Okay, people, I need you to slow down. On so many fronts.
I need you to slow down in your cars. The speed you go on any given street is not a guessing game, or a game of any sort. There are signs posted to tell you exactly how fast you can/should be going, just in case you can't quite remember. They are not suggestions. They are the law. You need to obey them. Even if you don't think you do. You really do.
I need you to actually stop at the stop signs. All the way. Completely. No rolling through because "there was no one coming". The sign doesn't say "STOP if no one's coming". It just says stop. Which is what you should do. Again, even if you don't think you should. You really should.
I need you to slow down in parking lots. I'm sure you're in a hurry. That wine's not going to chill itself now, is it? I get it. But in case you hadn't noticed, parking lots are full of not only cars (which clearly are going far too slowly for you), but also people (who clearly are also going far too slowly for you). Please keep in mind that you are operating a two ton hunk of metal with powers of acceleration and destruction far beyond those of a sauntering pedestrian. It's not a racetrack. It's a parking lot. People are supposed to go slowly in a parking lot. I know that frustrates you, but it is not their fault that you didn't plan your time wisely and you are behind schedule. Don't take it out on them.
And while I'm on the whole parking lot scenario, may I make a suggestion? If you are driving down the main lane of a parking lot and a car is in the process of backing out of a parking space, thus impeding your forward progress, gently lift your right foot off of the accelerator pedal, shift it slightly to the left, and gently press down on the brake pedal. Let the car out of its space. Be kind and safe. If you are the guy who speeds up and veers around cars that are slowly backing out of their spaces, might I remind you that sooner or later that's going to be YOU stuck in that parking space, trying to get out. Karma's a bitch.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Friday, December 9, 2011
Little Can Be Big!
It’s the little things that can make the difference.
It’s the little things that can help you see the bigger picture.
It’s the little, tiniest of things that can end up mattering the most.
A few days ago, our doorbell rang later in the evening. At any other time of year, I would have wondered who it was. But it’s the holidays, and I knew it was going to be the UPS man. He has a routine in our neighborhood, and he generally shows up at our house around 7:00pm.
Olivia (who begins her Christmas countdown every year on December 26th by declaring “364 days till Christmas!”), ran to the door. She also knew who it would be. By the time she got there, the UPS guy had already dropped off the package and was walking down the driveway toward his idling truck.
As she picked the package up, I heard her yell loudly enough for the deliveryman to hear as he got into his truck, “Thank you!”
It was the littlest thing, but it made my heart do a little happy dance.
The UPS guy never waits for us to open our door. He’s in a hurry. He drops the box on the porch and runs. He’s got deliveries to make and a schedule to keep and probably a family to get home to when he’s done.
Even though he never actually hands me the boxes, I have always, always, always yelled “thank you!” to him, even if I thought he couldn’t really hear me.
Because maybe he can.
Maybe he reads lips. Maybe he has bat hearing. Maybe he runs away so quickly because no one ever says thank you. I don’t know. But just in case any of those scenarios are true, and because it’s just plain old polite to thank someone when they give you something, I have always yelled “thank you!” to the UPS man.
And now so does my daughter.
For all the times I doubted whether anything I was doing was sinking in;
for all the times I felt like I was banging my head against a wall;
for all the times I was absolutely positive that my kids did not hear a word I was saying;
for all the times I was beyond sure that they were not even trying to listen;
for all the times I thought they were missing the point;
for all the times I was convinced that setting a good example was perhaps not going to pay off in the end run--
just the simple act of my daughter screaming “thank you!” at the top of her lungs into the darkness to a person she couldn’t see who probably couldn’t hear her felt like the biggest, most gigantic little gift in the world.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Naked Shopping
So, yeah, I know a few posts ago I wrote about "running naked". And now the title is "Naked Shopping". But this one isn't metaphorical. It's actually about shopping. While being actually naked.
Hah.
Didn't see that one coming, did ya?
So here's what happened.
One of my favorite stores, Title Nine, advertised a "blowout sale" today in downtown Sacramento. I was pretty excited. Love their stuff--it's clothing for people who move a lot. Sort of REI, except all women's clothing and slightly more fashion forward. Their catalogs are full of women who look athletic and powerful and wildly stylish. I want to be in their catalog.
So off I go to the "blowout" sale.
So off I go to the "blowout" sale.
I arrive at the Convention Center. This is where they are having the sale. It's a HUGE place. I mean, really large. They hold actual conventions there! So I am expecting a convention-center-sized sale.
It was in a Costco-sized room for sure, but it amounted to rows of tables on which were cardboard boxes full of various types of apparel. The boxes were labeled with size, and the tables were labeled by apparel-type (tank tops, running shorts, dresses, etc...). A respectable amount of tables and boxes, but hardly what I would call a "blowout". With all the empty space in that room you could have still had a full-on convention in there amidst the sale. I was disappointed.
But there I was, so I decided to at least look through some boxes and see what I could find.
I found a pair of pants, a dress, a running bra to try on.
So can you see it coming yet? Figured out the naked part?
Turns out that when you hold a sale in a convention center, it's a BYODR (bring your own dressing rooms) affair for the retailer. Their solution was to slap together some PVC and some black fabric and create one giant dressing room.
So...
There I am. Standing in the middle of this somewhat shaky looking structure (and I use the term structure loosely) with about a dozen other women. All in various stages of naked.
Did I want to be naked with them?
Of course I didn't.
First of all (and I apologize to any of my male family members who are reading this but I am going to have to ask you to skip the rest of this paragraph, possibly even the next one as well--you'll be sorry if you don't, I promise),
I was (seriously, stop reading guys)
wearing (this is your final warning)
a
thong (I warned you; I even skipped a line to give you one last chance).
Frankly, I don't even like looking at my butt (apparently I don't like having panty lines even less). I certainly didn't want to subject anyone else to looking at my butt. How was I going to try on a dress and a pair of pants without fully exposing my derriere to this room full of women?
There was no way around it. I was going to have to get naked. And, not only did I have to expose my butt, I also had a running bra that I wanted to try on, so apparently the girls were going to make an appearance as well.
I reluctantly entered the room and backed myself into a corner (literally) and began undressing. Even though it was rather cold in there, I made the crucial decision to take my socks off, because ladies (I know you know this) there is nothing, and I mean nothing, more unflattering than standing in a fluorescent-lit room in your underwear and your socks.
Word to the wise: lose the socks. You'll feel better about yourself. I can't explain it, but it's true.
So...
There I am. Standing in the middle of this somewhat shaky looking structure (and I use the term structure loosely) with about a dozen other women. All in various stages of naked.
Did I want to be naked with them?
Of course I didn't.
First of all (and I apologize to any of my male family members who are reading this but I am going to have to ask you to skip the rest of this paragraph, possibly even the next one as well--you'll be sorry if you don't, I promise),
I was (seriously, stop reading guys)
wearing (this is your final warning)
a
thong (I warned you; I even skipped a line to give you one last chance).
Frankly, I don't even like looking at my butt (apparently I don't like having panty lines even less). I certainly didn't want to subject anyone else to looking at my butt. How was I going to try on a dress and a pair of pants without fully exposing my derriere to this room full of women?
There was no way around it. I was going to have to get naked. And, not only did I have to expose my butt, I also had a running bra that I wanted to try on, so apparently the girls were going to make an appearance as well.
I reluctantly entered the room and backed myself into a corner (literally) and began undressing. Even though it was rather cold in there, I made the crucial decision to take my socks off, because ladies (I know you know this) there is nothing, and I mean nothing, more unflattering than standing in a fluorescent-lit room in your underwear and your socks.
Word to the wise: lose the socks. You'll feel better about yourself. I can't explain it, but it's true.
Anyway, the sides and corners of the room (where the fabric walls would hide half of you) were conspicuously more populated than the center area, where you would be visible for 360 degrees. We were all trying to put our best body part forward and keep the rest as out of sight as possible.
But of course when you're naked, or pretty much naked, there are parts of you (the naked parts) that you can't hide.
Now I'm not in terrible shape. I'm in what I'd call "reasonable shape for 45". And while I aspire to it, I certainly do NOT look like the women in the Title Nine catalog, which is who I imagined would be shopping at this sale. I imagined coiffed, toned, muscular, athletic women who had flocked to this sale because they had worn out all of their workout clothing due to their grueling yoga/running/cycling/triathlon regimen.
Who knew I'd have to disrobe in front of these goddesses?
Frankly, I don't think I would have showed up had I thought the possibility existed that I would have to try to squeeze into a disappointingly snug dress while simultaneously trying to hide all the reasons why that dress was snug AND having to endure all this while comparing myself to what I was sure were all the overly fit workout queens who would be surrounding me.
I didn't want to look up. I was sure it would only confirm that I was surrounded by women my age who looked much younger and much more in shape than me.
I kept my eyes lowered for as long as I could, but finally I couldn't help but sneak a peek.
Who knew I'd have to disrobe in front of these goddesses?
Frankly, I don't think I would have showed up had I thought the possibility existed that I would have to try to squeeze into a disappointingly snug dress while simultaneously trying to hide all the reasons why that dress was snug AND having to endure all this while comparing myself to what I was sure were all the overly fit workout queens who would be surrounding me.
I didn't want to look up. I was sure it would only confirm that I was surrounded by women my age who looked much younger and much more in shape than me.
I kept my eyes lowered for as long as I could, but finally I couldn't help but sneak a peek.
I was pleasantly surprised.
I found myself surrounded by women my age (and older) who looked just like me. Not a perfect body among us. And while we were all different shapes and sizes and clearly none of us were going to make any Victoria's Secret models nervous about losing their jobs, I thought we all looked pretty good.
It was kind of liberating.
Like the time I participated in a triathlon.
Stay with me here. I know this seems super tangential, but it'll come back around I promise.
So I'm at this triathlon. They made me write my age on the back of my left calf. In ink. I was sure people of all ages would see my age as they sped past me and silently marvel at how slow I could actually go and still be technically moving.
Or even worse, I would get the dreaded "You're doing great! Keep going! You can do it!" cheer that really means "Wow, you look like you're really out of shape--good job making it this far! You'll make it to the finish line eventually..."
But really what happened was that as (much older) people passed, they would yell "Go 43! You rock!" And as I passed (much, much,much older) people, I would yell "Keep it going, 78!"
It was supportive. It felt good. It felt like there was nothing to hide and absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
That's how the giant dressing room full of naked women felt.
We were all out there doing our best and giving our all, and in search of some fun clothing to support our efforts.
We were all willing to fully bare ourselves (literally) in front of complete strangers in the hot pursuit of fashion.
I think that takes a bit of confidence that comes only with age and experience.
After all, I didn't see any of those Victoria's Secret-type women or Title Nine catalog models in that giant dressing room.
All I saw were athletic, powerful women in search of wildly stylish clothing.
It was kind of liberating.
Like the time I participated in a triathlon.
Stay with me here. I know this seems super tangential, but it'll come back around I promise.
So I'm at this triathlon. They made me write my age on the back of my left calf. In ink. I was sure people of all ages would see my age as they sped past me and silently marvel at how slow I could actually go and still be technically moving.
Or even worse, I would get the dreaded "You're doing great! Keep going! You can do it!" cheer that really means "Wow, you look like you're really out of shape--good job making it this far! You'll make it to the finish line eventually..."
But really what happened was that as (much older) people passed, they would yell "Go 43! You rock!" And as I passed (much, much,much older) people, I would yell "Keep it going, 78!"
It was supportive. It felt good. It felt like there was nothing to hide and absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
That's how the giant dressing room full of naked women felt.
We were all out there doing our best and giving our all, and in search of some fun clothing to support our efforts.
We were all willing to fully bare ourselves (literally) in front of complete strangers in the hot pursuit of fashion.
I think that takes a bit of confidence that comes only with age and experience.
After all, I didn't see any of those Victoria's Secret-type women or Title Nine catalog models in that giant dressing room.
All I saw were athletic, powerful women in search of wildly stylish clothing.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
People I Can't Forgive, Part 1
I'm generally a pretty nice person. I'm far from perfect, and I don't expect others to be perfect. I subscribe to that whole crazy notion of people living in glass houses not throwing stones.
Everyone makes mistakes. Forgiveness is part of life. It's a good part of life. It makes you feel better. It makes others feel better. It allows life to continue along with less crap in your head. Forgiveness makes you a happier person.
There are a few people, however, I am having trouble forgiving. They are listed below in no particular order.
Now I realize that none of these people have asked for my forgiveness. So it's not like I'm doing wrong by them. In fact, I think it's safe to say that all of the people on my list so far would actually not even think they have done anything objectionable or offensive or requiring my (or anyone's) forgiveness.
I would disagree. Strongly.
So here is my list, thus far, of people who have committed egregious sins that I cannot bring myself to absolve. I have included not just their names, but also their offenses. As well as the severe and occasionally debilitating impact their transgressions have had on my life. Yes, overly dramatic, but thanks to and according to Kim Kardashian (OFFENDER #1), melodrama is now something that should be not just a regular part of people's everyday lives, it should be celebrated, rewarded, and captured in every possible medium every single day so people can have it crammed down their throats. Kardashian has made being a melodramatic, shallow, non-contributing, uneducated, greedy beauty queen into something to which young girls aspire. My heart has never hurt more than when my wonderful teenage daughter came downstairs with her hair in a high ponytail, and told me how excited she was because the fabulous hairdo made her, and I quote, "feel like a Kardashian". I cringed. I may have visibly and audibly gagged. We had a long talk.
I will be more accepting of Kardashian and her ways when she starts to responsibly demonstrate for her many young admirers that there is more to happiness than money and glamour.
OFFENDER #2: Sarah Palin
Oh, my god. I could go on for days about the many things Ms. Palin has done that I find inexcusable and unforgivable. But I'm going to concentrate on one.
She made ignorance into a badge of honor.
When asked what newspapers or magazines she reads and she failed to come up with any, she deemed it a "gotcha question" from the "lame stream media". How is that a trick question? The fact that you don't read any news periodicals should be a direct commentary on you, not the interviewer. But people cheered her on, sympathizing at how she was dragged over the coals by Katie Couric. Really? Has Katie Couric ever dragged anyone over the coals? She's far too perky for that.
When asked what she learned after going through the home of revolutionary war hero Paul Revere, she rambled on about second amendment rights and made no sense whatsoever (apparently, she also learned that Paul Revere had "warned the British"). When called on her gaffes (and called on it by a fellow conservative talk show host!), she once again accused the reporter who had asked her the question (again, as a reminder, that question was "What did you learn in there?") of trying to "get her". People applauded her for exposing those 'hardcore liberal journalists' whose only true intention, apparently, was to make her look bad.
How much more of a softball question can you get? If you can't even answer that one, you should bury your head in the sand, not puff up your feathers like a proud peacock.
You, Sarah Palin, make my blood boil. If I have to go on blood-pressure medication, I'm going to bill you for my copay.
OFFENDER(S) #3: The Inventors of the Urban Dictionary
Those aren't words. Don't encourage kids to use them. It makes kids sound stupid. And it makes the adults that try to use them sound even stupider. Look that one up. It's probably in the Urban Dictionary.
OFFENDER #4: John McCain
Once upon a time, I admired John McCain. I appreciated his intelligence, his forthrightness, his ability to speak the truth even when it didn't match up with the Republican party line.
Then he brought us Sarah Palin (see #2).
I pretty much blame John McCain for inflicting Sarah Palin on us all.
Did you not do your research, John? Did you? Did you? Did you not see it all coming?
Unforgivable.
I think this will be an ongoing list. I will update periodically.
I'm going to stop here (for now), because it's just a day before Thanksgiving, and in the spirit of the holiday, I will focus (for now) on what I am grateful for--family, friends, and a bumper crop of GOP presidential nominees who, as a whole, might just be the next update to this list.
Everyone makes mistakes. Forgiveness is part of life. It's a good part of life. It makes you feel better. It makes others feel better. It allows life to continue along with less crap in your head. Forgiveness makes you a happier person.
There are a few people, however, I am having trouble forgiving. They are listed below in no particular order.
Now I realize that none of these people have asked for my forgiveness. So it's not like I'm doing wrong by them. In fact, I think it's safe to say that all of the people on my list so far would actually not even think they have done anything objectionable or offensive or requiring my (or anyone's) forgiveness.
I would disagree. Strongly.
So here is my list, thus far, of people who have committed egregious sins that I cannot bring myself to absolve. I have included not just their names, but also their offenses. As well as the severe and occasionally debilitating impact their transgressions have had on my life. Yes, overly dramatic, but thanks to and according to Kim Kardashian (OFFENDER #1), melodrama is now something that should be not just a regular part of people's everyday lives, it should be celebrated, rewarded, and captured in every possible medium every single day so people can have it crammed down their throats. Kardashian has made being a melodramatic, shallow, non-contributing, uneducated, greedy beauty queen into something to which young girls aspire. My heart has never hurt more than when my wonderful teenage daughter came downstairs with her hair in a high ponytail, and told me how excited she was because the fabulous hairdo made her, and I quote, "feel like a Kardashian". I cringed. I may have visibly and audibly gagged. We had a long talk.
I will be more accepting of Kardashian and her ways when she starts to responsibly demonstrate for her many young admirers that there is more to happiness than money and glamour.
OFFENDER #2: Sarah Palin
Oh, my god. I could go on for days about the many things Ms. Palin has done that I find inexcusable and unforgivable. But I'm going to concentrate on one.
She made ignorance into a badge of honor.
When asked what newspapers or magazines she reads and she failed to come up with any, she deemed it a "gotcha question" from the "lame stream media". How is that a trick question? The fact that you don't read any news periodicals should be a direct commentary on you, not the interviewer. But people cheered her on, sympathizing at how she was dragged over the coals by Katie Couric. Really? Has Katie Couric ever dragged anyone over the coals? She's far too perky for that.
When asked what she learned after going through the home of revolutionary war hero Paul Revere, she rambled on about second amendment rights and made no sense whatsoever (apparently, she also learned that Paul Revere had "warned the British"). When called on her gaffes (and called on it by a fellow conservative talk show host!), she once again accused the reporter who had asked her the question (again, as a reminder, that question was "What did you learn in there?") of trying to "get her". People applauded her for exposing those 'hardcore liberal journalists' whose only true intention, apparently, was to make her look bad.
How much more of a softball question can you get? If you can't even answer that one, you should bury your head in the sand, not puff up your feathers like a proud peacock.
You, Sarah Palin, make my blood boil. If I have to go on blood-pressure medication, I'm going to bill you for my copay.
OFFENDER(S) #3: The Inventors of the Urban Dictionary
Those aren't words. Don't encourage kids to use them. It makes kids sound stupid. And it makes the adults that try to use them sound even stupider. Look that one up. It's probably in the Urban Dictionary.
OFFENDER #4: John McCain
Once upon a time, I admired John McCain. I appreciated his intelligence, his forthrightness, his ability to speak the truth even when it didn't match up with the Republican party line.
Then he brought us Sarah Palin (see #2).
I pretty much blame John McCain for inflicting Sarah Palin on us all.
Did you not do your research, John? Did you? Did you? Did you not see it all coming?
Unforgivable.
I think this will be an ongoing list. I will update periodically.
I'm going to stop here (for now), because it's just a day before Thanksgiving, and in the spirit of the holiday, I will focus (for now) on what I am grateful for--family, friends, and a bumper crop of GOP presidential nominees who, as a whole, might just be the next update to this list.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Running Naked
I did the unthinkable this morning.
I ran.
With no music.
No buds in my ears.
No soundtrack to cover the sound of my footfalls.
No melodic voices to smother the "to do" list formulating in my head.
It was nice. Peaceful. Fast.
I generally will not run if my Shuffle isn't charged.
I've been known to start out on a run and turn around less than 100 yards later if the iPod runs out of charge. Really. I have done that. Priorities.
I just have never really run without an accompanying playlist.
I have special attachments on my earbuds so they won't fall out while I run.
I have even gone so far as to arrange my songs by "bpm", or beats per minute, so that my pace will increase/decrease at certain points along the run, which seems to help me get a little more mileage.
The music is motivating.
This morning though, at 5am, I headed out the door naked (metaphorically, you know, without the music; it was 5am in November, so yeah, I did have running pants, a wicking long-sleeved shirt, a gore-tex jacket, ear warmers, a hat, and gloves; but naked mentally).
I was surprised by so many things. Not just that I could run naked (with no music). Eeew. I just re-read that part. I'll find another metaphor. Sorry everyone. Try to get that mental image out of your head. Please. Pretty please.
Anyway. I found out some things.
I can run three miles with no music.
And I ran faster than I normally do. And the run went by more quickly (which, I guess, makes sense if you are running faster than you normally do).
Without the music, I thought about things and people and places. My mind wandered. It was easy to get lost in my own head. I wasn't waiting for a song to end, or anticipating what song would be next, or fiddling with my Shuffle to get to a certain song. I was just moving my feet, listening to the steady sound of my breathing. It's very calming to notice that your legs and your lungs can work in unison, increasing and decreasing speed in response to one another. It makes you feel very in tune with your body.
I noticed details in my neighborhood (you can take down those Halloween lights now). I heard sounds that are usually drowned out by Coldplay and Kelly Clarkson (lots and lots of very communicative birds in our area). And while I cannot explain why, for some reason without headphones funneling Bruno Mars into my ears my sense of smell was much keener. On a crisp fall morning, if you're paying attention, the air smells like camping and the beach and Christmas all rolled together. I just never noticed that before.
It was very dark. I don't want to say the darkness was disorienting, because I was just running a one mile loop over and over again, so it wasn't like I was going to get lost. But it was kind of like the blackness made me less aware of where I was, which made me less aware of how far I'd gone, and less aware of how far I had yet to go. The darkness concealed the distance, in a way. In a good way.
I think I'll try it again tomorrow morning.
I'm going to run... how do I phrase this so no one gags... with my senses available.
I ran.
With no music.
No buds in my ears.
No soundtrack to cover the sound of my footfalls.
No melodic voices to smother the "to do" list formulating in my head.
It was nice. Peaceful. Fast.
I generally will not run if my Shuffle isn't charged.
I've been known to start out on a run and turn around less than 100 yards later if the iPod runs out of charge. Really. I have done that. Priorities.
I just have never really run without an accompanying playlist.
I have special attachments on my earbuds so they won't fall out while I run.
I have even gone so far as to arrange my songs by "bpm", or beats per minute, so that my pace will increase/decrease at certain points along the run, which seems to help me get a little more mileage.
The music is motivating.
This morning though, at 5am, I headed out the door naked (metaphorically, you know, without the music; it was 5am in November, so yeah, I did have running pants, a wicking long-sleeved shirt, a gore-tex jacket, ear warmers, a hat, and gloves; but naked mentally).
I was surprised by so many things. Not just that I could run naked (with no music). Eeew. I just re-read that part. I'll find another metaphor. Sorry everyone. Try to get that mental image out of your head. Please. Pretty please.
Anyway. I found out some things.
I can run three miles with no music.
And I ran faster than I normally do. And the run went by more quickly (which, I guess, makes sense if you are running faster than you normally do).
Without the music, I thought about things and people and places. My mind wandered. It was easy to get lost in my own head. I wasn't waiting for a song to end, or anticipating what song would be next, or fiddling with my Shuffle to get to a certain song. I was just moving my feet, listening to the steady sound of my breathing. It's very calming to notice that your legs and your lungs can work in unison, increasing and decreasing speed in response to one another. It makes you feel very in tune with your body.
I noticed details in my neighborhood (you can take down those Halloween lights now). I heard sounds that are usually drowned out by Coldplay and Kelly Clarkson (lots and lots of very communicative birds in our area). And while I cannot explain why, for some reason without headphones funneling Bruno Mars into my ears my sense of smell was much keener. On a crisp fall morning, if you're paying attention, the air smells like camping and the beach and Christmas all rolled together. I just never noticed that before.
It was very dark. I don't want to say the darkness was disorienting, because I was just running a one mile loop over and over again, so it wasn't like I was going to get lost. But it was kind of like the blackness made me less aware of where I was, which made me less aware of how far I'd gone, and less aware of how far I had yet to go. The darkness concealed the distance, in a way. In a good way.
I think I'll try it again tomorrow morning.
I'm going to run... how do I phrase this so no one gags... with my senses available.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Directions
Who stops reading the directions to something halfway through? Who does that kind of thing? (You already know it's me, don't you?) Who sometimes chooses not to read the directions at all? Why would someone do that, when there they are, all written out for you, in neat steps, numbered and everything, occasionally with corresponding pictures for each step? What good could come of ignoring the instructions?
I don't really have any good answers for any of the above questions, other than: Me; me again; you do know that already; yep, moi; because they're tedious and long and not very exciting; generally none, but occasionally I get lucky and things work out just fine.
I told you they weren't good answers.
Several times recently I have noticed my own predisposition to, shall I say, disregard written instructions that come inside packaging. One turned out perfectly; the other ended up fine, but with some added inconvenience and the realization that this is not a trait I should pass on to my children.
Round One:
I bought an office-type chair for our kitchen computer last week. It came in a GIANT box that was so heavy I had to drag it out of the back of my van and push it across the garage floor to a space where I could open it up and lay out all of the parts. It was half-assembled. And half not, obviously. Once I had all the parts sprawled out in front of me, I immediately went to work putting the casters on what looked to me to be the very heavy and unwieldy bottom half of the chair.
Now stop for a moment. I want you to assess, right here and now, what kind of a person you are. Are you (1) annoyed with me because you noticed that I hadn't even opened up the directions and was putting things together without being absolutely sure of what I was doing or; (2) super impressed with me because I used the word casters instead of "rolling wheels with a part sticking up out of them".
If you chose number one, then you are clearly not a person who does any of the things I specified in the first paragraph of this little post. And you probably read through the entire set of directions before even starting. And assemble all the tools needed before proceeding to step one. And empty out all of the little baggies of screws and count to make sure you have the correct number of everything.
Damn you. I want to be like you. I really do. But round about half a page into things I just get kind of bored. Okay, not bored. More like anxious. I want it to be done. Move it along, already! If I can even remotely see what direction the directions are taking, I will go rogue.
Me and Sarah Palin. We've got that in common.
If you happened to choose number two because of my impressive use of the highly technical term "casters", then you probably go rogue as well. And it likely did not bother you at all, if you even noticed, that I was putting the casters on a chair part that I wasn't even absolutely sure was the right one. The way I look at it, and I'm thinking you look at it this way as well, if the casters won't go on, then they obviously don't go there. At which point I will, reluctantly, consult the instructions. No harm, no foul. The casters went on fine, by the way.
Admittedly, putting this chair together was not that difficult of a task. As I mentioned, it was partially assembled, and it really didn't take a rocket scientist to figure the rest out. It came with its own tools, turns out all the parts were there in their correct numbers, and it's a chair--I pretty much knew exactly what it was supposed to look like when it was done. There was no great mystery to it--no internal parts, no moving mechanisms, no connecting of wires.
Still, I'm proud of myself for being able to put the thing together (without the directions).
Round Two:
My daughter Olivia, who is fourteen, woke up this morning with a bit of a head cold. Stuffy nose, dry throat kind of thing. Last year when she had the same type of symptoms and was at her grandma's house, her grandma introduced her to the netty pot.
For those of you who do not know what this is (and I'm guessing that's all of you), it's a tiny, plastic teapot. You put a cup of warm water into it, along with a small packet of some sinus-clearing powder, put the lid on, shake it up and, stay with me here, while tilting your head sideways over a sink, you pour the contents of the pot into the top nostril and keep pouring until it starts coming out the bottom nostril. Seriously.
It's supposed to clear up your sinuses immediately, and my daughter thinks it is, in her exact words, "the greatest invention ever on earth!"
I have never used a netty pot. So today, when Olivia had me pick one up at the store for her and asked me to help her use it, I did have to consult the instructions. We opened the package. I began reading each step to Olivia and she did the actual set up. We got to step three, which was the actual "head tilting over the sink" part, and I read where it said to pour only half of the solution from the netty pot through your nose.
She did that perfectly. She said it felt great. The girl loves her netty pot!
And then I told her she should wash the pot thoroughly with warm soapy water so as not to have any germs left on it. She washed it.
After she had the whole thing put into its box and was about to put the instructions inside as well, she said to me, "Well, I guess we skipped step five, which was to use the other half of the liquid for the other nostril. I wondered why we only used half of the solution!"
Yes, I had stopped reading the directions halfway through. I don't know why. I have no good explanation for it. It did occur to me, as well, that it was strange that we were only using half of what was in the netty pot. I guess I thought that if the stuff is going in one nostril and out the other, it's getting everywhere it needs to go. I was wrong. So my poor daughter had to start again and make another full pot of solution and do the other side.
At that point I realized that reading directions--thoroughly and completely--is something I should be teaching my kids to do. It's important to do things right and to do things safely, especially when your health is concerned.
Round Three:
Now, there is a Round Three. Round Three, though, is somewhat hypothetical. I have a file--an actual, existing file folder, full of EVERY SINGLE manual to EVERY SINGLE appliance/machine/computer/phone/whatever we have ever bought. It's all there. Waiting to be read.
I'm pretty sure that my iPhone probably does WAY more than I know it does. I've read the manual. Okay, most of the manual. Okay, some of the manual.
I think my washing machine probably does more than I realize. And my dryer. And my dishwasher. I'm SURE my dishwasher could probably clean things way better than it actually does. If only I would read the directions. Oven? Probably has that awesome "auto-set" feature where you can set it to turn on at any time at any temperature to cook your food. That would be awesome. I would totally use that feature.
House alarm? Yeah, I think if I committed to read the entire booklet all the way through, I'd be able to figure out how to set it so that I don't have to sprint through the house to turn it off every time I get home.
So I pledge to take the directions out of the box from now on. I will read through them--completely and in order. I will assemble my tools. I will count my items. I will dismiss my extreme desire to have something in common with Sarah Palin and I will not go rogue.
At least not when the kids are around.
I don't really have any good answers for any of the above questions, other than: Me; me again; you do know that already; yep, moi; because they're tedious and long and not very exciting; generally none, but occasionally I get lucky and things work out just fine.
I told you they weren't good answers.
Several times recently I have noticed my own predisposition to, shall I say, disregard written instructions that come inside packaging. One turned out perfectly; the other ended up fine, but with some added inconvenience and the realization that this is not a trait I should pass on to my children.
Round One:
I bought an office-type chair for our kitchen computer last week. It came in a GIANT box that was so heavy I had to drag it out of the back of my van and push it across the garage floor to a space where I could open it up and lay out all of the parts. It was half-assembled. And half not, obviously. Once I had all the parts sprawled out in front of me, I immediately went to work putting the casters on what looked to me to be the very heavy and unwieldy bottom half of the chair.
Now stop for a moment. I want you to assess, right here and now, what kind of a person you are. Are you (1) annoyed with me because you noticed that I hadn't even opened up the directions and was putting things together without being absolutely sure of what I was doing or; (2) super impressed with me because I used the word casters instead of "rolling wheels with a part sticking up out of them".
If you chose number one, then you are clearly not a person who does any of the things I specified in the first paragraph of this little post. And you probably read through the entire set of directions before even starting. And assemble all the tools needed before proceeding to step one. And empty out all of the little baggies of screws and count to make sure you have the correct number of everything.
Damn you. I want to be like you. I really do. But round about half a page into things I just get kind of bored. Okay, not bored. More like anxious. I want it to be done. Move it along, already! If I can even remotely see what direction the directions are taking, I will go rogue.
Me and Sarah Palin. We've got that in common.
If you happened to choose number two because of my impressive use of the highly technical term "casters", then you probably go rogue as well. And it likely did not bother you at all, if you even noticed, that I was putting the casters on a chair part that I wasn't even absolutely sure was the right one. The way I look at it, and I'm thinking you look at it this way as well, if the casters won't go on, then they obviously don't go there. At which point I will, reluctantly, consult the instructions. No harm, no foul. The casters went on fine, by the way.
Admittedly, putting this chair together was not that difficult of a task. As I mentioned, it was partially assembled, and it really didn't take a rocket scientist to figure the rest out. It came with its own tools, turns out all the parts were there in their correct numbers, and it's a chair--I pretty much knew exactly what it was supposed to look like when it was done. There was no great mystery to it--no internal parts, no moving mechanisms, no connecting of wires.
Still, I'm proud of myself for being able to put the thing together (without the directions).
Round Two:
My daughter Olivia, who is fourteen, woke up this morning with a bit of a head cold. Stuffy nose, dry throat kind of thing. Last year when she had the same type of symptoms and was at her grandma's house, her grandma introduced her to the netty pot.
For those of you who do not know what this is (and I'm guessing that's all of you), it's a tiny, plastic teapot. You put a cup of warm water into it, along with a small packet of some sinus-clearing powder, put the lid on, shake it up and, stay with me here, while tilting your head sideways over a sink, you pour the contents of the pot into the top nostril and keep pouring until it starts coming out the bottom nostril. Seriously.
It's supposed to clear up your sinuses immediately, and my daughter thinks it is, in her exact words, "the greatest invention ever on earth!"
I have never used a netty pot. So today, when Olivia had me pick one up at the store for her and asked me to help her use it, I did have to consult the instructions. We opened the package. I began reading each step to Olivia and she did the actual set up. We got to step three, which was the actual "head tilting over the sink" part, and I read where it said to pour only half of the solution from the netty pot through your nose.
She did that perfectly. She said it felt great. The girl loves her netty pot!
And then I told her she should wash the pot thoroughly with warm soapy water so as not to have any germs left on it. She washed it.
After she had the whole thing put into its box and was about to put the instructions inside as well, she said to me, "Well, I guess we skipped step five, which was to use the other half of the liquid for the other nostril. I wondered why we only used half of the solution!"
Yes, I had stopped reading the directions halfway through. I don't know why. I have no good explanation for it. It did occur to me, as well, that it was strange that we were only using half of what was in the netty pot. I guess I thought that if the stuff is going in one nostril and out the other, it's getting everywhere it needs to go. I was wrong. So my poor daughter had to start again and make another full pot of solution and do the other side.
At that point I realized that reading directions--thoroughly and completely--is something I should be teaching my kids to do. It's important to do things right and to do things safely, especially when your health is concerned.
Round Three:
Now, there is a Round Three. Round Three, though, is somewhat hypothetical. I have a file--an actual, existing file folder, full of EVERY SINGLE manual to EVERY SINGLE appliance/machine/computer/phone/whatever we have ever bought. It's all there. Waiting to be read.
I'm pretty sure that my iPhone probably does WAY more than I know it does. I've read the manual. Okay, most of the manual. Okay, some of the manual.
I think my washing machine probably does more than I realize. And my dryer. And my dishwasher. I'm SURE my dishwasher could probably clean things way better than it actually does. If only I would read the directions. Oven? Probably has that awesome "auto-set" feature where you can set it to turn on at any time at any temperature to cook your food. That would be awesome. I would totally use that feature.
House alarm? Yeah, I think if I committed to read the entire booklet all the way through, I'd be able to figure out how to set it so that I don't have to sprint through the house to turn it off every time I get home.
So I pledge to take the directions out of the box from now on. I will read through them--completely and in order. I will assemble my tools. I will count my items. I will dismiss my extreme desire to have something in common with Sarah Palin and I will not go rogue.
At least not when the kids are around.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Sixers
Dave (my husband of nineteen years) has, for the first time in his twenty-five year science teaching career, a period of 6th graders. He has always, up until this year, taught eighth graders, with the exception of one errant class of seventh graders many years ago. Not his favorite year.
While seventh graders can be immature and annoying a lot of the time, put 'em next to a bunch of sixers and all the sudden the sevvies look like bastions of common sense and self-disclipline. Sixth graders are an entirely different species. I'm not really sure they even belong in middle school, to be honest. They are much better suited to being king of the hill in elementary school than they are to being the babies at middle school. They're sort of deer-in-the-headlights as middle-schoolers.
But here they are, and Dave has been tasked with teaching them a class of Earth Science. He is a bit anxious about the situation, but as always is ready to make the best of it.
I don't think he has anything to worry about, and here's why:
First off, he starts his day with the sixth graders. He has them first period, which is the best way to begin the day for him. I think it'll be great because it'll make the rest of his day seem like a walk in the park. Yes, sixers need to be told things three times. They forget their materials. They cry. A lot. For seemingly no reason. But beginning your day with the most "challenging" set of kids seems much more preferable than ending your day with the most "challenging" set of kids. Doesn't it? I think that given a big enough cup of coffee each morning (or two or five), and possibly several ibuprofen (or more), this will end up being a nice change of pace for Dave. He's a "rise to the occasion" kind of guy.
Plus, the rest of Dave's day is filled with (relatively mature) eighth graders. And sixth graders will make even your most exasperating eighth graders seem like they've got their act together. So by my logic, the rest of his day will fly by!
I also theorize that beginning the morning with Dave will be to the benefit of the sixth graders. Dave is organized. He is prepared. He is smart. He has a sense of humor. He's interesting. He cares about kids learning every single day, and he tries to make sure that kids look forward to learning every single day. He has the best class control of any teacher I know, for all of the aforementioned reasons. Any kid would be lucky to have him as a teacher, but to get to start each school day off with a teacher who demonstrates by his words and actions how important your education is to him, who knocks you out with his enthusiasm, who creates lessons designed not just to teach you but to involve you and make you want to come back the next day to see what you're doing next--that's one lucky group of kids! Hell, I'd like to start my day off in his science class if I could, and I did terribly in science .
I think that both Dave and the kids are going to reap massive amounts of benefits from this new situation (massive is a comparative term, and since you don't know what I'm comparing this to in my head, you just have to nod your head and go along with me).
Frankly, the only person I wouldn't want to be in this whole scenario is one of the sixth grade teachers who gets Dave's students after he's done with them each day. These kids will be coming from a classroom where the teacher brings his "A" game to work every single day. EVERY SINGLE DAY! These kids will be coming from a room where they are being engaged, challenged, stretched and inspired. EVERY SINGLE DAY! And these kids will be hoping for a second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth period filled with more of the same--EVERY SINGLE DAY! It's a tall order.
Dave will have these kids excited about science for sure, but he is not a miracle worker. Sixth graders are sixth graders.
They will still need to be told things three times. They will probably still forget their materials. They will most likely cry. A lot. For completely inexplicable reasons.
But they will look forward to first period. EVERY SINGLE DAY!
While seventh graders can be immature and annoying a lot of the time, put 'em next to a bunch of sixers and all the sudden the sevvies look like bastions of common sense and self-disclipline. Sixth graders are an entirely different species. I'm not really sure they even belong in middle school, to be honest. They are much better suited to being king of the hill in elementary school than they are to being the babies at middle school. They're sort of deer-in-the-headlights as middle-schoolers.
But here they are, and Dave has been tasked with teaching them a class of Earth Science. He is a bit anxious about the situation, but as always is ready to make the best of it.
I don't think he has anything to worry about, and here's why:
First off, he starts his day with the sixth graders. He has them first period, which is the best way to begin the day for him. I think it'll be great because it'll make the rest of his day seem like a walk in the park. Yes, sixers need to be told things three times. They forget their materials. They cry. A lot. For seemingly no reason. But beginning your day with the most "challenging" set of kids seems much more preferable than ending your day with the most "challenging" set of kids. Doesn't it? I think that given a big enough cup of coffee each morning (or two or five), and possibly several ibuprofen (or more), this will end up being a nice change of pace for Dave. He's a "rise to the occasion" kind of guy.
Plus, the rest of Dave's day is filled with (relatively mature) eighth graders. And sixth graders will make even your most exasperating eighth graders seem like they've got their act together. So by my logic, the rest of his day will fly by!
I also theorize that beginning the morning with Dave will be to the benefit of the sixth graders. Dave is organized. He is prepared. He is smart. He has a sense of humor. He's interesting. He cares about kids learning every single day, and he tries to make sure that kids look forward to learning every single day. He has the best class control of any teacher I know, for all of the aforementioned reasons. Any kid would be lucky to have him as a teacher, but to get to start each school day off with a teacher who demonstrates by his words and actions how important your education is to him, who knocks you out with his enthusiasm, who creates lessons designed not just to teach you but to involve you and make you want to come back the next day to see what you're doing next--that's one lucky group of kids! Hell, I'd like to start my day off in his science class if I could, and I did terribly in science .
I think that both Dave and the kids are going to reap massive amounts of benefits from this new situation (massive is a comparative term, and since you don't know what I'm comparing this to in my head, you just have to nod your head and go along with me).
Frankly, the only person I wouldn't want to be in this whole scenario is one of the sixth grade teachers who gets Dave's students after he's done with them each day. These kids will be coming from a classroom where the teacher brings his "A" game to work every single day. EVERY SINGLE DAY! These kids will be coming from a room where they are being engaged, challenged, stretched and inspired. EVERY SINGLE DAY! And these kids will be hoping for a second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth period filled with more of the same--EVERY SINGLE DAY! It's a tall order.
Dave will have these kids excited about science for sure, but he is not a miracle worker. Sixth graders are sixth graders.
They will still need to be told things three times. They will probably still forget their materials. They will most likely cry. A lot. For completely inexplicable reasons.
But they will look forward to first period. EVERY SINGLE DAY!
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