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.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
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!
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Suck It 45!
Dear 45,
I am writing this out of concern for you. It appears that you think you are 50, and you, my friend, are no 50.
You are, to be sure, way past 40. I will give you that much. 40, although scary to think about, really was not such a big deal. Sure, people warned me about 40. But in the end, 40 was just a number. It brought no giant change as prophesied by so many. Some little changes--an ache here, a slower mile time there--but nothing dramatic. 45, you are only five years more. And five years is not an eternity.
You, 45, seem to think you are years ahead of your time. This must stop. Now.
I do not want to be disrespectful. You have five whole years on 40. I acknowledge that, and I salute you. Experience is important. But I see the road you are headed down, and while it's ultimately a good one, you need to slow down a bit. Take your time. Don't rush into things. I like where you are going, but you're getting a little pushy about it.
For example: you have politely insisted that I exercise more. And I do, because you threaten me with actual weight gain if I do not comply (40 was a bit kinder in that respect--it actually let me lose weight when I exercised).
You have also kindly, persistently nudged me to become better acquainted with an old friend, ibuprofen. I've never had anything against ibuprofen, by the way. We always got along. We just didn't need to be in constant contact. We were fine getting together every now and again. But at your insistence, now we hook up regularly. I concede that you were right. The more I get to know ibuprofen, the more I appreciate its qualities. And you probably already knew this, but it turns out that exercise and ibuprofen have been hanging out together for years; I almost feel like a third wheel in the relationship.
And another thing, 45. Get off my back. Last week I threw it out. Know what I was doing when it went out? Not sailing. Not swimming. Not running or gardening or lifting heavy grocery bags. Nothing even remotely athletic or even purposeful. I was sunbathing. Really. I kid you not. Layed down on the lounge chair for twenty minutes, and then couldn't get up. What's up with that, 45? You're going to take me out of the picture with sunbathing? That's just lame, even for you, 45. I understand you're excited about my renewed friendship with ibuprofen, but I see what you're doing. You're pushing me towards flexeril. And I know flexeril hangs with vicodin. I'm not wild about either of them. Not yet. You shouldn't be either. And you better watch out, 45. I'm pretty sure 50 has already called shotgun with both of them.
Another thing I need to mention, 45, for your own good: I know you are excited about the prospect of being 50, but take a cue from 40, please, and realize that the day is not over at 7pm. There's still plenty of exciting stuff to do after the sun goes down. I know you may not love dancing into the wee hours the way 30 and even 40 did, but you are underestimating yourself. I'm not trying to unfairly compare you to your younger self; I know we need more rest as we get older. But for the love of god, you're 45, not 80. Stop whispering in my ear that it's okay to be in my jammies at dinner time. It's not. I know you've worked your magic and gotten me to hit the sack before 9pm plenty of times, but I'm going to start fighting you on this one. Fair warning.
In closing, I just want to remind you, 45, that I'm trying really, really hard to act my age. My parents taught me that long ago; did anyone ever take the time to teach YOU that? It's important. Don't rush it. I need you, 45. I need you to stick to your guns and keep me feeling 45, not try to make me feel older. 50 is five long years away still. I don't think either one of us is quite mature enough to make that leap just yet.
Thank you for your understanding, and I hope we can still be friends.
Sincerely,
Kim
I am writing this out of concern for you. It appears that you think you are 50, and you, my friend, are no 50.
You are, to be sure, way past 40. I will give you that much. 40, although scary to think about, really was not such a big deal. Sure, people warned me about 40. But in the end, 40 was just a number. It brought no giant change as prophesied by so many. Some little changes--an ache here, a slower mile time there--but nothing dramatic. 45, you are only five years more. And five years is not an eternity.
You, 45, seem to think you are years ahead of your time. This must stop. Now.
I do not want to be disrespectful. You have five whole years on 40. I acknowledge that, and I salute you. Experience is important. But I see the road you are headed down, and while it's ultimately a good one, you need to slow down a bit. Take your time. Don't rush into things. I like where you are going, but you're getting a little pushy about it.
For example: you have politely insisted that I exercise more. And I do, because you threaten me with actual weight gain if I do not comply (40 was a bit kinder in that respect--it actually let me lose weight when I exercised).
You have also kindly, persistently nudged me to become better acquainted with an old friend, ibuprofen. I've never had anything against ibuprofen, by the way. We always got along. We just didn't need to be in constant contact. We were fine getting together every now and again. But at your insistence, now we hook up regularly. I concede that you were right. The more I get to know ibuprofen, the more I appreciate its qualities. And you probably already knew this, but it turns out that exercise and ibuprofen have been hanging out together for years; I almost feel like a third wheel in the relationship.
And another thing, 45. Get off my back. Last week I threw it out. Know what I was doing when it went out? Not sailing. Not swimming. Not running or gardening or lifting heavy grocery bags. Nothing even remotely athletic or even purposeful. I was sunbathing. Really. I kid you not. Layed down on the lounge chair for twenty minutes, and then couldn't get up. What's up with that, 45? You're going to take me out of the picture with sunbathing? That's just lame, even for you, 45. I understand you're excited about my renewed friendship with ibuprofen, but I see what you're doing. You're pushing me towards flexeril. And I know flexeril hangs with vicodin. I'm not wild about either of them. Not yet. You shouldn't be either. And you better watch out, 45. I'm pretty sure 50 has already called shotgun with both of them.
Another thing I need to mention, 45, for your own good: I know you are excited about the prospect of being 50, but take a cue from 40, please, and realize that the day is not over at 7pm. There's still plenty of exciting stuff to do after the sun goes down. I know you may not love dancing into the wee hours the way 30 and even 40 did, but you are underestimating yourself. I'm not trying to unfairly compare you to your younger self; I know we need more rest as we get older. But for the love of god, you're 45, not 80. Stop whispering in my ear that it's okay to be in my jammies at dinner time. It's not. I know you've worked your magic and gotten me to hit the sack before 9pm plenty of times, but I'm going to start fighting you on this one. Fair warning.
In closing, I just want to remind you, 45, that I'm trying really, really hard to act my age. My parents taught me that long ago; did anyone ever take the time to teach YOU that? It's important. Don't rush it. I need you, 45. I need you to stick to your guns and keep me feeling 45, not try to make me feel older. 50 is five long years away still. I don't think either one of us is quite mature enough to make that leap just yet.
Thank you for your understanding, and I hope we can still be friends.
Sincerely,
Kim
Thursday, July 21, 2011
I Wanna Be My Mom When I Grow Up
My seventy-one year old mother just went to her 50th college reunion two months ago. She and my dad, who is approaching seventy-five, flew from California to New York for a weekend. A weekend with friends. A weekend with friends my mother either (a) hasn't seen in decades; or (b) sees maybe once each decade and exchanges Christmas cards and emails and phone calls with in between visits. Let me say it again: my seventy-one year old mother and my seventy-four year old father traveled three-thousand miles to see some old friends for a few days.
My parents travel all over the place. They go to the beach, they go to the East Coast, they travel to AAPT conventions all over the country, they go to Europe. They travel by car, rental car, train, foot, subway, metro, plane. I don't recall ever hearing about any bus rides, but it may just be that I haven't heard all their stories yet. They have a LOT of stories. And even some slides to go with some of the older stories, if you're free some evening next week.
Back to the college reunion. Or more precisely, a few days before they left for the college reunion. My mom sends me a text (yes, my seventy-one year old mom has an iPhone 4; she texts my kids and plays "Words with Friends" with my niece and nephew). The text reads something like this: "Do you know how to make a toga?"
Seriously. I thought this was a funny question to be coming from my mother, and honestly I thought she was joking around. She was not joking. She wanted to know if I remembered from my own college days how to make a toga. My mother seriously over-estimates my college days. I don't think I ever had occasion to wear a toga in college (sad, I know, but don't tell anyone; if my mom thinks I was that big a partier, there might be others who think so, too--let's let them have their dreams, ok?).
So no, I had never constructed nor worn a toga in college, but I did attend one toga party a few years out of college, and I did remember how to take a bed sheet and make it into a fairly passable looking Greek ensemble. I passed along my knowledge while inquiring as to why she needed this information.
Turns out that the all-girls college (at the time) that my mother attended was not only having a reunion for all of its graduated classes, but there would also be a parade of all the matriculates (is that a word?), as well as a party at which each graduating class would present a skit. Guess which class decided to do a skit in togas? The class of 1961. Rock on, class of '61! If you had asked me which class would be donning bed linens and baring shoulders, I'd have guessed closer to the class of 2001. And in all fairness, let me just say that the class of '61 CHOSE the toga theme--it was not impressed upon them. Okay, it might have been one person in the class of '61 that chose that theme and impressed it upon the rest of them, but still... if you still got your party panties (or togas) on fifty years out of college, I've got nothing but respect for you! To me that shows a lust for life that is both admirable and enviable.
All throughout that reunion weekend, my mom sent me pictures of the various activities. I saw the photo of her freshman dorm room. I saw the picture of all the classes walking in the reunion parade across the beautiful campus. I saw lovely shots of my mom with her classmates (my mom, just for the record, could have easily passed for someone at her 40th reunion). I kept waiting for the toga shot. I finally texted her--"Where's the one of you in a toga?" Her reply: "I already sent it. Didn't you get it?" Hmmm. Too convenient. Me: "No, can you send it again?" Her: "I'll try." I was beginning to get doubtful. Maybe my mom decided the toga was too much (or too little). Finally, a very grainy, dark shot, with my mom's head and what appeared to be one bare shoulder peeking through from behind a wall of bodies.
Okay, it wasn't Animal House or anything, but I'm proud of my mom for rising to the occasion. I'm sure not every member of the class eagerly embraced the Greek theme, and I'm not even positive that my mom eagerly embraced it, but she did embrace it. And she had fun. Three thousand miles from home. At the age of seventy-one. Among lifelong friends. In a toga.
I wanna be my mom when I grow up.
EDITOR'S NOTE: The companion piece, entitled "I Wanna Be My Dad When I Grow Up", is currently in the works and will be appearing soon.
My parents travel all over the place. They go to the beach, they go to the East Coast, they travel to AAPT conventions all over the country, they go to Europe. They travel by car, rental car, train, foot, subway, metro, plane. I don't recall ever hearing about any bus rides, but it may just be that I haven't heard all their stories yet. They have a LOT of stories. And even some slides to go with some of the older stories, if you're free some evening next week.
Back to the college reunion. Or more precisely, a few days before they left for the college reunion. My mom sends me a text (yes, my seventy-one year old mom has an iPhone 4; she texts my kids and plays "Words with Friends" with my niece and nephew). The text reads something like this: "Do you know how to make a toga?"
Seriously. I thought this was a funny question to be coming from my mother, and honestly I thought she was joking around. She was not joking. She wanted to know if I remembered from my own college days how to make a toga. My mother seriously over-estimates my college days. I don't think I ever had occasion to wear a toga in college (sad, I know, but don't tell anyone; if my mom thinks I was that big a partier, there might be others who think so, too--let's let them have their dreams, ok?).
So no, I had never constructed nor worn a toga in college, but I did attend one toga party a few years out of college, and I did remember how to take a bed sheet and make it into a fairly passable looking Greek ensemble. I passed along my knowledge while inquiring as to why she needed this information.
Turns out that the all-girls college (at the time) that my mother attended was not only having a reunion for all of its graduated classes, but there would also be a parade of all the matriculates (is that a word?), as well as a party at which each graduating class would present a skit. Guess which class decided to do a skit in togas? The class of 1961. Rock on, class of '61! If you had asked me which class would be donning bed linens and baring shoulders, I'd have guessed closer to the class of 2001. And in all fairness, let me just say that the class of '61 CHOSE the toga theme--it was not impressed upon them. Okay, it might have been one person in the class of '61 that chose that theme and impressed it upon the rest of them, but still... if you still got your party panties (or togas) on fifty years out of college, I've got nothing but respect for you! To me that shows a lust for life that is both admirable and enviable.
All throughout that reunion weekend, my mom sent me pictures of the various activities. I saw the photo of her freshman dorm room. I saw the picture of all the classes walking in the reunion parade across the beautiful campus. I saw lovely shots of my mom with her classmates (my mom, just for the record, could have easily passed for someone at her 40th reunion). I kept waiting for the toga shot. I finally texted her--"Where's the one of you in a toga?" Her reply: "I already sent it. Didn't you get it?" Hmmm. Too convenient. Me: "No, can you send it again?" Her: "I'll try." I was beginning to get doubtful. Maybe my mom decided the toga was too much (or too little). Finally, a very grainy, dark shot, with my mom's head and what appeared to be one bare shoulder peeking through from behind a wall of bodies.
Okay, it wasn't Animal House or anything, but I'm proud of my mom for rising to the occasion. I'm sure not every member of the class eagerly embraced the Greek theme, and I'm not even positive that my mom eagerly embraced it, but she did embrace it. And she had fun. Three thousand miles from home. At the age of seventy-one. Among lifelong friends. In a toga.
I wanna be my mom when I grow up.
EDITOR'S NOTE: The companion piece, entitled "I Wanna Be My Dad When I Grow Up", is currently in the works and will be appearing soon.
Friday, May 20, 2011
In the Blink of an Eye
So today, in approximately four hours, as of 12:02pm, I will be the mother of a freshman and a junior in high school. In HIGH SCHOOL! I am not exactly sure how this happened.
I do remember giving birth to two adorable babies. I can picture playpens and bouncy seats and car seats and doorway swings, and lots and lots of Legos.
I recall two little cuties running around in the sprinklers (probably naked) in our backyard for several summers, painting on the easel Dave made for them, chalking up the back patio--and themselves!
I have vivid memories of walking the kids to school each and every morning for seven years, and I believe I walked them home for a good many years as well, until at some point the walk home turned instead into me waiting anxiously on the front porch, watching them walk home, waiting (hoping) to hear the stories of the day.
I remember lots of names of friends who came and went (Mack, Trevor, Abby, Barrett) as well as those who stuck around for the long haul (Rebecca, Christopher, Jessica).
Somewhere in there I can picture school elections, carpools, swim meets, band concerts, cross-country meets, carpools, summer homework, birthday parties, carpools, and summer nights spent at "the court".
Somehow, driving lessons crept up on us. And tryouts for the JV cheer squad.
And just two nights ago I found myself at a college preparatory meeting with Steven. That's where things start to get a little fuzzy for me. How did I get THERE? And the next morning, as I was sitting at Olivia's eighth grade promotion, the principal kept referring to "The Class of 2015". I felt like Pavlov's dogs. Every time he said "the class of 2015", my eyes welled up. Every single time. There was nothing I could do to stop it.
There IS nothing I can do to stop it, I guess. I will admit I have tried. And failed. Telling your daughter you think the tankinis are cuter than the bikinis does not stop her from being a teenager and buying the bikini. Telling your son that Facebook will just suck up hours of his life will not stop him from making giddy little sounds with a giant smile on his face as he opens his Facebook page one hour after making it and finds he now has fifty friends.
In the blink of an eye, my kids grew up. I know I was there. I remember it all clearly, so many moments, big and small. But right now it all just feels like a blur. I was never very good at physics (there's a whole blog entry just waiting to be written on that subject), but right now, just when I want time to stand still, time seems instead to be accelerating at a ridiculous pace. I'm having a hard time keeping up.
Right now Steven is at school enjoying a "Calculus Breakfast Final", and Olivia is still asleep upstairs. I just looked at the clock. I still have a little over three hours until I officially am the mother of an upperclassman and a freshman. I think I may just go watch my daughter sleep for a few minutes...
I do remember giving birth to two adorable babies. I can picture playpens and bouncy seats and car seats and doorway swings, and lots and lots of Legos.
I recall two little cuties running around in the sprinklers (probably naked) in our backyard for several summers, painting on the easel Dave made for them, chalking up the back patio--and themselves!
I have vivid memories of walking the kids to school each and every morning for seven years, and I believe I walked them home for a good many years as well, until at some point the walk home turned instead into me waiting anxiously on the front porch, watching them walk home, waiting (hoping) to hear the stories of the day.
I remember lots of names of friends who came and went (Mack, Trevor, Abby, Barrett) as well as those who stuck around for the long haul (Rebecca, Christopher, Jessica).
Somewhere in there I can picture school elections, carpools, swim meets, band concerts, cross-country meets, carpools, summer homework, birthday parties, carpools, and summer nights spent at "the court".
Somehow, driving lessons crept up on us. And tryouts for the JV cheer squad.
And just two nights ago I found myself at a college preparatory meeting with Steven. That's where things start to get a little fuzzy for me. How did I get THERE? And the next morning, as I was sitting at Olivia's eighth grade promotion, the principal kept referring to "The Class of 2015". I felt like Pavlov's dogs. Every time he said "the class of 2015", my eyes welled up. Every single time. There was nothing I could do to stop it.
There IS nothing I can do to stop it, I guess. I will admit I have tried. And failed. Telling your daughter you think the tankinis are cuter than the bikinis does not stop her from being a teenager and buying the bikini. Telling your son that Facebook will just suck up hours of his life will not stop him from making giddy little sounds with a giant smile on his face as he opens his Facebook page one hour after making it and finds he now has fifty friends.
In the blink of an eye, my kids grew up. I know I was there. I remember it all clearly, so many moments, big and small. But right now it all just feels like a blur. I was never very good at physics (there's a whole blog entry just waiting to be written on that subject), but right now, just when I want time to stand still, time seems instead to be accelerating at a ridiculous pace. I'm having a hard time keeping up.
Right now Steven is at school enjoying a "Calculus Breakfast Final", and Olivia is still asleep upstairs. I just looked at the clock. I still have a little over three hours until I officially am the mother of an upperclassman and a freshman. I think I may just go watch my daughter sleep for a few minutes...
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