I've given some thought as to what this blog should be about. I've decided it's about me. So, if it's something towards the book project, then that's what it'll be. If it's a ranting, raving observational thing (much like my weekly column used to be), then so be it.
This is what I'm thinking about today:
A friend posted on Facebook yesterday that her 11 year old daughter proclaimed it was time to shave her legs. After all, she's in middle school now. It seems that oftentimes as parents, we think kids are all gung-ho on growing up and wanting to do things they aren't old enough to do. As parents, there's one thing we forget - we did the same dang thing.
After I spent a few days listening to that collection of cassette tapes recorded at slumber parties with my friends back in my middle school days, I found myself somewhere between amused and abhorred. Sweet Jesus in a jumpsuit, for a bunch of midwest sheltered youngins' who went to church on Sunday in the early 80s, we sure talked about sex A LOT.
A favorite, it seemed, was to play the, "How far have you gone?" game. Well, since the majority of us might have snuck a kiss or held hands with a boy (the majority not including me), that game lost its appeal because there was no dirt to dish. This evolved into the, "How far would you go?" game. It was outright scandalous to admit which boy you might want to kiss, and how old you would have to be before you would do "it."
I cringed when I listened to our comments, listing off the bases and saying, "4th base, all the wayyyyyy home" like Kevin Bacon said in "Footloose" comparing sex to the carseat going "all the wayyyyy back," if you know what he means. Truthfully, if you'd asked us the previous year while still in the protective walls of elementary school about bases, we likely would have started talking about playing kickball on the playground at Poplar Grove, and how you have to be careful running to home (yeah, as if I ever got that far in kickball or with boys) so you didn't run into the big tree behind home base.
A girl we met in middle school was knowledgeable. I mean she really knew things about sex, and she wasn't afraid to share the nitty gritty. I know somewhere in the recesses of my footlocker o'crap, there's a tape with a sex story she wrote about another friend getting it on. The finer details of the middle school porn tale escape me, and for this I'm likely thankful, but I do recall a line about "zip grip, pull tab, crotchless panties." While I couldn't quite wrap my young mind around what exactly that meant, and I kept trying to mentally picture what those drawers would look like, I take some solace in knowing now that it still doesn't make much sense.
My friendship with this girl came and went during the remainder of my public school days. Some years, we were friends. Other years, we weren't. While I remained close with those I'd formed an early friendship with, it seemed my circle of friends rotated depending on who was in my History class or who had the same lunchtime. When she wasn't teaching me to put on eyeliner or enlightening me on making out, she tried to kill me. Teenage girls with cars that go fast are never really a great idea. Neither are a couple teenage girls riding in the back of a pickup truck at highspeeds on a crisp fall evening, that may or may not have done donuts in a churchyard.
I'm not blaming this girl for ushering me into the world of the mysterious and unknown because I think it's the natural course of things for a young, curious kid. I did my fair share of stupid before she came along, and she didn't trigger my desire to hurry up and grow up. I was already in a hurry. My friend mentioning her daughter's desire to shave reminded me of this.
At about the fifth grade age, I decided I needed to shave. The hair on my legs was blonde and fine, but this didn't stop me from digging through the medicine cabinet to find my dad's razor. If safety was an option for razors at the time, my dad still lived life on the edge and used the double-sided blades that were, well, as sharp as a razor.
I turned the bottom of the handle, which opened the top of the razor like a mouth. Examing the blade in the razor, I decided I needed a fresh one. I lathered myself up with some shaving cream, using probably half the can. With the precision of someone who'd been doing it for years, I took my first swipe with the razor up the middle of my shin.
Then it hit me. Oh man, that stung. Was shaving supposed to hurt? I looked down at my leg. The mounds of shaving cream around the area I'd tended to was turning a shade of pink. I was bleeding. I glanced at the razor, and there it was. My flesh. A four inch piece of my flesh that rolled up on the razor. I'd peeled my flesh like I was using a vegetable peeler on a carrot.
I don't know if it was the blood or the piece of my skin that was once on my body and now on the razor, or the burning from the shaving cream entering my wound, but darn if I didn't get a little woozy. I cleaned myself up and put about six bandages in a row to cover my wound, and swore I'd never shave my legs again. I still have a faint scar.
So, this need to hurry up and grow up, and do grown up things and talk about grown up stuff certainly isn't anything new. We did it. Our kids do it. Our grandkids will do it. Oh, to be young and stupid and needing to have the crap smacked right out of you by a well-meaning adult.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Back to school
I love this commercial. As it notes, your own kids probably aren't going to react this way when you walk in the door with their supplies for the impending school year. Well, not unless I happened to be your child.
Call it a sick fascination, or just plain sick, but I loved getting new school supplies as a child. I loved thumbing through blank notebooks waiting to be filled - especially the one serving as a journal for a high school English class. I couldn't wait to use a fresh pack of Bic Banana markers. A jar of paste or Elmer's rubber cement set my heart a fluttering. The smell of fresh crayolas - the kahuna box of 64 with the built-in sharpner, oh please, please, mom. They made me put my worries aside about whether I got a good teacher or if my best friend would be in the same class.
The list sent home for needed art supplies told me exactly what kind of projects we might embark on in art class. My mom groaned each year as she looked over the list of required supplies so that I might fully reach my potential in art class. Oh, but I do know that groan, especially the several years that my sons' school decided kids should have two sets of supplies - one for the classroom and one for the art room. My groan may or may not have been followed by a litany of well-crafted profanity. What a pain the ass that was, not to mention pretty darn expensive, too.
While I scoured the aisles and shelves for Fiskar round-tip scissors that sold out quicker in Wells county than bread and milk during a blizzard warning, my mom lamented over one thing - Prang brand watercolors.
This is the original packaging that I remember. In later elementary school days in the 70s, the metal box was replaced by a plastic one. This was a great point of contention with my mom because Prang paints were expensive. The cheap, prone to drying out, less than exciting Kmart brand water colors were much cheaper. The one year she tried to get them past the art teacher, a note was sent home requesting that I come back equipped with the proper paint. Although I suffered the embarrassment of not following directions, it wasn't so bad because I got to use the Kmart ones at home. Well, until I got caught coloring my Barbies' hair with it.
There was something about those Prang watercolors, unused, so vibrant and inviting, that gave me this artsy feeling of well, having an ounce of artistic ability in my body. Sadly, I really didn't. That didn't stop me from loving those art supplies. I'd pack and repack my artbox, not particularly caring if the jumbo box of crayons didn't fit. What mattered was that I had 64 colors at my disposal for artistic expression. If could somehow accent my collection with a Pentel outlining marker (silver with red outlining preferably that could give you a high before you knew what being high was all about) or a bottle of glue with the dauber top, I knew it was going to be a good year in art.
As I hinted, I certainly wasn't the best at art in my class, but I also wasn't the worst, either. This mainly because as one might suspect, art class was co-ed and most boys didn't have that desire to create a festive holiday piece such as this shamrock with some tissue paper cut into squares, a pencil eraser, and some glue. As a mother of two children of the boy variety, I know most can't be bothered by expressing themselves creatively. I probably didn't earn the S+ grade in the class for my picturesque drawings so much as my effort counted. I really did want to be good at it.
These projects were my favorite. Try as I might to recreate the project at home (after the art teacher would often set out scraps and leftovers for us to pick through and take if we wanted), it never really was the same. Perhaps, it was because we sat somewhat quietly at tables with the teacher's instruction and without the distractions of cartoons, dogs, and siblings.
My second favorite project types involved this. Mod Podge. How thrilling it was to catch a rumor that we'd be Mod Podging something as our next project. Some tissue paper glued on a hunk of paper, brushed with this wonderous creation could create a stained glass window, mosaic type effect. From experience, I can tell you that glue doesn't work if you're trying to do a little Mod Podging at home.
Nothing beat a good paper mache project, either. Especially the ones that used a balloon as a form. Most of these projects took place in the classroom, and I'll never forget the teachers who trusted us to hold the corsage pin and pop our own balloons. My dog loved the one we made in first grade - wrapping pieces of yarn around a balloon to create an egg shaped cage-like deal that we stuffed with Easter grass. I can't remember what we shoved into it, but I'm guessing it was some sort of little bird like the ones you can buy in a craft store. My mom loved the my project even more than the dog when she had to extract Easter grass from the dog's butt.
Of course, I'm much older now and so are my kids. A few notebooks, some pencils and pens, maybe a 3-ring binder constitutes back-to-school shopping now. Blank pages and a good ink gel pen still call out to me. As does a nice set of art pastels. I don't know what I'd do with them because while my mom and sister can draw, paint, sketch and do all sorts of things artistic, I know my limits. Still, there's something about school supplies that at least gives me the feeling that maybe I could create something beautiful and awe-inspiring.
....and I just happened upon a recipe for homemade Mod Podge.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
And so it began
On February 8, 1969 , a meteorite weighing over 1 ton fell on Chihuahua , Mexico
Try as I might, I’ve never gathered too much information about the day from either of my parents. When I’ve asked, I’ve learned it was cold and rainy. There was no blizzard, no mad dash to the hospital on the back of a snowmobile, no giving birth in a car along a rural road somewhere. Nothing to write home about. For all intents and purposes, the best I can figure is that it was your average Saturday, except for those folks in Mexico. I imagine they remember it clearly, especially anyone in the meteorite’s path.
My mom shared a few details, none of which is the making for stories you tell your kids or grandkids. I've searched for clues in my nearly untouched baby book, reading it cover to cover looking for anything that might tell me more about the day I was born. The section for comments made by family members upon my arrival were mostly blank. Perhaps, my arrival left everyone speechless because my dad was the only one who had something to say.
According to Mom’s fine penmanship he said, “That’s a huge weight off my shoulders.” I asked her what this meant because it didn’t make a lot of sense to me. She didn’t know, but she assumed it meant he was relieved. But, by the tone of her voice, I could tell she was the one who felt she had more right to feel relief because he spent his time in the waiting room while she was laboring and delivering. Some men would refer to this as the good ole days.
While my first few days remain a mystery, the one thing I do know for certain is that following my birth, my parents took me home to the house trailer where they resided. I spent my first five years surrounded by family. We lived next door to my mom's parents. On the other side of my grandparent’s house set another house trailer where my grandma’s mom lived, my great-Grandma Jones. Now if that wasn’t enough family to pack into a few acres, my grandpa’s mom lived in the house with them, Grandma-Great, as I called her. My dad’s parents lived just a mile away. I grew up thinking everyone’s family was as accessible as mine.
Some of my earliest memories are a bit sketchy. Some might not be actual memories of my own, but those created by thumbing through photo albums and shoeboxes full of photographs that never found a home in an album. Some might be stories that were told to me time and time again, and through the telling and listening, became my stories.
Seldom do I need to turn to others to jog my memory. I am the retainer of moments in time. I am the person you call when you can’t remember the name of the boy who dressed like Johnny Cash in fourth grade or who the girl was who played guitar on the long bus rides home. Events with no meaning and those that shaped the person I am today come back to me. The good, the bad, the inconsequential. They are all there – resurfacing unexpectedly, conjured by the senses, similar events, and sometimes for no apparent reason at all. They reside in journal entries, weekly columns, and stories I tell my own children about what it was like when I was growing up. Sometimes pleasurable; other times, painful. A gift. A curse.
The brain works in strange ways. What we remember and why is a mystery. I don’t have the slightest idea why, or even how, I remember the things I do. I’m definitely wired differently than the average person who will ask me, “How do you remember that?” to which I reply, “How can’t you remember it?”
There are things I remember with most certainty. I know these early recollections are mine:
My baby brother was born in September of 1972 when I was about 3 ½ years old. On the day he came home from the hospital, I sat beside Mom on the couch, on a pillow just as she, and held my T-bear in my lap while she cradled the tiny newborn.
Grandma-Great kept her post rocking in her chair listening to the Christian station on the radio. She lost her vision to glaucoma in her 30s, and oftentimes, one of her eyes peeked open revealing the bluest of eyes. When I look in the mirror, I recognize the blue.
Grandma Jones had a chamber pot in her bedroom. It was the greatest source of intrigue I had encountered in my young years. She didn’t have to trek down the short hallway in her house trailer at night to use the bathroom. She had a toilet right there in her room. It was nothing short of magical to me. If I made an extra strong argument that I couldn’t hold it any longer, she would let me use the chamber pot, not once complaining about having to empty out the metal bucket.
One night, when I was supposed to be in bed, I got up to find my mom watching TV while eating Seyfert’s BBQ potato chips and drinking milk. Instead of making me go back to bed, she let me join her. The chips never tasted so BBQ-y and the milk never colder. It’s probably one of my favorite memories.
Sometimes, there is little importance to the things I remember. I mean really, how pivotal was it that I got the wrong crocheted shawl after a family dinner and my second cousin took home mine instead? The exchange of shawls went peacefully, and I couldn’t have been more than three years old at the time. Yet, I remember, but I couldn’t fathom a guess why.
Maybe on that day I was born, uneventful as it was on earth, they were running low on special gifts and talents. As they rummaged around the bins labeled athlete, dancer, artist they turned up empty-handed. There in the corner, possibly, there was a bin they didn’t often dip into. Instead of being blessed with the legs of a dancer or the stamina of a basketball player, I was given a different gift. The gift of a phenomenal memory.
These stories, including the devil who drove a station wagon, are what I remember.
Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day...when I was 12 years old
Note that the manufacturer of these cassettes is Kmart. The best place to shop on a Friday night after my dad took us to supper (yes, supper. We ate supper then. Lunch was called dinner. It's a confusing concept to my husband who was raised in a upstate NY. He's never had supper until he married me, and to avoid confusion, I gave up saying what we'd have for dinner because he was expecting meals at times I had no intention of cooking them.) I can only wager a guess that a great portion of my $5/week allowance went towards the purchase of 60 and 90 minute blank cassette tapes for my tape recorder that I got for Christmas when I was in seventh grade.
Except it didn't. It looked like this. I remember because of the high tech record and play button combination. When play was pressed, the small orange button remained in the up position. While recording, the orange button was pushed down as well.
I'd often been asked what was the best gift you'd ever received. I think thoughtfully, as one should do, and I'd say something like my children, or meeting my husband. Maybe I'd wax romantically and say it was my first engagement ring that my husband bought before we ever laid eyes on one another (that's another long story for another time). I'd like a do-over on all those answers because that Panasonic tape recorder, hands down, was the greatest gift EVER.
It strikes me what a different era this was. When photos were taken, you didn't just randomly point and shoot as we do now with digital cameras and cell phones. No, it cost money - to buy film and have them developed. Photo ops were few and far between. Of course, there is photographic evidence that I did have a childhood. My family didn't do the home movie thing, and again, there was an expense to that as well. I know some people who have home movies, but in most, there's an underlying theme of conserving film just in case something more important happened that needed to be saved for posterity.
My tape recorder and a blank tape afforded me the luxury to capture moments, that for all practical purposes, didn't necessarily need to be preserved for posterity. I'd hit record, oftentimes unbeknownst to my friends who were being recorded at the time. So, I broke the law and didn't know it. Had I known you were to inform someone they were being recorded, I probably would have lied awake at night waiting on the FBI to show up and haul me off to the pokey. Copyright infringement would be the other crime I could be charged with because I recorded TV shows by holding my recorder up to the TV. Why it was important to have audio of "The Muppet Show" or the "Solid Gold" escapes me a little now. But, again, it was a different time. VCRs were a technology still a few years out.
One tape snippet I've listened to at least a dozen times. It was a sleepover, and my best friend was staying the night. The tape recorder set in the background capturing a moment that was neither spectacular or noteworthy. We talked about boys. We talked about what we did that day. We giggled. A lot. My dog at the time was a Bassett Hound named Bosley. He was the greatest dog EVER, but that's a story for another time. Wherever there were kids, this hound could be found. And naturally, this meant Bosley had joined in on the sleepover festivites.
By joining in, this meant he was trying to snag an empty sleeping bag or pillow for his own. He must have crawled between us because the conversation focused on him for a good bit of time trying to convince him to just lie down and go to sleep.
"Go to sleepy time, Bosley dog," I coaxed to him. I was somewhere around the tender age of 12, but I spoke to him as if he were my human baby.
And then, I started singing to him. "Go to sleep my baby, my baby, my baby." My friend joined the lullaby and we both sang to Bosley.
Either he fell asleep, or we forgot it was our mission to lull him into slumber, because we both got up to do something and ditched the poor pooch. Walking and banging around on something is heard in the background. My friend and I both come back, giggle over something, and go about getting the dog back into the position we preferred.
"Bosley, you're in my seat. Can I sit with you, Bosley dog?" my friend asks him. "You're a good boy letting me sit with you." A few moments of silence pass, and then she says, "You're a stinky dog. You know that? You stink. Why am I letting you sit with me when you smell bad? Kelly, why am I hugging your dog?"
I'm still at a loss to explain how exactly listening to these recordings impacted me. I'd thought of Bosley many times since then. I've thought about our countless sleepovers and how we amused ourselves by making recordings. Sometimes, we'd even use them as blackmail if someone happened to confess which boy was the cutest or who'd we like to kiss. They're the closest I come to having home movies of my youth, and I'm reminded of a time that wasn't perhaps simpler, but my life was much simpler. There's something about my dog partaking in the moment that's left me a little melancholy, perhaps.
I spent way too many hours listening to these treasures from the past. I'm still not done. One hour in, though, I reached the conclusion that I was thankful for three things - that I stopped giggling incessantly, that I stopped recording myself singing, and for the technological advances since the early 80s.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
We'll Try This Again
I once was a writer. Meaning I got paid to write weekly. A small sum, yet it still gave me license to call myself a writer. Well, a year has passed, and I haven't written anything but papers for class, grocery lists, and emails.
So, here we go....
I'm no stranger to dogs dying. I understand the whole circle of life thing. People, as well as dogs, are born. They die. From start to finish, there's pleasure and there's pain. One hopes that the pleasure outweighs the pain, and eventually time works its magic to heal the latter and remind you of the previous.
One of my earliest memories, early in that I was maybe three at the time, finds me at the bathroom door, curious what my mom was doing with wet, tiny puppies in her hand. She raised Pomeranians, and for whatever reason that remains a mystery no matter how many times I've inquired about this memory, the mother dog deposited her newborns into the toilet. Six plops into the toilet water. My mom was trying to revive the nearly drowned pups. I didn't understand what was going on, but I remember the horror I felt, and my dad whisking me away from the door. Likely for fear I'd get attached to dogs that would be a source of income when put up for sale, I never got too friendly with any of the survivors.
The first dog I ever had died before I even got it home. Her name was Butterscotch, and she was the sweetest little beagley thing I'd ever laid eyes on. That's not saying much since I was about five at the time. We'd moved into our new house that fall, and I was promised a puppy. My grandparents' neighbor raised coon type dogs, as did my grandpa, and since Butterscotch was the runt of the litter, the man said I could have her. Grandpa agreed to take care of her until she got a little older.
I remember checking in on her when I visited - begging to go out to the little red barn, lift the lid on the box, and scoop her out. She had that sweet little bald puppy belly, and smelled like a combination of straw bedding and puppy breath. She was heaven in my lap. One day, I was informed that she died when I asked if I could go see her. I was only subdued from wallowing in grief by the promise of one of my grandpa's pups.
Enter Jake, another beagle type, who was my best friend, if only for a short time. He helped make my rounds with me, playing in the barn, gathering eggs, antagonizing my arch-nemesis Roger the rooster. We had fun.
A kid needs a dog, I think. Jake wasn't long for this world, however. The story I got was that he supped on rat poisoning at the neighbor's. Now, though, it makes me wonder. How did my parents know this? I don't know. I don't think I will ask, either.
At any rate, dogs came and went a whole lot in those years. Strays, which made the best pets, showed up. Some left under suspicious circumstances as Jake did, and others were taken out by a passing train. Getting the wheelbarrow and a couple shovels to scoop the unlucky remains hardly fazed me.
But, the dogs in my adult years have stuck around a lot longer, kept from trains and poison. Wedging themselves deeply into my heart and life, and leaving a sizable hole when the universe beckoned them from this earthly plane. People say (and who these people are leaves me curious because they do say a lot, some of which is actually quite prolific and deep) that death becomes easier to deal with when you get older. I'm afraid I might have to call foul on it. People also say they understand and offer their empathy, or well-meaning sympathy at the least. Again, I'm not sure anyone totally understands unless they are in the throes of the kind of grief that pours a cup of coffee, grabs a 1,000 page novel, and sits down with you for quite a stretch until the sting starts to wear off.
My almost fourteen year old dog died about three weeks ago. I had to have him put to sleep after a stroke that left him unable to walk. He'd flirted with death for a couple years, having a similar spell that I was able to coax him out of. This time I knew it was different. It broke my heart, but as I'm told, this is too is another life lesson that creates a nasty scar that breaks open and oozes just when you think it's healed.
I remember after burying my sixteen year old dog some years ago that I never wanted another one. I didn't think I could endure that life cycle of pleasure and pain again. But, I did get another dog then, just as I did this time around. The same day my youngest came home with a little black puppy who plopped down beside me on the couch and hasn't left my side since. He'd lived in a barn with his mom and littermates, and had that same straw bedding smell, and was complete with the bare puppy belly and puppy breath. I was also informed that his daddy was a coondog variety, and his momma was a Lab. This is what reminded me of Butterscotch, my first dog that never became mine.
This little booger certainly hasn't taken the place of my old pooch, but he's made the loss a bit more bearable. To paraphrase a quote I came across, grief is crying over that which had brought you pleasure. This perspective, however bittersweet, brings comfort in the understanding.
I miss him. I still glance to the floor at the end of the bed expecting to see him sleeping there. I've reached over to pet the new pup after seeing black from the corner of my eye expecting it to be my constant companion of thirteen years. My family and I have reminisced, and I see in hindsight that he hadn't been the dog he was for a long time.
I'm not convinced, as they say, that death becomes easier to accept and deal with as we get older. Perhaps, it's that we accept it is a part of life, a part of the cycle of start to finish. It doesn't lessen the grief or hasten its departure. Truly, we grieve that which brought us pleasure and happiness. That much I can accept.
So, here we go....
I'm no stranger to dogs dying. I understand the whole circle of life thing. People, as well as dogs, are born. They die. From start to finish, there's pleasure and there's pain. One hopes that the pleasure outweighs the pain, and eventually time works its magic to heal the latter and remind you of the previous.
One of my earliest memories, early in that I was maybe three at the time, finds me at the bathroom door, curious what my mom was doing with wet, tiny puppies in her hand. She raised Pomeranians, and for whatever reason that remains a mystery no matter how many times I've inquired about this memory, the mother dog deposited her newborns into the toilet. Six plops into the toilet water. My mom was trying to revive the nearly drowned pups. I didn't understand what was going on, but I remember the horror I felt, and my dad whisking me away from the door. Likely for fear I'd get attached to dogs that would be a source of income when put up for sale, I never got too friendly with any of the survivors.
The first dog I ever had died before I even got it home. Her name was Butterscotch, and she was the sweetest little beagley thing I'd ever laid eyes on. That's not saying much since I was about five at the time. We'd moved into our new house that fall, and I was promised a puppy. My grandparents' neighbor raised coon type dogs, as did my grandpa, and since Butterscotch was the runt of the litter, the man said I could have her. Grandpa agreed to take care of her until she got a little older.
I remember checking in on her when I visited - begging to go out to the little red barn, lift the lid on the box, and scoop her out. She had that sweet little bald puppy belly, and smelled like a combination of straw bedding and puppy breath. She was heaven in my lap. One day, I was informed that she died when I asked if I could go see her. I was only subdued from wallowing in grief by the promise of one of my grandpa's pups.
Enter Jake, another beagle type, who was my best friend, if only for a short time. He helped make my rounds with me, playing in the barn, gathering eggs, antagonizing my arch-nemesis Roger the rooster. We had fun.
A kid needs a dog, I think. Jake wasn't long for this world, however. The story I got was that he supped on rat poisoning at the neighbor's. Now, though, it makes me wonder. How did my parents know this? I don't know. I don't think I will ask, either.
At any rate, dogs came and went a whole lot in those years. Strays, which made the best pets, showed up. Some left under suspicious circumstances as Jake did, and others were taken out by a passing train. Getting the wheelbarrow and a couple shovels to scoop the unlucky remains hardly fazed me.
But, the dogs in my adult years have stuck around a lot longer, kept from trains and poison. Wedging themselves deeply into my heart and life, and leaving a sizable hole when the universe beckoned them from this earthly plane. People say (and who these people are leaves me curious because they do say a lot, some of which is actually quite prolific and deep) that death becomes easier to deal with when you get older. I'm afraid I might have to call foul on it. People also say they understand and offer their empathy, or well-meaning sympathy at the least. Again, I'm not sure anyone totally understands unless they are in the throes of the kind of grief that pours a cup of coffee, grabs a 1,000 page novel, and sits down with you for quite a stretch until the sting starts to wear off.
My almost fourteen year old dog died about three weeks ago. I had to have him put to sleep after a stroke that left him unable to walk. He'd flirted with death for a couple years, having a similar spell that I was able to coax him out of. This time I knew it was different. It broke my heart, but as I'm told, this is too is another life lesson that creates a nasty scar that breaks open and oozes just when you think it's healed.
I remember after burying my sixteen year old dog some years ago that I never wanted another one. I didn't think I could endure that life cycle of pleasure and pain again. But, I did get another dog then, just as I did this time around. The same day my youngest came home with a little black puppy who plopped down beside me on the couch and hasn't left my side since. He'd lived in a barn with his mom and littermates, and had that same straw bedding smell, and was complete with the bare puppy belly and puppy breath. I was also informed that his daddy was a coondog variety, and his momma was a Lab. This is what reminded me of Butterscotch, my first dog that never became mine.
This little booger certainly hasn't taken the place of my old pooch, but he's made the loss a bit more bearable. To paraphrase a quote I came across, grief is crying over that which had brought you pleasure. This perspective, however bittersweet, brings comfort in the understanding.
I miss him. I still glance to the floor at the end of the bed expecting to see him sleeping there. I've reached over to pet the new pup after seeing black from the corner of my eye expecting it to be my constant companion of thirteen years. My family and I have reminisced, and I see in hindsight that he hadn't been the dog he was for a long time.
I'm not convinced, as they say, that death becomes easier to accept and deal with as we get older. Perhaps, it's that we accept it is a part of life, a part of the cycle of start to finish. It doesn't lessen the grief or hasten its departure. Truly, we grieve that which brought us pleasure and happiness. That much I can accept.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Vote for my dog!
http://www.adogspurpose.com/index.php?option=com_hotornot&task=show&id=44&source=hotornot&Itemid=54
Take a click and vote for my dog Hank to be "Dog of the Week." $65 will be donated to a doggie charity if he wins.
Take a click and vote for my dog Hank to be "Dog of the Week." $65 will be donated to a doggie charity if he wins.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Six Months None the Wiser
How do six months pass and I've had nothing to say here?
Well, it passes in the midst of the return to college. Homework, tests, exams, studying, quizzes, discussion board posts, total mental meltdowns. That about sums up the time that has passed. Christmas vacation? A total two week blur spent trying to get caught up on things I'd not done since August around the house. Spring break? I squandered those days...somehow.
I can't say I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided it was a good time to get that college degree. I can't say I know now what I'm doing. I'm still undecided on a major or a degree. One moment, I think I know what I want to be when I grow up. The next, and I'm more confused than a high school senior. There's something to be said for being young, dumb, and undecided. The same can't be said for being slightly older, dumb, and undecided.
It really shouldn't be this difficult.
The good news is that I finished last semester with a 4.0 grade point average. The bad news might be that I'm clinging desperately to As in all my classes this semester, with six weeks left to go. Intro to Human Services, Psychology, Sociology, and Public Speaking. I must say that I dislike Sociology more than any math class I've ever taken. Whoosh. Right over my head goes most of the concepts.
In other news, I retired my weekly column in January after a ten year run. Sometimes, things run their course and it's best to pull a George Costanza and leave the room when you're still on top. So, I left.
I miss writing. I miss the weekly deadline. I miss the panic that would overtake me when I had three hours until my column was due and I didn't have a gee, gosh darn, golly thing to say. I miss that thrill when I pulled something out of my ass at the last minute and got the most reader feedback ever on my last minute creativity. I miss knowing that at least once a week, someone listened to what I had to say by reading my 700 words. I miss thinking that something I wrote might have made someone think, laugh, reflect, or react in any way, even if it were less than positive feedback.
Man, I miss it.
What have I wanted to be nearly all my life even before I realized it? A writer.
I wanted to write when I was 7 years old and talking my grandma into letting me use her typewriter.
I wanted to write when I started collecting pen pals when I barely could form full sentences and spell.
What was I pre-college? A writer.
Is this college thing a waste of time, money, and energy? Maybe not. I think what I'm learning most is that I can do anything I want to do. The only obstacle that has ever been in my way has been myself. Epiphany much? Yeah.
There's a writer named Anne Lamott who has written some fiction and non-fiction. I particularly like her book Bird by Bird about being a writer. In it she says something like, "Few writers know what they are doing until they've done it." That's one thing I've always loved about writing. Besides the basic rule that you better make some damn sense in your writing, there are few rules on how to go about it. There's a beginning, a middle, and end, and you make it what you want. (A little like life, right?)
Once in a while, the clouds part and things almost become crystal clear and more than apparent to me. Sometimes, it almost takes a sledgehammer to my shin to get my full attention. Last week, I got an A+ on an information speech. While the professor went over my speech, telling me my grade, he said something to the effect of, "I don't know if you intended it, but something kind of magical happened in your speech, you started out here, gave wonderful information and insight, and ended here going full circle. Maybe it just happened because sometimes it does, but this was an A+ speech."
I had to admit that I did some cutting and pasting in the writing of the speech, moving paragraphs around just as I did when I wrote the column. I confessed that I didn't write the outline first, that I compiled it from the speech when it was finished. He praised my speech writing abilities, but as I've pointed out to him many times, I'm a writer. The only difference is that I'm delivering my creation to an audience of my classmates.
So, yes, I miss my column, and even though the Public Speaking classs does often bring me a good bit of distress when it comes to those impromptu speeches, at least it's been a good exercise in proving to myself what I'm capable of doing. But does quitting the column stop me from writing? Well, no. Duh.
I'd already decided to pass on taking classes over the summer semester. There's no reason to add attempted homicide to my resume trying to do schoolwork and deal with two teenagers in my space 24/7. I plan to challenge myself to write something worth reading during this time. If I can't do it, well, then I guess I'll admit to myself that I'll never be a serious writer. If I can, then perhaps I'll have my answer on what I want to be when I grow up.
Well, it passes in the midst of the return to college. Homework, tests, exams, studying, quizzes, discussion board posts, total mental meltdowns. That about sums up the time that has passed. Christmas vacation? A total two week blur spent trying to get caught up on things I'd not done since August around the house. Spring break? I squandered those days...somehow.
I can't say I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided it was a good time to get that college degree. I can't say I know now what I'm doing. I'm still undecided on a major or a degree. One moment, I think I know what I want to be when I grow up. The next, and I'm more confused than a high school senior. There's something to be said for being young, dumb, and undecided. The same can't be said for being slightly older, dumb, and undecided.
It really shouldn't be this difficult.
The good news is that I finished last semester with a 4.0 grade point average. The bad news might be that I'm clinging desperately to As in all my classes this semester, with six weeks left to go. Intro to Human Services, Psychology, Sociology, and Public Speaking. I must say that I dislike Sociology more than any math class I've ever taken. Whoosh. Right over my head goes most of the concepts.
In other news, I retired my weekly column in January after a ten year run. Sometimes, things run their course and it's best to pull a George Costanza and leave the room when you're still on top. So, I left.
I miss writing. I miss the weekly deadline. I miss the panic that would overtake me when I had three hours until my column was due and I didn't have a gee, gosh darn, golly thing to say. I miss that thrill when I pulled something out of my ass at the last minute and got the most reader feedback ever on my last minute creativity. I miss knowing that at least once a week, someone listened to what I had to say by reading my 700 words. I miss thinking that something I wrote might have made someone think, laugh, reflect, or react in any way, even if it were less than positive feedback.
Man, I miss it.
What have I wanted to be nearly all my life even before I realized it? A writer.
I wanted to write when I was 7 years old and talking my grandma into letting me use her typewriter.
I wanted to write when I started collecting pen pals when I barely could form full sentences and spell.
What was I pre-college? A writer.
Is this college thing a waste of time, money, and energy? Maybe not. I think what I'm learning most is that I can do anything I want to do. The only obstacle that has ever been in my way has been myself. Epiphany much? Yeah.
There's a writer named Anne Lamott who has written some fiction and non-fiction. I particularly like her book Bird by Bird about being a writer. In it she says something like, "Few writers know what they are doing until they've done it." That's one thing I've always loved about writing. Besides the basic rule that you better make some damn sense in your writing, there are few rules on how to go about it. There's a beginning, a middle, and end, and you make it what you want. (A little like life, right?)
Once in a while, the clouds part and things almost become crystal clear and more than apparent to me. Sometimes, it almost takes a sledgehammer to my shin to get my full attention. Last week, I got an A+ on an information speech. While the professor went over my speech, telling me my grade, he said something to the effect of, "I don't know if you intended it, but something kind of magical happened in your speech, you started out here, gave wonderful information and insight, and ended here going full circle. Maybe it just happened because sometimes it does, but this was an A+ speech."
I had to admit that I did some cutting and pasting in the writing of the speech, moving paragraphs around just as I did when I wrote the column. I confessed that I didn't write the outline first, that I compiled it from the speech when it was finished. He praised my speech writing abilities, but as I've pointed out to him many times, I'm a writer. The only difference is that I'm delivering my creation to an audience of my classmates.
So, yes, I miss my column, and even though the Public Speaking classs does often bring me a good bit of distress when it comes to those impromptu speeches, at least it's been a good exercise in proving to myself what I'm capable of doing. But does quitting the column stop me from writing? Well, no. Duh.
I'd already decided to pass on taking classes over the summer semester. There's no reason to add attempted homicide to my resume trying to do schoolwork and deal with two teenagers in my space 24/7. I plan to challenge myself to write something worth reading during this time. If I can't do it, well, then I guess I'll admit to myself that I'll never be a serious writer. If I can, then perhaps I'll have my answer on what I want to be when I grow up.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
It's New, It's Improved, It's the Size of Texas
I have a bizarre fixation with feminine hygiene products. There. I admitted it. It's not that I can't wait to try something new, improved, and exciting. It's more like my fixation comes from the entertainment value of these *new* *improved* *triple the protection" products.
A lot of the time, these new products lead me to disbelief. One great example is the tampon commercial a few years ago. A boy and girl are on a boat. The boat springs a leak. The girl reaches for a tampon. C'mon now. I don't want to give much thought to the woman who uses a product that can stop up a rowboat. I don't want to picture the woman who uses the super-duper-ulitmate anything. The commercial was wrong. I don't think I like the implication that my parts and workings need products designed for flood control. It offends me.
I was not thrilled with the introduction of "wings." Again, I don't appreciate that they are implying that I can't keep my stuff under control and that I need this added protection. This added protection, the time I was more or less forced to try it out, did little more than stick to my inner thigh instead of my drawers. Then you add the ones with wings that are about half the length of a football field, it leaves me wondering what the hell? I'm a short girl. I don't need protection that reaches from my belly button to my butt crack.
Not so surprising, I'm pretty sure when my obsession started. It was 4th grade when we watched that, "You're becoming a woman movie." We got the standard issue booklet. "Growing Up and Liking It." It's right here, the floral cover and all. http://www.mum.org/guli72a.htm
There was an order form in the back of the booklet for a "starter kit." Not only did I have to have one, but I talked my dad into ordering me two so I'd be extra prepared for my first day of womanhood. When the kit arrived, I don't know how many times I looked over the different types of maxi and mini-pads. I anticipated my first period like a fat kid looks forward to a trip to Hershey, PA. I knew exactly what I would use and when. I was well-versed, and practically had the book memorized over what I was about to experience.
And, then it happened. Let me tell you what. There was nothing magical about it. I don't know what all the hoopla was about, because quite frankly, there was nothing fun or special about it. Sure, I'd later be able to be a mother, blah blah blah, but I had better things to do with my time.
I hadn't been one of those womanly sorts long when the introduction of the thin-type thingies came on the market. This excited me. No longer did I walk around feeling like I had a crib mattress between my legs. The thinner, the better, in my estimation.
Then came the "incident." We were vacationing as a family at an amusement park. We camped across the lake. Turned loose to go to the park, I went with my step-sister. The younger kids went as a pack. We walked around. Rode some rides. We made a stop in the bathroom.
A woman tapped my step-sister on the shoulder. "Excuse me," she started. "Do you know you're menstruating and have blood on the back of your shorts?"
To which she replied, "Huh?"
The woman repeated herself.
My step-sister repeated herself.
"Menstruating. Your period," I offered.
Well, sure enough. Off we went on the shuttle boat to take us back to the campground where a conversation about feminine protection ensued with my step-mom. Thin pads would be banned from our home. "I just don't know how anyone wears them without leaking through. They aren't good. We're going back to the thick ones. We'll get wings. We'll get the biggest ones we can find. There will be no leaking in our house unless it's the roof!"
Okay, I embellished that a little. BUT, not by much.
I went on to spend 1/4 of my monthly allowance on my feminine protection needs because there was no way I was using what was left in the bathroom for everyone's convienience. This also left me with the fixation on just how big these products can get and the women who use them.
Not only did I have a new answer, but also an example. I got this in the mail as a freebie.
A lot of the time, these new products lead me to disbelief. One great example is the tampon commercial a few years ago. A boy and girl are on a boat. The boat springs a leak. The girl reaches for a tampon. C'mon now. I don't want to give much thought to the woman who uses a product that can stop up a rowboat. I don't want to picture the woman who uses the super-duper-ulitmate anything. The commercial was wrong. I don't think I like the implication that my parts and workings need products designed for flood control. It offends me.
I was not thrilled with the introduction of "wings." Again, I don't appreciate that they are implying that I can't keep my stuff under control and that I need this added protection. This added protection, the time I was more or less forced to try it out, did little more than stick to my inner thigh instead of my drawers. Then you add the ones with wings that are about half the length of a football field, it leaves me wondering what the hell? I'm a short girl. I don't need protection that reaches from my belly button to my butt crack.
Not so surprising, I'm pretty sure when my obsession started. It was 4th grade when we watched that, "You're becoming a woman movie." We got the standard issue booklet. "Growing Up and Liking It." It's right here, the floral cover and all. http://www.mum.org/guli72a.htm
There was an order form in the back of the booklet for a "starter kit." Not only did I have to have one, but I talked my dad into ordering me two so I'd be extra prepared for my first day of womanhood. When the kit arrived, I don't know how many times I looked over the different types of maxi and mini-pads. I anticipated my first period like a fat kid looks forward to a trip to Hershey, PA. I knew exactly what I would use and when. I was well-versed, and practically had the book memorized over what I was about to experience.
And, then it happened. Let me tell you what. There was nothing magical about it. I don't know what all the hoopla was about, because quite frankly, there was nothing fun or special about it. Sure, I'd later be able to be a mother, blah blah blah, but I had better things to do with my time.
I hadn't been one of those womanly sorts long when the introduction of the thin-type thingies came on the market. This excited me. No longer did I walk around feeling like I had a crib mattress between my legs. The thinner, the better, in my estimation.
Then came the "incident." We were vacationing as a family at an amusement park. We camped across the lake. Turned loose to go to the park, I went with my step-sister. The younger kids went as a pack. We walked around. Rode some rides. We made a stop in the bathroom.
A woman tapped my step-sister on the shoulder. "Excuse me," she started. "Do you know you're menstruating and have blood on the back of your shorts?"
To which she replied, "Huh?"
The woman repeated herself.
My step-sister repeated herself.
"Menstruating. Your period," I offered.
Well, sure enough. Off we went on the shuttle boat to take us back to the campground where a conversation about feminine protection ensued with my step-mom. Thin pads would be banned from our home. "I just don't know how anyone wears them without leaking through. They aren't good. We're going back to the thick ones. We'll get wings. We'll get the biggest ones we can find. There will be no leaking in our house unless it's the roof!"
Okay, I embellished that a little. BUT, not by much.
I went on to spend 1/4 of my monthly allowance on my feminine protection needs because there was no way I was using what was left in the bathroom for everyone's convienience. This also left me with the fixation on just how big these products can get and the women who use them.
Not only did I have a new answer, but also an example. I got this in the mail as a freebie.
Now, if you'll notice that's my hand I'm holding it in. I have big hands for a girl. This baby is also folded into thirds. It's some sort of Kotex overnight, extra-long, winged beast.
The closest I can come to figuring out when this might come in handy is directly following the birth of triplets. I showed it my husband, expressing my disbelief. It was like I'd found a leprechaun in the bathroom, or something equally unbelievable. He didn't get it.
I asked him, "Suppose what you could do with this if you didn't use it as intended? I bet you could stop a sucking chest wound with it."
He only gave me this blank stare, and mumbled something about not knowing nothing about these kinds of things and he could live a very full life not knowing nothing about these kinds of things.
This made me think. In high school, for filler and entertainment, we made these lists for the newspaper. My favorite was "101 Uses for Leftover Turkey." The best response was, "Put the carcus on your head and scare old people."
I wonder if there are 101 uses for an oversized maxi-pad....
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Because I have learned to bite my tongue in certain situations....
...I'll share the story here.
I'm taking an Eng Comp class online. I'm not enjoying anything about this class. It's the thorn in my side. And while I thought that Gov't and Algebra would be my downfalls, it turns out, it might be this class. I have As in all classes going into week five. English Comp is my lowest grade right now.
The first part of the assignment this week was to post thoughts on peer reviews, and talk about the times we've had to offer constructive criticism. To summarize, I wrote it wasn't something we did in high school, that I'd read other writers' stuff, and that I never lasted long in the local writer's group because you could write down the contents of a can of Alpo, and everyone would tell you that it was fantastic writing. It was several paragraphs detailing these situations. I also mentioned substitute teaching a writing workshop class.
The same week, we had to upload the rough draft of our first assignment for peer review. I didn't like this much, and it pained me to upload something I knew that wasn't complete. (I did get some great responses that said I completed the assignment with little to fix. I knew what needed to be added, but for the sake of rough, I let it go.)
The next part of the assignment was to read the thoughts on peer review and reply to three. Reply. Comment. There was nothing about giving constructive criticism on the discussion board posting.
I'm probably going to hell for posting this, but it's one of those things that you have to see to believe.
I got this response from a classmate. This is the part that made me raise an eyebrow, and not the whole thing:
" I think that you might have had comas in some of the wrong places. I could be wrong though and you right. I do know that some of your wording in your sentences are too bunched together, as in it doesn't sound right. I think you might need to watch your words and focus on your words. Although, I need to as well. "
I took the high road and posted a mature response about unsolicited criticism, whether constructive or otherwise, and how I failed to see where it was part of the assignment to critique the discussion board post. I noted that I was thick-skinned, but what if someone read that and was struggling with the class? I added that unsolicited advice can be destructive.
What I really wanted to say was this:
"It's unfortunate that I have "comas" in the wrong places. Next time, I'll be sure to have one in the hospital. It's probably what keeps me from having that much needed focus and the ability to watch my words. "
I'm taking an Eng Comp class online. I'm not enjoying anything about this class. It's the thorn in my side. And while I thought that Gov't and Algebra would be my downfalls, it turns out, it might be this class. I have As in all classes going into week five. English Comp is my lowest grade right now.
The first part of the assignment this week was to post thoughts on peer reviews, and talk about the times we've had to offer constructive criticism. To summarize, I wrote it wasn't something we did in high school, that I'd read other writers' stuff, and that I never lasted long in the local writer's group because you could write down the contents of a can of Alpo, and everyone would tell you that it was fantastic writing. It was several paragraphs detailing these situations. I also mentioned substitute teaching a writing workshop class.
The same week, we had to upload the rough draft of our first assignment for peer review. I didn't like this much, and it pained me to upload something I knew that wasn't complete. (I did get some great responses that said I completed the assignment with little to fix. I knew what needed to be added, but for the sake of rough, I let it go.)
The next part of the assignment was to read the thoughts on peer review and reply to three. Reply. Comment. There was nothing about giving constructive criticism on the discussion board posting.
I'm probably going to hell for posting this, but it's one of those things that you have to see to believe.
I got this response from a classmate. This is the part that made me raise an eyebrow, and not the whole thing:
" I think that you might have had comas in some of the wrong places. I could be wrong though and you right. I do know that some of your wording in your sentences are too bunched together, as in it doesn't sound right. I think you might need to watch your words and focus on your words. Although, I need to as well. "
I took the high road and posted a mature response about unsolicited criticism, whether constructive or otherwise, and how I failed to see where it was part of the assignment to critique the discussion board post. I noted that I was thick-skinned, but what if someone read that and was struggling with the class? I added that unsolicited advice can be destructive.
What I really wanted to say was this:
"It's unfortunate that I have "comas" in the wrong places. Next time, I'll be sure to have one in the hospital. It's probably what keeps me from having that much needed focus and the ability to watch my words. "
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Let's Add Glossolalia to the Readin', 'Rriting, and 'Rithmetic
Over-freakin'-whelmed. Not just overwhelmed, but over-freakin'-whelmed. I wouldn't be surprised if I start speaking in tongues any minute now. Let me dazzle you with some Glossolalia. Or let me "Bedazzle" you, as suggested by a friend.
This is day four of this back to school adventure that I'm fondly referring to as, "She always said it would happen, but finally, she's lost her mind." The rest of my books arrived yesterday. I have a sneaking suspicion they toured greater Indiana before being dropped off at my doorstep. See? Even my books get to go farther than a one-county radius.
I had mixed emotions upon their arrival. I told the FedEx guy that he might be my hero because I really, really needed to get to work, but next semester, I couldn't promise that I might want to throw rocks at him. He thanked me for the warning. I told him he might want to run up to the steps, toss the package from a safe distance, and make a run for it. He didn't seem surprised because he lamented he's used to that kind of welcome.
Yesterday, I spent two hours in the first review section of the Basic Algebra book. This was only the review. This didn't count toward anything required for the first class session. This was for my benefit. Who knew Algebra could be so consuming and entertaining that I would suddenly look at the clock and realize it was almost time to leave for my Microcomputer class?
And, if that wasn't an experience in itself. I walked into the WorkOne building where the class is held. A woman, who seemingly worked there, looked around and asked a few of us, "What class are you here for?"
We answered Microcomputers. "Oh," she replied, "I'm not sure where they are having the computer class, but English and Math are back there."
Finally, someone with more gumption than I got up and didn't return. I looked at the guy sitting next to me and noted she must have found the class. I walked into the room, full of computers. Yes, I know. Quite a shock to me that a computer class would be held in a room full of computers. Why, the novelty of it.
I looked around, and surprisingly, I wasn't the oldest one in the class. There were a few youngins'. The next thing I noticed was the temperature of the room. It wasn't so much that I noticed as the sweat began trickling in places ladies shouldn't sweat in public. It had to have been 120 degrees. Either that, or I was in the midst of a hotflash. I haven't ruled that out.
As it turns out with this class, you're there to read the book and use the computer to do each assignment. It has been confirmed from an earlier post where I thought perhaps that I might need some reading glasses that it's a definite. Nothing like sitting in a sweaty heap with a bunch of other sweaty heaps while you're squinting and glistening.
I finished the first part of the assignment. Several women pleaded that a door or something be opened, and the professor insisted just as soon as the sun went down, we'd no longer be baking in that sunroom that doubled as a computer lab, and we'd cool off. He joked, "Who is bringing the ice next time?" I'd bypassed the point that even seeing someone fall out of their chair would not have amused me.
Just as soon as I get a copy of MSOffice 2007, I only have to return to the class long enough to hand in the assignments, as he doesn't lecture. I think he's only there to be sure nobody is surfing porn or opening a door for ventiliation, anyway.
The English Composition class I'm taking makes me scratch my head. Then when I scratch my head, I start thinking about a friend who's kids had head lice. Anytime I think about head lice, which I don't do on purpose, I scratch my head. Then I imagine I can feel something crawling in my scalp. So, really, it's best that I don't use the phrase "scratch my head" because it only distracts me.
Anyway, it's a touchy-feely textbook approach to writing. Personally, I haven't had my hands on anything so "gay" since I touched the Indian from the Village People. I know that sounds offensive, but I've never viewed writing as being all "puppies, kittens, unicorns, and rainbows." The book implies that one only needs to put words into a journal, and voila, they are a writer! It goes on to say you don't have to be published, paid, or even write a bestseller to be a writer. Whew, I'm so relieved to know that.
The government class will be the thorn in my side for the next four months. I don't know squat about politics. I memorized what I had to in order to pass high school government. Discussion of politics serves as a means for my husband to tell me that I'm tree-hugging Liberal. But, as it turns out, I lean more towards being a Libertarian.
But, on the brighter side of this mania that I'm knee-deep in, there are a few good points. One being that I'm finally getting that education and maybe one of these days, I'll amount to something. Another is that much like when I worked last fall, I feel like I have a greater purpose these days. Also, when I'm busy and the pistons are firing mentally, writing becomes easier. I actually love having things that I must do that serve as some sort of structure.
Now, so long as I don't start speaking in tongues, I'll be good to go.
This is day four of this back to school adventure that I'm fondly referring to as, "She always said it would happen, but finally, she's lost her mind." The rest of my books arrived yesterday. I have a sneaking suspicion they toured greater Indiana before being dropped off at my doorstep. See? Even my books get to go farther than a one-county radius.
I had mixed emotions upon their arrival. I told the FedEx guy that he might be my hero because I really, really needed to get to work, but next semester, I couldn't promise that I might want to throw rocks at him. He thanked me for the warning. I told him he might want to run up to the steps, toss the package from a safe distance, and make a run for it. He didn't seem surprised because he lamented he's used to that kind of welcome.
Yesterday, I spent two hours in the first review section of the Basic Algebra book. This was only the review. This didn't count toward anything required for the first class session. This was for my benefit. Who knew Algebra could be so consuming and entertaining that I would suddenly look at the clock and realize it was almost time to leave for my Microcomputer class?
And, if that wasn't an experience in itself. I walked into the WorkOne building where the class is held. A woman, who seemingly worked there, looked around and asked a few of us, "What class are you here for?"
We answered Microcomputers. "Oh," she replied, "I'm not sure where they are having the computer class, but English and Math are back there."
Finally, someone with more gumption than I got up and didn't return. I looked at the guy sitting next to me and noted she must have found the class. I walked into the room, full of computers. Yes, I know. Quite a shock to me that a computer class would be held in a room full of computers. Why, the novelty of it.
I looked around, and surprisingly, I wasn't the oldest one in the class. There were a few youngins'. The next thing I noticed was the temperature of the room. It wasn't so much that I noticed as the sweat began trickling in places ladies shouldn't sweat in public. It had to have been 120 degrees. Either that, or I was in the midst of a hotflash. I haven't ruled that out.
As it turns out with this class, you're there to read the book and use the computer to do each assignment. It has been confirmed from an earlier post where I thought perhaps that I might need some reading glasses that it's a definite. Nothing like sitting in a sweaty heap with a bunch of other sweaty heaps while you're squinting and glistening.
I finished the first part of the assignment. Several women pleaded that a door or something be opened, and the professor insisted just as soon as the sun went down, we'd no longer be baking in that sunroom that doubled as a computer lab, and we'd cool off. He joked, "Who is bringing the ice next time?" I'd bypassed the point that even seeing someone fall out of their chair would not have amused me.
Just as soon as I get a copy of MSOffice 2007, I only have to return to the class long enough to hand in the assignments, as he doesn't lecture. I think he's only there to be sure nobody is surfing porn or opening a door for ventiliation, anyway.
The English Composition class I'm taking makes me scratch my head. Then when I scratch my head, I start thinking about a friend who's kids had head lice. Anytime I think about head lice, which I don't do on purpose, I scratch my head. Then I imagine I can feel something crawling in my scalp. So, really, it's best that I don't use the phrase "scratch my head" because it only distracts me.
Anyway, it's a touchy-feely textbook approach to writing. Personally, I haven't had my hands on anything so "gay" since I touched the Indian from the Village People. I know that sounds offensive, but I've never viewed writing as being all "puppies, kittens, unicorns, and rainbows." The book implies that one only needs to put words into a journal, and voila, they are a writer! It goes on to say you don't have to be published, paid, or even write a bestseller to be a writer. Whew, I'm so relieved to know that.
The government class will be the thorn in my side for the next four months. I don't know squat about politics. I memorized what I had to in order to pass high school government. Discussion of politics serves as a means for my husband to tell me that I'm tree-hugging Liberal. But, as it turns out, I lean more towards being a Libertarian.
But, on the brighter side of this mania that I'm knee-deep in, there are a few good points. One being that I'm finally getting that education and maybe one of these days, I'll amount to something. Another is that much like when I worked last fall, I feel like I have a greater purpose these days. Also, when I'm busy and the pistons are firing mentally, writing becomes easier. I actually love having things that I must do that serve as some sort of structure.
Now, so long as I don't start speaking in tongues, I'll be good to go.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Introduction to Back to School...or Just Listen to Me Cry
I can't believe it's been nearly two months since I last popped in here to rant, rave, lament, or enlighten. Okay, so that last one might be a stretch. But, time flies when you're in the midst of losing your mind due to summer vacation.
As I've said for years, the summer went by way too fast...but, there were some really, really long days. This school year finds me the parent of a high school sophomore and a freshman in college. It also finds me a freshman in college myself.
Yes, that's right. I decided, against my better judgement, that it was time for me to get an education. "School starts in two months," "School starts in one month," "School starts in two weeks," has becomes "School starts TODAY."
Three of my classes - Intro to Gov't, Basic Algebra, and English Comp - are online classes. The fourth is Microcomputers, which I'm taking nearby at a satellite office for the community college.
Yesterday, I got a few introductory emails. One of which was the Pol 101 class. Since I had my book, and an outline of the first assignment, I decided I'd start reading. There are a couple observations I made when I opened the textbook and began reading:
1. I'm going to need some reading glasses, I suspect. I don't recall the print being so small in the last textbook that I had my hands on. 26 pages in this book was equivalent to 60 pages in a novel, and not nearly as entertaining.
2. I don't know beans from applesauce about politics or the government. I mean, I know a thing or two, but my knowledge or desire to know about things political ranks right up there with my desire to give birth again.
3. My husband might not be a whole lot of help to me for this class. I called him into the bedroom to ask a question. He stood outside the door when I said, "I got a question." He looked at me and said, "O'bama. He's the president. First name, Barack." The second time I asked a question, he walked to the door and said, "That's Princess Pelosi. The Speaker of the House. Be sure to call her that. That'll get you some extra credit."
4. I know full well where my kids were coming from when they'd hide under the dining room table during homework time crying, "I can't do it. I don't get it. I don't understand. You're confusing me. I'm never going to school again. I hate this!"
I seriously don't know where to start. I'm doing my best to figure out how to organize and keep track of what is due when, and what kind of schedule I need to keep in order to get everything accomplished on a timely basis. Part of me wants to think that the online route might not have been the best decision this first semester, but here I am, and with enrollment up 30%, there are no other options but to continue the courseload for which I'm signed up.
Strangely enough, the class that scares me the most is the English Comp class. I looked over the syllabus. In three weeks, I have to write some sort of Explanatory paper. I have to interview someone who is in the field that I want to go into. Wait...they expect me to know what I want to do? I haven't even made up my mind. While I'm leaning towards Psychology, I haven't fully decided. The idea is to do something I might enjoy while also earning a bit of cash in the process.
I was also shocked that rough drafts are to be saved on your hard drive, available to be uploaded to the Professor if requested. Rough drafts? I haven't written a rough draft, even of a column, for at least 8 years. But, I keep telling myself, it's one short semester, and I can likely pull this off even though I only have a vague memory of quoting resources and researching to write a paper.
Interestingly, it wasn't hard to see the "personality" of the teacher in each of those emails about the classes. I'd go so far to say that one of them doesn't enjoy his job or his life very much. Another seems quite personable and eager to teach. The third, I'm guessing, enjoys the powertrip associated with dealing out grades, which I'd guess never are higher than a B+ just based on the principle of it all.
I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm terrified about getting good grades and being able to handle the responsibilities of a family and schoolwork. Though, I do know that plenty of people do it on a daily basis and even manage to hold down a full-time job while going back to school. I keep reminding myself that in four years, I'll be 44 regardless of whether I pursue a degree or not.
Today, I'm crossing my fingers that the rest of my books arrive. If not, I guess it's me and democracy.
As I've said for years, the summer went by way too fast...but, there were some really, really long days. This school year finds me the parent of a high school sophomore and a freshman in college. It also finds me a freshman in college myself.
Yes, that's right. I decided, against my better judgement, that it was time for me to get an education. "School starts in two months," "School starts in one month," "School starts in two weeks," has becomes "School starts TODAY."
Three of my classes - Intro to Gov't, Basic Algebra, and English Comp - are online classes. The fourth is Microcomputers, which I'm taking nearby at a satellite office for the community college.
Yesterday, I got a few introductory emails. One of which was the Pol 101 class. Since I had my book, and an outline of the first assignment, I decided I'd start reading. There are a couple observations I made when I opened the textbook and began reading:
1. I'm going to need some reading glasses, I suspect. I don't recall the print being so small in the last textbook that I had my hands on. 26 pages in this book was equivalent to 60 pages in a novel, and not nearly as entertaining.
2. I don't know beans from applesauce about politics or the government. I mean, I know a thing or two, but my knowledge or desire to know about things political ranks right up there with my desire to give birth again.
3. My husband might not be a whole lot of help to me for this class. I called him into the bedroom to ask a question. He stood outside the door when I said, "I got a question." He looked at me and said, "O'bama. He's the president. First name, Barack." The second time I asked a question, he walked to the door and said, "That's Princess Pelosi. The Speaker of the House. Be sure to call her that. That'll get you some extra credit."
4. I know full well where my kids were coming from when they'd hide under the dining room table during homework time crying, "I can't do it. I don't get it. I don't understand. You're confusing me. I'm never going to school again. I hate this!"
I seriously don't know where to start. I'm doing my best to figure out how to organize and keep track of what is due when, and what kind of schedule I need to keep in order to get everything accomplished on a timely basis. Part of me wants to think that the online route might not have been the best decision this first semester, but here I am, and with enrollment up 30%, there are no other options but to continue the courseload for which I'm signed up.
Strangely enough, the class that scares me the most is the English Comp class. I looked over the syllabus. In three weeks, I have to write some sort of Explanatory paper. I have to interview someone who is in the field that I want to go into. Wait...they expect me to know what I want to do? I haven't even made up my mind. While I'm leaning towards Psychology, I haven't fully decided. The idea is to do something I might enjoy while also earning a bit of cash in the process.
I was also shocked that rough drafts are to be saved on your hard drive, available to be uploaded to the Professor if requested. Rough drafts? I haven't written a rough draft, even of a column, for at least 8 years. But, I keep telling myself, it's one short semester, and I can likely pull this off even though I only have a vague memory of quoting resources and researching to write a paper.
Interestingly, it wasn't hard to see the "personality" of the teacher in each of those emails about the classes. I'd go so far to say that one of them doesn't enjoy his job or his life very much. Another seems quite personable and eager to teach. The third, I'm guessing, enjoys the powertrip associated with dealing out grades, which I'd guess never are higher than a B+ just based on the principle of it all.
I'd be lying if I didn't say I'm terrified about getting good grades and being able to handle the responsibilities of a family and schoolwork. Though, I do know that plenty of people do it on a daily basis and even manage to hold down a full-time job while going back to school. I keep reminding myself that in four years, I'll be 44 regardless of whether I pursue a degree or not.
Today, I'm crossing my fingers that the rest of my books arrive. If not, I guess it's me and democracy.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Run, Run Away
About a million years ago, I graduated high school. I turned my tassel with the class of 1987 after crossing the stage and receiving my diploma, my passport to the rest of my life. While I said I wouldn't cry, I did. I cried because I was excited. I cried because I realized a chapter of my life finished, the big world outside the halls of my small school awaited. I knew I'd miss my friends. My emotions were mixed.
I'd changed my mind about a bazillion times about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Briefly, the desire to be a pom-pom girl was my goal. Okay, so I was seven years old, and pom-poms were hard to come by. If I were a cheerleader by profession, I'd get pom-poms because my parents, and even Santa, weren't budging on my request.
Then through the years, I thought about being a lawyer. I seemed to have a natural talent for debate and quick rebuttal. When I announced this career choice, my dad looked a bit overwhelmed over the prospect of many years of schooling.
I decided, well, if finances are an issue, I'll be a beautician. That idea was nixed by my Dad and his wife at the time. "You're too smart to cut hair," they told me.
Back to the drawing board. For a couple months, I entertained the idea of being an interior decorator. It looked like a fun job. I didn't know squat about color schemes, but what the heck. I could give it a go.
One silly idea led to another, and I finally settled on Journalism. I took my SAT and submitted college applications. When my school of choice, Indiana University, accepted me with no problem, I could not have been happier.
You see, I had this idea that the farther away I went, the better off I would be. My teen years were comprised of having my confidence and self-esteem whittled down by the step-mom my dad was married to. She was a horrible woman, but that story is best saved for another time.
I'd never been away from home, save the week I spent at a Journalism camp at a college 45 minutes from home. Even then, a boy from my school was there at the same time. Indiana University was 3 1/2 hours away, and really the farthest away I could go without paying for a private college. I was running away under the guise of going to college.
Two weeks before I left for college, my step-mom cornered me and said, "I hope you have the money to pay because we aren't." Well, that was an interesting turn of events. Not surprising, but interesting. For four years, I stayed captive in that home (I use that term lightly) because of the promise of an education. "If you move in with your mom, we aren't paying. If you stay here, get good grades, you can go to college."
I'd been deceived. It was a blow that knocked the air right out of me. I didn't know what to do.
Financial aid was out because I didn't qualify for anything but a $400 grant. No government loans because the family contribution was everything but that $400. I borrowed a couple thousand from my grandma, which was only enough to pay for the first semester. For all intents and purposes, I was screwed. Royally.
Essentially, I accepted my defeat before I ever left for I.U. My step-mom managed to cause me distress from 200 miles away. When I didn't receive my weekly spending money of $20 that Dad had allotted me, she'd say she sent it and I was lying. I tried finding a part-time job on or off campus, but since I had no job experience (thanks to constant sabotage in earlier years by the step-mom), I wasn't even called for an interview. I didn't even have money for shampoo or soap, much less to hang out with anyone in my dorm.
I felt helpless. I was terribly homesick. It didn't help that the girl next door to me smoked pot in her room on an almost nightly basis. The smoke wafted through the phone box we shared. "Shh," she'd say through the box. "Don't tell, please." Of course, I wouldn't tell, and in fact, I had no clue what the smell of burning tires was until my roommate clued me in when she stuck her head between the rooms and inhaled deeply hoping to catch a "contact buzz."
My roommate, she was a darling girl, I must say. She and her best friend would come in at about 2 on most mornings, drunk and laughing. I was a little less than amused when she'd fall out of her top bunk and attempt to crawl into bed with me on the lower bunk. I had classes every day at 8 a.m. It made for a long day with little sleep.
I couldn't handle another week of it, so I dropped out at six weeks. I was miserable, overwhelmed, defeated, and just wanted to go home. Though, I had no real home to go home to. In the meantime, all of my things had been deposited into a closet and I didn't have a room anymore at my dad's house.
I went to my mom's, got a job, got an apartment, and the rest is history.
Maybe I could have figured something out. Maybe I could have found help if I would have known who to turn to for it. It wasn't like I had the internet at my fingertips to surf to see what my options were. I didn't know the options. I didn't know where to turn for the answers. I tucked tail and ran for the hills.
After 22 years, I've decided once again it's time to give this college thing a go. I'd be lying if I didn't say I was terrified. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Though, I'm going to focus on the general education classes that I'd have to take despite my choice of a major.
I'll not feign confidence and say I know I can do this. I don't expect it to be easy. Like I was at 18, I'm certainly in need of some guidance and good advice. There's little solace in being told, "If I can do it, you can do it," by those my age who have returned to school. When I glance over classes and descriptions, reading what is expected of the student, I want to run away, forget all about it, and look for a really good excuse like, "I'm too old for this."
The "too old" excuse is the best I can come up with right now. I've used the "the kids are young" and "I don't think I can get financial aid." Well, as it turns out, the kids are no longer young. My oldest will be attending the same college as I. I was able to get a chunk of financial aid in a government loan because I'm a displaced worker after being laid off.
I know I'm not too old. So, now, it's up to me to decide I can and will do this, even though I don't have the slightest clue what I'm getting myself into. No excuses. No running away. Not this time.
I'd changed my mind about a bazillion times about what I wanted to be when I grew up. Briefly, the desire to be a pom-pom girl was my goal. Okay, so I was seven years old, and pom-poms were hard to come by. If I were a cheerleader by profession, I'd get pom-poms because my parents, and even Santa, weren't budging on my request.
Then through the years, I thought about being a lawyer. I seemed to have a natural talent for debate and quick rebuttal. When I announced this career choice, my dad looked a bit overwhelmed over the prospect of many years of schooling.
I decided, well, if finances are an issue, I'll be a beautician. That idea was nixed by my Dad and his wife at the time. "You're too smart to cut hair," they told me.
Back to the drawing board. For a couple months, I entertained the idea of being an interior decorator. It looked like a fun job. I didn't know squat about color schemes, but what the heck. I could give it a go.
One silly idea led to another, and I finally settled on Journalism. I took my SAT and submitted college applications. When my school of choice, Indiana University, accepted me with no problem, I could not have been happier.
You see, I had this idea that the farther away I went, the better off I would be. My teen years were comprised of having my confidence and self-esteem whittled down by the step-mom my dad was married to. She was a horrible woman, but that story is best saved for another time.
I'd never been away from home, save the week I spent at a Journalism camp at a college 45 minutes from home. Even then, a boy from my school was there at the same time. Indiana University was 3 1/2 hours away, and really the farthest away I could go without paying for a private college. I was running away under the guise of going to college.
Two weeks before I left for college, my step-mom cornered me and said, "I hope you have the money to pay because we aren't." Well, that was an interesting turn of events. Not surprising, but interesting. For four years, I stayed captive in that home (I use that term lightly) because of the promise of an education. "If you move in with your mom, we aren't paying. If you stay here, get good grades, you can go to college."
I'd been deceived. It was a blow that knocked the air right out of me. I didn't know what to do.
Financial aid was out because I didn't qualify for anything but a $400 grant. No government loans because the family contribution was everything but that $400. I borrowed a couple thousand from my grandma, which was only enough to pay for the first semester. For all intents and purposes, I was screwed. Royally.
Essentially, I accepted my defeat before I ever left for I.U. My step-mom managed to cause me distress from 200 miles away. When I didn't receive my weekly spending money of $20 that Dad had allotted me, she'd say she sent it and I was lying. I tried finding a part-time job on or off campus, but since I had no job experience (thanks to constant sabotage in earlier years by the step-mom), I wasn't even called for an interview. I didn't even have money for shampoo or soap, much less to hang out with anyone in my dorm.
I felt helpless. I was terribly homesick. It didn't help that the girl next door to me smoked pot in her room on an almost nightly basis. The smoke wafted through the phone box we shared. "Shh," she'd say through the box. "Don't tell, please." Of course, I wouldn't tell, and in fact, I had no clue what the smell of burning tires was until my roommate clued me in when she stuck her head between the rooms and inhaled deeply hoping to catch a "contact buzz."
My roommate, she was a darling girl, I must say. She and her best friend would come in at about 2 on most mornings, drunk and laughing. I was a little less than amused when she'd fall out of her top bunk and attempt to crawl into bed with me on the lower bunk. I had classes every day at 8 a.m. It made for a long day with little sleep.
I couldn't handle another week of it, so I dropped out at six weeks. I was miserable, overwhelmed, defeated, and just wanted to go home. Though, I had no real home to go home to. In the meantime, all of my things had been deposited into a closet and I didn't have a room anymore at my dad's house.
I went to my mom's, got a job, got an apartment, and the rest is history.
Maybe I could have figured something out. Maybe I could have found help if I would have known who to turn to for it. It wasn't like I had the internet at my fingertips to surf to see what my options were. I didn't know the options. I didn't know where to turn for the answers. I tucked tail and ran for the hills.
After 22 years, I've decided once again it's time to give this college thing a go. I'd be lying if I didn't say I was terrified. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Though, I'm going to focus on the general education classes that I'd have to take despite my choice of a major.
I'll not feign confidence and say I know I can do this. I don't expect it to be easy. Like I was at 18, I'm certainly in need of some guidance and good advice. There's little solace in being told, "If I can do it, you can do it," by those my age who have returned to school. When I glance over classes and descriptions, reading what is expected of the student, I want to run away, forget all about it, and look for a really good excuse like, "I'm too old for this."
The "too old" excuse is the best I can come up with right now. I've used the "the kids are young" and "I don't think I can get financial aid." Well, as it turns out, the kids are no longer young. My oldest will be attending the same college as I. I was able to get a chunk of financial aid in a government loan because I'm a displaced worker after being laid off.
I know I'm not too old. So, now, it's up to me to decide I can and will do this, even though I don't have the slightest clue what I'm getting myself into. No excuses. No running away. Not this time.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Facebooking 101
I recently had a chance to catch up with an old friend via a phone call. We'd ran into each other again on Facebook, and I was so happy to talk to him. We got to talking about Facebook, and the things that drive us nuts.
He told me about a time he'd been deleted by a friend. It was rather a humorous story. His main offense was that he posted a quiz result. This offended a friend of his, and she zapped him like a bug. Over a Facebook quiz! As if they're accurate. Most are probably written by some bored 13 year old girl and her gaggle of friends. Check the grammar and spelling in the results sometime. See? It's not like a team of scientists and psychologists have carefully constructed the quizzes and when they say you're crazy, you damn well better listen.
It's just a Facebook quiz.
Really, I had to laugh because I, too, have deleted people who weren't close friends per se because they annoyed me. Probably those who know me best would pose the question right now, "What doesn't annoy you?" Good question, but there are things that bother me about these social networking sites.
I had a Myspace account for a good long while, and the thing that struck me the most about it is that Myspace could make adults carry-on like they were 14 years old. "You moved me from your top four friends, so I moved you out of my top friends." "Why aren't I your top friend anymore?"
I saw, and was involved, in my fairshare of Myspace wars. I finally deleted it after reaching the conclusion that Facebook didn't cultivate a playground mentality. At least not with the notion that one has the ability to tell the world who they like best on their friend list. And don't even think about randomizing your friends because that'll likely strike a nerve with the person who used to be your number three. I have to say, I don't miss Myspace at all.
That's not to say that Facebook doesn't bring its own set of annoyances. I've gotten the distinct impression that the biggest Facebook crime involves the status update. I'm not the only one who feel like I don't need a play-by-play of your trip to work. I've seen others lament that after 15 status updates in one hour's time, they've clicked the "X" beside someone's name.
This would be one example:
7:42 - I'm off to work. I'm running late.
7:45 - Stuck in traffic, running even more late for work.
7:48 - I was nearly t-boned at the stoplight. (I can't imagine why if you're sending updates and not paying attention while driving.)
7:51 - I'm going to need to have my brakes checked soon. I will do that after work.
7:59 - I'm running into work from the parking lot so I won't be late.
8:01 - I just dumped a hot cup of coffee in my lap. I think I have third degree burns on unmentionable parts. I'm off to the ER.
Really, I could have waited to read something like, "I was running late for work, got stuck in traffic, nearly died when I was t-boned, and now, after spilling coffee in my lap, I'm going to the ER because I see blisters on my hoo-hah."
It seems the status update is there to inform, enlighten, entertain, maybe offer a public service announcement. Perhaps, they are a good way to start a rousing conversation with your peers. I'm partial to the witty, sarcastic, and sometimes even cryptic updates.
I'm not partial, however, to the ones that turn into church sermons.
I don't know, maybe I'm missing something here, and God has decided to use the forum that is Facebook to preach to the masses. The pulpit, perhaps, has been replaced by a keyboard. I don't begrudge anyone their faith. I'm happy you have faith in something. That's a-okay with me. I know plenty of people who go to church on Sunday and for whatever reason don't make every other status update about thanking Jesus.
I understand if you want to add a little update after nearly being t-boned that you are thanking God that you were not. I'm only slightly disturbed by the fact that you don't have anything else to say unless you're collecting the jewels to throw at the feet of God when you witness in the end. Again, more power to you if you love church. But the thing is, if I want a sermon, I'll go to church.com or to an actual church...that's the building with the steeple, right?
Another status update that annoys me is the "gloom and doom, whining, my life sucks" posting. It's like catching an ongoing episode of "Hee-Haw," with a loop of the whole "if it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."
I'm sorry if you're life sucks. Sometimes, mine sucks, too. I'd hope if someone thought Debbie Downer had taken over my keyboard, they'd give me a head's up about it.
I remember back in my chatroom days, there was one chick who didn't go into the chatroom unless she had something to complain about. She couldn't help but take pride in letting everyone know that her life was far worse than anyone else's. I think in one month, her dog died, her teenage daughter got pregnant, she had to have a boil lanced, she found out she had chronic fatigue syndrome, her ulcer was acting up, she lost her favorite ring, and she had a hangnail.
One other type of person I don't get is the "friend collector." They are sort of like "soul collector," but not quite all burning in hell for an eternity. I once received a friend request from someone who was a year or so behind me in high school. I don't recall really ever having a conversation with the person. That might have mattered when we roamed the halls of education. But now, I don't care if I never uttered a peep to you back in the day. If you're funny, nice, and somehow enrich my life, I'll happily add you.
That is if you actually talk to me. When I clicked add, and went to this person's page, I realized she'd added every person listed under our high school. I guess there was a race I wasn't aware of to see how many people from one institution you could add. The concept was very strange to me. Was there an award for having the most friends that I didn't know about?
I know there's a Facebook option to hide the person's feed on the main page. I've done that. I've hid people who rub my mind sore and make me want to tell them to shut up. It's funny, though, that I would be friends with the person to begin with. I don't necessarily want to hurt someone's feelings by deleting them. I also don't want to to reach the point that I've had all I can stand, and I can't take it no more, and I'm wishing I could reach through the monitor and strangle them.
Sure, I hid them, but I still knew they were there. Like a glutton for punishment, I would occasionally click on the option to show hidden posts. Finally, I had to do some weeding because the temptation was too great.
Yeah, Facebook is a great way to stay in touch, squander some time, and seek out some entertainment...so long as you don't annoy your friends and acquaintances to the point of someone clicking the "X."
He told me about a time he'd been deleted by a friend. It was rather a humorous story. His main offense was that he posted a quiz result. This offended a friend of his, and she zapped him like a bug. Over a Facebook quiz! As if they're accurate. Most are probably written by some bored 13 year old girl and her gaggle of friends. Check the grammar and spelling in the results sometime. See? It's not like a team of scientists and psychologists have carefully constructed the quizzes and when they say you're crazy, you damn well better listen.
It's just a Facebook quiz.
Really, I had to laugh because I, too, have deleted people who weren't close friends per se because they annoyed me. Probably those who know me best would pose the question right now, "What doesn't annoy you?" Good question, but there are things that bother me about these social networking sites.
I had a Myspace account for a good long while, and the thing that struck me the most about it is that Myspace could make adults carry-on like they were 14 years old. "You moved me from your top four friends, so I moved you out of my top friends." "Why aren't I your top friend anymore?"
I saw, and was involved, in my fairshare of Myspace wars. I finally deleted it after reaching the conclusion that Facebook didn't cultivate a playground mentality. At least not with the notion that one has the ability to tell the world who they like best on their friend list. And don't even think about randomizing your friends because that'll likely strike a nerve with the person who used to be your number three. I have to say, I don't miss Myspace at all.
That's not to say that Facebook doesn't bring its own set of annoyances. I've gotten the distinct impression that the biggest Facebook crime involves the status update. I'm not the only one who feel like I don't need a play-by-play of your trip to work. I've seen others lament that after 15 status updates in one hour's time, they've clicked the "X" beside someone's name.
This would be one example:
7:42 - I'm off to work. I'm running late.
7:45 - Stuck in traffic, running even more late for work.
7:48 - I was nearly t-boned at the stoplight. (I can't imagine why if you're sending updates and not paying attention while driving.)
7:51 - I'm going to need to have my brakes checked soon. I will do that after work.
7:59 - I'm running into work from the parking lot so I won't be late.
8:01 - I just dumped a hot cup of coffee in my lap. I think I have third degree burns on unmentionable parts. I'm off to the ER.
Really, I could have waited to read something like, "I was running late for work, got stuck in traffic, nearly died when I was t-boned, and now, after spilling coffee in my lap, I'm going to the ER because I see blisters on my hoo-hah."
It seems the status update is there to inform, enlighten, entertain, maybe offer a public service announcement. Perhaps, they are a good way to start a rousing conversation with your peers. I'm partial to the witty, sarcastic, and sometimes even cryptic updates.
I'm not partial, however, to the ones that turn into church sermons.
I don't know, maybe I'm missing something here, and God has decided to use the forum that is Facebook to preach to the masses. The pulpit, perhaps, has been replaced by a keyboard. I don't begrudge anyone their faith. I'm happy you have faith in something. That's a-okay with me. I know plenty of people who go to church on Sunday and for whatever reason don't make every other status update about thanking Jesus.
I understand if you want to add a little update after nearly being t-boned that you are thanking God that you were not. I'm only slightly disturbed by the fact that you don't have anything else to say unless you're collecting the jewels to throw at the feet of God when you witness in the end. Again, more power to you if you love church. But the thing is, if I want a sermon, I'll go to church.com or to an actual church...that's the building with the steeple, right?
Another status update that annoys me is the "gloom and doom, whining, my life sucks" posting. It's like catching an ongoing episode of "Hee-Haw," with a loop of the whole "if it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."
I'm sorry if you're life sucks. Sometimes, mine sucks, too. I'd hope if someone thought Debbie Downer had taken over my keyboard, they'd give me a head's up about it.
I remember back in my chatroom days, there was one chick who didn't go into the chatroom unless she had something to complain about. She couldn't help but take pride in letting everyone know that her life was far worse than anyone else's. I think in one month, her dog died, her teenage daughter got pregnant, she had to have a boil lanced, she found out she had chronic fatigue syndrome, her ulcer was acting up, she lost her favorite ring, and she had a hangnail.
One other type of person I don't get is the "friend collector." They are sort of like "soul collector," but not quite all burning in hell for an eternity. I once received a friend request from someone who was a year or so behind me in high school. I don't recall really ever having a conversation with the person. That might have mattered when we roamed the halls of education. But now, I don't care if I never uttered a peep to you back in the day. If you're funny, nice, and somehow enrich my life, I'll happily add you.
That is if you actually talk to me. When I clicked add, and went to this person's page, I realized she'd added every person listed under our high school. I guess there was a race I wasn't aware of to see how many people from one institution you could add. The concept was very strange to me. Was there an award for having the most friends that I didn't know about?
I know there's a Facebook option to hide the person's feed on the main page. I've done that. I've hid people who rub my mind sore and make me want to tell them to shut up. It's funny, though, that I would be friends with the person to begin with. I don't necessarily want to hurt someone's feelings by deleting them. I also don't want to to reach the point that I've had all I can stand, and I can't take it no more, and I'm wishing I could reach through the monitor and strangle them.
Sure, I hid them, but I still knew they were there. Like a glutton for punishment, I would occasionally click on the option to show hidden posts. Finally, I had to do some weeding because the temptation was too great.
Yeah, Facebook is a great way to stay in touch, squander some time, and seek out some entertainment...so long as you don't annoy your friends and acquaintances to the point of someone clicking the "X."
Motherhood Might Be Deadly
(A friend on Facebook suggested we stop focusing on the bad things that can kill us like cancer, heart problems, environmental hazards, and take a look at the fact our children might do us in...I concur. This is an older column.)
I always had this sneaking suspicion that my children were trying to kill me. There have been plenty of incidents in my nearly 16 years of parenting to back up this theory, too. In retrospect, they’ve been at it all along.
The first inkling was pregnancy and childbirth. The nausea and heartburn, plus over 24 hours of natural childbirth (compounded with back labor, and my friend Pitocin to speed things along the second time), was enough to make me wish for the relief that death would bring. I wasn’t sure I would survive bringing them into this world. That should have been the first clue.
Then they started doing things like playing in the dog's water, creating a small lake on the kitchen floor, to see if they could mangle, dismember, spindle, and mutilate me when I careened across the floor. They’ve spilled shampoo in the bathtub that left me slipping and taking down the shower curtain when I grabbed something to hold onto.
There was the assault by a toddler with a frozen 2 1/2 lb. chocolate Easter bunny that left a bruise on my shoulder that turned every color of a jellybean before it dissipated. I've had my feet ran over, and skin peeled from my heels with shopping carts to the point that I've hobbled out of the grocery when they were just trying to help me out by pushing the cart.
Speaking of feet, I've had a broken toe from being stomped. The last time my youngest stepped on my toe, which felt more like he was prying off my toenail with a pair of vice grips, it was suggested I give up wearing flip-flops and wear "real" shoes.
I've been hit in the head by footballs, baseballs, matchbox cars, shoes (while I was driving, nonetheless), and dirty underwear. I've been ran into by a child on a four-wheeler. I've gone for the ride of my life in a go-kart being driven by a child.
Every time I open the freezer after one of them has rummaged around looking for something to eat, which is no less than 17 times a day, I have to be ready to duck or catch things. It reminds a bit of my high school days when my locker got stacked. I was seeing stars one day after being attacked by a very large package of frozen chicken breasts. A rump roast has also assaulted me.
I've had bruises, burns, knots, and scratches. That's only the physical stuff, too. They've taken years off my life, no doubt, and caused all sorts of mental anguish worrying about them. I guess it could be considered physical, too, because undoubtedly the white hairs that continue to crop up are probably caused from excessive worry and concern.
It's a mission they continue to this very day. The proof being when I opened the fridge this morning, and before I could even react, a bottle of Louisiana hot sauce took flight. An uncapped bottle, might I add. The moment couldn't have been choreographed better if special effects were used.
The bottle landed on the top of my foot, the impact causing hot sauce to shoot geyser-like, which landed on my face and in my eye. Oh, and down my leg and all over my foot, too. Let me share a fact that most probably would never give much thought to...hot sauce, eyeballs, and contact lenses do not mix. Also, skin that is allowed to have prolonged contact with hot sauce (say five minutes or so while one is madly flushing her eye with water and cleaning off a contact) tends to get a little inflamed and red. A bit reminiscent of a chemical burn.
I don't know what happened to the lid to the hot sauce. No idea, but when I can see again, I might look for it. For now, it remains a mystery, much like why my children have the urge to off their mother. Maybe next year for Mother's Day, I'll ask for some goggles, steel-toed boots, knee and shin guards, and a helmet.
I always had this sneaking suspicion that my children were trying to kill me. There have been plenty of incidents in my nearly 16 years of parenting to back up this theory, too. In retrospect, they’ve been at it all along.
The first inkling was pregnancy and childbirth. The nausea and heartburn, plus over 24 hours of natural childbirth (compounded with back labor, and my friend Pitocin to speed things along the second time), was enough to make me wish for the relief that death would bring. I wasn’t sure I would survive bringing them into this world. That should have been the first clue.
Then they started doing things like playing in the dog's water, creating a small lake on the kitchen floor, to see if they could mangle, dismember, spindle, and mutilate me when I careened across the floor. They’ve spilled shampoo in the bathtub that left me slipping and taking down the shower curtain when I grabbed something to hold onto.
There was the assault by a toddler with a frozen 2 1/2 lb. chocolate Easter bunny that left a bruise on my shoulder that turned every color of a jellybean before it dissipated. I've had my feet ran over, and skin peeled from my heels with shopping carts to the point that I've hobbled out of the grocery when they were just trying to help me out by pushing the cart.
Speaking of feet, I've had a broken toe from being stomped. The last time my youngest stepped on my toe, which felt more like he was prying off my toenail with a pair of vice grips, it was suggested I give up wearing flip-flops and wear "real" shoes.
I've been hit in the head by footballs, baseballs, matchbox cars, shoes (while I was driving, nonetheless), and dirty underwear. I've been ran into by a child on a four-wheeler. I've gone for the ride of my life in a go-kart being driven by a child.
Every time I open the freezer after one of them has rummaged around looking for something to eat, which is no less than 17 times a day, I have to be ready to duck or catch things. It reminds a bit of my high school days when my locker got stacked. I was seeing stars one day after being attacked by a very large package of frozen chicken breasts. A rump roast has also assaulted me.
I've had bruises, burns, knots, and scratches. That's only the physical stuff, too. They've taken years off my life, no doubt, and caused all sorts of mental anguish worrying about them. I guess it could be considered physical, too, because undoubtedly the white hairs that continue to crop up are probably caused from excessive worry and concern.
It's a mission they continue to this very day. The proof being when I opened the fridge this morning, and before I could even react, a bottle of Louisiana hot sauce took flight. An uncapped bottle, might I add. The moment couldn't have been choreographed better if special effects were used.
The bottle landed on the top of my foot, the impact causing hot sauce to shoot geyser-like, which landed on my face and in my eye. Oh, and down my leg and all over my foot, too. Let me share a fact that most probably would never give much thought to...hot sauce, eyeballs, and contact lenses do not mix. Also, skin that is allowed to have prolonged contact with hot sauce (say five minutes or so while one is madly flushing her eye with water and cleaning off a contact) tends to get a little inflamed and red. A bit reminiscent of a chemical burn.
I don't know what happened to the lid to the hot sauce. No idea, but when I can see again, I might look for it. For now, it remains a mystery, much like why my children have the urge to off their mother. Maybe next year for Mother's Day, I'll ask for some goggles, steel-toed boots, knee and shin guards, and a helmet.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Year of the Mikes
There must have been a secret alliance of boys named Mike who set out to pick on girls named Kelly in first grade. Every time I turned around, one of them was poking, pushing, or shoving me. By the end of first grade, they were everywhere taunting me. I didn’t want them near me on the playground or in line; it became obvious they enjoyed annoying me.
It all started on the playground. I was minding my own business when I felt a swift push on my back that nearly sent me flying out of the swing. A boy named Mike Brown delivered the shove. He sported a skin graft on his cheek from being burned on an iron, and if it hadn’t been for that element of intrigue, I doubt I would have noticed him at all before that day.
On a swing, I was happy to keep my feet near the ground. I had no desire to go high and less desire to have some boy push me. Mike pushed mightily, making me scream like a banshee. When I told him to stop, he only pushed harder.
“Miss Reinhart,” I yelled, “Mike is pussssshing meeeee.”
Obviously, she mistook my screams of “Oh God please help me, he’s going to kill me,” to be those of a child who was elated at having such a great friend.
“Well,” she yelled from across the playground from where the teachers stood when they were on duty, “Isn’t that nice of him?”
It wasn’t nice. It wasn’t nice at all. I screamed some more at her, and waved one arm while I held on like crazy with the other, and she smiled and waved back at me.
It was hopeless, I thought as I tightened my grip and expected death when I did a loopty-loop over the top bar of the swingset. I knew he enjoyed every minute of me screaming like a girl. I wanted to get off that swing and knock his block off. Better yet, I wanted to grab a hold of that graft and rip it right off his face. With tears in my eyes, as the teacher raised her hand to let us know recess time was over, the swing came to stop.
“Next recess it’s my turn for you to push me,” he said.
It wasn’t going to happen in my estimation. I hadn’t asked for a “turn,” especially from not some stinky ole boy.
“You have to,” he told me.
“Oh no, I don’t. I didn’t ask YOU to push ME,” I muttered while we waited in line to enter the school, boys on the right, and girls on the left.
“Yes, you do. I’m telling if you don’t. I pushed you, so you’ve got to push me.”
I was going to push him alright. I had never been overtaken by the urge to punch somebody who I was not related to at that moment. Sure, I’d slugged my brother a good one, but never anyone else.
Then something happened that night. For some reason, he got to spend the night with the teacher. His mom was sick, or in jail. I didn’t know, and I didn’t really care too much about the specifics.
Instead, I wondered if she made him learn at her house. Did she have a huge teddy bear like the one that set in our classroom in the corner that we used during story time? Did she read him a bedtime story? The teacher certainly was one of the best grown-up readers I’d ever heard.
I was envious. I wanted something to happen to me. I wanted my chance to spend the night at the teacher’s house. I wondered what she would make me for dinner. Maybe she would invite me over on a whim to spend the night since she’d let Mike.
He bragged incessantly the next day about staying with the teacher. She had even packed him a lunch to eat the next day. I wasn’t allowed to pack, which made it sting even more.
Every time I turned around, there was a Mike just ready to cause me stress. Typically if you shared a name with another classmate, you were referred to by your name and the first initial of your last name. Like Kathy R. and Kathy L. There was a small glitch with this because both of Mikes had last names that started with B.
Mike Brown and Mike Bay, they were called. It worked well with me because they deserved to get the last name if I had any business with them. They both took great pleasure in tormenting me to near tears.
While Mike Brown stuck to the playground, Mike Bay took over while we were in line or in the classroom.
He would knock over all the other kids just to get behind me in line. Since we weren’t allowed to tattletale on those who butted in line, I was stuck.
Standing behind me, he would pull my hair and pinch me. When I would turn around telling him to stop, he would quote the TV commercial for garbage bags, “Don’t get mad, get glad!”
He would cackle like it was the funniest thing he ever heard. It wasn’t funny, and it only made me madder. I was anything but “glad” when he crept up behind me. I wanted to kick him in the shin.
I told the teacher, “Mike won’t stop touching my hair.”
He lied. He lied like the stinky dog that he was.
He said, “Her butterfly was falling out. I put it back.”
“What a nice boy you are. Kelly, thank him for fixing your barrette.”
I was going to thank him all right, and I hoped he’d be glad that when somebody the urge overtook me to kick him in the shin and not in the boy parts.
It all started on the playground. I was minding my own business when I felt a swift push on my back that nearly sent me flying out of the swing. A boy named Mike Brown delivered the shove. He sported a skin graft on his cheek from being burned on an iron, and if it hadn’t been for that element of intrigue, I doubt I would have noticed him at all before that day.
On a swing, I was happy to keep my feet near the ground. I had no desire to go high and less desire to have some boy push me. Mike pushed mightily, making me scream like a banshee. When I told him to stop, he only pushed harder.
“Miss Reinhart,” I yelled, “Mike is pussssshing meeeee.”
Obviously, she mistook my screams of “Oh God please help me, he’s going to kill me,” to be those of a child who was elated at having such a great friend.
“Well,” she yelled from across the playground from where the teachers stood when they were on duty, “Isn’t that nice of him?”
It wasn’t nice. It wasn’t nice at all. I screamed some more at her, and waved one arm while I held on like crazy with the other, and she smiled and waved back at me.
It was hopeless, I thought as I tightened my grip and expected death when I did a loopty-loop over the top bar of the swingset. I knew he enjoyed every minute of me screaming like a girl. I wanted to get off that swing and knock his block off. Better yet, I wanted to grab a hold of that graft and rip it right off his face. With tears in my eyes, as the teacher raised her hand to let us know recess time was over, the swing came to stop.
“Next recess it’s my turn for you to push me,” he said.
It wasn’t going to happen in my estimation. I hadn’t asked for a “turn,” especially from not some stinky ole boy.
“You have to,” he told me.
“Oh no, I don’t. I didn’t ask YOU to push ME,” I muttered while we waited in line to enter the school, boys on the right, and girls on the left.
“Yes, you do. I’m telling if you don’t. I pushed you, so you’ve got to push me.”
I was going to push him alright. I had never been overtaken by the urge to punch somebody who I was not related to at that moment. Sure, I’d slugged my brother a good one, but never anyone else.
Then something happened that night. For some reason, he got to spend the night with the teacher. His mom was sick, or in jail. I didn’t know, and I didn’t really care too much about the specifics.
Instead, I wondered if she made him learn at her house. Did she have a huge teddy bear like the one that set in our classroom in the corner that we used during story time? Did she read him a bedtime story? The teacher certainly was one of the best grown-up readers I’d ever heard.
I was envious. I wanted something to happen to me. I wanted my chance to spend the night at the teacher’s house. I wondered what she would make me for dinner. Maybe she would invite me over on a whim to spend the night since she’d let Mike.
He bragged incessantly the next day about staying with the teacher. She had even packed him a lunch to eat the next day. I wasn’t allowed to pack, which made it sting even more.
Every time I turned around, there was a Mike just ready to cause me stress. Typically if you shared a name with another classmate, you were referred to by your name and the first initial of your last name. Like Kathy R. and Kathy L. There was a small glitch with this because both of Mikes had last names that started with B.
Mike Brown and Mike Bay, they were called. It worked well with me because they deserved to get the last name if I had any business with them. They both took great pleasure in tormenting me to near tears.
While Mike Brown stuck to the playground, Mike Bay took over while we were in line or in the classroom.
He would knock over all the other kids just to get behind me in line. Since we weren’t allowed to tattletale on those who butted in line, I was stuck.
Standing behind me, he would pull my hair and pinch me. When I would turn around telling him to stop, he would quote the TV commercial for garbage bags, “Don’t get mad, get glad!”
He would cackle like it was the funniest thing he ever heard. It wasn’t funny, and it only made me madder. I was anything but “glad” when he crept up behind me. I wanted to kick him in the shin.
I told the teacher, “Mike won’t stop touching my hair.”
He lied. He lied like the stinky dog that he was.
He said, “Her butterfly was falling out. I put it back.”
“What a nice boy you are. Kelly, thank him for fixing your barrette.”
I was going to thank him all right, and I hoped he’d be glad that when somebody the urge overtook me to kick him in the shin and not in the boy parts.
Put Him in the P
Bobbie was a rough and tough girl who was in Special Ed. She didn’t mind being called retarded, either. In fact, I think she was happy with the attention that it garnered her. If the Special Ed class had a president, it was Bobbie. She didn't have groupies so much as she had unwilling draftees in her army. She scared me.
You could always hear Bobbie coming. She had a leg brace, and that foot was fitted with a specially made shoe that was attached to the brace. One of her legs was longer then the other, so when she walked it sounded like a herd of cattle moving in. She was also capable of stealth-mode, which I never really figured out.
If that wasn’t enough to announce that she was coming, she breathed loudly, and oftentimes slurped large amounts of slobber. I don’t know how old she was, and we often speculated that she had to be as old as the teachers.
And boy, was she ever mean and bossy. I guess when you had physical maladies working against you, you had to find a way to stand out in the crowd.
She terrified me something fierce, and it wasn’t because she was handicap and a little mentally off. She scared me because she didn’t hesitate to manhandle us younger kids, and I’m not so sure the teachers weren’t a little scared of her, too. Heck, she was almost as big and bossy as they were, and not nearly as nice.
Part of the time it was hard to understand what she was saying, and she preyed on the weakest of the herd. If you didn’t run fast enough, she’d grab you and pull you to the stage area in the gymnasium. Once in Bobbie’s clutches, you had to do her bidding. Employed by her, it was useless to try to get a teacher’s attention. They let her do what she wanted.
Usually her was request was to go get a boy, a certain boy, and bring him to her. I don’t know what she planned on doing with them, but I think she secretly enjoyed making us all come close to peeing our pants. Of course, boys were rascally, quick and sly, and to catch one meant getting the help of your friends.
One day, Bobbie got me. I couldn’t understand for nothing when she told me to go get Brad and put him in the pee. She reminded me of a cartoon pirate when she spoke. She was only missing a parrot and an eye patch. It would have been the perfect Halloween costume for her.
“Put him in the pee?” I asked. “What pee?”
“Put ‘em in da pee,” she slurred grabbing me harder by the arm. The teachers were just a few feet away, engrossed in talking about Ash Wednesday like it was something naughty.
“What pee?” Boy, I was getting nervous because her grip was like death on my arm.
“The P in the gym. The P over there,” she sputtered.
Except it didn’t sound like this at all. She rattled and sort of choked on her own spit, and she didn’t furnish towels with her showers.
She grabbed me by the neck of my dress, and did her Hunchback of Notre Dame walk over to the center of the gym. She pulled my collar tighter in her clutch until I thought I’d pass out from lack of getting air.
“I said, put him in the P,” and she pointed to the center of the gym floor. She didn’t mean pee, but the P in the PG, which stood for Poplar Grove. Not the G. Not in the middle of the P and the G, but she wanted Brad put precisely in the P. I got it, and it had nothing to do with toilets.
I had my orders. As luck would have it, recess had just started, so I would have to do as she wished. It never occurred to me that I might run away from her. And besides that, she might have been in Special Ed, but she didn’t forget when someone didn’t do what she wanted. She’d get me at the next recess.
Of course, I needed help. Some friends I had because they all suddenly remembered they had to play four square telling me they couldn’t help me. I was on my own. They were going to let me risk potential death on my own.
I scanned the gym, and I knew younger kids wouldn’t be of much help. Brad was tall for a boy, and I think he spent his time out of school just practicing running. He moved like lightning. Maybe this was something that Bobbie found intriguing about him. It could have been his red hair. I don’t know what it was, but she had set her sights on him in the P.
I did the only thing that made me think I stood a chance of living to make it home that day. I found a couple of other girls from the Special Ed class to help me out. If I was going to be bossed around, I was going to do some bossing myself.
“Bobbie wants you in the P,” I told Brad the first time the other girls caught him.
“What pee?” he asked, crinkling up his freckled nose.
“Not that kind of pee. The P in the PG.”
He ran off. Obviously, he wasn’t going to cooperate. The way I saw it, if would step into the P, my job would be complete, and I’d be off the hook. He probably had seen Bobbie in action enough to know things wouldn’t go smoothly for him. If Bobbie was rough with the girls, her special affinity for boys really made her true colors come out.
We still had fifteen minutes of recess left, and I stood on the G waiting for Brad to get tired. Those Special Ed girls didn’t show any signs of slowing down. Occasionally, when they ran past me, I’d attempt to snatch him. Bobbie watched from the sidelines, and after losing patience, she came at us, doing a near gallop, which was always the gait of her choice.
“I shed put’em in da peeh,” she crooned. By this point I guess she’d forgotten it was I who had gotten her assignment, and for this I was grateful.
Brad looked like he might pee his pants in the P. She grabbed him by the back of the neck and said what I assume was, “Boy, I shed git in that P and don’t yous moooove.”
And that’s what he did. He stood in the P, and he didn’t move because every time he did, she charged at him like a bull seeing red. There he stood for the rest of the recess while I silently prayed she would never have me put in the P.
You could always hear Bobbie coming. She had a leg brace, and that foot was fitted with a specially made shoe that was attached to the brace. One of her legs was longer then the other, so when she walked it sounded like a herd of cattle moving in. She was also capable of stealth-mode, which I never really figured out.
If that wasn’t enough to announce that she was coming, she breathed loudly, and oftentimes slurped large amounts of slobber. I don’t know how old she was, and we often speculated that she had to be as old as the teachers.
And boy, was she ever mean and bossy. I guess when you had physical maladies working against you, you had to find a way to stand out in the crowd.
She terrified me something fierce, and it wasn’t because she was handicap and a little mentally off. She scared me because she didn’t hesitate to manhandle us younger kids, and I’m not so sure the teachers weren’t a little scared of her, too. Heck, she was almost as big and bossy as they were, and not nearly as nice.
Part of the time it was hard to understand what she was saying, and she preyed on the weakest of the herd. If you didn’t run fast enough, she’d grab you and pull you to the stage area in the gymnasium. Once in Bobbie’s clutches, you had to do her bidding. Employed by her, it was useless to try to get a teacher’s attention. They let her do what she wanted.
Usually her was request was to go get a boy, a certain boy, and bring him to her. I don’t know what she planned on doing with them, but I think she secretly enjoyed making us all come close to peeing our pants. Of course, boys were rascally, quick and sly, and to catch one meant getting the help of your friends.
One day, Bobbie got me. I couldn’t understand for nothing when she told me to go get Brad and put him in the pee. She reminded me of a cartoon pirate when she spoke. She was only missing a parrot and an eye patch. It would have been the perfect Halloween costume for her.
“Put him in the pee?” I asked. “What pee?”
“Put ‘em in da pee,” she slurred grabbing me harder by the arm. The teachers were just a few feet away, engrossed in talking about Ash Wednesday like it was something naughty.
“What pee?” Boy, I was getting nervous because her grip was like death on my arm.
“The P in the gym. The P over there,” she sputtered.
Except it didn’t sound like this at all. She rattled and sort of choked on her own spit, and she didn’t furnish towels with her showers.
She grabbed me by the neck of my dress, and did her Hunchback of Notre Dame walk over to the center of the gym. She pulled my collar tighter in her clutch until I thought I’d pass out from lack of getting air.
“I said, put him in the P,” and she pointed to the center of the gym floor. She didn’t mean pee, but the P in the PG, which stood for Poplar Grove. Not the G. Not in the middle of the P and the G, but she wanted Brad put precisely in the P. I got it, and it had nothing to do with toilets.
I had my orders. As luck would have it, recess had just started, so I would have to do as she wished. It never occurred to me that I might run away from her. And besides that, she might have been in Special Ed, but she didn’t forget when someone didn’t do what she wanted. She’d get me at the next recess.
Of course, I needed help. Some friends I had because they all suddenly remembered they had to play four square telling me they couldn’t help me. I was on my own. They were going to let me risk potential death on my own.
I scanned the gym, and I knew younger kids wouldn’t be of much help. Brad was tall for a boy, and I think he spent his time out of school just practicing running. He moved like lightning. Maybe this was something that Bobbie found intriguing about him. It could have been his red hair. I don’t know what it was, but she had set her sights on him in the P.
I did the only thing that made me think I stood a chance of living to make it home that day. I found a couple of other girls from the Special Ed class to help me out. If I was going to be bossed around, I was going to do some bossing myself.
“Bobbie wants you in the P,” I told Brad the first time the other girls caught him.
“What pee?” he asked, crinkling up his freckled nose.
“Not that kind of pee. The P in the PG.”
He ran off. Obviously, he wasn’t going to cooperate. The way I saw it, if would step into the P, my job would be complete, and I’d be off the hook. He probably had seen Bobbie in action enough to know things wouldn’t go smoothly for him. If Bobbie was rough with the girls, her special affinity for boys really made her true colors come out.
We still had fifteen minutes of recess left, and I stood on the G waiting for Brad to get tired. Those Special Ed girls didn’t show any signs of slowing down. Occasionally, when they ran past me, I’d attempt to snatch him. Bobbie watched from the sidelines, and after losing patience, she came at us, doing a near gallop, which was always the gait of her choice.
“I shed put’em in da peeh,” she crooned. By this point I guess she’d forgotten it was I who had gotten her assignment, and for this I was grateful.
Brad looked like he might pee his pants in the P. She grabbed him by the back of the neck and said what I assume was, “Boy, I shed git in that P and don’t yous moooove.”
And that’s what he did. He stood in the P, and he didn’t move because every time he did, she charged at him like a bull seeing red. There he stood for the rest of the recess while I silently prayed she would never have me put in the P.
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