consequence, and yes, I will give him "The Look". And sometimes, despite all my efforts, my child will still run amok.
It has nothing to do with my being permissive, and everything to do with being a kid.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
RemembeRED: TV shows
Prompt: TV is something that people either watch a lot of or have definite feelings about. This week, we want you to think about a tv show from your past. Maybe you watched it, maybe you didn't and it was just something that everyone else talked about.
What feelings does the show evoke? What memories does it trigger?
Growing up, watching television was something that my family did together. I can remember watching Gunsmoke, and all of us rooting for Marshall Dillon to save the day. I can remember Charlie's Angels, The Six Million Dollar Man, and The Bionic Woman.
But the show I remember loving best is the original Star Trek. I was four when the show first went on the air, and I don't remember that, of course. However, we went to Germany when I was 8, and the only channel we had to watch that was in English was the one the military piped in. That channel showed reruns of Star Trek. I could hardly wait to hear the intro.
"Space: The final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before."
I loved Captain Kirk. He was smart, he was bold, he was decisive, and he got the job done, even if he had to break the rules sometimes. Captain Kirk was born to lead--you could see it in his body language, his voice, his expressions. Captain Kirk believed in himself and his abilities; he had healthy self-esteem, the psychologists would say. I guess that one would have to have good self-esteem, to believe in yourself, in order to lead a bunch of people into uncharted space, but that hadn't occurred to me as a child.
But I had an affinity for Spock. I wanted to be more like him, with his unemotional view of the situations the crew encountered. Personality-wise, I was probably more like Dr. McCoy, passionate and caring, but I wanted to be Spock. Even back then, however, I noticed that Kirk usually made decisions that fell between the viewpoints of his two colleagues. A leader does have to listen to the opinions of his crew, I learned, but he also has to make his own decisions, because he's the leader.
I can remember watching episodes of Star Trek and being scared. The episode with the Horta, a creature that melted rock, gave me a nightmare or two. I can also remember wanting a tribble, and laughing at the sight of Kirk being bombarded with tribbles from a grain storage unit. In all those episodes, I felt that I was a bona fide member of the Enterprise.
In some ways, I still do.
When I was in college as an undergrad, my friends and I would go to a boy's dorm to watch the original Star Trek; a station played reruns every weekday at 4pm.
My answering machine, once upon a time, was the intro to Star Trek. People often called me just to hear it.
One of the reasons I became interested in my husband was his love of all things Star Trek, although he is more of a Next Generation fan than I am.
And my husband sits with my son these days and watches remastered Star Trek episodes on our Blu-ray player. When I can, I watch them as well.
I want to see my son, as an adult, to explore, to seek, and to boldly go toward whatever life has to offer him.
Lesson learned, Captain Kirk.
What feelings does the show evoke? What memories does it trigger?
Growing up, watching television was something that my family did together. I can remember watching Gunsmoke, and all of us rooting for Marshall Dillon to save the day. I can remember Charlie's Angels, The Six Million Dollar Man, and The Bionic Woman.
But the show I remember loving best is the original Star Trek. I was four when the show first went on the air, and I don't remember that, of course. However, we went to Germany when I was 8, and the only channel we had to watch that was in English was the one the military piped in. That channel showed reruns of Star Trek. I could hardly wait to hear the intro.
"Space: The final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before."
I loved Captain Kirk. He was smart, he was bold, he was decisive, and he got the job done, even if he had to break the rules sometimes. Captain Kirk was born to lead--you could see it in his body language, his voice, his expressions. Captain Kirk believed in himself and his abilities; he had healthy self-esteem, the psychologists would say. I guess that one would have to have good self-esteem, to believe in yourself, in order to lead a bunch of people into uncharted space, but that hadn't occurred to me as a child.
But I had an affinity for Spock. I wanted to be more like him, with his unemotional view of the situations the crew encountered. Personality-wise, I was probably more like Dr. McCoy, passionate and caring, but I wanted to be Spock. Even back then, however, I noticed that Kirk usually made decisions that fell between the viewpoints of his two colleagues. A leader does have to listen to the opinions of his crew, I learned, but he also has to make his own decisions, because he's the leader.
I can remember watching episodes of Star Trek and being scared. The episode with the Horta, a creature that melted rock, gave me a nightmare or two. I can also remember wanting a tribble, and laughing at the sight of Kirk being bombarded with tribbles from a grain storage unit. In all those episodes, I felt that I was a bona fide member of the Enterprise.
In some ways, I still do.
When I was in college as an undergrad, my friends and I would go to a boy's dorm to watch the original Star Trek; a station played reruns every weekday at 4pm.
My answering machine, once upon a time, was the intro to Star Trek. People often called me just to hear it.
One of the reasons I became interested in my husband was his love of all things Star Trek, although he is more of a Next Generation fan than I am.
And my husband sits with my son these days and watches remastered Star Trek episodes on our Blu-ray player. When I can, I watch them as well.
I want to see my son, as an adult, to explore, to seek, and to boldly go toward whatever life has to offer him.
Lesson learned, Captain Kirk.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Service with a Smile
My husband had to go to the ER this morning. He started having some abdominal pain over the weekend, but last night it got horrible enough that he chose to go to a hospital. My father came and got him. As soon as Zane was awake, I took him to my parent's house and went to the hospital.
While we were back in an exam room, waiting to see the doctor, I noticed a commotion in the hall. Two elderly women, one with a walker, were 'chasing' after a nurse, both talking at the same time. The nurse herded them into an exam room. A few minutes later, another nurse was being stalked by these two. She also herded them back into their exam room. This happened about six times in an hour. In that time, I figured out that the woman with the walker was the patient, and the other lady was her BFF or sister. The BFF was apparently hard of hearing; there was a lot of "WHAT?" going on.
What I gathered from overhearing(they were loud!) and observing(they kept walking by!) was that if the woman with the walker so much as twitched, her BFF had to get the nurse. But when the friend left the room to get the nurse, the walker woman had to follow her.
Larry was in a hospital bed, not feeling happy at all(kidney stone, they think), speaking to the nurse, when all of a sudden the BFF just walked into the room.
"You can't be in here." the nurse spoke in a firm voice.
"She needs her blood pressure taken," the BFF said, as if the nurse hadn't said a word and Larry and I weren't there.
"You can't be in here!" the nurse repeated, a little louder.
"WHAT?" the BFF cocked her head to the side, as most hard of hearing people do.
"YOU CANNOT BE IN HERE!" Louder this time.
"WHAT?"
At this point, I am onto this woman's game.
She's trying to cut her friend ahead in the line by being obnoxious! In order to get the woman to get the heck out of that ER, the nurse would have to drop every other patient she was seeing, no matter how much more seriously ill they were, to take care of some woman who didn't really look all that ill to me.
I've seen this kind of con before, mostly at concerts where women will do anything to avoid waiting in the line for the ladies' room. I just never thought to see it in a hospital. I also never thought to see it being tried by ladies in their eighties! But I guess it makes a weird sort of sense--they aren't exactly going to any rock concerts, but that doesn't mean that they want to wait in line.
Fortunately for Larry, this nurse had no intention of dropping everything to cater to those women. She also had seen this sort of thing before. She very firmly herded the BFF out of Larry's room and closed the door. Then she finished what she was there to do, which was remove the various tubes and wires that had been stuck into my husband so we could go home.
And for that, he is eternally grateful.
While we were back in an exam room, waiting to see the doctor, I noticed a commotion in the hall. Two elderly women, one with a walker, were 'chasing' after a nurse, both talking at the same time. The nurse herded them into an exam room. A few minutes later, another nurse was being stalked by these two. She also herded them back into their exam room. This happened about six times in an hour. In that time, I figured out that the woman with the walker was the patient, and the other lady was her BFF or sister. The BFF was apparently hard of hearing; there was a lot of "WHAT?" going on.
What I gathered from overhearing(they were loud!) and observing(they kept walking by!) was that if the woman with the walker so much as twitched, her BFF had to get the nurse. But when the friend left the room to get the nurse, the walker woman had to follow her.
Larry was in a hospital bed, not feeling happy at all(kidney stone, they think), speaking to the nurse, when all of a sudden the BFF just walked into the room.
"You can't be in here." the nurse spoke in a firm voice.
"She needs her blood pressure taken," the BFF said, as if the nurse hadn't said a word and Larry and I weren't there.
"You can't be in here!" the nurse repeated, a little louder.
"WHAT?" the BFF cocked her head to the side, as most hard of hearing people do.
"YOU CANNOT BE IN HERE!" Louder this time.
"WHAT?"
At this point, I am onto this woman's game.
She's trying to cut her friend ahead in the line by being obnoxious! In order to get the woman to get the heck out of that ER, the nurse would have to drop every other patient she was seeing, no matter how much more seriously ill they were, to take care of some woman who didn't really look all that ill to me.
I've seen this kind of con before, mostly at concerts where women will do anything to avoid waiting in the line for the ladies' room. I just never thought to see it in a hospital. I also never thought to see it being tried by ladies in their eighties! But I guess it makes a weird sort of sense--they aren't exactly going to any rock concerts, but that doesn't mean that they want to wait in line.
Fortunately for Larry, this nurse had no intention of dropping everything to cater to those women. She also had seen this sort of thing before. She very firmly herded the BFF out of Larry's room and closed the door. Then she finished what she was there to do, which was remove the various tubes and wires that had been stuck into my husband so we could go home.
And for that, he is eternally grateful.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
By Any Other Name
My husband and I, along with our son, went on a mini-vacation this past week. We drove to Grapevine, Texas, where I was supposed to attend a special luncheon. This was Zane's very first extended car trip. The drive up was relatively uneventful. We had borrowed a friend's portable dvd player, and Zane was occupied with that most of the way. Except for the fact that he only wanted to watch ONE movie over and over and over and over(to be fair, the movie does have Nathan Fillion in it).
We had a lovely time. We stayed at the Comfort Suites, which I highly recommend. While I went to the sixtieth anniversary luncheon for my bestie's parents, Zane and Larry rode the train at Grapevine and had a great time. We all went to a free concert in Arlington to see the Kildares, who play a rock-ish type of music with a fiddle and bagpipes. There were other things we wanted to do, but since we were vacationing, none of us were upset that we didn't get to them. We packed up all our stuff in preparation for the next day.
Today we traveled home. We only watched the movie once, and then the dvd was turned off so it "could take a nap". So there was a bit of quiet.
And so it was that the horror began.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Zane?"
"What's your name?"
"It's Daddy."
Pause.
"Mama?"
"Yep?"
"What's your name?"
"My name is Mama."
Pause.
"Daddy, what's your name?"
"It's still Daddy."
Pause.
"Mama, what's your name?"
"Mama."
Pause.
"Daddy?"
"Yes Son?"
"What's your name?"
"What was my name the last time you asked?"
"Daddy."
"Daddy is still my name."
Pause.
"Mama?"
"What do you need, son?"
"What is your name?"
"I don't know. What is my name?"
"You're Mama."
"Oh Thank you son! I was worried."
Pause.
"Daddy, what's your name?"
"Same as it was the last six times you asked, Zane. It's Daddy."
Pause.
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"What's your name, Mama?"
"Fred."
"That not your name, Mama!"
"It's not?"
"No! You Mama!"
"Oh. Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"But if you knew my name is Mama, why did you ask me to tell you my name?" Even as I asked the question, I could see Larry gesturing me to shut my mouth. Of course my question led to another two or three rounds.
These lovely interchanges occurred, on average, every three minutes, for FIVE hours.
I suppose that this is a variation of the time honored "Are we there yet?" that all children begin asking within a four mile radius of a car. We tried distraction, we tried bribery, we eventually attempted threats. Nothing worked. We were stuck. We did try to respond politely to his questions, and model appropriate behavior. By the time we got home, however, both Larry and I were ready to find a large rock and beat our heads against it.
We had a lovely time. We stayed at the Comfort Suites, which I highly recommend. While I went to the sixtieth anniversary luncheon for my bestie's parents, Zane and Larry rode the train at Grapevine and had a great time. We all went to a free concert in Arlington to see the Kildares, who play a rock-ish type of music with a fiddle and bagpipes. There were other things we wanted to do, but since we were vacationing, none of us were upset that we didn't get to them. We packed up all our stuff in preparation for the next day.
Today we traveled home. We only watched the movie once, and then the dvd was turned off so it "could take a nap". So there was a bit of quiet.
And so it was that the horror began.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Zane?"
"What's your name?"
"It's Daddy."
Pause.
"Mama?"
"Yep?"
"What's your name?"
"My name is Mama."
Pause.
"Daddy, what's your name?"
"It's still Daddy."
Pause.
"Mama, what's your name?"
"Mama."
Pause.
"Daddy?"
"Yes Son?"
"What's your name?"
"What was my name the last time you asked?"
"Daddy."
"Daddy is still my name."
Pause.
"Mama?"
"What do you need, son?"
"What is your name?"
"I don't know. What is my name?"
"You're Mama."
"Oh Thank you son! I was worried."
Pause.
"Daddy, what's your name?"
"Same as it was the last six times you asked, Zane. It's Daddy."
Pause.
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"What's your name, Mama?"
"Fred."
"That not your name, Mama!"
"It's not?"
"No! You Mama!"
"Oh. Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"But if you knew my name is Mama, why did you ask me to tell you my name?" Even as I asked the question, I could see Larry gesturing me to shut my mouth. Of course my question led to another two or three rounds.
These lovely interchanges occurred, on average, every three minutes, for FIVE hours.
I suppose that this is a variation of the time honored "Are we there yet?" that all children begin asking within a four mile radius of a car. We tried distraction, we tried bribery, we eventually attempted threats. Nothing worked. We were stuck. We did try to respond politely to his questions, and model appropriate behavior. By the time we got home, however, both Larry and I were ready to find a large rock and beat our heads against it.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Just Plain Good Advice
My husband spent most of the day with Zane today, while I attended a sixtieth wedding anniversary luncheon. Just before the food arrived, I received a text.
"Zane says that if you have to pee, try not to pee on yourself."
That text resulted in a "LOL" moment. I actually guffawed.
"Zane says that if you have to pee, try not to pee on yourself."
That text resulted in a "LOL" moment. I actually guffawed.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Red Writing Hood: Whatever Comes
Red Writing Hood prompt: You or your character find a forgotten letter or card from someone important in your life--whether good or bad. What does it say? How does it affect you or your character? What is done with it? This is fiction!
She found the note the day she finally found the strength to begin emptying the drawers and closets of her husband’s clothes. Jake had been dead and in the ground for a year. Slowly, oh so slowly, she got used to the horrific idea that she was alone. Her husband would never again step through that door, grab her around the waist and kiss her until she felt dizzy with love. After the funeral, her very bones seemed to be leached of the energy to face anything anymore, and she thought that it would be okay if she simply turned to dust sitting in Jake’s chair by the window.
The idea of alone was relentless, however, and the day came where she finally came to accept where he was, and where she was. Then it was time to move again.
Her children had offered to take care of the clearing, cleaning, and removing of their father’s effects, but Maisy knew that she had to do this job herself. It wouldn’t seem real to her, she thought, if she came home one day and all evidence of the love of her life had been swept away like dust under a rug. And so today, she pulled all of the drawers and closets open, and began going through them one by one.
Old ties. Dress shirts of various professional colors. Dress pants, suit coats. Those were easy to let go of, as Jake wore these rarely, if at all. He was never comfortable wearing them, so she was glad to be rid of them. Same with jeans, socks, underpants, undershirts, and shoes.
The t-shirts and the flannel one were a little more difficult. M. They smelled like Jake; like the very wind itself, blowing through the air after a summer storm. That smell would always bring a feeling that Jake was just behind her, waiting to wrap his arms around her and hold tight.
As she pulled the last t-shirt from the drawer, she saw a small white card in the bottom. Maisy leaned over and picked up the card, turning it over in her hand.. Jake’s handwriting was on the front. Maisy recognized the card immediately. Jake had given her this care the day he asked her to be his wife. She knew exactly what the card was going to say, but she opened it anyway, as tears began to weigh down her eyelashes and slide down her cheeks.
Maisy,
Whatever comes, we share. Before God , man, and beast. When the sun rises and when it sets.No matter our troubles or joys. Whatever comes, we share.
All my love,
Jake
“Oh Jake!” Maisy stopped trying to keep her tears inside and just let them flow. “
I can’t share this with you right now, my love.”she whispered. “
But I will be with you one day. “
She found the note the day she finally found the strength to begin emptying the drawers and closets of her husband’s clothes. Jake had been dead and in the ground for a year. Slowly, oh so slowly, she got used to the horrific idea that she was alone. Her husband would never again step through that door, grab her around the waist and kiss her until she felt dizzy with love. After the funeral, her very bones seemed to be leached of the energy to face anything anymore, and she thought that it would be okay if she simply turned to dust sitting in Jake’s chair by the window.
The idea of alone was relentless, however, and the day came where she finally came to accept where he was, and where she was. Then it was time to move again.
Her children had offered to take care of the clearing, cleaning, and removing of their father’s effects, but Maisy knew that she had to do this job herself. It wouldn’t seem real to her, she thought, if she came home one day and all evidence of the love of her life had been swept away like dust under a rug. And so today, she pulled all of the drawers and closets open, and began going through them one by one.
Old ties. Dress shirts of various professional colors. Dress pants, suit coats. Those were easy to let go of, as Jake wore these rarely, if at all. He was never comfortable wearing them, so she was glad to be rid of them. Same with jeans, socks, underpants, undershirts, and shoes.
The t-shirts and the flannel one were a little more difficult. M. They smelled like Jake; like the very wind itself, blowing through the air after a summer storm. That smell would always bring a feeling that Jake was just behind her, waiting to wrap his arms around her and hold tight.
As she pulled the last t-shirt from the drawer, she saw a small white card in the bottom. Maisy leaned over and picked up the card, turning it over in her hand.. Jake’s handwriting was on the front. Maisy recognized the card immediately. Jake had given her this care the day he asked her to be his wife. She knew exactly what the card was going to say, but she opened it anyway, as tears began to weigh down her eyelashes and slide down her cheeks.
Maisy,
Whatever comes, we share. Before God , man, and beast. When the sun rises and when it sets.No matter our troubles or joys. Whatever comes, we share.
All my love,
Jake
“Oh Jake!” Maisy stopped trying to keep her tears inside and just let them flow. “
I can’t share this with you right now, my love.”she whispered. “
But I will be with you one day. “
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