August 30, 2010
If my parent-of-a-high-school-athlete learning curve were any steeper, I’d need to buy some pitons and an ice pick. This ascent has left me breathless, to say the least. And, while I couldn’t be more thrilled by the prospect of watching Allison play volleyball for her new high school’s team, the package that accompanies such an honor is feeling a bit like a booby prize at the moment. And I’m the booby.
Have you ever had one of those moments when you just really didn’t get the joke? When you wondered if you’d awakened in Communist Russia or discovered that someone had moved all of your dishes into the wrong cabinet while you were sleeping? Well, okay. I can relate to the “dish” thing, but I once again seem to be in foreign territory these days and I’m not really sure what to do.
Let me provide the back story. Mark and I attended Allison’s volleyball-team parent meeting last week. I figured it was a time to find out just what the heck a libero was or how it is that those girls manage to get their shorts on without a can of Pam nearby. Turns out, it was a time to sign checks and buy apparel and order team photos and sign up to bring jello salad and granola bars to the team luncheon. In short, it was a time to find out how most other parents live. Giving and giving and giving. And all with a smile and your eyes on the competition.
In this case, the competition was this super mother, who fervently spoke of the joy that it brought her to provide last year’s Freshman team with 17 pre-game-day meals,—SEVENTEEN!-- not to mention healthy snacks and refreshing bottled on the day of their game. This was her pitch for getting one of us to become the new Freshman team parent. That’s like having a Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist ask for volunteers to take over the school newsletter. Given that most of the Freshman parents were men and one of the moms was in her pajamas, I figured we were safe from the prospect of making 17 meals for a bevy of teenaged girls in spandex.
Apparently, I was wrong.
And I can’t tell you how devastated I feel right now. I know, I know. You’d think I would be happy to know that, in the next month or so, someone else would be feeding dinner to Allison at least 17 times, freeing me to do little or nothing with my post-work time. But I grew up in a family-dinner household. In fact, family dinners were one of the highlights of my childhood, even if my mom lacked mad skillz in the food-preparation department. I cherish those dinner-time conversations of my youth, and have done everything within my power to continue that tradition into my adulthood.
I can count on my hands the number of times when the Holt household has not gathered, full strength, at our dinner table each night. And I’m pretty sure my kids have come to expect dinner together as the norm.
Between Allison’s 17-game schedule (for which I will happily and temporarily adjust our dinner-time routine) to the 17 team dinners that now teeter on the edge of my calendar, all four of us lose a little something. Heck, even Hobbes the Hobo dog will miss out in the coming month, a month of few home-cooked meals and much driving around between sports venues and teammates’ homes. I am baffled that no one else seems to protest the ease with which such family time is taken away.
I can only assume it means that family dinners have taken a back seat to something else entirely. And that scares me just a little.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Confessions of a Nature Dweeb
August 29, 2010
Occasionally, I get razzed from my friends for my nature-based online observations. The razzing is always good-natured (pun possibly intended), but there is, nonetheless, a certain, dark undercurrent running through their commentary, the suggestion that I am somehow quaint or out of touch or maybe even a bit touched, to use an old-fashioned term.
But, really, how can I ignore the moment I just shared on our patio with a ruby-throated hummingbird that hovered just inches away from me? How can I shake from my memory that low hum his wings made as they flapped faster than I could possibly register with my aging eyes?
The thing that nature always delivers to me is hope, something homo sapiens can’t seem to tap with much consistency. Sure, I draw energy and enthusiasm for the future from my students, family and friends. And my confidence in the future almost always is strengthened by the feel-good stories that appear in Section B of the Sunday paper, where the focus regularly turns to those who foster good, not guns.
But, in the long run, these human high points can’t hold a candle to what my backyard buddies and birdies offer me. I don’t say this naively, either. I “get” that the daily life of of birds and bugs and beasts of burden is just that, a burden. I realize that, for every wing-flapping fledgling that squawks for its ma, there are a dozen predators just looking for the right moment to pounce. This non-human world can be downright inhuman. It is violent, dangerous and rife with parasites.
But it is rife with “aha” moments, too. It’s as though all of the natural world abides by St. Paul’s words “Do not let the sun set on your anger.” For, each evening, every bug, bird and beast seems to let out a collective “Uncle!” calling a truce that will be honored all night long, while each settles into its sleeping quarters (minus their nocturnal cousins, of course, who take their recess while the sun is still high in the sky).
Therein lies the hope. The consistency and unshakeable rhythm of the natural world—along with its seasonal flashes of color, cohabitation, and capitulation—brings me great heaps of comfort in a world where humans so often seem unable to follow the lead of their “lesser” cousins.
Occasionally, I get razzed from my friends for my nature-based online observations. The razzing is always good-natured (pun possibly intended), but there is, nonetheless, a certain, dark undercurrent running through their commentary, the suggestion that I am somehow quaint or out of touch or maybe even a bit touched, to use an old-fashioned term.
But, really, how can I ignore the moment I just shared on our patio with a ruby-throated hummingbird that hovered just inches away from me? How can I shake from my memory that low hum his wings made as they flapped faster than I could possibly register with my aging eyes?
The thing that nature always delivers to me is hope, something homo sapiens can’t seem to tap with much consistency. Sure, I draw energy and enthusiasm for the future from my students, family and friends. And my confidence in the future almost always is strengthened by the feel-good stories that appear in Section B of the Sunday paper, where the focus regularly turns to those who foster good, not guns.
But, in the long run, these human high points can’t hold a candle to what my backyard buddies and birdies offer me. I don’t say this naively, either. I “get” that the daily life of of birds and bugs and beasts of burden is just that, a burden. I realize that, for every wing-flapping fledgling that squawks for its ma, there are a dozen predators just looking for the right moment to pounce. This non-human world can be downright inhuman. It is violent, dangerous and rife with parasites.
But it is rife with “aha” moments, too. It’s as though all of the natural world abides by St. Paul’s words “Do not let the sun set on your anger.” For, each evening, every bug, bird and beast seems to let out a collective “Uncle!” calling a truce that will be honored all night long, while each settles into its sleeping quarters (minus their nocturnal cousins, of course, who take their recess while the sun is still high in the sky).
Therein lies the hope. The consistency and unshakeable rhythm of the natural world—along with its seasonal flashes of color, cohabitation, and capitulation—brings me great heaps of comfort in a world where humans so often seem unable to follow the lead of their “lesser” cousins.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Smells Like Teen Spirit, Among Other Things
August 26, 2010
Sometimes I think I’d be willing support a smaller stimulus package, at least when it comes to working in a high school. I’m not talking money, though. I’m talking about actual stimulation. Two weeks into work again and I’m reminded every two or three minutes that a high school is a stimulating place to work. Maybe too stimulating, at least when it comes to the senses.
“Smells Like Teen Spirit”
For one, the library’s computer lab smells like an armpit half of the time. I know. I know. Maybe it’s the humidity or the new carpet, but I’m pretty sure it’s all those sticky, stinky kids frantically typing their essays. Which, by the way, also can stink, at times. My nose gets quite a noseful working in a high school. The other day one section of the library smelled like sour milk, not one of this fall’s featured scents at Dillard’s perfume counter. While I started crying over spilled milk, another teacher suggested that the culprit was…not milk. And so, I kept right on crying, just because.
“The Sound of Mucus. . . ”
To be stuck in a hallway at passing time is like finding yourself on the New York subway at the end of the workday. It’s a little scary and antlike, with everyone skittering about, chattering and whooping, bumping and snorting. To move successfully in such an atmosphere requires Kung Fu focus and the ability to create the illusion of both determination and destiny.
The same can hold true in the library during lunch. While I relish the fact that so many kids want to hang out with us during their sliver of mid-day free time, I must admit that I wouldn’t mind tuning out their voluminous voices at times. And yet, I seldom give in to that urge to hush them, instead drawing odd comfort from their boisterous laughter and interactions, glad that they can let loose a little, even in a place traditionally known for its pin-drop silence.
A Sight for Really Sore Eyes
Finally, teens offer a daily feast for the eyes, although an occasional famine would be welcomed. What they wear is so closely tied into who they see themselves as—whereas, what I wear is closely tied to what fits and isn’t too wrinkly—that it makes me think more teens should be wearing glasses.
Most teens at my school, though, dress surprisingly simply, keeping it crisp and clean.
But there are those whose clothes either leave little to the imagination or much to be desired. I have never gotten the whole “sagging” thing. All I can figure is that there are a lot of teenaged boys out there with some serious thigh burn and diaper rash. As for the baby-doll look, let’s just say that I’ve yet to see an actual baby doll—let alone a young girl--whose looks have been improved by fashions that say “I just LOOK like I’m pregnant!”
So why do I keep coming back every day? For a few reasons, I suppose. For one, I tend to smell, speak too loudly and wear clothes that may very well be missing a button or have a slight tear under the armpit. For another, I just really like these kids. They are funny and varied and complicated and strange and smart and. . . well, surely I can forgive them the occasional fart or outburst or fashion faux pas when, more often than not, they are delivering the goods with panache and pizzazz, two things that never go out of style.
Sometimes I think I’d be willing support a smaller stimulus package, at least when it comes to working in a high school. I’m not talking money, though. I’m talking about actual stimulation. Two weeks into work again and I’m reminded every two or three minutes that a high school is a stimulating place to work. Maybe too stimulating, at least when it comes to the senses.
“Smells Like Teen Spirit”
For one, the library’s computer lab smells like an armpit half of the time. I know. I know. Maybe it’s the humidity or the new carpet, but I’m pretty sure it’s all those sticky, stinky kids frantically typing their essays. Which, by the way, also can stink, at times. My nose gets quite a noseful working in a high school. The other day one section of the library smelled like sour milk, not one of this fall’s featured scents at Dillard’s perfume counter. While I started crying over spilled milk, another teacher suggested that the culprit was…not milk. And so, I kept right on crying, just because.
“The Sound of Mucus. . . ”
To be stuck in a hallway at passing time is like finding yourself on the New York subway at the end of the workday. It’s a little scary and antlike, with everyone skittering about, chattering and whooping, bumping and snorting. To move successfully in such an atmosphere requires Kung Fu focus and the ability to create the illusion of both determination and destiny.
The same can hold true in the library during lunch. While I relish the fact that so many kids want to hang out with us during their sliver of mid-day free time, I must admit that I wouldn’t mind tuning out their voluminous voices at times. And yet, I seldom give in to that urge to hush them, instead drawing odd comfort from their boisterous laughter and interactions, glad that they can let loose a little, even in a place traditionally known for its pin-drop silence.
A Sight for Really Sore Eyes
Finally, teens offer a daily feast for the eyes, although an occasional famine would be welcomed. What they wear is so closely tied into who they see themselves as—whereas, what I wear is closely tied to what fits and isn’t too wrinkly—that it makes me think more teens should be wearing glasses.
Most teens at my school, though, dress surprisingly simply, keeping it crisp and clean.
But there are those whose clothes either leave little to the imagination or much to be desired. I have never gotten the whole “sagging” thing. All I can figure is that there are a lot of teenaged boys out there with some serious thigh burn and diaper rash. As for the baby-doll look, let’s just say that I’ve yet to see an actual baby doll—let alone a young girl--whose looks have been improved by fashions that say “I just LOOK like I’m pregnant!”
So why do I keep coming back every day? For a few reasons, I suppose. For one, I tend to smell, speak too loudly and wear clothes that may very well be missing a button or have a slight tear under the armpit. For another, I just really like these kids. They are funny and varied and complicated and strange and smart and. . . well, surely I can forgive them the occasional fart or outburst or fashion faux pas when, more often than not, they are delivering the goods with panache and pizzazz, two things that never go out of style.
Mind Games and 30th Reunions
August 26, 2010
I’m teetering on the edge of my 30th high-school reunion and it’s starting to mess with my mind. I can only imagine what the dream detritus will be, after it’s all over.
For now, though, I’m having fun on Facebook reconnecting with former classmates, reminding ourselves why we enjoyed each other’s company or, in other instances, wondering why it took so long to cross paths with each other in the first place.
Got a funny phone call this summer from three former classmates who were having their own mini reunion along the shores of some lake in Michigan. In that loud, funny, speaker-phone call, we laughed about some of our dusty times together. In particular, we recalled the time as seniors when we put bandanas over our faces, hopped in a car and raced through the drivers’-ed course, upsetting the delicate balance of the freshmen drivers, whose sweaty palms glistened and gripped even more as we weaved between them.
I expect that this phone call was just a sample of what’s to come in a month—heaps of funny, fuzzy flashbacks shared against a backdrop of lukewarm buffet-line food and keg beer. And, while the numbers may be off a bit, I’m also predicting that those who attend our 30th will mostly be glad to be alive and upright. It won’t be like a 10th-year reunion, when people are still too young to appreciate time with each other without giving in to the temptation of showing off their swag. Granted, at our 30th, there will be plenty of swag, but it’ll be in the way we walk, not in the way we talk.
No, I think we’ll just be glad to be together, sharing stories and reconnecting. How many of those stories are actually true or accurate, I cannot say. But they’ll be fun to tell, anyway.
I’m teetering on the edge of my 30th high-school reunion and it’s starting to mess with my mind. I can only imagine what the dream detritus will be, after it’s all over.
For now, though, I’m having fun on Facebook reconnecting with former classmates, reminding ourselves why we enjoyed each other’s company or, in other instances, wondering why it took so long to cross paths with each other in the first place.
Got a funny phone call this summer from three former classmates who were having their own mini reunion along the shores of some lake in Michigan. In that loud, funny, speaker-phone call, we laughed about some of our dusty times together. In particular, we recalled the time as seniors when we put bandanas over our faces, hopped in a car and raced through the drivers’-ed course, upsetting the delicate balance of the freshmen drivers, whose sweaty palms glistened and gripped even more as we weaved between them.
I expect that this phone call was just a sample of what’s to come in a month—heaps of funny, fuzzy flashbacks shared against a backdrop of lukewarm buffet-line food and keg beer. And, while the numbers may be off a bit, I’m also predicting that those who attend our 30th will mostly be glad to be alive and upright. It won’t be like a 10th-year reunion, when people are still too young to appreciate time with each other without giving in to the temptation of showing off their swag. Granted, at our 30th, there will be plenty of swag, but it’ll be in the way we walk, not in the way we talk.
No, I think we’ll just be glad to be together, sharing stories and reconnecting. How many of those stories are actually true or accurate, I cannot say. But they’ll be fun to tell, anyway.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Tragic Tales from the Teachers' Lounge
August 23, 2010
Some teachers are pretty decent cooks. These are the ones I hope show up on the first Friday of each month, when the East High staff has a potluck lunch. Whatever they bring on these Fridays,—from Julie’s crack bars to Andrea’s cheesecakes, Laurie’s salsas to Chica’s strawberry cake—their offerings automatically up the “Cheetos” ante tenfold, and the rest of us benefit immediately.
Still, I’d be lying if I said teachers weren’t the most cold-blooded, undiscerning bunch of vultures I have ever met.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that, if I cleaned out my refrigerator tonight and took to school that moldy pile of who-knows-what that’s been festering in back for the past three months, I could get rid of it within 20 minutes--regardless of if it’s become low-grade penicillin. How? Simply by plopping on a “Free” sticky note and running. Believe me when I say that the teachers’ lounge is a dark, dark place, despite all the lights.
Take today, for instance. A perfect chocolate cake greeted us as we filed into the lounge with our lunch bags. Every one of us noticed that cake just sitting there, unattached and irresistible. So how low are our standards? How desperate are we, simply because something is available? Well, this thing could have been made of sawdust and vomit, but because it had a thin layer of chocolate on it, to us, it was Eve in the garden, that siren calling us to our rocky deaths. And we? We were helpless under its powers, eventually convincing ourselves that this treat was brought here for US. To eat. Right now. With our hands, if necessary.
I am not proud of this seamy side of the otherwise noble tradition of teaching, even if I am first in line to practice it. I still cringe when I recall a long-ago journalism conference in which one of my colleagues belittled a kid who’d snuck into the advisers’ lounge and stolen a donut. “Those are for US, you idiot! PUT THAT BACK NOW!”
Teachers, who would rather poke their eyes with a sharpened #2 pencil than attend another meeting, will joyfully jump through your hoops if you just throw them a dried up Lorna Doone or two before knocking off another agenda items. As a profession, we are the ultimate cheap dates, all dolled up in our practical, khaki capris and cardigan sweaters. Deep down, we know this about ourselves, and yet, we still can’t resist. In this one area, we are anything but discerning. But a contented bunch, nonetheless.
Some teachers are pretty decent cooks. These are the ones I hope show up on the first Friday of each month, when the East High staff has a potluck lunch. Whatever they bring on these Fridays,—from Julie’s crack bars to Andrea’s cheesecakes, Laurie’s salsas to Chica’s strawberry cake—their offerings automatically up the “Cheetos” ante tenfold, and the rest of us benefit immediately.
Still, I’d be lying if I said teachers weren’t the most cold-blooded, undiscerning bunch of vultures I have ever met.
In fact, I’m pretty sure that, if I cleaned out my refrigerator tonight and took to school that moldy pile of who-knows-what that’s been festering in back for the past three months, I could get rid of it within 20 minutes--regardless of if it’s become low-grade penicillin. How? Simply by plopping on a “Free” sticky note and running. Believe me when I say that the teachers’ lounge is a dark, dark place, despite all the lights.
Take today, for instance. A perfect chocolate cake greeted us as we filed into the lounge with our lunch bags. Every one of us noticed that cake just sitting there, unattached and irresistible. So how low are our standards? How desperate are we, simply because something is available? Well, this thing could have been made of sawdust and vomit, but because it had a thin layer of chocolate on it, to us, it was Eve in the garden, that siren calling us to our rocky deaths. And we? We were helpless under its powers, eventually convincing ourselves that this treat was brought here for US. To eat. Right now. With our hands, if necessary.
I am not proud of this seamy side of the otherwise noble tradition of teaching, even if I am first in line to practice it. I still cringe when I recall a long-ago journalism conference in which one of my colleagues belittled a kid who’d snuck into the advisers’ lounge and stolen a donut. “Those are for US, you idiot! PUT THAT BACK NOW!”
Teachers, who would rather poke their eyes with a sharpened #2 pencil than attend another meeting, will joyfully jump through your hoops if you just throw them a dried up Lorna Doone or two before knocking off another agenda items. As a profession, we are the ultimate cheap dates, all dolled up in our practical, khaki capris and cardigan sweaters. Deep down, we know this about ourselves, and yet, we still can’t resist. In this one area, we are anything but discerning. But a contented bunch, nonetheless.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Joy of Lexiles--Why I Love the Sunday Paper
August 22, 2010
I found myself on page E3 of the Sunday Journal-Star this morning. It’s not often I find myself in that section. After all, Prairie Lane, while homey and craftsy, is, well, homey and craftsy—two things I clearly am not. Yet, there I was, nodding happily as I read Lorene Bartos’ “Housewise” column, finally realizing why my drinking glasses just weren’t coming out clean these days!
Because of a new dishwasher-detergent industry regulation, since July 1, phosphates are out. That means my glasses are coming out of the dishwasher looking like they just came down with a case of cataracts. But so are everyone else’s. Which really is the point, when you think about it. I mean, if it’d only been my glasses that were growing milky, then this would be personal.
I think it was the first time I’d really found myself on E3, a page I usually skip over entirely. One reason I skip it is because of those before/after photos of revamped rooms. More often than not, I find myself preferring the “before” over the “after,” and, frankly, it just got a bit embarrassing to realize the extent of my interior-design ignorance. So I just quit looking.
The sections of a Sunday newspaper can offer great insights into where we are in our lives. The order in which we read those sections often reflects the priorities and preferences of our days. If I handed a paper to each of my journalism students on the first day of school and gave them the instruction of spending the next 30 minutes reading that paper, I’d learn a great deal about them. By the end of those 30 minutes, I’d know whom my Sports editor and Opinions editor would be. I’d have a good idea who would make a good artist, a good photographer. I might even know who’s got a sick family member or who is in need of some extra cash, given how they navigate their paper.
I can’t go out into the world before reading my newspaper each morning. That must be why I keep getting up earlier and earlier. Fortunately, I’ve got the world’s greatest newspaper carrier, which means that, even at 4:30, I can open my front door and find that delectable collection of tales and sales tucked neatly into its plastic sheath, sometimes still warm from the presses, like fresh-baked cookies. I pull it out gently, toss aside the plastic for a future dog walk, and move into the library, where I turn on the lamp, open the back door a crack to let in a little fresh air, and settle in with my paper. Before reading it, though, I quickly move Section B (the Local) to the bottom of the pile, so that I may end with my favorite stuff. It’s one of the few times in my life when I actually practice a little delayed gratification.
That order may change a bit, though, now that volleyball season has begun. There will be days when I slowly build up to that section, anticipating and savoring each bump, set and spike that awaits me. Each summer, when Mark and I get to spend some days together, it is the want-ad section that dangles itself in front of our eyes, the crossword and cryptoquote that sing their siren songs to us. Come winter, when the call of a good blanket and fire takes center stage, I’ll anticipate the Wednesday paper, when recipes hold promise of warming up my insides.
Ah, but I wander. Mostly, I’m in denial this morning, because I’m a bit stumped by the NYT crossword. Having made my first run through, I see far more blank space than blue ink. Time to revisit those devilish clues, my mind once again fresh and open to possibilities.
I found myself on page E3 of the Sunday Journal-Star this morning. It’s not often I find myself in that section. After all, Prairie Lane, while homey and craftsy, is, well, homey and craftsy—two things I clearly am not. Yet, there I was, nodding happily as I read Lorene Bartos’ “Housewise” column, finally realizing why my drinking glasses just weren’t coming out clean these days!
Because of a new dishwasher-detergent industry regulation, since July 1, phosphates are out. That means my glasses are coming out of the dishwasher looking like they just came down with a case of cataracts. But so are everyone else’s. Which really is the point, when you think about it. I mean, if it’d only been my glasses that were growing milky, then this would be personal.
I think it was the first time I’d really found myself on E3, a page I usually skip over entirely. One reason I skip it is because of those before/after photos of revamped rooms. More often than not, I find myself preferring the “before” over the “after,” and, frankly, it just got a bit embarrassing to realize the extent of my interior-design ignorance. So I just quit looking.
The sections of a Sunday newspaper can offer great insights into where we are in our lives. The order in which we read those sections often reflects the priorities and preferences of our days. If I handed a paper to each of my journalism students on the first day of school and gave them the instruction of spending the next 30 minutes reading that paper, I’d learn a great deal about them. By the end of those 30 minutes, I’d know whom my Sports editor and Opinions editor would be. I’d have a good idea who would make a good artist, a good photographer. I might even know who’s got a sick family member or who is in need of some extra cash, given how they navigate their paper.
I can’t go out into the world before reading my newspaper each morning. That must be why I keep getting up earlier and earlier. Fortunately, I’ve got the world’s greatest newspaper carrier, which means that, even at 4:30, I can open my front door and find that delectable collection of tales and sales tucked neatly into its plastic sheath, sometimes still warm from the presses, like fresh-baked cookies. I pull it out gently, toss aside the plastic for a future dog walk, and move into the library, where I turn on the lamp, open the back door a crack to let in a little fresh air, and settle in with my paper. Before reading it, though, I quickly move Section B (the Local) to the bottom of the pile, so that I may end with my favorite stuff. It’s one of the few times in my life when I actually practice a little delayed gratification.
That order may change a bit, though, now that volleyball season has begun. There will be days when I slowly build up to that section, anticipating and savoring each bump, set and spike that awaits me. Each summer, when Mark and I get to spend some days together, it is the want-ad section that dangles itself in front of our eyes, the crossword and cryptoquote that sing their siren songs to us. Come winter, when the call of a good blanket and fire takes center stage, I’ll anticipate the Wednesday paper, when recipes hold promise of warming up my insides.
Ah, but I wander. Mostly, I’m in denial this morning, because I’m a bit stumped by the NYT crossword. Having made my first run through, I see far more blank space than blue ink. Time to revisit those devilish clues, my mind once again fresh and open to possibilities.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
All Creatures Great and Small
August 21, 2010
The hummingbirds are back in town, using up the last of their vacation days before losing them to a new fiscal year. Why they choose to spend those precious days in Lincoln is a puzzle to me, although I’m grateful for the company. Just the other evening, a ruby-throated passerby stopped in our backyard just long enough to pummel the Canna lily that abuts our patio furniture. I was mighty grateful to have my butt in that furniture during its brief visit.
This is the time of year that I am reminded of old words, like “bounty” and “harvest.” Words that once conjured up kindergarten images of a two-dimensional horn-o-plenty stuffed full of gourds and apples now fill my head with live things--buzzing cicadas, put-up-your-dukes praying mantises and lightning-fast hummingbirds, things whose fleeting decadence both delights and exhausts me.
This overstimulated environment is no place in which to read today’s headlines. How, pray tell, am I supposed to find the room to take in the news about Russia’s endangered seed bank, home to 1,000 kinds of strawberries, for St. Petersburg’s sake? It simply stymies the mind to try to ponder how each of these berries stands apart from its cousins. Those who tend these fields say that 90 percent of the plants there can be found nowhere else in the world. And to learn that the thing that is threatening this natural savings-and-loan is a real-estate venture. . . frankly, such news does not shine a warm light on our kind.
I felt like a manic-depressive Paul Harvey this morning, licking my index finger in a desperate search for something more hopeful on page two or page three or perhaps on page four. Alas, that proved fruitless, ironically, as I read that there is now evidence the moon is shrinking.
Tossing aside the morning news, I replaced it with something glossier and more upbeat—the latest issue of my newly-crowned favorite, “The Smithsonian” magazine—where I still found no solace. Instead, I was haunted by the flat, black-and-white images of a foundling ivory-billed woodpecker sitting atop a man’s hat. The photos were from 1937, the last time anyone had irrefutable proof that these magnificent birds were still around. Proof, in this case, came in the form of a nestling whose clumsy, spectacular frame graced this man’s upper torso for five or ten miraculous minutes, deep in a no-longer-there Tennessee virgin forest.
I cannot imagine such grace.
And yet, maybe I can. Maybe I need to do nothing more than wander the meandering garden in my own backyard, where goldfinches now alight on pooped-out purple coneflowers, prying loose their mid-morning snacks. Maybe I just need to run my hands across the four kinds of tomatoes now growing in our garden, each with a different, pulpy fingerprint, one more tart than the others. Maybe I just need to give myself over to the decadence and overgrowth of my own small world, and let myself be amazed by it all, ignoring the siren songs of the newsprint that is trapped inside my house.
The hummingbirds are back in town, using up the last of their vacation days before losing them to a new fiscal year. Why they choose to spend those precious days in Lincoln is a puzzle to me, although I’m grateful for the company. Just the other evening, a ruby-throated passerby stopped in our backyard just long enough to pummel the Canna lily that abuts our patio furniture. I was mighty grateful to have my butt in that furniture during its brief visit.
This is the time of year that I am reminded of old words, like “bounty” and “harvest.” Words that once conjured up kindergarten images of a two-dimensional horn-o-plenty stuffed full of gourds and apples now fill my head with live things--buzzing cicadas, put-up-your-dukes praying mantises and lightning-fast hummingbirds, things whose fleeting decadence both delights and exhausts me.
This overstimulated environment is no place in which to read today’s headlines. How, pray tell, am I supposed to find the room to take in the news about Russia’s endangered seed bank, home to 1,000 kinds of strawberries, for St. Petersburg’s sake? It simply stymies the mind to try to ponder how each of these berries stands apart from its cousins. Those who tend these fields say that 90 percent of the plants there can be found nowhere else in the world. And to learn that the thing that is threatening this natural savings-and-loan is a real-estate venture. . . frankly, such news does not shine a warm light on our kind.
I felt like a manic-depressive Paul Harvey this morning, licking my index finger in a desperate search for something more hopeful on page two or page three or perhaps on page four. Alas, that proved fruitless, ironically, as I read that there is now evidence the moon is shrinking.
Tossing aside the morning news, I replaced it with something glossier and more upbeat—the latest issue of my newly-crowned favorite, “The Smithsonian” magazine—where I still found no solace. Instead, I was haunted by the flat, black-and-white images of a foundling ivory-billed woodpecker sitting atop a man’s hat. The photos were from 1937, the last time anyone had irrefutable proof that these magnificent birds were still around. Proof, in this case, came in the form of a nestling whose clumsy, spectacular frame graced this man’s upper torso for five or ten miraculous minutes, deep in a no-longer-there Tennessee virgin forest.
I cannot imagine such grace.
And yet, maybe I can. Maybe I need to do nothing more than wander the meandering garden in my own backyard, where goldfinches now alight on pooped-out purple coneflowers, prying loose their mid-morning snacks. Maybe I just need to run my hands across the four kinds of tomatoes now growing in our garden, each with a different, pulpy fingerprint, one more tart than the others. Maybe I just need to give myself over to the decadence and overgrowth of my own small world, and let myself be amazed by it all, ignoring the siren songs of the newsprint that is trapped inside my house.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Eyes Really Do Have It
August 18, 2010
On this first day of school, I awaken thinking about eyes. Ever since going to Italy last fall, my thoughts occasionally turn to the realization that, while it looks like we only have one set of eyes, we actually have two. It was in Italy where I repeatedly lived through my first eyes, those eyes that see and experience things for the first time. These eyes are the amped-up, overly emotional cousins of their more droll relatives, second eyes.
No one could possibly live with just first eyes. We’d self-immolate, I think, unable to take in all the rawness of the world. But no one should overlook the importance these eyes play in our lives.
This morning, 35,000 young folks in Lincoln awoke with first eyes. For some, these first eyes will take in not only a new school year, but also a new school and new peers, as well. Such is the case for Allison, who begins her high-school career (one I hope will span only four years) at Lincoln High. Brother Eric, now a senior, has the advantage of familiarity, yet he, too, cannot avoid seeing with these first eyes in the coming days.
Even their crusty old teachers, muttering and tired, will come to school armed with these first eyes, as well. And I think it’s vital to remember the role these first eyes will play in everyone’s lives this week. How can I help but to be patient with the modern teenaged wanderer, staring blankly at a class schedule that says she has two minutes to find Room 203, wherever that is. Great heaps of human emotion are on display this week, peaking during those passing periods between classes, when young people try to act cool while feeling the utter despair of being lost.
That is why I will come to school today with both sets of eyes, my first set ready to relish the excitement and giddiness of something new, and the second set, confident in experience, ready to steady the newcomer who happened to leave his second set on the dresser at home.
On this first day of school, I awaken thinking about eyes. Ever since going to Italy last fall, my thoughts occasionally turn to the realization that, while it looks like we only have one set of eyes, we actually have two. It was in Italy where I repeatedly lived through my first eyes, those eyes that see and experience things for the first time. These eyes are the amped-up, overly emotional cousins of their more droll relatives, second eyes.
No one could possibly live with just first eyes. We’d self-immolate, I think, unable to take in all the rawness of the world. But no one should overlook the importance these eyes play in our lives.
This morning, 35,000 young folks in Lincoln awoke with first eyes. For some, these first eyes will take in not only a new school year, but also a new school and new peers, as well. Such is the case for Allison, who begins her high-school career (one I hope will span only four years) at Lincoln High. Brother Eric, now a senior, has the advantage of familiarity, yet he, too, cannot avoid seeing with these first eyes in the coming days.
Even their crusty old teachers, muttering and tired, will come to school armed with these first eyes, as well. And I think it’s vital to remember the role these first eyes will play in everyone’s lives this week. How can I help but to be patient with the modern teenaged wanderer, staring blankly at a class schedule that says she has two minutes to find Room 203, wherever that is. Great heaps of human emotion are on display this week, peaking during those passing periods between classes, when young people try to act cool while feeling the utter despair of being lost.
That is why I will come to school today with both sets of eyes, my first set ready to relish the excitement and giddiness of something new, and the second set, confident in experience, ready to steady the newcomer who happened to leave his second set on the dresser at home.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Won't You Be My Neighbor?
August 14, 2010
The new kid on our block is Edward. He’s sassy, he’s precocious and, like most kids, he’s incredibly enterprising, sniffing out the best offers before committing to anything. And, as one of a handful of black kids in the neighborhood, Edward’s considered a bit exotic to the other kids. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that folks were a bit slow to warm to Edward’s style. And I’d guess that Edward was a bit wary of our pasty white pansies when he first started riding his bike up this way.
Kids are expert at wariness, especially when the topic is the new kid on the block. They’re like dogs in this way, standing aloof, circling a bit, sniffing for clues, wondering what they can learn about each other if they could just get a closer look. Edward reacted to this aloofness with élan and confidence, swaggering around a bit, peppering his comments with the f-bomb, just for effect. And it was quite effective. I think he realized that there was an unspoken expectation among the other kids that he be the personification of hip-hop lifestyle, even if that wasn’t really him.
After all the sniffing and posing was over, after they had chipped away at the last bits of the silly walls they’d constructed, Edward and the others found out that, mostly, they all just liked to ride their bikes and throw the football around. Edward seemed relieved, as though a weight had been lifted and he no longer needed to pretend. His smiles grew wider, his territory grew larger, and his friendships blossomed in the light of his goofy, unfettered presence.
I’ve been told that Edward’s mom had him when she was a young teenager. She works nights and spends most of her day sleeping. Edward is not the only child left to fend for himself. Most neighborhoods have a couple of kids who fit this bill, kids who count on their resilience and a functioning bicycle to locate those folks who’ll tend to them in the absence of a watchful parent.
He’s got a good nose for good folks. I will give him that. And so, lots of people have come to Edward’s rescue this summer. Mary Kay and her kids have opened their home (rules in place) and their yard and their boxes of popsicles to him. The Broxes have had him over for dinner a few times. Others have loaned him their scooters, tossed him some balls, ridden their bikes with him and just plain run around with him until they fell to the ground, happily exhausted and unable to speak.
I’ve grown quite fond of Edward and have actually come to think of him as a rescuer of sorts in this neighborhood story. Who, after all, could not be moved by his charm and his quick wit? Who could not be changed by his dinner-time prayer in which he enthusiastically uttered “I am thankful for people who don’t disrespect me. . . ” ? And who could have guessed that one kid could so quickly figure out how to expand his family enough to cover a five-block radius in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood in the middle of Lincoln, Nebraska?
Turns out, Edward is a bit of a hero himself.
The new kid on our block is Edward. He’s sassy, he’s precocious and, like most kids, he’s incredibly enterprising, sniffing out the best offers before committing to anything. And, as one of a handful of black kids in the neighborhood, Edward’s considered a bit exotic to the other kids. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that folks were a bit slow to warm to Edward’s style. And I’d guess that Edward was a bit wary of our pasty white pansies when he first started riding his bike up this way.
Kids are expert at wariness, especially when the topic is the new kid on the block. They’re like dogs in this way, standing aloof, circling a bit, sniffing for clues, wondering what they can learn about each other if they could just get a closer look. Edward reacted to this aloofness with élan and confidence, swaggering around a bit, peppering his comments with the f-bomb, just for effect. And it was quite effective. I think he realized that there was an unspoken expectation among the other kids that he be the personification of hip-hop lifestyle, even if that wasn’t really him.
After all the sniffing and posing was over, after they had chipped away at the last bits of the silly walls they’d constructed, Edward and the others found out that, mostly, they all just liked to ride their bikes and throw the football around. Edward seemed relieved, as though a weight had been lifted and he no longer needed to pretend. His smiles grew wider, his territory grew larger, and his friendships blossomed in the light of his goofy, unfettered presence.
I’ve been told that Edward’s mom had him when she was a young teenager. She works nights and spends most of her day sleeping. Edward is not the only child left to fend for himself. Most neighborhoods have a couple of kids who fit this bill, kids who count on their resilience and a functioning bicycle to locate those folks who’ll tend to them in the absence of a watchful parent.
He’s got a good nose for good folks. I will give him that. And so, lots of people have come to Edward’s rescue this summer. Mary Kay and her kids have opened their home (rules in place) and their yard and their boxes of popsicles to him. The Broxes have had him over for dinner a few times. Others have loaned him their scooters, tossed him some balls, ridden their bikes with him and just plain run around with him until they fell to the ground, happily exhausted and unable to speak.
I’ve grown quite fond of Edward and have actually come to think of him as a rescuer of sorts in this neighborhood story. Who, after all, could not be moved by his charm and his quick wit? Who could not be changed by his dinner-time prayer in which he enthusiastically uttered “I am thankful for people who don’t disrespect me. . . ” ? And who could have guessed that one kid could so quickly figure out how to expand his family enough to cover a five-block radius in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood in the middle of Lincoln, Nebraska?
Turns out, Edward is a bit of a hero himself.
Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?
August 14, 2010
Returning to work this past week has left me feeling as fresh as a new parent, minus all the lactating and diapers, although I’m sure the Depends are just around the corner. It’s odd how quickly some parts of me have accepted and adjusted to my return to responsible living while other parts of me lag behind like a Valley Girl running the 100-yard-dash in gym class.
My internal clock is mostly spot on these days, having nudged my recent “wake up” calls closer to the 4:45 a.m. hour I preferred last school year. I honestly can’t recall the last time I’ve actually needed the “alarm” feature on my alarm clock. Maybe it’s because I’ve got it set to a radio station whose male morning “personality” annoys the heck out of me, so my motivation to avoid waking to his voice is stronger than my desire to sleep in. An effective strategy, indeed—one that son Eric successfully uses when he’s called to ask “Paper or plastic?” on early Saturday mornings. Nothing like a little Beyonce to get Eric be-ouncing out of bed. . .
While my internal clock may be happily humming away, though, my internal calendar continues to blow haphazardly in the wind, its pages flipping sporadically, its information never quite right. I had to be reminded, more than once, that yesterday was Friday. While the news was joyfully greeted with each reminder, I know that the dark underbelly of this condition will bear its ugly head some Monday or Tuesday in the near future, leaving me befuddled that the weekend is so far away. I think this is why I had to rewrite and tear out my lesson plans three or four times yesterday, because I couldn’t quite grasp the idea of 24-hour periods of time, each associated with a different date on the calendar. This might be a good time to develop a ravishing love affair with pencils.
Finally, this past week, I have struggled mightily with the shear, butt-numbing side effects of long-term chair sitting. Even my rare, cushioned chair friends have let me down and left my nether regions tingling. For some reason, sitting is an entirely different beast when it’s for a meeting than when it’s for a family “Frasier” fest in front of the T.V., where my attention is piqued and my buns happily nestled.
Unknown dangers still lurk in my near future. While these have been mostly physical struggles, there lies the most ominous of possible scenarios, still yet to be worked out—how will my mental faculties function when students return next Wednesday? Will I struggle to put names to faces, will I stumble as I try to engage my teenaged audiences, some of whom are there only because of government-issued ankle wear? This remains to be seen. For now, I suppose I should relish this new-found weekend, putting aside curriculum and instruction and focusing, instead, on more demanding questions such as “What time’s Scrabble?”
Returning to work this past week has left me feeling as fresh as a new parent, minus all the lactating and diapers, although I’m sure the Depends are just around the corner. It’s odd how quickly some parts of me have accepted and adjusted to my return to responsible living while other parts of me lag behind like a Valley Girl running the 100-yard-dash in gym class.
My internal clock is mostly spot on these days, having nudged my recent “wake up” calls closer to the 4:45 a.m. hour I preferred last school year. I honestly can’t recall the last time I’ve actually needed the “alarm” feature on my alarm clock. Maybe it’s because I’ve got it set to a radio station whose male morning “personality” annoys the heck out of me, so my motivation to avoid waking to his voice is stronger than my desire to sleep in. An effective strategy, indeed—one that son Eric successfully uses when he’s called to ask “Paper or plastic?” on early Saturday mornings. Nothing like a little Beyonce to get Eric be-ouncing out of bed. . .
While my internal clock may be happily humming away, though, my internal calendar continues to blow haphazardly in the wind, its pages flipping sporadically, its information never quite right. I had to be reminded, more than once, that yesterday was Friday. While the news was joyfully greeted with each reminder, I know that the dark underbelly of this condition will bear its ugly head some Monday or Tuesday in the near future, leaving me befuddled that the weekend is so far away. I think this is why I had to rewrite and tear out my lesson plans three or four times yesterday, because I couldn’t quite grasp the idea of 24-hour periods of time, each associated with a different date on the calendar. This might be a good time to develop a ravishing love affair with pencils.
Finally, this past week, I have struggled mightily with the shear, butt-numbing side effects of long-term chair sitting. Even my rare, cushioned chair friends have let me down and left my nether regions tingling. For some reason, sitting is an entirely different beast when it’s for a meeting than when it’s for a family “Frasier” fest in front of the T.V., where my attention is piqued and my buns happily nestled.
Unknown dangers still lurk in my near future. While these have been mostly physical struggles, there lies the most ominous of possible scenarios, still yet to be worked out—how will my mental faculties function when students return next Wednesday? Will I struggle to put names to faces, will I stumble as I try to engage my teenaged audiences, some of whom are there only because of government-issued ankle wear? This remains to be seen. For now, I suppose I should relish this new-found weekend, putting aside curriculum and instruction and focusing, instead, on more demanding questions such as “What time’s Scrabble?”
Monday, August 9, 2010
Facebook as Digital Spirograph
August 9, 2010
It’s been about a year and a half since I first reluctantly dipped my toe into the Facebook pool. At first, it was awkward and I found myself flailing about, arms flapping wildly as I tried to understand these new waters. Eventually, though, I got the hang of it, although there are still great heaps of the Facebook world that I have chosen to ignore. One thing I can’t ignore, though.
In a funny, sort of disturbing way, I think Facebook has rewired my brain.
With my journalism background, it’s no surprise that I’ve always been partial to tight writing. Facebook, though, has planted a newer, tighter chip into my brain, one that stands at the ready, prepared to sum up in a single sentence what it is I’ve done or thought about or experienced today. It’s as though a tiny part of my brain is now reserved for third-person observations of the rest of me. I find that a bit weird, frankly.
Facebook does peculiar things to our social circles, too. It is like a giant, digital Spirograph, that toy from our youth in which we’d place a finely-sharpened pencil into a small hole, spinning it wildly in anticipation of some funky, ever-changing geometric design. In its obsession with making connections, Facebook does the same sort of thing, leading our social circles to arc in broader, less predictable, more surprising paths. And so, one digital friend may appear on my radar for a week or so, only to move outside of my orbit again. And we spin and we spin and we sometimes intersect, all the while unsure of who it is that is driving this machine.
There are lots of things I like about Facebook. I like that I can reconnect with folks I haven’t seen in a long time. I like that I can get a quick, reliable answer, regardless of the nature of the question, just by posting that question to my digital friends. I like that I’ve made new friends, connecting with people for whom there is a common thread. It is odd, though, that some of the folks I “talk” with most online I have never had the chance to meet, face to face. I hope that fried chicken and cold drinks will eventually bring us together, in the flesh, forever placing our planets in one known system.
That would be a nice, personal touch.
It’s been about a year and a half since I first reluctantly dipped my toe into the Facebook pool. At first, it was awkward and I found myself flailing about, arms flapping wildly as I tried to understand these new waters. Eventually, though, I got the hang of it, although there are still great heaps of the Facebook world that I have chosen to ignore. One thing I can’t ignore, though.
In a funny, sort of disturbing way, I think Facebook has rewired my brain.
With my journalism background, it’s no surprise that I’ve always been partial to tight writing. Facebook, though, has planted a newer, tighter chip into my brain, one that stands at the ready, prepared to sum up in a single sentence what it is I’ve done or thought about or experienced today. It’s as though a tiny part of my brain is now reserved for third-person observations of the rest of me. I find that a bit weird, frankly.
Facebook does peculiar things to our social circles, too. It is like a giant, digital Spirograph, that toy from our youth in which we’d place a finely-sharpened pencil into a small hole, spinning it wildly in anticipation of some funky, ever-changing geometric design. In its obsession with making connections, Facebook does the same sort of thing, leading our social circles to arc in broader, less predictable, more surprising paths. And so, one digital friend may appear on my radar for a week or so, only to move outside of my orbit again. And we spin and we spin and we sometimes intersect, all the while unsure of who it is that is driving this machine.
There are lots of things I like about Facebook. I like that I can reconnect with folks I haven’t seen in a long time. I like that I can get a quick, reliable answer, regardless of the nature of the question, just by posting that question to my digital friends. I like that I’ve made new friends, connecting with people for whom there is a common thread. It is odd, though, that some of the folks I “talk” with most online I have never had the chance to meet, face to face. I hope that fried chicken and cold drinks will eventually bring us together, in the flesh, forever placing our planets in one known system.
That would be a nice, personal touch.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
This "Disparate" Housewife Likes Things the Way They Are
August 8, 2010
In my life as a cable-free T.V. viewer, it is possible I have flitted across tidbits of “Desperate Housewives” on my way to something nerdier, likely a nature show sponsored by, say, the Alfred E. Sloan Foundation rather than Victoria’s Secret. My brief encounters with these characters that seem to have frequent brief (read “BVD”) encounters of their own always leave me a bit befuddled.
Do people really live that way?
Even the so-called “reality” shows—apparently, no one’s writing scripts these days—seem to have little to do with the real world, or at least the tiny corner of it that I happen to occupy.
Hey, I’m no prude. For Pete’s sake, I’ve been known to go bra-less from time to time. Usually as a result of forgetting to paste on the Playtex before bringing the garbage cans to the curb, but still. . . And yet, I can’t come to terms with most of the people who occupy the T.V. screen these days.
From the 10 or 12 minutes I’ve spent with the “Housewives” gang, I’ve concluded that these backstabbing bimbos have nothing better to do than break up marriages between Bellinis. The men in their neighborhood aren’t friends so much as they are sexual targets. Frankly, I think these women are missing out.
Just last night, for instance, I openly conversed with several men, at my friend Kari’s annual Hawaiian pool party. Despite Mark’s presence at the party, I managed to move from one male to the next, each time presenting the side of me that I figured most appealed to that male counterpart. (Typically, among crowds of male strangers, that side would be my backside, but among friends, I am free to flaunt other angles). With Jeff, then, the talk was church, though not because he happens to be a yogic master who seats people each Sunday. It’s just where our conversations often (happily) fall.
When that conversation had grown a bit stale, and my chlorinated hands a bit too wrinkled, I swam to my next man of the moment, Steve. With him, I had to be sharp, ready to talk books, with a dash of word play thrown in, just to keep things interesting. He’s a tolerant companion—much like Jeff—willing to ask more questions than he answers, and able to act as though being a school librarian is the most fascinating profession there is. This gift, I suppose, is at the heart of the art of wooing a middle-aged woman such as myself. Or it could be that he’s just a really nice guy, kind of like Jeff.
After emerging from the pool, a la Christy Brinkley, and rapidly wrapping my lower half in a swim towel spattered with sun-splashed images and stains from last week’s supper, I took up a brief and colorful conversation with Joe, another educator, who was haranguing me about the low-fat strawberry cake I’d brought to the party.
Mark nary batted an eye at my multiple encounters with the opposite sex, mainly because he, too, was working that angle. And I couldn’t have been happier for him.
That’s the thing about good friendships. It doesn’t really matter if we share the same chromosomes. Just as long as we don’t share spouses. . . .
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Some People Let Down Their Hair. Me? I Let Down Other People
August 7, 2010
Seems I’m on a bit of a roll lately. Not the kind of roll most people desire, though. In the last 2 weeks alone, I’ve disappointed two people. And those are just the ones I know about. Neither one came right out and told me I’d let them down. Rather, it was their stony silence that spoke volumes.
As a teacher, I know all about the power of silence. For example, when a student just won’t shut his pie hole, basically I have two responses available to me. I can scream at him, which can be oddly satisfying to do, depending upon the time of the month, although it seldom works for long. Or I can be silent and wait for him to be quiet. The second response is far more effective, though much less interesting to recall at the lunch table.
Being on the receiving end of just such silence recently, I can tell you that it can have a chilling effect. To some degree, I’m a people pleaser. And, to a much greater degree, I am averse to conflict. So, their silence definitely impacted me. And, actually, I appreciate their use of silence, because it gave me time to reflect upon my decision. Not to the degree that either person would like, I suppose—I still won't teach that workshop and I'm still not able to attend that meeting. But the effect hasn’t been a life-changing one, either. Turns out I’m much too middling, lazy and compromising to give of myself with the vigor and regularity that people much better than me do.
I probably should have warned these folks, early on, that I am generally impervious to the temptation of earning a few extra bucks if it means more work, and oddly unaffected by prolonged pleas to volunteer beyond the few hours I've got on reserve in my little pool of promise. Maybe then, they could have lowered their expectations of me and started working on a Plan B. As it stands, I feel like I’ve left both of them in a bit of a lurch. And I’m sorry for that.
As for now, I reside on their Poo lists,--perhaps rightly so--a place I have visited many times before and most certainly will visit again.
Seems I’m on a bit of a roll lately. Not the kind of roll most people desire, though. In the last 2 weeks alone, I’ve disappointed two people. And those are just the ones I know about. Neither one came right out and told me I’d let them down. Rather, it was their stony silence that spoke volumes.
As a teacher, I know all about the power of silence. For example, when a student just won’t shut his pie hole, basically I have two responses available to me. I can scream at him, which can be oddly satisfying to do, depending upon the time of the month, although it seldom works for long. Or I can be silent and wait for him to be quiet. The second response is far more effective, though much less interesting to recall at the lunch table.
Being on the receiving end of just such silence recently, I can tell you that it can have a chilling effect. To some degree, I’m a people pleaser. And, to a much greater degree, I am averse to conflict. So, their silence definitely impacted me. And, actually, I appreciate their use of silence, because it gave me time to reflect upon my decision. Not to the degree that either person would like, I suppose—I still won't teach that workshop and I'm still not able to attend that meeting. But the effect hasn’t been a life-changing one, either. Turns out I’m much too middling, lazy and compromising to give of myself with the vigor and regularity that people much better than me do.
I probably should have warned these folks, early on, that I am generally impervious to the temptation of earning a few extra bucks if it means more work, and oddly unaffected by prolonged pleas to volunteer beyond the few hours I've got on reserve in my little pool of promise. Maybe then, they could have lowered their expectations of me and started working on a Plan B. As it stands, I feel like I’ve left both of them in a bit of a lurch. And I’m sorry for that.
As for now, I reside on their Poo lists,--perhaps rightly so--a place I have visited many times before and most certainly will visit again.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Of pens and #2 Pencils. . .
August 6, 2010
Oddly enough, writing utensils were on my mind most of the morning. Considering that it’s a Friday (the second hardest day for a crossword puzzler) and that I now have to report to the “real” world by 7:30, it was important that I could quickly access the appropriate “gaming” pen in order to make some early-morning progress on the puzzle. In addition, this morning was Allison’s Readiness Days gig at Lincoln High and I knew I needed a really nice pen to sign all those checks and forms.
All those inky thoughts made my mind wander to the pen’s lesser cousins-- #2 pencils-- whose lives seem to circulate around nothing more important than a standardized test or two. And then, in the circuitous route that my feeble mind so often makes, I found myself recalling the Emergency Broadcast System spiel: “This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. Had this been an actual emergency, you would have been told to take shelter. . . ”.
How interesting that most tests require the taker to use an erasable pencil rather than a beefy, brave pen. It’s as though the folks who put these tests together are calling “uncle” and admitting that their tests don’t really matter. After all, if a test were real life, we’d be using pens, not pencils.
So, why is it that we stress so much when taking tests, which are, ultimately, nothing but cheap imitations of our real, inky lives? Why is it we so often lose sleep over them , take prep classes to bump up our scores on them, write notes about them or stuff the answers into our shoes when it’s a test? We certainly don’t exert the same energy when the topic is real life.
It’d be nice if education could find something better than a #2 pencil and a bubble sheet to determine what it is that a person knows. We teachers—and our students—already know that these are false intellectual thermometers, yet we seem to lose our voices when the test date approaches. What we need are more pens and fewer tests in schools. We should remind ourselves that, ultimately, “This is a test. . . had this been an actual emergency, we would have been told where to take shelter.”
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Everyone Needs a Theme Song
August 5, 2010
So, I headed back to work today. My outfit was clean (if not exactly professional), my attitude was good (thanks to some serious top-o-lung singing to Justin Bieber in the car), and my agenda not too packed. One thing was missing, though. My theme for the year.
At the beginning of each year, I like to tell my Newspaper and Yearbook students a little parable based upon my sad, small life. For me, it’s a verbal framework on which I can hang the year. I share it with them because I ask them to share their own stories all year long, so it only seems fair. Plus, the glamorous, selfish part of me believes that it gives them a little something to aim for in their middling years—something that looks pasty-white-and-mother-of-two-ish. . . . Hey, it'd be selfish not to entice them to grow old like me! Alas, by the time I’d arrived at school today, I still was theme-less.
That all changed, though, when Mark and I took Hobbes the Hobo dog on his evening drag tonight. On the walk, I was regaling Mark with hilarious and fascinating tales about my first day back at school. I languished over the story about making a list with three colors of Sharpies, I giggled as I recalled the way I ate my juicy peach over the keyboard instead of going to a lunch table, and I casually mentioned that I was in need of a theme. I had a couple of contenders, but they all seemed pretty lame. “Exceeding Expectations” was in the top three, but I hated how it sounded like one of those motivational posters bosses buy when they have a little money left over in their budget at the end of the year.
And that’s when the silly Justin Bieber song wormed its way back into my head. I told Mark I’d sung “You Smile, I Smile” at the top of my voice, with the windows rolled down, TWICE, while driving to East this morning. And I laughed at how I’d fallen for one of his songs despite dreading his summertime concert. That’s when the synapse occurred. For all the moaning and groaning I’d done before heading to this concert--my negativity threatening to harsh Allison’s amped-up Bieber mellow—I had ended up really enjoying the experience.
Thank God I’m wrong so often.
Yeah, I don’t suppose I’ll ever shed my cocky game-playing attitude, the one that works crosswords in pen and confidently makes blind stabs at obscure answers, with the utmost belief that I’m right, despite the lack of all supporting evidence. I will always be that person. But I also hope that I will also be that person who occasionally leaps before she looks and finds out along the way that it wasn’t such a great idea. Because it seems to me I learn a lot more, laugh a lot more and like life a lot more when I’m proven wrong along the way.
There you have it, then. My two-word theme for the year: Be wrong. I think it’s a brilliant theme.
Sure hope I’m right.
So, I headed back to work today. My outfit was clean (if not exactly professional), my attitude was good (thanks to some serious top-o-lung singing to Justin Bieber in the car), and my agenda not too packed. One thing was missing, though. My theme for the year.
At the beginning of each year, I like to tell my Newspaper and Yearbook students a little parable based upon my sad, small life. For me, it’s a verbal framework on which I can hang the year. I share it with them because I ask them to share their own stories all year long, so it only seems fair. Plus, the glamorous, selfish part of me believes that it gives them a little something to aim for in their middling years—something that looks pasty-white-and-mother-of-two-ish. . . . Hey, it'd be selfish not to entice them to grow old like me! Alas, by the time I’d arrived at school today, I still was theme-less.
That all changed, though, when Mark and I took Hobbes the Hobo dog on his evening drag tonight. On the walk, I was regaling Mark with hilarious and fascinating tales about my first day back at school. I languished over the story about making a list with three colors of Sharpies, I giggled as I recalled the way I ate my juicy peach over the keyboard instead of going to a lunch table, and I casually mentioned that I was in need of a theme. I had a couple of contenders, but they all seemed pretty lame. “Exceeding Expectations” was in the top three, but I hated how it sounded like one of those motivational posters bosses buy when they have a little money left over in their budget at the end of the year.
And that’s when the silly Justin Bieber song wormed its way back into my head. I told Mark I’d sung “You Smile, I Smile” at the top of my voice, with the windows rolled down, TWICE, while driving to East this morning. And I laughed at how I’d fallen for one of his songs despite dreading his summertime concert. That’s when the synapse occurred. For all the moaning and groaning I’d done before heading to this concert--my negativity threatening to harsh Allison’s amped-up Bieber mellow—I had ended up really enjoying the experience.
Thank God I’m wrong so often.
Yeah, I don’t suppose I’ll ever shed my cocky game-playing attitude, the one that works crosswords in pen and confidently makes blind stabs at obscure answers, with the utmost belief that I’m right, despite the lack of all supporting evidence. I will always be that person. But I also hope that I will also be that person who occasionally leaps before she looks and finds out along the way that it wasn’t such a great idea. Because it seems to me I learn a lot more, laugh a lot more and like life a lot more when I’m proven wrong along the way.
There you have it, then. My two-word theme for the year: Be wrong. I think it’s a brilliant theme.
Sure hope I’m right.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
There's No Place Like (Old Folks) Home
August 4, 2010
Visiting Mark’s grandmother is not the first thing that pops into my mind when I wake up each morning. I know that it shouldn’t be a grudging duty, and yet it’s one that none of us relishes much. There are several reasons for that, and I’m not sure any of them is a good one.
Visiting an old folks’ home forces us to face certain, not-so-pretty truths. For one, old folks homes are filled with, well, old people. Broken people. Lonely people. Confused people. Smelly people. Now that I think about it, I could use the same descriptors to describe a high school. . . . They’re also filled with people who’d rather be somewhere else (again, the similarity is almost creepy).
Still, I’m pretty sure that no one wants to live in an old folks home. I’ve never once seen a line forming at the front door—unless it’s a line of folks who’d like to leave. No one’s clamoring to weed their belongings so that they might fit into a small closet. (Yeah, so what if mine already do?!) No one’s anxious to meet new people, especially others who are just as confused, hurt, broken. And who wants to watch “Matlock” reruns all day long?
It should be obvious that our society doesn’t do “old” right. Granted, there are a few retirement homes that have taken steps to become something more than just depressing, last stops on life’s tour. Each day, most of our newspapers have ads promoting the latest musical or theatrical performance at some area retirement home. There are even television advertisements selling up these places, always filled with robust-looking older folks who are enjoying the golden years in style! However, I’ve noticed that, usually, only the woman talks, while her husband sits back, tight-lipped and unforthcoming. These days, retirement homes offer computer classes, exercise sessions, road trips and gourmet food. And yet, how many old people can afford such luxuries? Heck, I know that I couldn’t afford to live in one these places, and I’m currently pulling in an income.
Still, it was good to visit Evelyn last night. She seemed relatively lucid and spoke kindly of the other residents and staff who fill her days and nights. She’s not so hot on the food, but, at 96, how much eating can a person do? Our conversation was a repeat of those we’ve had before, but it didn’t seem to really matter. She continued to marvel at how tall Eric and Allison have grown, only occasionally mistaking Eric for his father. Not a horrible mistake, when all’s said and done. She could have thought he was Gomer Pyle, after all.
And so, I suppose we’ll continue to resist and then give in to the need to visit Mark’s grandma in this, her “new” home. We’ll do our best to overlook the signs of death, to ignore the scent of urine that pervades these places, we’ll readily ask the same litany of questions, offer up new takes on old answers and bend down to kiss her velvety soft cheeks, glad to make the connection, in spite of it all.
Visiting Mark’s grandmother is not the first thing that pops into my mind when I wake up each morning. I know that it shouldn’t be a grudging duty, and yet it’s one that none of us relishes much. There are several reasons for that, and I’m not sure any of them is a good one.
Visiting an old folks’ home forces us to face certain, not-so-pretty truths. For one, old folks homes are filled with, well, old people. Broken people. Lonely people. Confused people. Smelly people. Now that I think about it, I could use the same descriptors to describe a high school. . . . They’re also filled with people who’d rather be somewhere else (again, the similarity is almost creepy).
Still, I’m pretty sure that no one wants to live in an old folks home. I’ve never once seen a line forming at the front door—unless it’s a line of folks who’d like to leave. No one’s clamoring to weed their belongings so that they might fit into a small closet. (Yeah, so what if mine already do?!) No one’s anxious to meet new people, especially others who are just as confused, hurt, broken. And who wants to watch “Matlock” reruns all day long?
It should be obvious that our society doesn’t do “old” right. Granted, there are a few retirement homes that have taken steps to become something more than just depressing, last stops on life’s tour. Each day, most of our newspapers have ads promoting the latest musical or theatrical performance at some area retirement home. There are even television advertisements selling up these places, always filled with robust-looking older folks who are enjoying the golden years in style! However, I’ve noticed that, usually, only the woman talks, while her husband sits back, tight-lipped and unforthcoming. These days, retirement homes offer computer classes, exercise sessions, road trips and gourmet food. And yet, how many old people can afford such luxuries? Heck, I know that I couldn’t afford to live in one these places, and I’m currently pulling in an income.
Still, it was good to visit Evelyn last night. She seemed relatively lucid and spoke kindly of the other residents and staff who fill her days and nights. She’s not so hot on the food, but, at 96, how much eating can a person do? Our conversation was a repeat of those we’ve had before, but it didn’t seem to really matter. She continued to marvel at how tall Eric and Allison have grown, only occasionally mistaking Eric for his father. Not a horrible mistake, when all’s said and done. She could have thought he was Gomer Pyle, after all.
And so, I suppose we’ll continue to resist and then give in to the need to visit Mark’s grandma in this, her “new” home. We’ll do our best to overlook the signs of death, to ignore the scent of urine that pervades these places, we’ll readily ask the same litany of questions, offer up new takes on old answers and bend down to kiss her velvety soft cheeks, glad to make the connection, in spite of it all.
Body of Evidence--a CSI Drama!
August 3, 2010
In the midst of all these leaded and lined school-time acquisitions, it’s probably natural that I turn some attention to my own self and wonder if it’s time for something new in that department as well. I’m not talking botox or tattooed eyebrows, though God knows both could probably do me some good in the right circles. Speaking of circles, I could use another nap. . .
I’d be lying, though, if I said I never pondered those parts of mine for which I’d be willing to call do-overs.
Back when I was a high-school swimmer, I remember considering it a high compliment when fellow swimmer Nancy Patoka said that I had horse thighs. Pretty sure I flexed those salacious slabs with just a bit more pride and vigor after she made her pronouncement. Whatever happiness those haughty hamstrings once brought me, though, has been replaced by the realization that they are now a landscape that looks something like the now-defunct Cool Crest mini-golf course. Eighteen holes, plus benches and landscaping.
Even my arms, always nice to look at, have come to resemble a dot-to-dot game in the doctor’s office more than actual appendages. I tell myself that the mottled spots scattered across my arms are signs of a life lived outdoors, rather than the promise of a future swimming pool for some local dermatologist.
As for my other appendages—my feet—I’ve always felt both proud and protective of these fine specimens. They are strong and appropriately proportioned, no one toe poking above the rest, the way SOME people’s feet do. And my toes are talented, too. With the toes of my left foot, I can make a peace sign or flip you off, depending upon my mood. The toes on my right foot can wave with the wonder of a small child, two toes bowing halfway in acknowledgement of a good friend or popular politician who is passing. Occasionally, though, someone tries to taint this fairytale love story, claiming my toes are large and lacking in feminine qualities. To them, I extend the middle toe of malevolence.
Each year that I return to school, a part of me realizes that my tethered balloon—the one that used to be close enough to my students’ ground that I could recognize both their lives and their loves—has tugged on its line far too long to keep me relevant in my students’ lives. Each year, I move in the wrong direction….my sad collection of school clothes conjuring up earlier times or long-ago Goodwill sales, my spotted arms revealing the first signs of twattle, my hair—its style seemingly frozen in time—nudging forth a little gray, not to mention all the new facial hair that keeps things interesting.
Curriculum, then, becomes more and more important to me with each passing year. Curriculum and candy. These days, I am hoping that a really good plan, coupled with candy and a shirt that has all its buttons and maybe some nice-smelling shampoo, can help scare off the students who otherwise might have crept a little closer just to check out my Boo Radley self. For them, I write magnificent plans. For them, even an intro!
In the midst of all these leaded and lined school-time acquisitions, it’s probably natural that I turn some attention to my own self and wonder if it’s time for something new in that department as well. I’m not talking botox or tattooed eyebrows, though God knows both could probably do me some good in the right circles. Speaking of circles, I could use another nap. . .
I’d be lying, though, if I said I never pondered those parts of mine for which I’d be willing to call do-overs.
Back when I was a high-school swimmer, I remember considering it a high compliment when fellow swimmer Nancy Patoka said that I had horse thighs. Pretty sure I flexed those salacious slabs with just a bit more pride and vigor after she made her pronouncement. Whatever happiness those haughty hamstrings once brought me, though, has been replaced by the realization that they are now a landscape that looks something like the now-defunct Cool Crest mini-golf course. Eighteen holes, plus benches and landscaping.
Even my arms, always nice to look at, have come to resemble a dot-to-dot game in the doctor’s office more than actual appendages. I tell myself that the mottled spots scattered across my arms are signs of a life lived outdoors, rather than the promise of a future swimming pool for some local dermatologist.
As for my other appendages—my feet—I’ve always felt both proud and protective of these fine specimens. They are strong and appropriately proportioned, no one toe poking above the rest, the way SOME people’s feet do. And my toes are talented, too. With the toes of my left foot, I can make a peace sign or flip you off, depending upon my mood. The toes on my right foot can wave with the wonder of a small child, two toes bowing halfway in acknowledgement of a good friend or popular politician who is passing. Occasionally, though, someone tries to taint this fairytale love story, claiming my toes are large and lacking in feminine qualities. To them, I extend the middle toe of malevolence.
Each year that I return to school, a part of me realizes that my tethered balloon—the one that used to be close enough to my students’ ground that I could recognize both their lives and their loves—has tugged on its line far too long to keep me relevant in my students’ lives. Each year, I move in the wrong direction….my sad collection of school clothes conjuring up earlier times or long-ago Goodwill sales, my spotted arms revealing the first signs of twattle, my hair—its style seemingly frozen in time—nudging forth a little gray, not to mention all the new facial hair that keeps things interesting.
Curriculum, then, becomes more and more important to me with each passing year. Curriculum and candy. These days, I am hoping that a really good plan, coupled with candy and a shirt that has all its buttons and maybe some nice-smelling shampoo, can help scare off the students who otherwise might have crept a little closer just to check out my Boo Radley self. For them, I write magnificent plans. For them, even an intro!
July 2010
July 2, 2010
I smell really good right now. I smell of hope and nature, dirt and fine food. Nothing says “Hell-O!” quite like minced garlic and ginger. Like an addict trying to extend her jag, though, I am resisting the sautéing stage until the clock moves closer to dinnertime. But, when butter and oil final commingle in my pan, well, I have no pretensions of good behavior.
It’s funny how much I’ve come to love food, considering how picky I was as a kid. Maybe “picky” is the wrong word, though. “Contented with low standards” might better describe my early epicurean adventures. When I was young, nothing could compete with a fried hamburger. Now, I would have to kill myself or at least chew off my arm if fried burgers were the standard fare.
I have son Eric to thank for this transformation.
As Eric was cooking in my belly, Mark and I realized several immutable facts. First, we knew nothing about being parents. Second, we considered refried beans and Velveeta to be a meal. Third, we knew nothing about being parents. Ah, but I repeat myself. . . That’s when we decided we needed an Action Plan. It’s important to capitalize “Action Plan” if one has any hope whatsoever of carrying it out. In truth, our Action Plan was pretty much genius.
We decided that, if we were going to have a baby, we should learn how to cook. And so began my journey toward finer foods. We pored over the handful of cookbooks we’d received from concerned friends at our wedding. And we wrote down the name of every recipe we figured we could make, if for no better reason than that we could read. We devised a master list that hinted of my future career as librarian, one that included recipe titles, page numbers and cross references to book titles. By the time we’d finished, the list ran about a page and a half.
A good start, to be sure, but not one that, in and of itself, would guarantee a happy gullet. For that, we needed real commitment. And so, as soon as Eric Passed Go and Collected $200, we started to form a weekly dinner list. Generally, it comprised five recipes that we figured we could follow without killing anyone. I would write down the needed ingredients for each recipe and then head to the store.
The result? Accidental good parenting, in the form of healthy, planned meals that eventually extended to six of the seven continents (still haven’t settled on a winning recipe from Antarctica), and included exotic ingredients like zangy ginger and delectable coconut milk, translucent rice noodles that look like internal parasites and sambal oelek, a spicy sauce that makes my chin hairs grow extra fast.
I am grateful that my kids don’t resemble me, at least at the dinner table. Unlike my stodgy adolescent self, they will try anything that is put in front of them. Maybe this makes them culinary hussies, but I’ll take that over the alternative any day.
July 4, 2010
The Bieber Diaries
One Sunday in Spring
At a standstill with the Sunday puzzle, I take a breather and clear my head with a little fresh air. Moments later, my peace is disrupted with a barrage of strung-together teen words spewing forth from the basement computer
.
‘OHMYGODmomgetdownhererightnow!Therearestillthreemainfloortickets leftfortheJustinBieberconcertinJuly!”
It’s true I paused a bit before trudging down the stairs to the fate that so clearly awaited me. Eventually, though, I face the saccharin music and, for reasons that are still not clear to me, have agreed to wrest my Mastercard from its dusty abode and buy three tickets to teen-girl paradise.
What box have I opened, Pandora?!
Thursday, July 1
Time’s a tickin’ and it seems that Allison has not forgotten the concert, despite my best ploys. Looks like I’m still stuck taking her and good friend Bailey to Omaha this Saturday.
I look up the Qwest Center website in hopes that there has been some sort of chemical spill along its exterior, thus canceling the week’s events. No such luck. Instead, I study the parking-lot layout of the Qwest, plotting which lot provides the quickest access to the Interstate (read, “home”). Whichever one I choose, one thing remains certain—it will set me back $6.
Friday, July 2
With just over 24 hours until Justin Bieber hits the stage, I start to panic. The panic manifests itself in a variety of ways, from a poor performance at morning Scrabble to a new tic in my left eyelid.
A lifelong list maker, I begin comprising my “JB” list. Far from a bucket list (unless you count the bucket that will house my vomit), its intent is to settle my mind, at least in terms of things that I can control. Like the route I will take. I jot down the GoogleMaps result for the Qwest, despite son Eric’s recent bumbled Google directions that led him 12 miles west of town trying to find his friend’s house, which is just a few miles east of 70th and Pioneers. I can only pray that the Google Gods got their game faces on when I enter my request for directions.
I pull out the wad of cash housed in my wallet. It really is a wad, I’m afraid, and a sad one, at that, comprised mostly of Georges and Abes. Hardly the stuff of a magical night at the Qwest, more or less a coveted spot out front. I then send out an email to brother Steve, who lives just blocks from the Qwest. This was an act of desperation, thinly veiled as an opportunity for uncle and niece to spend some extra time together. Steve does not bite. How can I blame him?
Good friend Allison heartily offers to take the girls to the concert. The bad little devil that lives on my left shoulder prods me to cave, while the good angel on the right whispers a hundred reasons why this is my challenge, my quest, not someone else’s. For once, I listen to the right.
Saturday, July 3: 4:43 a.m. to 4:45 p.m.
D-Day. The clock reads 4:43 a.m. Much too early for someone who already struggles to see stars break through the night sky, more or less for someone who is expected to be able to concentrate on the interstate long after my first round of dreams has usually subsided. I plan on a nap for this afternoon. For the safety of all of us.
A lovely, though accident-filled neighborhood patriotic parade takes my mind off of the evening’s events. I am happily distracted by the neighbor boy who seems intent to trod upon every square inch of his family’s flag as he makes his way to the parade’s beginning spot. Equally distracting and entertaining are the little girl who forgets her bike has breaks, the other girl whose hundred yards of twine ends up entangling her bike’s sprockets, the boy who has used masking tape to attach a military hat to his bike helmet, and the baby who makes it about three feet before becoming one with her stroller, dreaming of less humid, quieter summer days.
Really, it is a day of happy distractions—a gift from God, no doubt. I swing by National Pharmacy to pick up six sets of earplugs, holding them with the care and reverence they demand. And then it’s off to what might be the Scrabble game of my life, each handful of letters revealing more amazing combinations than the last. I leave Jill’s house not only with a rare summer victory but also with a sense of invincibility, certain that I will survive tonight’s concert.
I celebrate the victory with stops at a couple of neighborhood fireworks stands and a nap.
After the nap, I take a quick bath and change into what I assume are my concert clothes. Allison, however, tells me that khaki capris and a golden shirt do not an outfit make, and so I swap gold for blue, saving my energy for more significant battles.
Saturday, July 3: 4:50 p.m. to 11:25 p.m.
Earplugs? Check. Cell phone? Check. Directions? Check. Mastercard and license? Check. Bottle of water and gum? Check. Cash? Check.
We head out of Lincoln with the air conditioner blasting. The drive is easy and we are treated to a low-slung, impossibly long and perfect rainbow around the 42nd-Street exit off of I-80. We can actually see the house that is all aglow with the colors of the rainbow, as it rests on the front lawn.
I pull into a Qwest parking lot, only to discover that, in the two days since I’d last checked the website, the price to park has gone up 33 percent to $8. Before we’d even left Lincoln, though, I’d made a silent promise to myself that I would resist all of the cheap, efficient and fun-busting tendencies that usually permeate my being and be bubble-gum-pop-music Zen about the whole night. I happily pay the lady and ask her where she’d park if she wanted to make a quick exit.
We head into the Qwest, Allison, Bailey, me and 10,000 other teenaged girls. The hair on my arms stands on end—the same feeling I get before a really violent thunderstorm.
By the time we’ve retrieved our paperless tickets (cool!), we easily find our seats (second to last row on the floor, nicely located near both a bathroom and the exit), and make our way to a $37 feast of chicken tenders, fries and bottled water. Ohm. Ohm.
As we wait in our seats, I notice a gaggle of girls getting their photo taken with one of the three male teens at the concert. I look at him and decide he kind of sort of looks like Justin Bieber. The very same thought, apparently, enters the minds of another hundred girls, all of whom suddenly swarm him for photos. Not quite 15 minutes of fame, but I’m pretty sure he’s glad he came to the concert tonight.
A strange quartet of dancer/singers, stupidly called The Stunners, opens the night. One of two acts that uses no live instruments, I’m a bit baffled by the setup, though grateful that the set lasts only 15 minutes. I happen to look at the clock when I first start to yawn. It is 7:23. Not a good sign. Jamaican Sean Kingston, the third act, gets the crowd off its feet and gets me to find my earplugs. Ahhhh.
By the time Justin Bieber comes onstage around 8:30, the arena is pulsing with teenaged screams whose pitch and volume utterly stun the imagination. I reach up to my cheeks, certain I’ll find blood pouring from my ears. I also fiddle for my cell phone, something I typically use about once a month, and begin dialing friends. I don’t say anything into the phone, just let it record the hell that is mine. And yet I can’t help smiling, knowing how much fun it is to share this experience.
I finally turn my attention to the night’s main attraction and am surprised to find that I am, indeed, attracted. He moves well. He sings on key, mostly. And he kind of makes me tear up when he sings “You Smile, I Smile.” Taken aback by my mistiness, I assume that my period has just started, but discover that I simply have fallen under the wooing powers of Justin Bieber. By 9:30, when it looks like it might wrap up, I swallow my Excedrin Migraine, hoping the caffeine keeps me up on the road.
The concert ends around 10:15 and Bailey and Allison are delighted. We actually get out of the parking lot with ease and pull into the driveway by 11:25, smiles plastered on all our faces.
It was a really fun night.
Who’da thunk?!
July 8, 2010
My good friend Betsy was in town recently and, over tacos at a local restaurant one lunch time, the conversation naturally turned to the ever after. I say “naturally” for two reasons: first, you cannot eat tacos without pondering the future; secondly, our friendship is rooted in Young Life, a fairly liberal, loosey-goosey organization that focuses on the spiritual well being of teenagers. At the time we first met over (gulp) a quarter century ago, I was a volunteer Young Life “leader” (the organization’s term, not mine) and she was a teen for whom I apparently was concerned about her spiritual future.
When the lunchtime topic turned to heaven, we found that we currently stand on opposite ends of the topic. I say “currently” because, despite the negative connotations given to evolution among certain religious groups, it seems to me that, much like friendship and hair color and income-generating opportunities, our relationship with religion and all things spiritual also goes through an evolutionary process throughout our lives. And so, during that lunch on that particular day, while Betsy was thoughtfully pondering heavenly things, I stood in the opposite corner, not really interested in or committed to the belief in the existence of a heaven. Mostly, I was into my taco.
My vacillating skepticism in this final vacation destination (a skepticism I generally keep to myself) began in the early 80s, when I often found myself attending evening mass at the Newman Center on UNL’s campus. I was a college senior by the time I’d fallen into the rhythm of hitting the Newman Center a few nights a week for the quickie mass, and recall those times with a general sense of appreciation. One particular homily, though, didn’t sit well with me at all.
The priest, who, at the time, was the big cheese at the campus church, asked the mostly college-aged parishioners why it was that we were willing to follow God’s word and adhere to his sometimes very picky rules and lengthy list of regulations. As I was pondering my own answer, the priest blurted out what he assumed was the obvious one: “To get to heaven, of course!”
Frankly, I was shocked by his answer. If I took his proclamation at face value, then the whole “religion and spiritual-practice” industry was focused on the most unappealing question of “What’s in it for me?” rather than the more noble question of “What’s in it for others?” Then and there, I decided that I simply could not abide by this idea. After all, do we really think we’re fooling God, going through the motions apparently for no better reason that to get a decent seat in His house? As though he wouldn’t catch on to our clever ploy?
Ever since then, while I continue to occasionally grapple with the notion of motives as they related to the ever after, I’ve found that, as a whole, I'm generally less interested in debating the existence of heaven. Ultimately, for me, it seems to put the focus on the wrong thing—some obscure, unknown future date rather than the here and now. I think that this is one reason I’m not an avid goal setter. (Of course, the real reason I might not be a big goal setter is because such things require discipline and commitment. Ah, but I wander. . . !) For me, the challenge is to simply “be here, right now.”
And, frankly, the idea of living forever makes me yawn and feel a bit nappy. I just can’t imagine staying up for the Whole Show, when, as it is, I struggle mightily to stay up past 9 each night.
Ultimately, though, it matters not a whit what I think about heaven. If, in fact, there is a heaven, then I’m pretty sure its foundation is not so shaky as to suddenly disappear simply because some middle-aged woman with a muffin-top waistline isn’t sure it even exists.
July 10, 2010
In about a month, I will resume my hobby as a list maker, lovingly devising checklists of “things to do,” all the while debating the perfect pen with which to comprise just such lists. Rejects will find their wadded way into my office garbage can, disqualifying themselves in the “perfectly formed letters” or “smear-free” categories. I find great pleasure and comfort in a well-formed list, and especially appreciate the way it takes the edge off of the pressure to once again earn a living.
But even the Bible says that, for every thing, there is a season. And summer is NOT the season for making lists.
That’s why it was with a fair degree of disgust that I perused this morning’s Neighborhood Extra column on the necessity of day-trip grab-and-go lists.
Heavens to mergatroid! What is columnist Bruce Marksen thinking, advising daytrippers to remember their antibiotic and burn ointments, 2x2 sterile gauze, hydrogen peroxide and anti-itch ointment, not to mention the chemically-activated ice packs and masking tape?! Is his goal to repel future friends and fans?!
And yet, ours has become an increasingly insular society, one that values the things that remove us from directly experiencing life. From our obsession with swathing young humans with high-SPF lotions and antibacterial soaps to our Anita O’Bryant-like insistence that a day without air conditioning is like a day without sunshine, we are deeply committed to our protective layers.
The rebel within is mightily tempted to leave for this morning’s bike ride sans helmet, but knows that I’d get a tongue lashing from Susan and Rich as I pedal past their trail-abutting homestead. I’d like to think that I am strong enough to resist bathing myself in the Walgreens SPF 50 lotion before bathing in the neighborhood pool, but suspect I’ll chicken out and give in. Turns out, I’m not much of a rebel at all, unless you count the fact that I’m willing to go through a summer day in yesterday’s outfit and without makeup.
Ooooooh, I’m dangerous! A veritable 21st-century bad girl, teetering between jail time and melanoma treatments.
Watch out, world! This girl's on fire! . . . let's hope I've got some calamine lotion around. . . .
July 11, 2010
I learned something new about my mom this week. Sally Raglin is as stubborn as a mule. Granted, a mule that looks like Doris Day, but a stubborn mule, nonetheless. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway, because any other answer comes way too close to something that resembles old age and memory loss. And I don’t know if I’m ready to accept that answer.
She certainly isn’t. And who can blame her, really?
It is wrenching to address issues of independence and safety with the person who birthed you. There is no easy way to frame a discussion about geriatric assessment, no way to “pretty it up,” and make it palatable. Ultimately, no one wants to give up the keys, metaphorical or physical. So, despite asking my mom to talk with her doctor about a geriatric assessment, and despite what seemed to me to be her open and positive response to my request, no such conversation took place this week.
And I’m telling at least the naïve part of myself that she didn’t have the conversation because she’s stubborn, not because she had no memory of the request in the first place.
Maybe that’s me being stubborn, I don’t know. But I do know that it’s easier to broach tough topics with someone who’s being a stubborn knucklehead than with someone who lacks the capacity to follow the conversation or to access relevant historical information.
These days, I am flooded with a mix of sweet nostalgia and deep sadness when I see my mom from a distance, ambling carefully up the steps to her neighborhood pool, thoughtfully and intentionally placing one foot in front of the other, still fashionable and beautiful but also undeniably older.
These days, it seems like some doors are closing for both of us--mother and youngest child. And yet, I can’t help but believe that there are worthwhile doors ahead, just waiting for us to knock.
July 12, 2010
Apparently, son Eric would make a sloppy drunk. This is based upon Mark’s observation of him this morning, shortly after Eric’s wisdom teeth—and most of his college funds—were left behind at the oral surgeon’s office. After staggering to the car, Eric spent most of the day on the couch (he got that from me), and hasn’t complained once. Other than turning him every half hour so to prevent bedsores, his recovery has required very little of the rest of us.
It’s been 28 years since I had more than 28 teeth in my head. When I got the news that the wisdom teeth had to go, I begged my mom to use an oral surgeon, in part, because my dentist’s name was DOCTOR HARM! Mostly, though, I wanted an oral surgeon because I wanted to try laughing gas. Anything but shots. Being the kind and wise and apparently well-insured mother that she is, my mom concurred with my wishes.
She drove me to the oral surgeon’s office—already, I was too giddy simply at the thought of laughing gas—and thumbed through magazines in the waiting room while my procedure took place. Had I known what awaited me, I would have busted through the picture window and never looked back. Turns out that just because someone’s an oral surgeon doesn’t mean that he has laughing gas or anything else that a dentist wouldn’t have. What this guy did have was 16 shots of novacaine, each of which he stabbed deep within my mouth until even my drool drooled.
I thought he would break a rib, the way he planted his foot against my chest as he yanked out one, then another, then another and then, thankfully, the last of my wisdom teeth. Like prepping a stuffed armadillo, he then proceeded to pack my face full of gauze. Apparently, he had just come into great reams of gauze, so generous was he with it. Finally, numbed to the gills like Elizabeth Taylor after a recent breakup and now able to fart gauze, he sent me home with a prescription and some paperwork.
Surprisingly, I felt pretty good about the whole experience as I buckled my seatbelt and headed with my mom to Family Drug at Clocktower East (odd, there was no Clocktower West or North or South that I know of). As she parked in front of Family Drug, I rolled down the window to put in a food request, since Demma’s IGA was just next door.
“Get me thum vethteble thoop, too.”
A man was painting the front of the drug store and I noticed that he kept turning around to look at me. While I’ve never made the pages of Sports Illustrated’s illustrious swimsuit issue—or even the advertising pages of Cooking Light—I nonetheless figured he was taken in by my beauty, even if it was mostly the inner kind. I smiled contentedly, trying to give him the satisfaction of a response. And still he stared. Some people really need to get a life.
That’s when I felt something warm and wet on my arm. Looking down, I realized that about two gallons of blood previously housed inside my body had oozed its way down my face and onto my chest. I looked like a transplant patient, mid transplant.
I still laugh, wondering what thoughts were racing through that man’s head that day. It almost made the whole experience worthwhile!
July 13, 2010
I’ve decided to take my time today, thanks to a cicada I met. He was sitting on our side steps yesterday afternoon, damp with metamorphosis, or raindrops, or the combination of the two. Clearly a newcomer, he had the peaceful presence of an elder, letting me get a closeup view of his dewy legs and still-drying wings. Whether it was peace or necessity that kept him there, he was unmoving and, for that, I was both grateful and impressed.
And so, I rode a little slower on the trail this morning, content to take things in and let things be. At one point, Mark and I took an old, crumbling side trail that led us alongside waves of daisies and coneflowers, chipping sparrows and goldfinches. It felt wild and surprisingly undisturbed. There is something comfortable in seeing how quickly nature can again lay claim to its territory, when given a chance.
Even after the ride, we were treated to intimate views of teeming communities, just by taking the backyard garden tour. I watched as two ladderback woodpeckers did an elaborate dance along the limbs of our neighbor’s waning pine. In front of them, a veritable plethora of insect life flitted across the pollen-laden coneflowers. A black swallowtail languished atop one flower for what seemed like minutes, slowly fanning itself as it loaded up on pollen. A hundred bumblebees and black wasps wended their way through the flowers, like commuters heading to work.
I am mighty grateful for the great heaps of outdoor time that my summers afford me. It fills me up, like a reservoir, and sustains me through the days when, once again, I am a commuter heading to work.
July 20, 2010
While I’m usually a big fan of wide open spaces, especially those on a calendar, I’m wondering if I’ve recently hit my own tipping point of unfettered freedom.
That’s right. My tabla rosa seems a bit maxime rosa these days.
It’s not unusual that I finally get my fill each summer. Most people, after all, aren’t all that great with free time. Especially Americans, if you believe what all those fussy, won’t-work-a-40-hour-week-even-if-you-take-away-my-chablis Europeans say about us. And they’ve got a point, by jove. I think the other side of the “American efficiency” coin is that we don’t know what to do with ourselves when faced with more than, say, ten minutes of free time.
In her terrifically titled book “Endangered Pleasures: In Defense of Naps, Bacon, Martinis, Profanity and Other Indulgences,” author Barbara Holland writes a great, spot-on essay about summer and how it takes some time to unfold. In it, she also says that Americans have become lousy at waiting for that unfolding. She blames air conditioning, 3-day weekends and our need to multitask, when pointing to the culprits of our inability to just be.
Actually, I think I’m better than most people when it comes to doing nothing, or at least having nothing official to do. Usually, within a week of turning in final grades for the school year, I’ve forgotten the names of most of my students and couldn’t venture a decent guess on the cost of a school lunch.
This seasonal amnesia is a great and beautiful thing, even if it occasionally sets me up for an embarrassing encounter. While I may never recall her name, I’ll never forget one encounter I had with a former student and her mom. I was a week into summer and happily loping along the bike trail in front of the Children’s Zoo, pushing son Eric in a stroller and working on my chickadee imitation, when I spied someone who looked vaguely familiar walking towards us. As they drew closer, I was certain the younger of the two was someone I’d once taught, and so I said with the certain yet relaxed air of the cocky person I am: “Hey, I once taught you!” To which the young woman said “Uh, yeah. I was in your Pop Culture class like a week ago.”
What’s one lost taxpayer, come the next school bond? Not enough, apparently, to make me change my erasable-whiteboard ways…
And yet, I feel the need for a little structure these days. I know I’m ready to etch at least one legitimate entry into my otherwise empty desk calendar because I’m starting to become unproductive, despite the heaping helpings of openness in my days. Take this writing, for example. It’s been over a week since I last tinkled my keyboard’s ivories. Either I’ve run out of stories or I just can’t be bothered. Or maybe a little of both. Whatever the reason, one thing is true--‘tis the right time in this season for me to start getting a little antsy for activity.
I can feel my mind start to turn to all things autumnal. I scan the late July skies looking for the long, thin, gold-tinged clouds of a fall evening. I linger a bit when I wander into the clothes closet, silently assessing what can stay and what most certainly needs to go. I get a good haircut, one from a place that doesn’t have “Great Clips” or “Cost Cutters” in its name. I even think it sounds fun to go to an evening high-school football game, even though I’ll never do it.
Indeed, my tabla is a bit too rosa for me these days. Time to dirty it up a bit.
July 22, 2010
Allison Holt’s Super Spa was open for business last night. Her price was right and her products prolific. Mark was the main beneficiary of the spa’s evening hours, enjoying a 45-minute facial and bonus kneecap rub. I was content to lay next to them, working my way through the first chapters of a book. Eventually, though, like all good things, Mark’s spa treatment came to an end and Allison’s attention turned to her maladjusted mom. She begged me to let her give me a makeover, promising that even mascara washes away in the tub. I, however, was not convinced, though I eventually was the recipient of an excellent shoulder and foot rub.
This was just one in a long line of reminders that I still beckon to my tomboy roots. And, while I may be the only tomboy in this bunch, I’m not alone in the neighborhood. Just last week, bubbly twins Pixie and Peeper, who can see first grade from here, proudly announced to me that they, too, were tomboys. I gave them the secret handshake—well, a high five, anyway—and welcomed them to this exclusive club.
It’s not a bad club, as clubs go, though the snacks could be better. Still, a commitment to tomboy-dom holds many wonderful things for a girl, including twice the options afforded to more frilly girls on a free summer’s afternoon. Since joining the club in the early 70s, I’ve enjoyed many a summer day building ramshackle forts and racing my Stingray across curbs and over ramps, never letting a future scab or splinter get in my way.
Unlike my frilly counterparts, I can wear both men’s and women’s clothes. And my savings have been well padded by my lack of interest in padded, lacy things. Still, this is a confusing world for a tomboy. . . Take last week’s wedding I attended.
The bride formerly known as Metta “Ace Editah” Cederdahl was beautiful. No surprise there. Metta would look good in a garbage bag, though, really, it’s good she didn’t wear one that night. Her bridesmaids wore tasteful dresses as well. And Mark and I, ten rows from the center of the action, pretty much just felt old and out of it, and yet, happy to be there, as well. After all, Metta not only was my former student editor, but also our children’s babysitter and Sunday-School teacher. She’d been in our lives a long, happy time and we were glad to be in hers at this particular moment.
But I must say that I was baffled by everyone’s footwear. As Metta’s bridesmaids wended their way toward the altar, my eyes fell to their feet. Actually, it wasn’t that hard for my eyes to fall to their feet, considering that their toes were about a foot away from the ground. Teetering on heels that bespoke torture, I worried for their safe passage, wondering how on earth they’d dance to “Boogie Nights” at the reception, more or less if they’d make it the 50 yards down the aisle. After the ceremony, as the guests made our way outside the church doors and onto the lawn, awaiting the couple, I realized that heels are in. Really in. As in “four inches in the lawn” in. Dozens of Metta’s friends wore the same style of sandal, each taking turns aerating the church’s grounds.
And I had thought my newly purchased Naot “Ashley’s” were a bit on the “tall” side. . .
Most days, though, this middle-aged tomboy can avoid the painful truths of a more fashionable, slimmer, more shimmering world, content to ride her three speed Purple Hawaii with the reckless abandon of a young child, the wind roaring through my unfashionable though practical locks.
July 24, 2010
When people say “make yourself at home,” I doubt most of them really mean it. Frankly, there are some friends I’d never invite inside, more or less invite to spend time in my home the way a family member might. Heck, there are a few friends I won’t even give my address to, just because I value my neighbors and property too much.
But the slovenly lifestyle of some friends isn’t the only reason I don’t believe people when they say “make yourself at home.” Think about it. Before having guests over, most of us run around the house wiping the rims, putting down the lids, shoving the magazines in drawers, puffing up the pillows—okay, I have never puffed up a pillow, but you get the idea. Apparently, we’d hate for someone to think our house looked lived in. So why would we invite others in to give it that ‘lived-in’ look?
That said, I love it when people make themselves at home in my home. I take it as a compliment when people prop up their feet on my coffee table or help themselves to another cold one. I suppose I’ve even come to expect that behavior from certain people. My near-daily Scrabble fests in the summer are set up with great efficiency, with Kristie retrieving the board and dictionaries while Jill fills glasses with ice and water (can you say “par-TAY!”). Back in the day, I used to even finagle an occasional post-Scrabble deep cleaning from Kristie, whose habits border more on the pristine than my own do. Fortunately, I have no shame and it’s very hard to embarrass me, so I’ve never turned down the chance for a housecleaning from someone who’s not so sure she should sit down without a towel and some antiseptic.
The saying “make yourself at home” reaches a dangerous tipping point each October, when I (foolishly) open my house to the East High staff. Given what they’ve done to my house, I am left to conclude that, for some people, it’s normal to toss pumpkins and gourds down the laundry chute or to switch around the plates, glasses and spices in their kitchen cabinets. Given my own experience with these hooligans, I am left to believe that there are other East High households out there with two hundred school portraits crammed into every nook and cranny, most with some inane high-school comment on back. “Stay sweet and cool!” “When we first met, I thought you were stuck up.”
Oddly, that night I never once noticed all these people armed with mug shots, moving around my house like stealthy secret agents. In fact, Andrea had to practically bonk me over the head with a Budweiser to get me to notice the tiny portrait of our principal, tucked into a painting in the living room. I’m not surprised I didn’t notice, though. After all, it’s hard work to be a kick-butt hostess!
The school-portrait prank, which took place two years ago, was sheer genius. And it proved to be the gift that keeps on giving, considering I just found a mug shot of Chuck Morgan this morning, with the sentiment “Let’s party!” etched onto the back.
I cannot tell you the deep satisfaction that filled me as I went to bed the night of the school-portrait prank. Mostly, I can’t tell you because my head was fuzzy and spinning, so I don’t really remember much. But I do remember feeling loved, in a somewhat kinky, not entirely healthy sort of way. If that’s what it means to “make yourself at home,” then I’m all for it.
July 29, 2010
Mark and I have assured that both of our children will be relatively cheap dates, when the time comes that someone wants to date either of them. How did we do it? Simple. We don’t have cable TV and we don’t own a shower. To some, this level of 21st-century neglect probably borders on the criminal, but we don’t bat an eye about it and, come vacation time, we actually reap great benefits from this otherwise daily absence.
Take our recent Nebraska water parks mini vacation, for example. While the water parks themselves are great heaps of fun—and cheap, to boot!—our family anticipated our stay at the Holiday Inn with just as much enthusiasm as we felt towards the parks themselves. With only a handful of over-the-air TV channels and one tub in our house, the prospect of developing writer’s cramp from working the hotel’s remote or taking a 20-minute shower after spending all day at the water park is an irresistible prospect.
Yesterday morning, with a few hours to kill, after filling up on pancakey goodness at the Holiday Inn restaurant, we sped back to our room to continue the Great Cable Tour 2010. At one point, the maid tried to break into our room, certain that, like most people, we would have fled its dark quarters for more exotic places. We had to convince her that we were okay and, in fact, were doing exactly what we wanted to be doing, thankyouverymuch! Who cares if everyone else is bored by Animal Planet, National Geographic Channel and The Travel Channel? For us, these were exotic stops on our short vacation and we would not be denied them.
We’ve taken our kids on some great, faraway places, including Florida and Mexico, and, while snorkeling above coral reefs and spying topless European women applying sunblock to themselves represented memorable moments, indeed, our kids were equally delighted by taking 2 or 3 showers a day. On one vacation, in fact, we finally went into the bathroom to check on Allison, who was laying on the floor of the shower, completely content to be there, even if she didn’t quite get the hang of how to actually take a shower.
I suppose we could have added a shower to our bathroom when we were updating it last year. But it would have changed everything, come the annual Holt vacation. We’d have inadvertently raised the “cool” bar, which, right now, is happily napping on the ground somewhere.
July 30, 2010
Given that Hobbes the Hobo Dog has eaten the same meal, sometimes twice a day, since we got him a few years back, I know that I can’t blame our lawn’s new brown spots on something new in his diet. Indeed, it just may be that, after the wettest of Junes, summer has finally started to take a toll on the grass. I know I’m starting to brown a bit around the edges...
In a way, seasons are like people, starting out as exciting bundles of newness, so full of potential and excitement. It really is one of the joys of living in the Midwest, to be rewarded with freshness, as one season starts to replace another. Sometimes, I think our Midwestern brains are actually wired to such change, because our thoughts start to turn to cool evenings and flat, mottled clouds just as the cicadas begin singing en masse.
Beyond district inservices and back-to-school advertisements, the telltale signs of fall are unmistakable. Assuming I mow the lawn this weekend (and our neighbors are hoping I do), it’ll mark the last time this summer that the lawn will need such immediate attention. Apparently, even the grass grows tired of growing. Our garden is riddled with signs of change, as well, from the Echinacea and tomatoes starting to cry “Uncle,” to the sudden appearance of elongated webs and their orb-weaver masters.
Even the neighbor kids who have been so committed to running across each lawn all summer seem to be calling a time out. Seems we’ve all grown tired of sweating (“It’s not the heat so much as it is the humidity.”).
Just last night, I took Allison to Target, for our annual hadj to the recently-erected school-supply temple. There, we let our fingers wade through uncountable boxes of #2 pencils and rectangular erasers. There, we knelt before unimaginable variations of notebooks, from the quaint, wide-ruled cousins of her past to the more rigorous college-ruled pages of her future. There, we loaded up on irresistible pens, new lunch boxes and brightly-patterned book covers, certain that these will be worthy guides as we enter a new season in our lives.
There, we met summer, giving its final nod to the next big thing. And we approved.
I smell really good right now. I smell of hope and nature, dirt and fine food. Nothing says “Hell-O!” quite like minced garlic and ginger. Like an addict trying to extend her jag, though, I am resisting the sautéing stage until the clock moves closer to dinnertime. But, when butter and oil final commingle in my pan, well, I have no pretensions of good behavior.
It’s funny how much I’ve come to love food, considering how picky I was as a kid. Maybe “picky” is the wrong word, though. “Contented with low standards” might better describe my early epicurean adventures. When I was young, nothing could compete with a fried hamburger. Now, I would have to kill myself or at least chew off my arm if fried burgers were the standard fare.
I have son Eric to thank for this transformation.
As Eric was cooking in my belly, Mark and I realized several immutable facts. First, we knew nothing about being parents. Second, we considered refried beans and Velveeta to be a meal. Third, we knew nothing about being parents. Ah, but I repeat myself. . . That’s when we decided we needed an Action Plan. It’s important to capitalize “Action Plan” if one has any hope whatsoever of carrying it out. In truth, our Action Plan was pretty much genius.
We decided that, if we were going to have a baby, we should learn how to cook. And so began my journey toward finer foods. We pored over the handful of cookbooks we’d received from concerned friends at our wedding. And we wrote down the name of every recipe we figured we could make, if for no better reason than that we could read. We devised a master list that hinted of my future career as librarian, one that included recipe titles, page numbers and cross references to book titles. By the time we’d finished, the list ran about a page and a half.
A good start, to be sure, but not one that, in and of itself, would guarantee a happy gullet. For that, we needed real commitment. And so, as soon as Eric Passed Go and Collected $200, we started to form a weekly dinner list. Generally, it comprised five recipes that we figured we could follow without killing anyone. I would write down the needed ingredients for each recipe and then head to the store.
The result? Accidental good parenting, in the form of healthy, planned meals that eventually extended to six of the seven continents (still haven’t settled on a winning recipe from Antarctica), and included exotic ingredients like zangy ginger and delectable coconut milk, translucent rice noodles that look like internal parasites and sambal oelek, a spicy sauce that makes my chin hairs grow extra fast.
I am grateful that my kids don’t resemble me, at least at the dinner table. Unlike my stodgy adolescent self, they will try anything that is put in front of them. Maybe this makes them culinary hussies, but I’ll take that over the alternative any day.
July 4, 2010
The Bieber Diaries
One Sunday in Spring
At a standstill with the Sunday puzzle, I take a breather and clear my head with a little fresh air. Moments later, my peace is disrupted with a barrage of strung-together teen words spewing forth from the basement computer
.
‘OHMYGODmomgetdownhererightnow!Therearestillthreemainfloortickets leftfortheJustinBieberconcertinJuly!”
It’s true I paused a bit before trudging down the stairs to the fate that so clearly awaited me. Eventually, though, I face the saccharin music and, for reasons that are still not clear to me, have agreed to wrest my Mastercard from its dusty abode and buy three tickets to teen-girl paradise.
What box have I opened, Pandora?!
Thursday, July 1
Time’s a tickin’ and it seems that Allison has not forgotten the concert, despite my best ploys. Looks like I’m still stuck taking her and good friend Bailey to Omaha this Saturday.
I look up the Qwest Center website in hopes that there has been some sort of chemical spill along its exterior, thus canceling the week’s events. No such luck. Instead, I study the parking-lot layout of the Qwest, plotting which lot provides the quickest access to the Interstate (read, “home”). Whichever one I choose, one thing remains certain—it will set me back $6.
Friday, July 2
With just over 24 hours until Justin Bieber hits the stage, I start to panic. The panic manifests itself in a variety of ways, from a poor performance at morning Scrabble to a new tic in my left eyelid.
A lifelong list maker, I begin comprising my “JB” list. Far from a bucket list (unless you count the bucket that will house my vomit), its intent is to settle my mind, at least in terms of things that I can control. Like the route I will take. I jot down the GoogleMaps result for the Qwest, despite son Eric’s recent bumbled Google directions that led him 12 miles west of town trying to find his friend’s house, which is just a few miles east of 70th and Pioneers. I can only pray that the Google Gods got their game faces on when I enter my request for directions.
I pull out the wad of cash housed in my wallet. It really is a wad, I’m afraid, and a sad one, at that, comprised mostly of Georges and Abes. Hardly the stuff of a magical night at the Qwest, more or less a coveted spot out front. I then send out an email to brother Steve, who lives just blocks from the Qwest. This was an act of desperation, thinly veiled as an opportunity for uncle and niece to spend some extra time together. Steve does not bite. How can I blame him?
Good friend Allison heartily offers to take the girls to the concert. The bad little devil that lives on my left shoulder prods me to cave, while the good angel on the right whispers a hundred reasons why this is my challenge, my quest, not someone else’s. For once, I listen to the right.
Saturday, July 3: 4:43 a.m. to 4:45 p.m.
D-Day. The clock reads 4:43 a.m. Much too early for someone who already struggles to see stars break through the night sky, more or less for someone who is expected to be able to concentrate on the interstate long after my first round of dreams has usually subsided. I plan on a nap for this afternoon. For the safety of all of us.
A lovely, though accident-filled neighborhood patriotic parade takes my mind off of the evening’s events. I am happily distracted by the neighbor boy who seems intent to trod upon every square inch of his family’s flag as he makes his way to the parade’s beginning spot. Equally distracting and entertaining are the little girl who forgets her bike has breaks, the other girl whose hundred yards of twine ends up entangling her bike’s sprockets, the boy who has used masking tape to attach a military hat to his bike helmet, and the baby who makes it about three feet before becoming one with her stroller, dreaming of less humid, quieter summer days.
Really, it is a day of happy distractions—a gift from God, no doubt. I swing by National Pharmacy to pick up six sets of earplugs, holding them with the care and reverence they demand. And then it’s off to what might be the Scrabble game of my life, each handful of letters revealing more amazing combinations than the last. I leave Jill’s house not only with a rare summer victory but also with a sense of invincibility, certain that I will survive tonight’s concert.
I celebrate the victory with stops at a couple of neighborhood fireworks stands and a nap.
After the nap, I take a quick bath and change into what I assume are my concert clothes. Allison, however, tells me that khaki capris and a golden shirt do not an outfit make, and so I swap gold for blue, saving my energy for more significant battles.
Saturday, July 3: 4:50 p.m. to 11:25 p.m.
Earplugs? Check. Cell phone? Check. Directions? Check. Mastercard and license? Check. Bottle of water and gum? Check. Cash? Check.
We head out of Lincoln with the air conditioner blasting. The drive is easy and we are treated to a low-slung, impossibly long and perfect rainbow around the 42nd-Street exit off of I-80. We can actually see the house that is all aglow with the colors of the rainbow, as it rests on the front lawn.
I pull into a Qwest parking lot, only to discover that, in the two days since I’d last checked the website, the price to park has gone up 33 percent to $8. Before we’d even left Lincoln, though, I’d made a silent promise to myself that I would resist all of the cheap, efficient and fun-busting tendencies that usually permeate my being and be bubble-gum-pop-music Zen about the whole night. I happily pay the lady and ask her where she’d park if she wanted to make a quick exit.
We head into the Qwest, Allison, Bailey, me and 10,000 other teenaged girls. The hair on my arms stands on end—the same feeling I get before a really violent thunderstorm.
By the time we’ve retrieved our paperless tickets (cool!), we easily find our seats (second to last row on the floor, nicely located near both a bathroom and the exit), and make our way to a $37 feast of chicken tenders, fries and bottled water. Ohm. Ohm.
As we wait in our seats, I notice a gaggle of girls getting their photo taken with one of the three male teens at the concert. I look at him and decide he kind of sort of looks like Justin Bieber. The very same thought, apparently, enters the minds of another hundred girls, all of whom suddenly swarm him for photos. Not quite 15 minutes of fame, but I’m pretty sure he’s glad he came to the concert tonight.
A strange quartet of dancer/singers, stupidly called The Stunners, opens the night. One of two acts that uses no live instruments, I’m a bit baffled by the setup, though grateful that the set lasts only 15 minutes. I happen to look at the clock when I first start to yawn. It is 7:23. Not a good sign. Jamaican Sean Kingston, the third act, gets the crowd off its feet and gets me to find my earplugs. Ahhhh.
By the time Justin Bieber comes onstage around 8:30, the arena is pulsing with teenaged screams whose pitch and volume utterly stun the imagination. I reach up to my cheeks, certain I’ll find blood pouring from my ears. I also fiddle for my cell phone, something I typically use about once a month, and begin dialing friends. I don’t say anything into the phone, just let it record the hell that is mine. And yet I can’t help smiling, knowing how much fun it is to share this experience.
I finally turn my attention to the night’s main attraction and am surprised to find that I am, indeed, attracted. He moves well. He sings on key, mostly. And he kind of makes me tear up when he sings “You Smile, I Smile.” Taken aback by my mistiness, I assume that my period has just started, but discover that I simply have fallen under the wooing powers of Justin Bieber. By 9:30, when it looks like it might wrap up, I swallow my Excedrin Migraine, hoping the caffeine keeps me up on the road.
The concert ends around 10:15 and Bailey and Allison are delighted. We actually get out of the parking lot with ease and pull into the driveway by 11:25, smiles plastered on all our faces.
It was a really fun night.
Who’da thunk?!
July 8, 2010
My good friend Betsy was in town recently and, over tacos at a local restaurant one lunch time, the conversation naturally turned to the ever after. I say “naturally” for two reasons: first, you cannot eat tacos without pondering the future; secondly, our friendship is rooted in Young Life, a fairly liberal, loosey-goosey organization that focuses on the spiritual well being of teenagers. At the time we first met over (gulp) a quarter century ago, I was a volunteer Young Life “leader” (the organization’s term, not mine) and she was a teen for whom I apparently was concerned about her spiritual future.
When the lunchtime topic turned to heaven, we found that we currently stand on opposite ends of the topic. I say “currently” because, despite the negative connotations given to evolution among certain religious groups, it seems to me that, much like friendship and hair color and income-generating opportunities, our relationship with religion and all things spiritual also goes through an evolutionary process throughout our lives. And so, during that lunch on that particular day, while Betsy was thoughtfully pondering heavenly things, I stood in the opposite corner, not really interested in or committed to the belief in the existence of a heaven. Mostly, I was into my taco.
My vacillating skepticism in this final vacation destination (a skepticism I generally keep to myself) began in the early 80s, when I often found myself attending evening mass at the Newman Center on UNL’s campus. I was a college senior by the time I’d fallen into the rhythm of hitting the Newman Center a few nights a week for the quickie mass, and recall those times with a general sense of appreciation. One particular homily, though, didn’t sit well with me at all.
The priest, who, at the time, was the big cheese at the campus church, asked the mostly college-aged parishioners why it was that we were willing to follow God’s word and adhere to his sometimes very picky rules and lengthy list of regulations. As I was pondering my own answer, the priest blurted out what he assumed was the obvious one: “To get to heaven, of course!”
Frankly, I was shocked by his answer. If I took his proclamation at face value, then the whole “religion and spiritual-practice” industry was focused on the most unappealing question of “What’s in it for me?” rather than the more noble question of “What’s in it for others?” Then and there, I decided that I simply could not abide by this idea. After all, do we really think we’re fooling God, going through the motions apparently for no better reason that to get a decent seat in His house? As though he wouldn’t catch on to our clever ploy?
Ever since then, while I continue to occasionally grapple with the notion of motives as they related to the ever after, I’ve found that, as a whole, I'm generally less interested in debating the existence of heaven. Ultimately, for me, it seems to put the focus on the wrong thing—some obscure, unknown future date rather than the here and now. I think that this is one reason I’m not an avid goal setter. (Of course, the real reason I might not be a big goal setter is because such things require discipline and commitment. Ah, but I wander. . . !) For me, the challenge is to simply “be here, right now.”
And, frankly, the idea of living forever makes me yawn and feel a bit nappy. I just can’t imagine staying up for the Whole Show, when, as it is, I struggle mightily to stay up past 9 each night.
Ultimately, though, it matters not a whit what I think about heaven. If, in fact, there is a heaven, then I’m pretty sure its foundation is not so shaky as to suddenly disappear simply because some middle-aged woman with a muffin-top waistline isn’t sure it even exists.
July 10, 2010
In about a month, I will resume my hobby as a list maker, lovingly devising checklists of “things to do,” all the while debating the perfect pen with which to comprise just such lists. Rejects will find their wadded way into my office garbage can, disqualifying themselves in the “perfectly formed letters” or “smear-free” categories. I find great pleasure and comfort in a well-formed list, and especially appreciate the way it takes the edge off of the pressure to once again earn a living.
But even the Bible says that, for every thing, there is a season. And summer is NOT the season for making lists.
That’s why it was with a fair degree of disgust that I perused this morning’s Neighborhood Extra column on the necessity of day-trip grab-and-go lists.
Heavens to mergatroid! What is columnist Bruce Marksen thinking, advising daytrippers to remember their antibiotic and burn ointments, 2x2 sterile gauze, hydrogen peroxide and anti-itch ointment, not to mention the chemically-activated ice packs and masking tape?! Is his goal to repel future friends and fans?!
And yet, ours has become an increasingly insular society, one that values the things that remove us from directly experiencing life. From our obsession with swathing young humans with high-SPF lotions and antibacterial soaps to our Anita O’Bryant-like insistence that a day without air conditioning is like a day without sunshine, we are deeply committed to our protective layers.
The rebel within is mightily tempted to leave for this morning’s bike ride sans helmet, but knows that I’d get a tongue lashing from Susan and Rich as I pedal past their trail-abutting homestead. I’d like to think that I am strong enough to resist bathing myself in the Walgreens SPF 50 lotion before bathing in the neighborhood pool, but suspect I’ll chicken out and give in. Turns out, I’m not much of a rebel at all, unless you count the fact that I’m willing to go through a summer day in yesterday’s outfit and without makeup.
Ooooooh, I’m dangerous! A veritable 21st-century bad girl, teetering between jail time and melanoma treatments.
Watch out, world! This girl's on fire! . . . let's hope I've got some calamine lotion around. . . .
July 11, 2010
I learned something new about my mom this week. Sally Raglin is as stubborn as a mule. Granted, a mule that looks like Doris Day, but a stubborn mule, nonetheless. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway, because any other answer comes way too close to something that resembles old age and memory loss. And I don’t know if I’m ready to accept that answer.
She certainly isn’t. And who can blame her, really?
It is wrenching to address issues of independence and safety with the person who birthed you. There is no easy way to frame a discussion about geriatric assessment, no way to “pretty it up,” and make it palatable. Ultimately, no one wants to give up the keys, metaphorical or physical. So, despite asking my mom to talk with her doctor about a geriatric assessment, and despite what seemed to me to be her open and positive response to my request, no such conversation took place this week.
And I’m telling at least the naïve part of myself that she didn’t have the conversation because she’s stubborn, not because she had no memory of the request in the first place.
Maybe that’s me being stubborn, I don’t know. But I do know that it’s easier to broach tough topics with someone who’s being a stubborn knucklehead than with someone who lacks the capacity to follow the conversation or to access relevant historical information.
These days, I am flooded with a mix of sweet nostalgia and deep sadness when I see my mom from a distance, ambling carefully up the steps to her neighborhood pool, thoughtfully and intentionally placing one foot in front of the other, still fashionable and beautiful but also undeniably older.
These days, it seems like some doors are closing for both of us--mother and youngest child. And yet, I can’t help but believe that there are worthwhile doors ahead, just waiting for us to knock.
July 12, 2010
Apparently, son Eric would make a sloppy drunk. This is based upon Mark’s observation of him this morning, shortly after Eric’s wisdom teeth—and most of his college funds—were left behind at the oral surgeon’s office. After staggering to the car, Eric spent most of the day on the couch (he got that from me), and hasn’t complained once. Other than turning him every half hour so to prevent bedsores, his recovery has required very little of the rest of us.
It’s been 28 years since I had more than 28 teeth in my head. When I got the news that the wisdom teeth had to go, I begged my mom to use an oral surgeon, in part, because my dentist’s name was DOCTOR HARM! Mostly, though, I wanted an oral surgeon because I wanted to try laughing gas. Anything but shots. Being the kind and wise and apparently well-insured mother that she is, my mom concurred with my wishes.
She drove me to the oral surgeon’s office—already, I was too giddy simply at the thought of laughing gas—and thumbed through magazines in the waiting room while my procedure took place. Had I known what awaited me, I would have busted through the picture window and never looked back. Turns out that just because someone’s an oral surgeon doesn’t mean that he has laughing gas or anything else that a dentist wouldn’t have. What this guy did have was 16 shots of novacaine, each of which he stabbed deep within my mouth until even my drool drooled.
I thought he would break a rib, the way he planted his foot against my chest as he yanked out one, then another, then another and then, thankfully, the last of my wisdom teeth. Like prepping a stuffed armadillo, he then proceeded to pack my face full of gauze. Apparently, he had just come into great reams of gauze, so generous was he with it. Finally, numbed to the gills like Elizabeth Taylor after a recent breakup and now able to fart gauze, he sent me home with a prescription and some paperwork.
Surprisingly, I felt pretty good about the whole experience as I buckled my seatbelt and headed with my mom to Family Drug at Clocktower East (odd, there was no Clocktower West or North or South that I know of). As she parked in front of Family Drug, I rolled down the window to put in a food request, since Demma’s IGA was just next door.
“Get me thum vethteble thoop, too.”
A man was painting the front of the drug store and I noticed that he kept turning around to look at me. While I’ve never made the pages of Sports Illustrated’s illustrious swimsuit issue—or even the advertising pages of Cooking Light—I nonetheless figured he was taken in by my beauty, even if it was mostly the inner kind. I smiled contentedly, trying to give him the satisfaction of a response. And still he stared. Some people really need to get a life.
That’s when I felt something warm and wet on my arm. Looking down, I realized that about two gallons of blood previously housed inside my body had oozed its way down my face and onto my chest. I looked like a transplant patient, mid transplant.
I still laugh, wondering what thoughts were racing through that man’s head that day. It almost made the whole experience worthwhile!
July 13, 2010
I’ve decided to take my time today, thanks to a cicada I met. He was sitting on our side steps yesterday afternoon, damp with metamorphosis, or raindrops, or the combination of the two. Clearly a newcomer, he had the peaceful presence of an elder, letting me get a closeup view of his dewy legs and still-drying wings. Whether it was peace or necessity that kept him there, he was unmoving and, for that, I was both grateful and impressed.
And so, I rode a little slower on the trail this morning, content to take things in and let things be. At one point, Mark and I took an old, crumbling side trail that led us alongside waves of daisies and coneflowers, chipping sparrows and goldfinches. It felt wild and surprisingly undisturbed. There is something comfortable in seeing how quickly nature can again lay claim to its territory, when given a chance.
Even after the ride, we were treated to intimate views of teeming communities, just by taking the backyard garden tour. I watched as two ladderback woodpeckers did an elaborate dance along the limbs of our neighbor’s waning pine. In front of them, a veritable plethora of insect life flitted across the pollen-laden coneflowers. A black swallowtail languished atop one flower for what seemed like minutes, slowly fanning itself as it loaded up on pollen. A hundred bumblebees and black wasps wended their way through the flowers, like commuters heading to work.
I am mighty grateful for the great heaps of outdoor time that my summers afford me. It fills me up, like a reservoir, and sustains me through the days when, once again, I am a commuter heading to work.
July 20, 2010
While I’m usually a big fan of wide open spaces, especially those on a calendar, I’m wondering if I’ve recently hit my own tipping point of unfettered freedom.
That’s right. My tabla rosa seems a bit maxime rosa these days.
It’s not unusual that I finally get my fill each summer. Most people, after all, aren’t all that great with free time. Especially Americans, if you believe what all those fussy, won’t-work-a-40-hour-week-even-if-you-take-away-my-chablis Europeans say about us. And they’ve got a point, by jove. I think the other side of the “American efficiency” coin is that we don’t know what to do with ourselves when faced with more than, say, ten minutes of free time.
In her terrifically titled book “Endangered Pleasures: In Defense of Naps, Bacon, Martinis, Profanity and Other Indulgences,” author Barbara Holland writes a great, spot-on essay about summer and how it takes some time to unfold. In it, she also says that Americans have become lousy at waiting for that unfolding. She blames air conditioning, 3-day weekends and our need to multitask, when pointing to the culprits of our inability to just be.
Actually, I think I’m better than most people when it comes to doing nothing, or at least having nothing official to do. Usually, within a week of turning in final grades for the school year, I’ve forgotten the names of most of my students and couldn’t venture a decent guess on the cost of a school lunch.
This seasonal amnesia is a great and beautiful thing, even if it occasionally sets me up for an embarrassing encounter. While I may never recall her name, I’ll never forget one encounter I had with a former student and her mom. I was a week into summer and happily loping along the bike trail in front of the Children’s Zoo, pushing son Eric in a stroller and working on my chickadee imitation, when I spied someone who looked vaguely familiar walking towards us. As they drew closer, I was certain the younger of the two was someone I’d once taught, and so I said with the certain yet relaxed air of the cocky person I am: “Hey, I once taught you!” To which the young woman said “Uh, yeah. I was in your Pop Culture class like a week ago.”
What’s one lost taxpayer, come the next school bond? Not enough, apparently, to make me change my erasable-whiteboard ways…
And yet, I feel the need for a little structure these days. I know I’m ready to etch at least one legitimate entry into my otherwise empty desk calendar because I’m starting to become unproductive, despite the heaping helpings of openness in my days. Take this writing, for example. It’s been over a week since I last tinkled my keyboard’s ivories. Either I’ve run out of stories or I just can’t be bothered. Or maybe a little of both. Whatever the reason, one thing is true--‘tis the right time in this season for me to start getting a little antsy for activity.
I can feel my mind start to turn to all things autumnal. I scan the late July skies looking for the long, thin, gold-tinged clouds of a fall evening. I linger a bit when I wander into the clothes closet, silently assessing what can stay and what most certainly needs to go. I get a good haircut, one from a place that doesn’t have “Great Clips” or “Cost Cutters” in its name. I even think it sounds fun to go to an evening high-school football game, even though I’ll never do it.
Indeed, my tabla is a bit too rosa for me these days. Time to dirty it up a bit.
July 22, 2010
Allison Holt’s Super Spa was open for business last night. Her price was right and her products prolific. Mark was the main beneficiary of the spa’s evening hours, enjoying a 45-minute facial and bonus kneecap rub. I was content to lay next to them, working my way through the first chapters of a book. Eventually, though, like all good things, Mark’s spa treatment came to an end and Allison’s attention turned to her maladjusted mom. She begged me to let her give me a makeover, promising that even mascara washes away in the tub. I, however, was not convinced, though I eventually was the recipient of an excellent shoulder and foot rub.
This was just one in a long line of reminders that I still beckon to my tomboy roots. And, while I may be the only tomboy in this bunch, I’m not alone in the neighborhood. Just last week, bubbly twins Pixie and Peeper, who can see first grade from here, proudly announced to me that they, too, were tomboys. I gave them the secret handshake—well, a high five, anyway—and welcomed them to this exclusive club.
It’s not a bad club, as clubs go, though the snacks could be better. Still, a commitment to tomboy-dom holds many wonderful things for a girl, including twice the options afforded to more frilly girls on a free summer’s afternoon. Since joining the club in the early 70s, I’ve enjoyed many a summer day building ramshackle forts and racing my Stingray across curbs and over ramps, never letting a future scab or splinter get in my way.
Unlike my frilly counterparts, I can wear both men’s and women’s clothes. And my savings have been well padded by my lack of interest in padded, lacy things. Still, this is a confusing world for a tomboy. . . Take last week’s wedding I attended.
The bride formerly known as Metta “Ace Editah” Cederdahl was beautiful. No surprise there. Metta would look good in a garbage bag, though, really, it’s good she didn’t wear one that night. Her bridesmaids wore tasteful dresses as well. And Mark and I, ten rows from the center of the action, pretty much just felt old and out of it, and yet, happy to be there, as well. After all, Metta not only was my former student editor, but also our children’s babysitter and Sunday-School teacher. She’d been in our lives a long, happy time and we were glad to be in hers at this particular moment.
But I must say that I was baffled by everyone’s footwear. As Metta’s bridesmaids wended their way toward the altar, my eyes fell to their feet. Actually, it wasn’t that hard for my eyes to fall to their feet, considering that their toes were about a foot away from the ground. Teetering on heels that bespoke torture, I worried for their safe passage, wondering how on earth they’d dance to “Boogie Nights” at the reception, more or less if they’d make it the 50 yards down the aisle. After the ceremony, as the guests made our way outside the church doors and onto the lawn, awaiting the couple, I realized that heels are in. Really in. As in “four inches in the lawn” in. Dozens of Metta’s friends wore the same style of sandal, each taking turns aerating the church’s grounds.
And I had thought my newly purchased Naot “Ashley’s” were a bit on the “tall” side. . .
Most days, though, this middle-aged tomboy can avoid the painful truths of a more fashionable, slimmer, more shimmering world, content to ride her three speed Purple Hawaii with the reckless abandon of a young child, the wind roaring through my unfashionable though practical locks.
July 24, 2010
When people say “make yourself at home,” I doubt most of them really mean it. Frankly, there are some friends I’d never invite inside, more or less invite to spend time in my home the way a family member might. Heck, there are a few friends I won’t even give my address to, just because I value my neighbors and property too much.
But the slovenly lifestyle of some friends isn’t the only reason I don’t believe people when they say “make yourself at home.” Think about it. Before having guests over, most of us run around the house wiping the rims, putting down the lids, shoving the magazines in drawers, puffing up the pillows—okay, I have never puffed up a pillow, but you get the idea. Apparently, we’d hate for someone to think our house looked lived in. So why would we invite others in to give it that ‘lived-in’ look?
That said, I love it when people make themselves at home in my home. I take it as a compliment when people prop up their feet on my coffee table or help themselves to another cold one. I suppose I’ve even come to expect that behavior from certain people. My near-daily Scrabble fests in the summer are set up with great efficiency, with Kristie retrieving the board and dictionaries while Jill fills glasses with ice and water (can you say “par-TAY!”). Back in the day, I used to even finagle an occasional post-Scrabble deep cleaning from Kristie, whose habits border more on the pristine than my own do. Fortunately, I have no shame and it’s very hard to embarrass me, so I’ve never turned down the chance for a housecleaning from someone who’s not so sure she should sit down without a towel and some antiseptic.
The saying “make yourself at home” reaches a dangerous tipping point each October, when I (foolishly) open my house to the East High staff. Given what they’ve done to my house, I am left to conclude that, for some people, it’s normal to toss pumpkins and gourds down the laundry chute or to switch around the plates, glasses and spices in their kitchen cabinets. Given my own experience with these hooligans, I am left to believe that there are other East High households out there with two hundred school portraits crammed into every nook and cranny, most with some inane high-school comment on back. “Stay sweet and cool!” “When we first met, I thought you were stuck up.”
Oddly, that night I never once noticed all these people armed with mug shots, moving around my house like stealthy secret agents. In fact, Andrea had to practically bonk me over the head with a Budweiser to get me to notice the tiny portrait of our principal, tucked into a painting in the living room. I’m not surprised I didn’t notice, though. After all, it’s hard work to be a kick-butt hostess!
The school-portrait prank, which took place two years ago, was sheer genius. And it proved to be the gift that keeps on giving, considering I just found a mug shot of Chuck Morgan this morning, with the sentiment “Let’s party!” etched onto the back.
I cannot tell you the deep satisfaction that filled me as I went to bed the night of the school-portrait prank. Mostly, I can’t tell you because my head was fuzzy and spinning, so I don’t really remember much. But I do remember feeling loved, in a somewhat kinky, not entirely healthy sort of way. If that’s what it means to “make yourself at home,” then I’m all for it.
July 29, 2010
Mark and I have assured that both of our children will be relatively cheap dates, when the time comes that someone wants to date either of them. How did we do it? Simple. We don’t have cable TV and we don’t own a shower. To some, this level of 21st-century neglect probably borders on the criminal, but we don’t bat an eye about it and, come vacation time, we actually reap great benefits from this otherwise daily absence.
Take our recent Nebraska water parks mini vacation, for example. While the water parks themselves are great heaps of fun—and cheap, to boot!—our family anticipated our stay at the Holiday Inn with just as much enthusiasm as we felt towards the parks themselves. With only a handful of over-the-air TV channels and one tub in our house, the prospect of developing writer’s cramp from working the hotel’s remote or taking a 20-minute shower after spending all day at the water park is an irresistible prospect.
Yesterday morning, with a few hours to kill, after filling up on pancakey goodness at the Holiday Inn restaurant, we sped back to our room to continue the Great Cable Tour 2010. At one point, the maid tried to break into our room, certain that, like most people, we would have fled its dark quarters for more exotic places. We had to convince her that we were okay and, in fact, were doing exactly what we wanted to be doing, thankyouverymuch! Who cares if everyone else is bored by Animal Planet, National Geographic Channel and The Travel Channel? For us, these were exotic stops on our short vacation and we would not be denied them.
We’ve taken our kids on some great, faraway places, including Florida and Mexico, and, while snorkeling above coral reefs and spying topless European women applying sunblock to themselves represented memorable moments, indeed, our kids were equally delighted by taking 2 or 3 showers a day. On one vacation, in fact, we finally went into the bathroom to check on Allison, who was laying on the floor of the shower, completely content to be there, even if she didn’t quite get the hang of how to actually take a shower.
I suppose we could have added a shower to our bathroom when we were updating it last year. But it would have changed everything, come the annual Holt vacation. We’d have inadvertently raised the “cool” bar, which, right now, is happily napping on the ground somewhere.
July 30, 2010
Given that Hobbes the Hobo Dog has eaten the same meal, sometimes twice a day, since we got him a few years back, I know that I can’t blame our lawn’s new brown spots on something new in his diet. Indeed, it just may be that, after the wettest of Junes, summer has finally started to take a toll on the grass. I know I’m starting to brown a bit around the edges...
In a way, seasons are like people, starting out as exciting bundles of newness, so full of potential and excitement. It really is one of the joys of living in the Midwest, to be rewarded with freshness, as one season starts to replace another. Sometimes, I think our Midwestern brains are actually wired to such change, because our thoughts start to turn to cool evenings and flat, mottled clouds just as the cicadas begin singing en masse.
Beyond district inservices and back-to-school advertisements, the telltale signs of fall are unmistakable. Assuming I mow the lawn this weekend (and our neighbors are hoping I do), it’ll mark the last time this summer that the lawn will need such immediate attention. Apparently, even the grass grows tired of growing. Our garden is riddled with signs of change, as well, from the Echinacea and tomatoes starting to cry “Uncle,” to the sudden appearance of elongated webs and their orb-weaver masters.
Even the neighbor kids who have been so committed to running across each lawn all summer seem to be calling a time out. Seems we’ve all grown tired of sweating (“It’s not the heat so much as it is the humidity.”).
Just last night, I took Allison to Target, for our annual hadj to the recently-erected school-supply temple. There, we let our fingers wade through uncountable boxes of #2 pencils and rectangular erasers. There, we knelt before unimaginable variations of notebooks, from the quaint, wide-ruled cousins of her past to the more rigorous college-ruled pages of her future. There, we loaded up on irresistible pens, new lunch boxes and brightly-patterned book covers, certain that these will be worthy guides as we enter a new season in our lives.
There, we met summer, giving its final nod to the next big thing. And we approved.
June 2010
June 4, 2010
Watched a fine documentary last night—“It Might Get Loud,” the story of three great guitarists and their love of music. Jimmy Page, Jack White and The Edge got together in what looked to be a barn for a day of talking and playing guitars. My favorite part of the film occurred at the end, when the three jammed to The Band’s “The Weight.” There is something irresistible about watching people get completely lost in the moment. And that’s what these three were doing during this song. Midway through it, I was tearing up, so enthralled with watching them, unawares, loving what they were doing.
Some of the best parts of life come when we are witnesses rather than the starring actors. Earlier this week, an evening bike ride took a happy detour in Woods Park, where two men were flying radio-controlled planes in one of the open fields. I was mesmerized by this loping, looping, surreal, mini air show, as were a handful of Latino kids, arms thrown in the air, giggles leaking from their happy lips as these planes buzzed and teased them. I struggled to get back on my bike and leave behind all this spontaneous joy, but eventually gave in to the call of home, after talking with one of the men who assured both Mark and me that, yes, we, too, could fly one of these planes. Let’s just say that Hobby Town was part of a follow-up research project we’ve undertaken.
I think these two events—the soulful jam and the joyful air show—represent what I love most about the promise of summer. This is the perfect season for getting lost in something, for wandering without purpose or forethought. It is ironic that we should have to practice or set aside time for spontaneity, but I suppose, for most of us, that’s exactly what we need to do if we are to nurture these moments of being lost in something. Summer offers the perfect palate for just such things. It is a long stretch of sun and slowness that calls us out of our homes, out of routine and rigor, and into something completely different.
I, for one, am hungry for something completely different.
June 4, 2010
Ode to Marti
Been mullin' what to do
About a small little brew
That blew up in my face
At Julie's fine place
Mullin' away just for you!
Here’s to Marti
A life at the party
Who, despite her degree,
Can feel like debris
And get downright tarty!
Here’s to the others
Who whine to their mothers
Once more overlooked
and still underbooked
Mrs. Populatities, if they had their druthers
Seems we all like our names
Lit up in bright flames
Shared in bright spaces,
And quite public places
Even if it’s all just a game.
So I rectify the past,
For they kicked my white ass
On Julie’s nice patio
Ba DUM, you big Daddio!
Let’s hope this will last!
June 6, 2010
We have the best newspaper carrier at least west of the Mississippi, if not west of the Allegheny and Charles, as well. In a newspaper-junkie household in which at least half of the members are awake before 5 a.m. most days, this journalistic brag carries significant and prideful weight. As is the case with all humans, though, --even those with seeming super-hero qualities—our newspaper carrier occasionally lets us down. Take this morning, for instance. It’s a sad work day when Mark, who backs out his Subaru no later than 5:35 a.m., leaves sans headlines and local weather, with no official sense of the day’s significant events. Alas, such was the scenario this morning.
And I, good and faithful wife who also is hampered by an inability to sleep past the cardinals’ first songs but who packages her appallingly early morning greetings as tributes to a husband rather than acknowledgement of sleep issues, am left with nothing, come 5:40. No paper. No husband. No real options beyond picking up a book which, let’s be honest here, isn’t deadline driven or in any way otherwise dependent upon today’s date.
Finally, unbearably, shockingly and most certainly disappointingly (which, I’m thinking is not a word, except among the grammatically feeble), it took until (gasp!) almost 6:10 for our carrier (or what I can only hope is a slacker fill-in) to come rambling down Woods Avenue, hope and focus wrapped in news-filled condoms, delivering the goods which, frankly, already seemed a bit stale by that point. And yet, I let out a little yip upon hearing the hefty “thud” of a Sunday edition challenge the wood paneling of our front door.
After perusing the front-page section, though, I realized that its delayed delivery was probably was a good thing, considering the proliferation of stories that just as easily could have been labeled “Humans Behaving Badly.” For a day wrapped in rapt holiness, it sometimes seems that the titans of this obviously godless, undoubtedly communist industry of journalism downright revel in the spiritually bubble-popping headlines they put together for a Sunday. I am assaulted by photos of sluggish, hospice-qualifying pelicans weighed down by a substance most appropriately called “crude,” articles of yet another Israeli seizure of a ship, headlines claiming “Business as usual” in evaluating the back-room politics of my holdout-for-hope President Barack Obama, mutterings of Central-American claims of another murder committed by the Holloway suspect, details of the FDIC takeover of a local bank. . . seriously, it’s enough to keep a person from attending one’s liberal, attendance-optional, guilt-free church today (then again, the need to play Scrabble before noon already had proved reason enough, if I’m to be honest here).
Heck, even a viewing of “Avatar” last night left me with a “what a bunch of losers humans are” taste in my mouth, which most certainly contributed to my early-morning rising, what with the pull of and hope that a daub of early-morning toothpaste promised. Bad enough to awaken with morning breath, without the sullying effects of a general distaste for humanity adding to the problem.
I’d originally set out to write this as a “just when things look bad” piece, in which I ultimately praised the good and humane efforts of the majority of people in the world. But it turns out I’ve gone on too long to find the “oomph” to respond to despondence with evidence of hope. Besides, I write this after reading only the front section of the paper and it occurs to me that, cradled within at the very least the “Living” and “Sports” sections, there is ample evidence that contradicts the stories and images that threaten to harsh my mellow. Surely, it is a reasonable response, then, to wrap up this piece so that I may apply the feel-good salve that awaits me somewhere deep in the pages of my Sunday Journal-Star.
June 9, 2010
I have really tight teeth. Not “tight” like I used that term in the 70s (i.e., totally awesome), but “tight” as in “ain’t no breeze movin’ through these parts” tight. I imagine that’s why it took me about 40 years to start flossing. Prior to the breakthrough development of Oral B’s ultra-thin Satin Floss, the semi annual floss fests that took place at my dentist’s office felt like razor wire in the “rinse” cycle. Back then, my dental hygienist had to mount the chair and do warm-up exercises to get anything to move between my molars.
Since I’m on the topic and this is my little world, there’s a great dental-related story I should share. . .
Friend Morgan, who is a dentist, recommended a friend of his when I was shopping around for dentists 25 years ago. I took him up on the offer and began taking my tooth-related needs to a small office near Leon’s Grocery Store off of South Street. One time, while getting a crown, the crowd of dental-office employees hovering over me began doing some old-fashioned gossiping. Seems the dentist who’d formerly owned the practice had recently taken up with a local lady. Despite being numbed to the gills, I was compelled to speak up when the hygienist uttered “Did you hear that Dr. Marshall is dating someone?”
“Dohtah Dih Mahshllll?” I spat (no, really, I did spit).
“Um hmmmm,” she acknowledged.
Turns out they were gossiping about my mom and my soon-to-be stepfather. Who’da thunk I’d have chosen the former practice of my future stepfather, and that I’d hear a group of people telling I hope not-too-titillating stories about my 73-year-old mother over novacaine and mouth mirrors?!
Ah, but I wander. . .
Ultimately, there are two reasons I started flossing about 8 years ago—one, as I’d previously mentioned, was the discovery of that waxy, thin-as-spring-ice Oral B floss. The other was because of the influence of my stepfather, Dick Marshall, DDS (sounds like a 70s T.V show). I don’t know if I wanted to impress him or if I was just trying to fend off the inevitable, bloody-gums gossip that would eventually reach his ears, since we now went to the same dentist. Whatever the reason, I began the tedious, painful process of daily flossing. Now I’m hooked. And just in time, it turns out.
Not too long ago, I was reading a story about habits and longevity. Turns out that people who floss regularly can add up to 5 years to their lives. FIVE years! It got me thinking—are my healthy, pink gums really adding time to my life or is flossing simply an indicator of other, life-extending habits?
We use indicators all the time. Little snapshots become magically-enlarged billboards as we extract from them perhaps far more than should be expected. When my great neighbors Jody and Jeremy first moved in, it was hard to ignore Jeremy’s tat-riddled arms and shoulders. Was this body art an indicator of future keggers and confrontations? Uh, no. Let’s just say that, now that they have two young children, it’s a nightly race between Jeremy and me to see who can make it to the 10 o’clock news. It’s a goal neither of us has achieved yet.
While I don’t see our information-obsessed culture giving up its love affair with indicators any time soon, it’s good to remind ourselves that sometimes tattoos are just tattoos and that flossing may be the result of a cheap cut of beef rather than a commitment to longevity.
June 10, 2010
The other evening, I decided to watch some flowers move. Unfortunately, the breeze got in the way, forcing me to suspend my experiment. So, how can the wind get in the way of watching something move? It gets in the way when the movement I’m seeking is the act of ritual opening and closing. I wanted to watch these flowers close up shop for the night. I wanted to see, in super slo-mo, their petals stretching upward, towards the sky, before collapsing upon each other for some well-earned slumber.
I was willing to wait to watch that happen.
Such is not the case with my school district’s new email system, however.
In the time that it took to ponder this morning’s subject, to do some stretches for a funky kink in my back, and to actually set fingertips to keyboard, putting down an intro plus a short follow-up paragraph, my sleepy, new, allegedly “improved” email system managed to find its front door, so that I could knock for admittance. Add another series of activities, from letting the dog out to watching the clouds flit across the sky, and you get an idea of how long it took to find out I had two new emails to open. Two emails, whose reputations instantly were sullied by the fact that it took 10 minutes to retrieve them.
Technology does funny things to our sense of time. It also does funny things to our opinions of things, simply because of the time it takes to access those very things. Hardly fair, I know, but true.
Nature has a similar, albeit, antithetical effect over us. Where technology rewards speed, nature gives its nod to the process, something that invariably takes longer out of doors. It’s why we plant gardens and celebrate the turning over of seasons. It’s why we gasp as we watch the sun turn beet red before bed, utterly amazed that we can witness the turning of the earth in the sinking of the sun. And in those instances when nature takes its lead from technology, embracing speed rather than evolution, we hold our collective breath as the storm appears from seemingly nowhere, the thin tail of the tornado weaving its way through boulevards and business districts.
Maybe we don’t appreciate the values of technology or nature until something comes along to challenge those same values. I don’t realize how much I’ve come to expect speed from technology until a clunky new email system forces me to wait up to (GASP!) five minutes to access my email. Maybe I forget how much I value nature’s unfolding until I experience a torrent of unexpected violence pour forth from the skies.
And so, it turns out that sometimes we require the unexpected to once again frame our expectations of things. I should, I suppose, thank that clunky, new email system for giving me something to write about today.
June 15, 2010
Letter-Jacket Jihad
Third and long,
V E R Y long
As in 30-years-3-mortgages-5-jobs-not-counting-that-one-in-Tuscon-2-kids-and-one-trophy-wife long.
More A.A.R.P. than
We We We We DO that stuff, DO that stuff
. . . did
that
stuff. . .
Long ago having traded teetering on greatness for tottering on stairsteps
Not choice so much as it was circumstance
Tan pants pocket snags on the cracked vinyl of a
Booth seat from some bygone era
Fingers drumming the tabletop now tacky
With spilled dreams and salt-rimmed margaritas
Make mine a double
Like one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse
--only puffier,
He tries to recall the glory days when doom rained down
Upon the vaunted Knights
Under the white-hot lights of Seacrest Field
The announcer’s voice bouncing off of all those houses
On Hazelwood Drive
What was it that made that moment “the one?”
June 15, 2010
While waiting for Allison to emerge from volleyball this afternoon, I looked out over a long stretch of nature, a green field buffeted by a stand of trees to the west. A row of hay bales rested up against a fence near my car. It was here that a bird landed, unaware both of me and of itself, it seems.
At first, I couldn’t identify it—flashes of color against its chest made me wonder if it was a Baltimore Oriole, albeit, an off-course one. Somehow, its chest changed colors before my eyes and I started to think it might be a Meadowlark, certainly more at home in this field, though it seemed to have misplaced its black collar.
Even the bird itself seemed unable to decide what it was, stretching its wings high above its head, as though hoping something might come to it. At other times, it puffed itself up, and I swear I could see it inhale and exhale, like a strutting rooster with something to prove.
And then, as quickly as it had transformed itself from fruit eater to bug eater, it became what it had been born to be—a robin. Nothing more. And yet, those ten fascinating minutes I’d spent pondering its background, enjoying its displays that seemed to have no more purpose than providing the bird with something to do, they were ten excellent minutes I was glad to have.
This bird had reminded me, once again, that expectations are simply lines in the sand, malleable fences that can be crossed as easily as they can pen things in. For ten minutes, this most common of birds had been anything but itself to me. In the process, it made me think of my own children and those wonderful moments in their lives when they emerge as something I had not quite expected.
June 17, 2010
I am averse to teenaged-girl drama. Averse to, unfortunately, does not mean “immune to.” And so, my mama heart aches for daughter Allison, who wonders what it is about her that draws the laser-edged fire of her female friends.
I lay next to her in her bed, surrounded by funky, bright-colored wall decals, piles of clothing scattered about the floor, and just enough “girl” things that make me wonder if she’s really mine, and she tells me about the bitter ending to an otherwise good summer day. I lay there, listening, but also recalling the fine work of the afternoon’s cloudburst, how it had skittered away all the heat and humidity, leaving behind a rare, calm, crisp summer evening that was meant to be savored. And I wonder what it would take to skitter away all the heat and humidity of teenaged girls . . . .
What can I say to comfort her that will be both honest and helpful? I can only tell her that humans are imperfect and it is best not to take one moment in time and ask it to represent all those that have been and are yet to come. I tell her that silence can be more effective than lectures or explanations. That sharing is sometimes best done in small, measured doses, rather than in gushing heaps that, to some, speak of weakness and vulnerability.
And then she asks the question that boils it all down.
Is it wrong to be myself?
(sigh)
No, it is never wrong to be yourself. Just. . . complicated.
I stroke her hair and tell her all the reasons that make me love her, or at least those reasons that are most accessible to me at 10:30 p.m. I tell her that the best thing about the morning is that it gives us permission to start anew, to call “do overs,” to get up and try again, which is the essence of humanity and, sometimes, the very definition of “courage.”
We say our "good nights". I should be tired. It is long past my typical bedtime. But sleep comes slowly to me, hampered by doubts and the desire to protect someone I love.
June 19, 2010
A JOURNALISTIC JUMBLE
Today, I got the hankering to see what would happen to two top newspaper stories if I swapped sports-page quotes for the news stories and news-page quotes for the sports story. Below are the results of my journalistic experiment.
CHAIRMAN: BP CEO OFF SPILL DUTY
NEW ORLEANS—BP’s chairman said Friday that CEO Tony Hayward is on his way out as the company’s point man on the Gulf oil spill crisis.
“He just ignored us", Landon Donovan said. “Or he didn’t understand.”
Other BP officials, however, said the switch had been announced previously and will not take place for some time.
“I’ve been doing this for 32 years,” said Tom Lemming. “The one player I remember them getting out of Chicago was Nate Turner. He was a big catch because they beat Notre Dame for him.”
BP Chairman Carl-Henric Svanberg told Britain’s Sky News television on Friday that “they’ve been talking to me for about a year now, but they told me that I had to come into camp and show off my skills and show them what I could do.”
Svanberg’s statement sowed confusion among other BP officials.
“I wanted it so bad, and sometimes when you want it so bad, it slips away from you,” said Kobe Bryant.
The chairman’s comments have overshadowed some positive news in the cleanup effort. Coast Guard Admiral Thad Allen announced earlier Friday that a newly expanded system is capturing or incinerating more than a million gallons of oil a day.
“For an 11-year-old, nothing could be a bigger deal,” Steve Rosenblatt said earlier this week.
By late June, the oil giant hopes it can keep nearly 90 percent of the flow from hitting the ocean.
“Look what it’s turned into. It’s been a place where young men have literally found their destiny,” said Rosenblatt. “It’s been a great run, probably longer than one would expect.”
REF'S CALL PREVENTS U.S. VICTORY
JOHANNESBURG—Maurice Edu kicked the ball into the net. American players jumped around wildly, thinking they had capped a historic comeback, turning a two-goal, first-half deficit into a 3-2 victory over Slovenia in the World Cup.
Referee Koman Coulibaly of Mali had called it off. Over and over, American players asked “Why?”
“Al-Qaida and other terrorist groups are tyring to recruit some young people in order to carry out attacks in an apparent attempt to show that they are still active,” said Hazim Ali.
“His teacher called and said it wasn’t appropriate,” said one official. Others had their opinions as well.
“What [Mr. Coulibaly] seems to be suggesting here is that we should be forced to use him, and I don’t think that’s the business of the state auditor’s office,” said Chris Beutler.
Perhaps Coulibaly, working his first World Cup game, will never explain himself. By the rules, he doesn’t have to speak to the media on game days and his next availability isn’t until Monday. Perhaps it will remain one of those unsolved soccer mysteries.
“Everybody’s a little skeptical down here right now, including myself,” said Bill Glider.
What is known for now is this: Donovan and Michael Bradley scored second-half goals that did count, and U.S. hopes to reach the second round remained alive with a 2-2- tie Friday night. And for one pure moment, Edu felt “pure excitement.”
It didn’t last.
“I am so devastated with this accident,” he said. “Deeply sorry and so distraught.”
June 22, 2010
It’s an odd experience, to see yourself outside of yourself. Odd, but not all that unusual. And so, as I find my routine in these summer months, one punctuated by bike rides on the most excellent 3-speed Purple Hawaii with green rims, there are times when I wonder if I’m a bit of a sad spectacle. Especially at stop lights—the long-suffering intersection at 32nd and Capital Parkway is first to come to mind—where I am forced to take a break from the joy of pedaling and instead get a rather shocking glimpse of my gear.
First, there are those shorts. That awful, paint-spattered pair that’s missing a button. I can almost hear my mom’s sharp intake of air as she withholds at least verbal judgment. These are paired not with a matching shirt but rather with whatever shirt it was that accompanied me to bed the night before. And, while I may very well pretend that I started wearing a helmet when my children were born and because it is the right and safe thing to do, the true answer probably is rooted more in my roots than anything else. “Roots,” as in “hair.” When a person is willing to go into the world with bed head, such a decision really should be accompanied by a sturdy, polystyrene “hat,” tastefully anchored under the chin with a snazzy little strap.
Sometimes, it’s all I can do to keep from running the light and riding against (or directly into) traffic.
And now that I have a decent car—one with the requisite number of hubcaps AND rearview mirrors—that came with a decent stereo—one whose LED panel actually displays the station number rather than administers a Rorschach—it is again at stop lights where I am aware of my music choices, especially when the HUMpah HUMpah of a great bass riff seems to reverberate against the next car’s interior. In those precious, stare-inducing seconds between realization and volume control, I feel the searing eyes of the woman in the snappy Passat as she wonders what the hell I’m doing listening to THAT kind of music.
As I teeter on increasingly-abundant AARP junk mail, I find myself torn between who it is that brings me pleasure and who it is that draws others’ ire—even though these two are certainly one and the same. On one shoulder sits the “act your age, not your shoe size” ogre, the one that makes me glad that my feet actually seem to be growing. On the other lounges the laid-back “Peace, love and Bobby Sherman” genie, prodding me to buy a whoopee cushion and some disappearing ink.
For now, I am mostly content to live with both parasites, understanding that there are times and places for all behavior and that, with a little guidance, I may very well be able to correctly identify which situation I happen to be in at the moment and adjust accordingly.
June 23, 2010
I’d been formulating the question for weeks, if not months. It had to be worded just right, because the presumption was so . . . strange. I mean, really, is it possible that disease or dysfunction would have a unique smell to it? Yet I couldn’t deny the facts, despite not quite knowing what they were exactly.
For the past several months, there’s been an unpleasant scent in my nose. Fortunately, it’s not always there, but it’s there enough of the time that I’ve wondered if it was me or something else. After all, why wouldn’t the inside of a body have a scent to it? We are, after all, mobile cities chock full of parasitic renters who pay us in god-knows-what. Besides, no one else has commented on the smell.
Oddly, the scent hits me at different times, in different places. Almost always about halfway up the stairs. Sometimes in the library. And, the other day, in the sanctity of my nearly-new used Nissan Altima, where, before, all things had been perfect and beautiful and anything but malodorous.
And so, with a doctor’s appointment already in the books, I’d been formulating the question.
“So, Dr. Hurlbut, hehehheheheh, is it possible to smell illness?”
“Say, doc, I was wondering. I’ve had this odd smell in my nose lately. Any chance boogars smell?”
Alack and alas, though, the mystery unraveled itself yesterday, pointing to me simply as a victim, not as the source. For once, it seems, someone else had caught a whiff.
In passing (not that kind of passing, thankfully), Mark mentioned that he keeps getting whiffs of what he assumed was dog urine in our house. He’d smell it in the basement, on the library rug, upstairs. And, while Hobbes the Hobo dog has been known to periodically suffer in the gastrointestinal way, he also happens to have a bladder of steel, seemingly able to go entire months without peeing, so it was unlikely that he was the culprit.
The simple act of tying his shoe yesterday afternoon proved to be the beginning of a definitive answer. That’s when Mark took a snuff of his sole. And gagged a bit. Turns out that the smell that has wafted its way upward all these months is some sort of material adhesed to Mark’s shoes. It’s not his feet. Or his socks. Or some festering disease within my skull. It’s Mark’s shoes.
I can’t say our lives have returned to normal since that moment of odiferous discovery. I can’t say that the smell has gone either. At least not until I can convince Mark to chuck the Chucks (okay, they’re not really Chuck Taylors, but I liked the idea of writing that word twice in a row) and get himself a new pair. Of shoes, that is.
June 25, 2010
I am no fan of fruit flies, but I do have a grudging respect for them. While I was on my bike ride this morning, these seasonal visitors somehow found a temporarily-abandoned, peeled banana I’d left in the library. It takes me about 4.5 seconds to walk from our kitchen to the library, but, to a fruit fly, this space must be something like traveling from East High to North Star—no simple jaunt down the block. Yet, within 45 minutes of my desertion of the endangered fruit (it’s true—enjoy your bananas NOW!), a happy horde of fruit flies had found refuge on its woody exterior.
I can only hope they didn’t have fruit-fly relations with or on the banana, considering that I ate it shortly after returning from my ride. Granted, bananas have a long and sordid history with tasteless sex jokes and 13-year-old boys, but, without the taunting pistils of a pollen-laden flower, I don’t really know what they’d get from a cross-species tryst. Not much, I hope.
While I’d rather not share my house with fruit flies—or coconut ants or spiders, and definitely NOT with roaches—I am generally generous with my insect friends. In most cases, I prefer search-and-rescue operations over Ghenghis Khan tactics. I don’t like to poison things or step on them—and, even when I wet a Kleenex to loosen the spider from its temporary place on the ceiling just above my bed, my goal is not to squish the life out of him but rather to reunite him with his outdoor friends.
This did not happen the other night, when I watched a spider lower itself like a rappeller from the ceiling just above Mark’s pillow. Fortunately, this took place while Mark--who would have screamed like a little girl had he been there--was taking a bath. Still, I was sort of sorry that he couldn’t see it all unfold in its nightmarish glory, the unsuspecting spider swinging down his rope like an elementary kid glad to have made it to the top. Wet Kleenex in hand, I uttered a silent prayer to the arachnid gods and proceeded to squish the guts out of the fella, knowing that search-and-rescue would not be acceptable to Mark. He needed proof, in the form of legs curled inward, tucked within the recesses of a Kleenex now floating in the toilet.
Fare thee well, my spider friend. May you come back as a beautiful butterfly, lilting from one pistil to the next, never bothering to ask them their names.
June 25, 2010
Dear God,
Bless me father, for I have sinned. Given that you are omniscient and probably a little bored from time to time, I’m sure you already realize that Allison and I went to the mall today. That’s not the reason I’m writing you today, although I suppose going to the mall might qualify as a venial sin. I will say an extra Hail Mary tonight just in case. Anyway, I let Allison buy two really awful pairs of shorts today. I suppose I could argue with you that they were less awful than all the other shorts in that awful, awful store, but, if that’s true, well, then, you already know that, too.
It’s amazing that you don’t come off as a know-it-all, but you really don’t. Anyway, I wander. . .
So, I was wondering if you could talk to the people who design clothes for girls . . . As you know already (yet I feel compelled to remind you), they are “clothes” only in the most Pharisaic, letter-of-the-law sense, qualifying for no better reason than because they have buttons and zippers and holes for limbs and just the tiniest bit of cloth held together by what must be, at most, like a an inch or two of thread. Seriously, God, these shorts make Jesus’ loin cloth look like a pair of parachute pants in comparison.
And have you seen the tops they’re selling to girls these days? I know I don’t need to tell you this, God, but they make little girls look preggers! And that is NOT a good look for most young girls, your son’s mother an exception, of course.
So, anyway, while I know it’s really bad to wish ill of others, I must admit that a part of me would love to hear that you have dealt with my request in a clever and funny way. Maybe a perpetual snuggy or some chafing for these alleged designers? Or possibly you could turn the hearts of middle-aged women and cause them to seek out these awful fashions—but just for one day because, really, I don’t want this to go so far that wars or acne break out. Well, it’s not really my place to suggest possible penitent options for others.
Mostly, I just want my daughter to be able to buy something that doesn’t look like she dances around poles for a living. I want her to have choices in which her body is not outlined so clearly for others, clothes that leave plenty to the imagination, while also leaving a little extra green in the pocketbook as well, since I’m asking.
Anyway, I hope you’ll consider my request. It is made with a mostly pure heart and good intentions, with just maybe a hint of schadenfreude thrown in, but I’m working on that. Thank you for considering this matter. I hope you have a great weekend!
Sincerely Yours,
Jane Raglin Holt
Lincoln, NE
USA
Earth (third rock from the sun)
June 30, 2010
It seems that the closer I get to the 4th of July, the further I get from the present. Even though I’m just shy of 50, my eyes scan the papers, looking for firecracker-stand inserts filled with promises of hisses and bangs and booms. I stop by the ATM and get some extra cash for Eric and Allison, not because they requested it, but because it at least a moral if not a legal requirement to have extra money to spend on fireworks.
It used to be that I could think of no greater holiday in the year. This one had it all—summer heat, time off, grilled food, fun explosives, parties and swimming pools. Say “4th of July” and I think of penny dives and greased-watermelon contests at East Hills, the fun interrupted only by the bizarre beer races that pulled the adults into the water at each safety break.
Say “4th of July” and I flash back to the night my dad directed a full frontal pop-bottle rocket assault on our neighbors, the Poppes. The Poppes also happened to have an in-ground trampoline that, I do believe, we air conditioned on that fatal night. I will never forget the image of my dad, in a lawn chair parked in the middle of our driveway, directing the neighbor kids, each with his or her own pop bottle and supply of rockets: Ready, Aim, FIRE! Nor will I forget the suave and nearly undetectable turn he made, this time looking uphill rather than down, when he saw Mr. Poppe finally come out of his house to confront us about the assault. I never knew what compelled my dad to lead that attack. My guess is that Mr. Poppe and his brood were all Republicans. But that’s just a guess.
Say “4th of July” and I flash back to all of the parties I’ve had on that holiday. Two, in particular, stand out. For one, I’d bought enough brisket to feed 50 people and got what seemed to be good advice from neighbor Cathy, who showed me how to prepare so much meat, using her pressure cooker. The afternoon of the 3rd, I popped that meat into the pressure cooker and proceeded to go to “Moulin Rouge” at the local theatre. By the time Mark and I returned, there was a definite meaty smell in our house. I unlocked the lid of the pressure cooker, ready to be tempted by perfectly-cooked brisket. What I found instead was something that looked like a moon rock, dark and hard and about the size of a baseball.
Never thought I’d say this, but Russ’s IGA on 17th and Washington came to the rescue on the morning of the 4th, a wise and overworked butcher getting me the replacement brisket and telling me how to cook it before the gang got here.
The other memorable Independence Day party moment came when Mark was cajoled into lighting a pop bottle rocket. It had been, perhaps, 30 years since he’d lit his last firecracker, a flaw I had overlooked until that fateful moment. Caught up in the excitement of illegal fireworks—or perhaps having grown tired of Corey’s prodding him to join in—Mark reached down and extracted a lone bottle rocket from the gross. He put it into the pop bottle, grudgingly lit the fuse and, with the élan of a bored sloth, held out his arm for the inevitable takeoff.
Just as his rocket became airborn, Jill stepped out of her car, purse on her shoulder and salad in her hands. Mark’s rocket arced quickly and then made a beeline back to earth. Well, not exactly back to earth. The bottle rocket was drawn to the pocket of Jill’s purse, which had called it to come hither, where it then proceeded to blow up. While I’m not so sure that Jill was glad to be there at that very moment, I knew that I was where I was meant to be, having witnessed a fantastic, one-in-a-million moment, reluctantly starring my husband Mark Holt and his wayward rocket.
As I’ve gotten older, I have grown less tolerant of the really loud fireworks, the ones with “Missouri” stamped upon their fragile paper shells. And the litter gets to me, as well, though that’s nothing new. And yet, I still find myself happily in the moment, straddling past and present, recalling the joyful and dangerous abandon of my youth, while cradling a cold one in my hands.
Watched a fine documentary last night—“It Might Get Loud,” the story of three great guitarists and their love of music. Jimmy Page, Jack White and The Edge got together in what looked to be a barn for a day of talking and playing guitars. My favorite part of the film occurred at the end, when the three jammed to The Band’s “The Weight.” There is something irresistible about watching people get completely lost in the moment. And that’s what these three were doing during this song. Midway through it, I was tearing up, so enthralled with watching them, unawares, loving what they were doing.
Some of the best parts of life come when we are witnesses rather than the starring actors. Earlier this week, an evening bike ride took a happy detour in Woods Park, where two men were flying radio-controlled planes in one of the open fields. I was mesmerized by this loping, looping, surreal, mini air show, as were a handful of Latino kids, arms thrown in the air, giggles leaking from their happy lips as these planes buzzed and teased them. I struggled to get back on my bike and leave behind all this spontaneous joy, but eventually gave in to the call of home, after talking with one of the men who assured both Mark and me that, yes, we, too, could fly one of these planes. Let’s just say that Hobby Town was part of a follow-up research project we’ve undertaken.
I think these two events—the soulful jam and the joyful air show—represent what I love most about the promise of summer. This is the perfect season for getting lost in something, for wandering without purpose or forethought. It is ironic that we should have to practice or set aside time for spontaneity, but I suppose, for most of us, that’s exactly what we need to do if we are to nurture these moments of being lost in something. Summer offers the perfect palate for just such things. It is a long stretch of sun and slowness that calls us out of our homes, out of routine and rigor, and into something completely different.
I, for one, am hungry for something completely different.
June 4, 2010
Ode to Marti
Been mullin' what to do
About a small little brew
That blew up in my face
At Julie's fine place
Mullin' away just for you!
Here’s to Marti
A life at the party
Who, despite her degree,
Can feel like debris
And get downright tarty!
Here’s to the others
Who whine to their mothers
Once more overlooked
and still underbooked
Mrs. Populatities, if they had their druthers
Seems we all like our names
Lit up in bright flames
Shared in bright spaces,
And quite public places
Even if it’s all just a game.
So I rectify the past,
For they kicked my white ass
On Julie’s nice patio
Ba DUM, you big Daddio!
Let’s hope this will last!
June 6, 2010
We have the best newspaper carrier at least west of the Mississippi, if not west of the Allegheny and Charles, as well. In a newspaper-junkie household in which at least half of the members are awake before 5 a.m. most days, this journalistic brag carries significant and prideful weight. As is the case with all humans, though, --even those with seeming super-hero qualities—our newspaper carrier occasionally lets us down. Take this morning, for instance. It’s a sad work day when Mark, who backs out his Subaru no later than 5:35 a.m., leaves sans headlines and local weather, with no official sense of the day’s significant events. Alas, such was the scenario this morning.
And I, good and faithful wife who also is hampered by an inability to sleep past the cardinals’ first songs but who packages her appallingly early morning greetings as tributes to a husband rather than acknowledgement of sleep issues, am left with nothing, come 5:40. No paper. No husband. No real options beyond picking up a book which, let’s be honest here, isn’t deadline driven or in any way otherwise dependent upon today’s date.
Finally, unbearably, shockingly and most certainly disappointingly (which, I’m thinking is not a word, except among the grammatically feeble), it took until (gasp!) almost 6:10 for our carrier (or what I can only hope is a slacker fill-in) to come rambling down Woods Avenue, hope and focus wrapped in news-filled condoms, delivering the goods which, frankly, already seemed a bit stale by that point. And yet, I let out a little yip upon hearing the hefty “thud” of a Sunday edition challenge the wood paneling of our front door.
After perusing the front-page section, though, I realized that its delayed delivery was probably was a good thing, considering the proliferation of stories that just as easily could have been labeled “Humans Behaving Badly.” For a day wrapped in rapt holiness, it sometimes seems that the titans of this obviously godless, undoubtedly communist industry of journalism downright revel in the spiritually bubble-popping headlines they put together for a Sunday. I am assaulted by photos of sluggish, hospice-qualifying pelicans weighed down by a substance most appropriately called “crude,” articles of yet another Israeli seizure of a ship, headlines claiming “Business as usual” in evaluating the back-room politics of my holdout-for-hope President Barack Obama, mutterings of Central-American claims of another murder committed by the Holloway suspect, details of the FDIC takeover of a local bank. . . seriously, it’s enough to keep a person from attending one’s liberal, attendance-optional, guilt-free church today (then again, the need to play Scrabble before noon already had proved reason enough, if I’m to be honest here).
Heck, even a viewing of “Avatar” last night left me with a “what a bunch of losers humans are” taste in my mouth, which most certainly contributed to my early-morning rising, what with the pull of and hope that a daub of early-morning toothpaste promised. Bad enough to awaken with morning breath, without the sullying effects of a general distaste for humanity adding to the problem.
I’d originally set out to write this as a “just when things look bad” piece, in which I ultimately praised the good and humane efforts of the majority of people in the world. But it turns out I’ve gone on too long to find the “oomph” to respond to despondence with evidence of hope. Besides, I write this after reading only the front section of the paper and it occurs to me that, cradled within at the very least the “Living” and “Sports” sections, there is ample evidence that contradicts the stories and images that threaten to harsh my mellow. Surely, it is a reasonable response, then, to wrap up this piece so that I may apply the feel-good salve that awaits me somewhere deep in the pages of my Sunday Journal-Star.
June 9, 2010
I have really tight teeth. Not “tight” like I used that term in the 70s (i.e., totally awesome), but “tight” as in “ain’t no breeze movin’ through these parts” tight. I imagine that’s why it took me about 40 years to start flossing. Prior to the breakthrough development of Oral B’s ultra-thin Satin Floss, the semi annual floss fests that took place at my dentist’s office felt like razor wire in the “rinse” cycle. Back then, my dental hygienist had to mount the chair and do warm-up exercises to get anything to move between my molars.
Since I’m on the topic and this is my little world, there’s a great dental-related story I should share. . .
Friend Morgan, who is a dentist, recommended a friend of his when I was shopping around for dentists 25 years ago. I took him up on the offer and began taking my tooth-related needs to a small office near Leon’s Grocery Store off of South Street. One time, while getting a crown, the crowd of dental-office employees hovering over me began doing some old-fashioned gossiping. Seems the dentist who’d formerly owned the practice had recently taken up with a local lady. Despite being numbed to the gills, I was compelled to speak up when the hygienist uttered “Did you hear that Dr. Marshall is dating someone?”
“Dohtah Dih Mahshllll?” I spat (no, really, I did spit).
“Um hmmmm,” she acknowledged.
Turns out they were gossiping about my mom and my soon-to-be stepfather. Who’da thunk I’d have chosen the former practice of my future stepfather, and that I’d hear a group of people telling I hope not-too-titillating stories about my 73-year-old mother over novacaine and mouth mirrors?!
Ah, but I wander. . .
Ultimately, there are two reasons I started flossing about 8 years ago—one, as I’d previously mentioned, was the discovery of that waxy, thin-as-spring-ice Oral B floss. The other was because of the influence of my stepfather, Dick Marshall, DDS (sounds like a 70s T.V show). I don’t know if I wanted to impress him or if I was just trying to fend off the inevitable, bloody-gums gossip that would eventually reach his ears, since we now went to the same dentist. Whatever the reason, I began the tedious, painful process of daily flossing. Now I’m hooked. And just in time, it turns out.
Not too long ago, I was reading a story about habits and longevity. Turns out that people who floss regularly can add up to 5 years to their lives. FIVE years! It got me thinking—are my healthy, pink gums really adding time to my life or is flossing simply an indicator of other, life-extending habits?
We use indicators all the time. Little snapshots become magically-enlarged billboards as we extract from them perhaps far more than should be expected. When my great neighbors Jody and Jeremy first moved in, it was hard to ignore Jeremy’s tat-riddled arms and shoulders. Was this body art an indicator of future keggers and confrontations? Uh, no. Let’s just say that, now that they have two young children, it’s a nightly race between Jeremy and me to see who can make it to the 10 o’clock news. It’s a goal neither of us has achieved yet.
While I don’t see our information-obsessed culture giving up its love affair with indicators any time soon, it’s good to remind ourselves that sometimes tattoos are just tattoos and that flossing may be the result of a cheap cut of beef rather than a commitment to longevity.
June 10, 2010
The other evening, I decided to watch some flowers move. Unfortunately, the breeze got in the way, forcing me to suspend my experiment. So, how can the wind get in the way of watching something move? It gets in the way when the movement I’m seeking is the act of ritual opening and closing. I wanted to watch these flowers close up shop for the night. I wanted to see, in super slo-mo, their petals stretching upward, towards the sky, before collapsing upon each other for some well-earned slumber.
I was willing to wait to watch that happen.
Such is not the case with my school district’s new email system, however.
In the time that it took to ponder this morning’s subject, to do some stretches for a funky kink in my back, and to actually set fingertips to keyboard, putting down an intro plus a short follow-up paragraph, my sleepy, new, allegedly “improved” email system managed to find its front door, so that I could knock for admittance. Add another series of activities, from letting the dog out to watching the clouds flit across the sky, and you get an idea of how long it took to find out I had two new emails to open. Two emails, whose reputations instantly were sullied by the fact that it took 10 minutes to retrieve them.
Technology does funny things to our sense of time. It also does funny things to our opinions of things, simply because of the time it takes to access those very things. Hardly fair, I know, but true.
Nature has a similar, albeit, antithetical effect over us. Where technology rewards speed, nature gives its nod to the process, something that invariably takes longer out of doors. It’s why we plant gardens and celebrate the turning over of seasons. It’s why we gasp as we watch the sun turn beet red before bed, utterly amazed that we can witness the turning of the earth in the sinking of the sun. And in those instances when nature takes its lead from technology, embracing speed rather than evolution, we hold our collective breath as the storm appears from seemingly nowhere, the thin tail of the tornado weaving its way through boulevards and business districts.
Maybe we don’t appreciate the values of technology or nature until something comes along to challenge those same values. I don’t realize how much I’ve come to expect speed from technology until a clunky new email system forces me to wait up to (GASP!) five minutes to access my email. Maybe I forget how much I value nature’s unfolding until I experience a torrent of unexpected violence pour forth from the skies.
And so, it turns out that sometimes we require the unexpected to once again frame our expectations of things. I should, I suppose, thank that clunky, new email system for giving me something to write about today.
June 15, 2010
Letter-Jacket Jihad
Third and long,
V E R Y long
As in 30-years-3-mortgages-5-jobs-not-counting-that-one-in-Tuscon-2-kids-and-one-trophy-wife long.
More A.A.R.P. than
We We We We DO that stuff, DO that stuff
. . . did
that
stuff. . .
Long ago having traded teetering on greatness for tottering on stairsteps
Not choice so much as it was circumstance
Tan pants pocket snags on the cracked vinyl of a
Booth seat from some bygone era
Fingers drumming the tabletop now tacky
With spilled dreams and salt-rimmed margaritas
Make mine a double
Like one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse
--only puffier,
He tries to recall the glory days when doom rained down
Upon the vaunted Knights
Under the white-hot lights of Seacrest Field
The announcer’s voice bouncing off of all those houses
On Hazelwood Drive
What was it that made that moment “the one?”
June 15, 2010
While waiting for Allison to emerge from volleyball this afternoon, I looked out over a long stretch of nature, a green field buffeted by a stand of trees to the west. A row of hay bales rested up against a fence near my car. It was here that a bird landed, unaware both of me and of itself, it seems.
At first, I couldn’t identify it—flashes of color against its chest made me wonder if it was a Baltimore Oriole, albeit, an off-course one. Somehow, its chest changed colors before my eyes and I started to think it might be a Meadowlark, certainly more at home in this field, though it seemed to have misplaced its black collar.
Even the bird itself seemed unable to decide what it was, stretching its wings high above its head, as though hoping something might come to it. At other times, it puffed itself up, and I swear I could see it inhale and exhale, like a strutting rooster with something to prove.
And then, as quickly as it had transformed itself from fruit eater to bug eater, it became what it had been born to be—a robin. Nothing more. And yet, those ten fascinating minutes I’d spent pondering its background, enjoying its displays that seemed to have no more purpose than providing the bird with something to do, they were ten excellent minutes I was glad to have.
This bird had reminded me, once again, that expectations are simply lines in the sand, malleable fences that can be crossed as easily as they can pen things in. For ten minutes, this most common of birds had been anything but itself to me. In the process, it made me think of my own children and those wonderful moments in their lives when they emerge as something I had not quite expected.
June 17, 2010
I am averse to teenaged-girl drama. Averse to, unfortunately, does not mean “immune to.” And so, my mama heart aches for daughter Allison, who wonders what it is about her that draws the laser-edged fire of her female friends.
I lay next to her in her bed, surrounded by funky, bright-colored wall decals, piles of clothing scattered about the floor, and just enough “girl” things that make me wonder if she’s really mine, and she tells me about the bitter ending to an otherwise good summer day. I lay there, listening, but also recalling the fine work of the afternoon’s cloudburst, how it had skittered away all the heat and humidity, leaving behind a rare, calm, crisp summer evening that was meant to be savored. And I wonder what it would take to skitter away all the heat and humidity of teenaged girls . . . .
What can I say to comfort her that will be both honest and helpful? I can only tell her that humans are imperfect and it is best not to take one moment in time and ask it to represent all those that have been and are yet to come. I tell her that silence can be more effective than lectures or explanations. That sharing is sometimes best done in small, measured doses, rather than in gushing heaps that, to some, speak of weakness and vulnerability.
And then she asks the question that boils it all down.
Is it wrong to be myself?
(sigh)
No, it is never wrong to be yourself. Just. . . complicated.
I stroke her hair and tell her all the reasons that make me love her, or at least those reasons that are most accessible to me at 10:30 p.m. I tell her that the best thing about the morning is that it gives us permission to start anew, to call “do overs,” to get up and try again, which is the essence of humanity and, sometimes, the very definition of “courage.”
We say our "good nights". I should be tired. It is long past my typical bedtime. But sleep comes slowly to me, hampered by doubts and the desire to protect someone I love.
June 19, 2010
A JOURNALISTIC JUMBLE
Today, I got the hankering to see what would happen to two top newspaper stories if I swapped sports-page quotes for the news stories and news-page quotes for the sports story. Below are the results of my journalistic experiment.
CHAIRMAN: BP CEO OFF SPILL DUTY
NEW ORLEANS—BP’s chairman said Friday that CEO Tony Hayward is on his way out as the company’s point man on the Gulf oil spill crisis.
“He just ignored us", Landon Donovan said. “Or he didn’t understand.”
Other BP officials, however, said the switch had been announced previously and will not take place for some time.
“I’ve been doing this for 32 years,” said Tom Lemming. “The one player I remember them getting out of Chicago was Nate Turner. He was a big catch because they beat Notre Dame for him.”
BP Chairman Carl-Henric Svanberg told Britain’s Sky News television on Friday that “they’ve been talking to me for about a year now, but they told me that I had to come into camp and show off my skills and show them what I could do.”
Svanberg’s statement sowed confusion among other BP officials.
“I wanted it so bad, and sometimes when you want it so bad, it slips away from you,” said Kobe Bryant.
The chairman’s comments have overshadowed some positive news in the cleanup effort. Coast Guard Admiral Thad Allen announced earlier Friday that a newly expanded system is capturing or incinerating more than a million gallons of oil a day.
“For an 11-year-old, nothing could be a bigger deal,” Steve Rosenblatt said earlier this week.
By late June, the oil giant hopes it can keep nearly 90 percent of the flow from hitting the ocean.
“Look what it’s turned into. It’s been a place where young men have literally found their destiny,” said Rosenblatt. “It’s been a great run, probably longer than one would expect.”
REF'S CALL PREVENTS U.S. VICTORY
JOHANNESBURG—Maurice Edu kicked the ball into the net. American players jumped around wildly, thinking they had capped a historic comeback, turning a two-goal, first-half deficit into a 3-2 victory over Slovenia in the World Cup.
Referee Koman Coulibaly of Mali had called it off. Over and over, American players asked “Why?”
“Al-Qaida and other terrorist groups are tyring to recruit some young people in order to carry out attacks in an apparent attempt to show that they are still active,” said Hazim Ali.
“His teacher called and said it wasn’t appropriate,” said one official. Others had their opinions as well.
“What [Mr. Coulibaly] seems to be suggesting here is that we should be forced to use him, and I don’t think that’s the business of the state auditor’s office,” said Chris Beutler.
Perhaps Coulibaly, working his first World Cup game, will never explain himself. By the rules, he doesn’t have to speak to the media on game days and his next availability isn’t until Monday. Perhaps it will remain one of those unsolved soccer mysteries.
“Everybody’s a little skeptical down here right now, including myself,” said Bill Glider.
What is known for now is this: Donovan and Michael Bradley scored second-half goals that did count, and U.S. hopes to reach the second round remained alive with a 2-2- tie Friday night. And for one pure moment, Edu felt “pure excitement.”
It didn’t last.
“I am so devastated with this accident,” he said. “Deeply sorry and so distraught.”
June 22, 2010
It’s an odd experience, to see yourself outside of yourself. Odd, but not all that unusual. And so, as I find my routine in these summer months, one punctuated by bike rides on the most excellent 3-speed Purple Hawaii with green rims, there are times when I wonder if I’m a bit of a sad spectacle. Especially at stop lights—the long-suffering intersection at 32nd and Capital Parkway is first to come to mind—where I am forced to take a break from the joy of pedaling and instead get a rather shocking glimpse of my gear.
First, there are those shorts. That awful, paint-spattered pair that’s missing a button. I can almost hear my mom’s sharp intake of air as she withholds at least verbal judgment. These are paired not with a matching shirt but rather with whatever shirt it was that accompanied me to bed the night before. And, while I may very well pretend that I started wearing a helmet when my children were born and because it is the right and safe thing to do, the true answer probably is rooted more in my roots than anything else. “Roots,” as in “hair.” When a person is willing to go into the world with bed head, such a decision really should be accompanied by a sturdy, polystyrene “hat,” tastefully anchored under the chin with a snazzy little strap.
Sometimes, it’s all I can do to keep from running the light and riding against (or directly into) traffic.
And now that I have a decent car—one with the requisite number of hubcaps AND rearview mirrors—that came with a decent stereo—one whose LED panel actually displays the station number rather than administers a Rorschach—it is again at stop lights where I am aware of my music choices, especially when the HUMpah HUMpah of a great bass riff seems to reverberate against the next car’s interior. In those precious, stare-inducing seconds between realization and volume control, I feel the searing eyes of the woman in the snappy Passat as she wonders what the hell I’m doing listening to THAT kind of music.
As I teeter on increasingly-abundant AARP junk mail, I find myself torn between who it is that brings me pleasure and who it is that draws others’ ire—even though these two are certainly one and the same. On one shoulder sits the “act your age, not your shoe size” ogre, the one that makes me glad that my feet actually seem to be growing. On the other lounges the laid-back “Peace, love and Bobby Sherman” genie, prodding me to buy a whoopee cushion and some disappearing ink.
For now, I am mostly content to live with both parasites, understanding that there are times and places for all behavior and that, with a little guidance, I may very well be able to correctly identify which situation I happen to be in at the moment and adjust accordingly.
June 23, 2010
I’d been formulating the question for weeks, if not months. It had to be worded just right, because the presumption was so . . . strange. I mean, really, is it possible that disease or dysfunction would have a unique smell to it? Yet I couldn’t deny the facts, despite not quite knowing what they were exactly.
For the past several months, there’s been an unpleasant scent in my nose. Fortunately, it’s not always there, but it’s there enough of the time that I’ve wondered if it was me or something else. After all, why wouldn’t the inside of a body have a scent to it? We are, after all, mobile cities chock full of parasitic renters who pay us in god-knows-what. Besides, no one else has commented on the smell.
Oddly, the scent hits me at different times, in different places. Almost always about halfway up the stairs. Sometimes in the library. And, the other day, in the sanctity of my nearly-new used Nissan Altima, where, before, all things had been perfect and beautiful and anything but malodorous.
And so, with a doctor’s appointment already in the books, I’d been formulating the question.
“So, Dr. Hurlbut, hehehheheheh, is it possible to smell illness?”
“Say, doc, I was wondering. I’ve had this odd smell in my nose lately. Any chance boogars smell?”
Alack and alas, though, the mystery unraveled itself yesterday, pointing to me simply as a victim, not as the source. For once, it seems, someone else had caught a whiff.
In passing (not that kind of passing, thankfully), Mark mentioned that he keeps getting whiffs of what he assumed was dog urine in our house. He’d smell it in the basement, on the library rug, upstairs. And, while Hobbes the Hobo dog has been known to periodically suffer in the gastrointestinal way, he also happens to have a bladder of steel, seemingly able to go entire months without peeing, so it was unlikely that he was the culprit.
The simple act of tying his shoe yesterday afternoon proved to be the beginning of a definitive answer. That’s when Mark took a snuff of his sole. And gagged a bit. Turns out that the smell that has wafted its way upward all these months is some sort of material adhesed to Mark’s shoes. It’s not his feet. Or his socks. Or some festering disease within my skull. It’s Mark’s shoes.
I can’t say our lives have returned to normal since that moment of odiferous discovery. I can’t say that the smell has gone either. At least not until I can convince Mark to chuck the Chucks (okay, they’re not really Chuck Taylors, but I liked the idea of writing that word twice in a row) and get himself a new pair. Of shoes, that is.
June 25, 2010
I am no fan of fruit flies, but I do have a grudging respect for them. While I was on my bike ride this morning, these seasonal visitors somehow found a temporarily-abandoned, peeled banana I’d left in the library. It takes me about 4.5 seconds to walk from our kitchen to the library, but, to a fruit fly, this space must be something like traveling from East High to North Star—no simple jaunt down the block. Yet, within 45 minutes of my desertion of the endangered fruit (it’s true—enjoy your bananas NOW!), a happy horde of fruit flies had found refuge on its woody exterior.
I can only hope they didn’t have fruit-fly relations with or on the banana, considering that I ate it shortly after returning from my ride. Granted, bananas have a long and sordid history with tasteless sex jokes and 13-year-old boys, but, without the taunting pistils of a pollen-laden flower, I don’t really know what they’d get from a cross-species tryst. Not much, I hope.
While I’d rather not share my house with fruit flies—or coconut ants or spiders, and definitely NOT with roaches—I am generally generous with my insect friends. In most cases, I prefer search-and-rescue operations over Ghenghis Khan tactics. I don’t like to poison things or step on them—and, even when I wet a Kleenex to loosen the spider from its temporary place on the ceiling just above my bed, my goal is not to squish the life out of him but rather to reunite him with his outdoor friends.
This did not happen the other night, when I watched a spider lower itself like a rappeller from the ceiling just above Mark’s pillow. Fortunately, this took place while Mark--who would have screamed like a little girl had he been there--was taking a bath. Still, I was sort of sorry that he couldn’t see it all unfold in its nightmarish glory, the unsuspecting spider swinging down his rope like an elementary kid glad to have made it to the top. Wet Kleenex in hand, I uttered a silent prayer to the arachnid gods and proceeded to squish the guts out of the fella, knowing that search-and-rescue would not be acceptable to Mark. He needed proof, in the form of legs curled inward, tucked within the recesses of a Kleenex now floating in the toilet.
Fare thee well, my spider friend. May you come back as a beautiful butterfly, lilting from one pistil to the next, never bothering to ask them their names.
June 25, 2010
Dear God,
Bless me father, for I have sinned. Given that you are omniscient and probably a little bored from time to time, I’m sure you already realize that Allison and I went to the mall today. That’s not the reason I’m writing you today, although I suppose going to the mall might qualify as a venial sin. I will say an extra Hail Mary tonight just in case. Anyway, I let Allison buy two really awful pairs of shorts today. I suppose I could argue with you that they were less awful than all the other shorts in that awful, awful store, but, if that’s true, well, then, you already know that, too.
It’s amazing that you don’t come off as a know-it-all, but you really don’t. Anyway, I wander. . .
So, I was wondering if you could talk to the people who design clothes for girls . . . As you know already (yet I feel compelled to remind you), they are “clothes” only in the most Pharisaic, letter-of-the-law sense, qualifying for no better reason than because they have buttons and zippers and holes for limbs and just the tiniest bit of cloth held together by what must be, at most, like a an inch or two of thread. Seriously, God, these shorts make Jesus’ loin cloth look like a pair of parachute pants in comparison.
And have you seen the tops they’re selling to girls these days? I know I don’t need to tell you this, God, but they make little girls look preggers! And that is NOT a good look for most young girls, your son’s mother an exception, of course.
So, anyway, while I know it’s really bad to wish ill of others, I must admit that a part of me would love to hear that you have dealt with my request in a clever and funny way. Maybe a perpetual snuggy or some chafing for these alleged designers? Or possibly you could turn the hearts of middle-aged women and cause them to seek out these awful fashions—but just for one day because, really, I don’t want this to go so far that wars or acne break out. Well, it’s not really my place to suggest possible penitent options for others.
Mostly, I just want my daughter to be able to buy something that doesn’t look like she dances around poles for a living. I want her to have choices in which her body is not outlined so clearly for others, clothes that leave plenty to the imagination, while also leaving a little extra green in the pocketbook as well, since I’m asking.
Anyway, I hope you’ll consider my request. It is made with a mostly pure heart and good intentions, with just maybe a hint of schadenfreude thrown in, but I’m working on that. Thank you for considering this matter. I hope you have a great weekend!
Sincerely Yours,
Jane Raglin Holt
Lincoln, NE
USA
Earth (third rock from the sun)
June 30, 2010
It seems that the closer I get to the 4th of July, the further I get from the present. Even though I’m just shy of 50, my eyes scan the papers, looking for firecracker-stand inserts filled with promises of hisses and bangs and booms. I stop by the ATM and get some extra cash for Eric and Allison, not because they requested it, but because it at least a moral if not a legal requirement to have extra money to spend on fireworks.
It used to be that I could think of no greater holiday in the year. This one had it all—summer heat, time off, grilled food, fun explosives, parties and swimming pools. Say “4th of July” and I think of penny dives and greased-watermelon contests at East Hills, the fun interrupted only by the bizarre beer races that pulled the adults into the water at each safety break.
Say “4th of July” and I flash back to the night my dad directed a full frontal pop-bottle rocket assault on our neighbors, the Poppes. The Poppes also happened to have an in-ground trampoline that, I do believe, we air conditioned on that fatal night. I will never forget the image of my dad, in a lawn chair parked in the middle of our driveway, directing the neighbor kids, each with his or her own pop bottle and supply of rockets: Ready, Aim, FIRE! Nor will I forget the suave and nearly undetectable turn he made, this time looking uphill rather than down, when he saw Mr. Poppe finally come out of his house to confront us about the assault. I never knew what compelled my dad to lead that attack. My guess is that Mr. Poppe and his brood were all Republicans. But that’s just a guess.
Say “4th of July” and I flash back to all of the parties I’ve had on that holiday. Two, in particular, stand out. For one, I’d bought enough brisket to feed 50 people and got what seemed to be good advice from neighbor Cathy, who showed me how to prepare so much meat, using her pressure cooker. The afternoon of the 3rd, I popped that meat into the pressure cooker and proceeded to go to “Moulin Rouge” at the local theatre. By the time Mark and I returned, there was a definite meaty smell in our house. I unlocked the lid of the pressure cooker, ready to be tempted by perfectly-cooked brisket. What I found instead was something that looked like a moon rock, dark and hard and about the size of a baseball.
Never thought I’d say this, but Russ’s IGA on 17th and Washington came to the rescue on the morning of the 4th, a wise and overworked butcher getting me the replacement brisket and telling me how to cook it before the gang got here.
The other memorable Independence Day party moment came when Mark was cajoled into lighting a pop bottle rocket. It had been, perhaps, 30 years since he’d lit his last firecracker, a flaw I had overlooked until that fateful moment. Caught up in the excitement of illegal fireworks—or perhaps having grown tired of Corey’s prodding him to join in—Mark reached down and extracted a lone bottle rocket from the gross. He put it into the pop bottle, grudgingly lit the fuse and, with the élan of a bored sloth, held out his arm for the inevitable takeoff.
Just as his rocket became airborn, Jill stepped out of her car, purse on her shoulder and salad in her hands. Mark’s rocket arced quickly and then made a beeline back to earth. Well, not exactly back to earth. The bottle rocket was drawn to the pocket of Jill’s purse, which had called it to come hither, where it then proceeded to blow up. While I’m not so sure that Jill was glad to be there at that very moment, I knew that I was where I was meant to be, having witnessed a fantastic, one-in-a-million moment, reluctantly starring my husband Mark Holt and his wayward rocket.
As I’ve gotten older, I have grown less tolerant of the really loud fireworks, the ones with “Missouri” stamped upon their fragile paper shells. And the litter gets to me, as well, though that’s nothing new. And yet, I still find myself happily in the moment, straddling past and present, recalling the joyful and dangerous abandon of my youth, while cradling a cold one in my hands.
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