October 31, 2010
I'm reading Kathryn Stockett's "The Help," a compelling story of black maids in the '60s South, and, not surprisingly, I can't seem to shake race from my mind.
In my most private moments, I recall what I can only assume is an actual memory, fuzzied around its edges by shame as much as by the passage of time. I assume it's an actual memory because I can't imagine that I'd make up something that would put me in such a bad light.
I was 9 or 10, and found myself in the bouncy backseat of an old Buick. I don't know what I was doing with my sister and her friend, Jane, but I do recall settling a dispute with the traditional "Eenie, meenie, minie, moe. Catch a tiger by its toe..." Only I didn't say "tiger." Did I mention that Jane's black cleaning lady was in the car with us?
My ears still burn with shame when I recall that moment, that word that I'd never uttered before, the ensuing silence and its unconscious yet blatant us-and-them reminder.
It would be hard to imagine such an incident occurring these days. That doesn't mean that I believe we live in a post-racial world, though. I'm not sure why, but we don't seem to be able to figure out what to do with all this human skin in so many colors.
Just last week, I watched with interest as Alex Trebek put on his kid gloves as he responded to the stately black contestant, an older woman wearing her Sunday hat. Right or wrong, her answers were treated differently than those of her competitors. It was hard to ignore her race, in part because of how few blacks ever compete on "Jeopardy." And I even kind of understood Trebek's interactions with her, as though he wanted to move beyond the ugly past and build bridges. Still, he's a game-show host, not a civil-rights leader, and his demeanor was difficult to watch.
I recall a fascinating story I heard from a former KFOR coworker, who grew up in pasty-white Minnesota. He said that it wasn't until he was an adult when he found out that his third-grade teacher was a black woman. I couldn't believe it. And I wondered what it said about Brad and his family and his third-grade teacher. How did an 8-year-old white kid get so post-racial?
One of the reasons I loved Allison's volleyball season so much was because of the variety of colors on her team. Hers was, by far, the most racially-diverse team I saw on the court all season, and none of those teammates seemed to give a hoot about that fact. This, I think, is a good sign.
I attended a high school with precisely two blacks, but Eric and Allison--and lots of other kids who go to schools other than Lincoln High--regularly find themselves walking down hallways filled with more languages than they have fingers on their hands. I don't think today's teens have that keen awareness of color, that strange mix of fear and embarrassment towards skin tone, that so many of us adults still have. Maybe today's teens have more in common with Brad's third-grade self than they do with their own parents, who are supposed to guide and advise them through these tricky times.
As much as the topic of race incites and inflames people, though, I don't really wish we lived in a post-racial world. I don't think we'd benefit from ignoring each other's skin. Without these colorful reminders, we might forget how different our back stories are. And back stories are important. They are the threads that connect us with past and future, the chance we have to enlarge our own worlds and let more people in.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Bless Me, Altima...and forgive me, Rudolfo Anaya
October 29, 2010
There's a part of me that wishes I'd never bought that fancy, black car. It was too new, too classy, too put together for me, what with all its hubcaps and visors and such. Like all new things, my 2006 Nissan Altima has lost a bit of its shine of late, and I find myself suffering more than I'd care to admit.
As Allison and I walked to my car the other afternoon--an especially sparkly October day--I was dumbstruck by the sight of five perfectly-aligned craters that marred the Altima's otherwise perfect passenger side. Suddenly, I felt like my former neighbor, the one who publicly massaged and shampooed his beloved Honda Civic to the point of others' discomfort. I let out a gasp and ran my quavering fingers over its fine, warm skin, letting them linger at each heartbreaking indentation.
In the past month, my poor, shiny Altima has endured numerous dents and scratches, each one reminding me that, while black may be slimming in a dress, it is utterly unforgiving on a car. These days, I find myself hurrying to it, eyes averted, fumbling with my keys so that I may quickly enter its near-virgin interior. Inside, it is once again that symbol of near perfection, nary a stain on the floor mats, only one--maybe two--wadded up Kleenexes crammed into the back ashtray.
I know I'm fooling myself. I knew, when I bought the Altima last January, that the honeymoon would end, that we'd wake up one morning and look over at each other not with lust so much as with tempered tolerance. We have become a warts-and-all pair, no longer able to uphold the fantasy, our bumpers scratched and rusty, our shine dulled by wear and tear.
Like a healthy marriage, the Altima and I have entered that stage during which we love each other in spite of, rather than because of. I should feel good about this, I suppose. After all, even creepers find it easy to love because of....it takes real strength of character and a good dose of humility to love something in spite of itself.
WARNING: Do NOT read further if you are allergic to really bad puns. I can't help myself, but I do feel compelled to warn you...
And if, down the road, the Altima and I run into barricaded avenues, places where we just can't seem to navigate on our own, I am comforted to know that we can sign up for a Carriage Encounter Weekend, through our local dealership. This is, after all, a relationship worth saving.
There's a part of me that wishes I'd never bought that fancy, black car. It was too new, too classy, too put together for me, what with all its hubcaps and visors and such. Like all new things, my 2006 Nissan Altima has lost a bit of its shine of late, and I find myself suffering more than I'd care to admit.
As Allison and I walked to my car the other afternoon--an especially sparkly October day--I was dumbstruck by the sight of five perfectly-aligned craters that marred the Altima's otherwise perfect passenger side. Suddenly, I felt like my former neighbor, the one who publicly massaged and shampooed his beloved Honda Civic to the point of others' discomfort. I let out a gasp and ran my quavering fingers over its fine, warm skin, letting them linger at each heartbreaking indentation.
In the past month, my poor, shiny Altima has endured numerous dents and scratches, each one reminding me that, while black may be slimming in a dress, it is utterly unforgiving on a car. These days, I find myself hurrying to it, eyes averted, fumbling with my keys so that I may quickly enter its near-virgin interior. Inside, it is once again that symbol of near perfection, nary a stain on the floor mats, only one--maybe two--wadded up Kleenexes crammed into the back ashtray.
I know I'm fooling myself. I knew, when I bought the Altima last January, that the honeymoon would end, that we'd wake up one morning and look over at each other not with lust so much as with tempered tolerance. We have become a warts-and-all pair, no longer able to uphold the fantasy, our bumpers scratched and rusty, our shine dulled by wear and tear.
Like a healthy marriage, the Altima and I have entered that stage during which we love each other in spite of, rather than because of. I should feel good about this, I suppose. After all, even creepers find it easy to love because of....it takes real strength of character and a good dose of humility to love something in spite of itself.
WARNING: Do NOT read further if you are allergic to really bad puns. I can't help myself, but I do feel compelled to warn you...
And if, down the road, the Altima and I run into barricaded avenues, places where we just can't seem to navigate on our own, I am comforted to know that we can sign up for a Carriage Encounter Weekend, through our local dealership. This is, after all, a relationship worth saving.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Back Off! Charlie Sheen's a Victim of Allergies! I Swear!
October 28, 2010
Man, I feel so bad for Charlie Sheen. I can't imagine how scary his allergic reaction must have been, considering that it caused him to toss about furniture--bulky chairs and probably a few Gideon Bibles, too!--in his Plaza Hotel suite. Never mind the nude porn star who was scared out of her wit during his medical event. Allergies are nothing to wag your nose at!
Like Charlie, I have ended up in the hospital emergency room more than once, thanks to allergic reactions. And then, there was the time that the family's optometrist said he'd meet us in a closet just off the emergency room, his kindness saving us hundreds of dollars in emergency-room fees, though it was kind of cramped, sharing the room with brooms and such. And the lighting wasn't so hot, either.
In my own, storied, food-sensitive life, I've gone to the emergency room over a lousy hazelnut and a slice of watermelon. Hardly the stuff of legend, but you should have seen the way my face puffed up! I looked like a woman who'd just returned from a date with, well, Charlie Sheen.
No doubt, the cynics out there are labeling Sheen's event as something other than an allergic event. Had these been Old-Testament times, these "people" would have been the first to pick up a fist-sized stone to throw at the man. For shame, I say!
Alas, I will stand up for this man who works really, really hard. He is an honest man rightfully earning millions "acting" in a sex-soaked, one-joke sitcom. After all, how can we expect him to stand up for himself? Peruse news stories about him, and it's clear that he's got a long history of allergic reactions that affect his balance and mood. Only 45, galactically speaking, Charlie Sheen is a mere pup, especially if you consider that astronomers just discovered a galaxy formed five billions years after the creation of the universe.
Who really knows what happened the other night? Maybe he left his Claritin home. Maybe his $200 pasta dish had trace elements of shellfish--a real concern for allergy sufferers--and he reacted the only way his body knew how. Whatever it was that set off Charlie Sheen, clearly, jail is the wrong solution. A better solution, by far, would be a saline solution shot through his nostrils. I have yet to meet a problem that a bracing sinus rinse couldn't solve.
Man, I feel so bad for Charlie Sheen. I can't imagine how scary his allergic reaction must have been, considering that it caused him to toss about furniture--bulky chairs and probably a few Gideon Bibles, too!--in his Plaza Hotel suite. Never mind the nude porn star who was scared out of her wit during his medical event. Allergies are nothing to wag your nose at!
Like Charlie, I have ended up in the hospital emergency room more than once, thanks to allergic reactions. And then, there was the time that the family's optometrist said he'd meet us in a closet just off the emergency room, his kindness saving us hundreds of dollars in emergency-room fees, though it was kind of cramped, sharing the room with brooms and such. And the lighting wasn't so hot, either.
In my own, storied, food-sensitive life, I've gone to the emergency room over a lousy hazelnut and a slice of watermelon. Hardly the stuff of legend, but you should have seen the way my face puffed up! I looked like a woman who'd just returned from a date with, well, Charlie Sheen.
No doubt, the cynics out there are labeling Sheen's event as something other than an allergic event. Had these been Old-Testament times, these "people" would have been the first to pick up a fist-sized stone to throw at the man. For shame, I say!
Alas, I will stand up for this man who works really, really hard. He is an honest man rightfully earning millions "acting" in a sex-soaked, one-joke sitcom. After all, how can we expect him to stand up for himself? Peruse news stories about him, and it's clear that he's got a long history of allergic reactions that affect his balance and mood. Only 45, galactically speaking, Charlie Sheen is a mere pup, especially if you consider that astronomers just discovered a galaxy formed five billions years after the creation of the universe.
Who really knows what happened the other night? Maybe he left his Claritin home. Maybe his $200 pasta dish had trace elements of shellfish--a real concern for allergy sufferers--and he reacted the only way his body knew how. Whatever it was that set off Charlie Sheen, clearly, jail is the wrong solution. A better solution, by far, would be a saline solution shot through his nostrils. I have yet to meet a problem that a bracing sinus rinse couldn't solve.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Everybody Feng Shui Tonight!
October 27, 2010
Walking into Village Inn this morning, I broke out in a sanitizing-solution sweat, suddenly creeped out by the feel--and smell--of the place. Yeah, I know. The corporate office has spent millions revamping the look of Village Inn, trying to hip it up a bit with wacky "handwritten" signs and mod colors, but, really, when you get right down to it, all they've done, as Mark so poignantly said, is "papered over the filth."
It's a strange thing when a building sets off a bad vibe. It becomes even more problematic when that same building is the source of your breakfast. Maybe there's a reason that old people make up the majority of Village Inn's customers. After all, old people, who themselves often have a distinctive scent, often lack the sharpened senses of sight and smell that otherwise might warn them "RUN AWAY, SIMBA! RUN AWAY!"
Alas, the Holts stayed, tucked into a booth next to two old women with surprisingly loud voices, both of whom were lamenting their new hairstylists and their need for two take-home boxes.
When we were looking for houses a few years back, we walked through almost 90 homes, and more than a few had that same, bad feng-shui feel of Village Inn. For some, all I had to do was pull up in the drive and I'd get a bad vibe. Walking through the front door only confirmed my suspicions.
Invariably, these homes lacked flow. Some had staircases whose locales seemed to be determined by monkeys. One had a faux-wood supporting pole standing smack in the middle of a room, conjuring images of Night Before trainees, swinging desperately around it, their hopes of steady income slipping like the shoulder strap of a worn negligee. One house smelled as though a herd of cats, each plagued by a nasty urinary-tract infection, had let loose their territorial stench in one Old Glorious outburst.
When I leave a building built upon a foundation of bad vibes, all I want to do is run home, change my clothes and take a really, really hot bath. Preferably with Lava Soap.
I wonder what kind of person designs a building that is so utterly lacking in warmth and charm. What compels that person to put pen to graph paper, sketching rooms that seem to have nothing to do with each other? Was there really an architect who, when that hideous Perkins on 48th and "O", the one that crams a turret in the middle of ten different architectural styles, was completed said: "Now THAT'S what I'm talking 'bout!"
I hope not. I hope he just had a heap of hospital bills on his dining room table and decided those were reason enough to prostitute his professional self, to look the other way as he directed the builders of that awful, awful place.
I can almost feel compassion for someone who does that to a building, if polyps and positive test results were what propelled him to design it in the first place.
Walking into Village Inn this morning, I broke out in a sanitizing-solution sweat, suddenly creeped out by the feel--and smell--of the place. Yeah, I know. The corporate office has spent millions revamping the look of Village Inn, trying to hip it up a bit with wacky "handwritten" signs and mod colors, but, really, when you get right down to it, all they've done, as Mark so poignantly said, is "papered over the filth."
It's a strange thing when a building sets off a bad vibe. It becomes even more problematic when that same building is the source of your breakfast. Maybe there's a reason that old people make up the majority of Village Inn's customers. After all, old people, who themselves often have a distinctive scent, often lack the sharpened senses of sight and smell that otherwise might warn them "RUN AWAY, SIMBA! RUN AWAY!"
Alas, the Holts stayed, tucked into a booth next to two old women with surprisingly loud voices, both of whom were lamenting their new hairstylists and their need for two take-home boxes.
When we were looking for houses a few years back, we walked through almost 90 homes, and more than a few had that same, bad feng-shui feel of Village Inn. For some, all I had to do was pull up in the drive and I'd get a bad vibe. Walking through the front door only confirmed my suspicions.
Invariably, these homes lacked flow. Some had staircases whose locales seemed to be determined by monkeys. One had a faux-wood supporting pole standing smack in the middle of a room, conjuring images of Night Before trainees, swinging desperately around it, their hopes of steady income slipping like the shoulder strap of a worn negligee. One house smelled as though a herd of cats, each plagued by a nasty urinary-tract infection, had let loose their territorial stench in one Old Glorious outburst.
When I leave a building built upon a foundation of bad vibes, all I want to do is run home, change my clothes and take a really, really hot bath. Preferably with Lava Soap.
I wonder what kind of person designs a building that is so utterly lacking in warmth and charm. What compels that person to put pen to graph paper, sketching rooms that seem to have nothing to do with each other? Was there really an architect who, when that hideous Perkins on 48th and "O", the one that crams a turret in the middle of ten different architectural styles, was completed said: "Now THAT'S what I'm talking 'bout!"
I hope not. I hope he just had a heap of hospital bills on his dining room table and decided those were reason enough to prostitute his professional self, to look the other way as he directed the builders of that awful, awful place.
I can almost feel compassion for someone who does that to a building, if polyps and positive test results were what propelled him to design it in the first place.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Eric Holt: Teetering on Adulthood
October 23, 2010
In the past week, Eric applied for college, went to the DMV to renew his license and registered to vote. I intentionally chose (not) to help him with any of these activities by staying out of his way. After all, if he hopes to successfully navigate the rest of his life, the time is right to make sure he's in his own driver's seat. Besides, my real fear in helping someone who is on the verge of leaving teendom is that he may never want to leave my house. And I definitely want him to leave my house. . .eventually.
Despite wanting him to pack his bags down the road, it's hard not to love Eric. And, even in the midst of a senior year laden with hefty responsibilities and the added stress of an impending future that just may matter to him, I find that it's also hard not to like him. This is a pretty astounding statement to make, if you ask me (and, by the way, Eric isn't asking me).
This week, Eric also bumped into some disappointing aspects of life as a U.S. adult. He learned, for instance, that, in order to vote this year, he'd have to register for a political party he didn't exactly support. For the time being, then, he's an ass, I mean a donkey, I mean a Democrat. Not that he is a Republican, mind you. It's just that he'd have preferred options along the lines of "Socialist" or "Democratic Socialist." Alas, when the party you most want to attend isn't issuing official invitations, you must compromise.
As an unapologetically compromising person myself, I'm okay with this life lesson dished out to him. After all, when I first registered to vote in 1979, I, too, had to choose a party I didn't necessarily agree with--Republicans--in order to be able to vote for Independent presidential candidate John Anderson. Hey, we've all been to bummer parties before. . .
And yet, since then, I've crossed party lines more times than I've crossed my "t's" or dotted my "i's." (It's possible this says more about my handwriting than it does about my political leanings, but I don't think so).
If all goes as he plans, Eric will be in Sweden sometime this summer, traveling alone to a country whose language he's been learning this past year, even if no one in Sweden actually speaks it anymore. If all goes as he plans, he'll also spend a year studying in that frigid country of endless nights and gothic music (a lethal combo platter for me, but--hey!--I'm not ordering!).
If all goes according to the tiny, selfish voice in my own head, he'll still be living in his bedroom with its outdated "cloud" painting and overstuffed underwear drawer well into his 20s. I'm rooting for the higher-minded, longer-visioned me, though, the one that wants to step out of the way so that my most excellent 18-year-old son, Eric Carlson Holt, may truly find his way in this beautiful, complex and compromising world.
In the past week, Eric applied for college, went to the DMV to renew his license and registered to vote. I intentionally chose (not) to help him with any of these activities by staying out of his way. After all, if he hopes to successfully navigate the rest of his life, the time is right to make sure he's in his own driver's seat. Besides, my real fear in helping someone who is on the verge of leaving teendom is that he may never want to leave my house. And I definitely want him to leave my house. . .eventually.
Despite wanting him to pack his bags down the road, it's hard not to love Eric. And, even in the midst of a senior year laden with hefty responsibilities and the added stress of an impending future that just may matter to him, I find that it's also hard not to like him. This is a pretty astounding statement to make, if you ask me (and, by the way, Eric isn't asking me).
This week, Eric also bumped into some disappointing aspects of life as a U.S. adult. He learned, for instance, that, in order to vote this year, he'd have to register for a political party he didn't exactly support. For the time being, then, he's an ass, I mean a donkey, I mean a Democrat. Not that he is a Republican, mind you. It's just that he'd have preferred options along the lines of "Socialist" or "Democratic Socialist." Alas, when the party you most want to attend isn't issuing official invitations, you must compromise.
As an unapologetically compromising person myself, I'm okay with this life lesson dished out to him. After all, when I first registered to vote in 1979, I, too, had to choose a party I didn't necessarily agree with--Republicans--in order to be able to vote for Independent presidential candidate John Anderson. Hey, we've all been to bummer parties before. . .
And yet, since then, I've crossed party lines more times than I've crossed my "t's" or dotted my "i's." (It's possible this says more about my handwriting than it does about my political leanings, but I don't think so).
If all goes as he plans, Eric will be in Sweden sometime this summer, traveling alone to a country whose language he's been learning this past year, even if no one in Sweden actually speaks it anymore. If all goes as he plans, he'll also spend a year studying in that frigid country of endless nights and gothic music (a lethal combo platter for me, but--hey!--I'm not ordering!).
If all goes according to the tiny, selfish voice in my own head, he'll still be living in his bedroom with its outdated "cloud" painting and overstuffed underwear drawer well into his 20s. I'm rooting for the higher-minded, longer-visioned me, though, the one that wants to step out of the way so that my most excellent 18-year-old son, Eric Carlson Holt, may truly find his way in this beautiful, complex and compromising world.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
It's Time for a Rinse Cycle
October 21, 2010
The last time I revved up the Big Chief scooter, its BP-laced belches filled the neighborhood with the stink of sluggish motor oil. That was several weeks ago, despite this string of near-perfect fall days that should have been beckoning me to don my helmet and leathers.
What once was my scooter's sin of emission has devolved into my own sin of omission.
I much prefer the old-fashioned sins of my youth, the ones for which I was fully present, committing them with both elan and awareness. While I certainly continue to do knuckleheaded things in my middle ages, it is the things that I've left on the roadside that really bring out the ache.
It's the things that sit in my proverbial shed, the ones now gathering dust, that haunt me the most. Like a ghost, these things barely register on my radar anymore, making me doubt that they ever really existed in my life at all.
Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been nearly two months since I fired all 49 ccs and I should miss them very much, thank you.
I suppose "sins of omission" is really code for "regret" or "nostalgia." It's the reason we get so excited when we here the opening wails of "Emergency" on the Retro TV channel, or fawn over a copy of "Goodnight Moon" at someone's garage sale. We're reminded of what we once held onto so tightly. And we're faced with what we seem to have let go.
I need this Fall Break that wags itself in front of me. I need it for its reconnecting powers, for the way I imagine it will open up the doors of my shed and let loose all the things I have overlooked for so long. I need it for the breeze that longs to jar loose my tears as I rumble up J Street on my mighty Big Chief.
The last time I revved up the Big Chief scooter, its BP-laced belches filled the neighborhood with the stink of sluggish motor oil. That was several weeks ago, despite this string of near-perfect fall days that should have been beckoning me to don my helmet and leathers.
What once was my scooter's sin of emission has devolved into my own sin of omission.
I much prefer the old-fashioned sins of my youth, the ones for which I was fully present, committing them with both elan and awareness. While I certainly continue to do knuckleheaded things in my middle ages, it is the things that I've left on the roadside that really bring out the ache.
It's the things that sit in my proverbial shed, the ones now gathering dust, that haunt me the most. Like a ghost, these things barely register on my radar anymore, making me doubt that they ever really existed in my life at all.
Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been nearly two months since I fired all 49 ccs and I should miss them very much, thank you.
I suppose "sins of omission" is really code for "regret" or "nostalgia." It's the reason we get so excited when we here the opening wails of "Emergency" on the Retro TV channel, or fawn over a copy of "Goodnight Moon" at someone's garage sale. We're reminded of what we once held onto so tightly. And we're faced with what we seem to have let go.
I need this Fall Break that wags itself in front of me. I need it for its reconnecting powers, for the way I imagine it will open up the doors of my shed and let loose all the things I have overlooked for so long. I need it for the breeze that longs to jar loose my tears as I rumble up J Street on my mighty Big Chief.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
I've Got Game!
October 20, 2010
A funny thing happened on my way through Allison's volleyball season--I fell in love with a team and found myself wishing the season were longer. I never would have anticipated that reaction, but Mark and I both felt it deep in our bones.
Did I ever mention how nice it is to be wrong sometimes?
In mid August, when Allison was going to two practices a day, I found myself obsessing about the hours I figured I'd spend hauling children, sitting in stands, delaying dinners...In short--and in selfishness--I didn't like where this was going. I felt a small wave of panic as I realized that, while we are still van-free in the Holt household, we would no longer be truly free. At least on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and possibly Saturdays.
What happened instead, though, is that Mark and I lost ourselves as we watched a group of girls--strangers just weeks before--figure out how to play well together. We found ourselves transformed with each transformation the team went through. Once unfamiliar names now rolled off our tongues as we hooted and hollered--always appropriately, thank you!--in response to the things that unfolded on those maple floors.
For the first time in 30 years, I have found myself seeped in a school's traditions, shiny from pride through association. Sure, I work in a high school. The same one I graduated from. And I love being at East High. But this love does not equate with the feelings I've had during Allison's volleyball season. I feel "Link" entering my blood system and it makes me happy.
Last night, Allison and her team wrapped up their season, clocking in 6 official wins, but earning far more moral victories than those that are recorded in the books. They took my own alma mater to three games last night in Beatrice. Wish I would have made the drive to cheer on this team of funny, shining, diverse girls who found a reason to play together.
Hats off to you, Allison, Zoe, Alexis, Nyachar, Briana, Kamaya, Amy, Sabrina, Keteyana (who is related to Rosa Parks!), Rian, Shaundi, Christy and Coach Pendi.
You've done far more than just play volleyball together. And I'm mighty grateful for that.
A funny thing happened on my way through Allison's volleyball season--I fell in love with a team and found myself wishing the season were longer. I never would have anticipated that reaction, but Mark and I both felt it deep in our bones.
Did I ever mention how nice it is to be wrong sometimes?
In mid August, when Allison was going to two practices a day, I found myself obsessing about the hours I figured I'd spend hauling children, sitting in stands, delaying dinners...In short--and in selfishness--I didn't like where this was going. I felt a small wave of panic as I realized that, while we are still van-free in the Holt household, we would no longer be truly free. At least on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and possibly Saturdays.
What happened instead, though, is that Mark and I lost ourselves as we watched a group of girls--strangers just weeks before--figure out how to play well together. We found ourselves transformed with each transformation the team went through. Once unfamiliar names now rolled off our tongues as we hooted and hollered--always appropriately, thank you!--in response to the things that unfolded on those maple floors.
For the first time in 30 years, I have found myself seeped in a school's traditions, shiny from pride through association. Sure, I work in a high school. The same one I graduated from. And I love being at East High. But this love does not equate with the feelings I've had during Allison's volleyball season. I feel "Link" entering my blood system and it makes me happy.
Last night, Allison and her team wrapped up their season, clocking in 6 official wins, but earning far more moral victories than those that are recorded in the books. They took my own alma mater to three games last night in Beatrice. Wish I would have made the drive to cheer on this team of funny, shining, diverse girls who found a reason to play together.
Hats off to you, Allison, Zoe, Alexis, Nyachar, Briana, Kamaya, Amy, Sabrina, Keteyana (who is related to Rosa Parks!), Rian, Shaundi, Christy and Coach Pendi.
You've done far more than just play volleyball together. And I'm mighty grateful for that.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
From Russia with Love
October 17, 2010
I got a fine case of the giggles the other night. Around 7:30 Friday evening, as I was being serenaded on my patio by a robust Russian woman singing folk songs in her native tongue, I happily wondered how I had gotten to this point.
Parties are strange beasts formed by cheese balls, both edible and human. From scanning the Sunday papers, I know that not all parties end up on a happy note. But it seems that the ones I go to--not that my list is long or enviable--always end in fits of laughter and earnest hugs.
How is it that we can manage to have fun together, how can we come up with something new to say when we spend so much of our time together each day? Surely, we already know each others' back stories, recalled and revealed over lunchtime leftovers, sometimes, repeatedly. Just as certain, though, is the element of surprise that teeters in the background when people gather to unwind.
Who'da thunk that I'd walk into my own living room, hardly recognizing the furniture in its new, if not temporary, spaces? I suppose I could have been appalled by the newly uncovered dust bunnies that surfaced, the candy-wrappered secrets now revealed by a couch that no longer harbored them. But, mostly, I spent my time trying not to pee my pants in delight. In my circles, a well-timed prank is like a love song. And I felt very loved by my furniture-moving peeps.
I didn't even mind that Parabi, the teacher from Bangladesh, wooed Hobbes the Hobo Dog with frightening amounts of brownies and barbecue chips, the threat of doggy diarrhea still pinched in a not-so-distant future. She seemed so happy and content to do this one thing in a land that otherwise was so foreign to her, that I could hardly begrudge her these acts of disaster-laced canine kindness.
When a party is in the works, few things can be planned for, beyond parts of the menu and a fresh supply of toilet paper. True, as the host, I get to set the time and date and invitation list. Yet, I could not have known that I would meet two Russians and an Egyptian, when the annual East High Fall Staff Bash began at my house Friday afternoon. I could not have anticipated the glorious overabundance of brownies, each uttering its own siren song, luring me to the table time and time again. I could not have known that John, with his impeccable party radar, would once again sense when to head to my house, unannounced yet warmly received.
And I could not help but be amazed that, even though I have known some of these people for most of my adult life, the conversations would be fresh and new, the moments together both anticipated and surprising. That they left willingly before my 9 p.m. bedtime was just the icing on an already excellent cake.
I got a fine case of the giggles the other night. Around 7:30 Friday evening, as I was being serenaded on my patio by a robust Russian woman singing folk songs in her native tongue, I happily wondered how I had gotten to this point.
Parties are strange beasts formed by cheese balls, both edible and human. From scanning the Sunday papers, I know that not all parties end up on a happy note. But it seems that the ones I go to--not that my list is long or enviable--always end in fits of laughter and earnest hugs.
How is it that we can manage to have fun together, how can we come up with something new to say when we spend so much of our time together each day? Surely, we already know each others' back stories, recalled and revealed over lunchtime leftovers, sometimes, repeatedly. Just as certain, though, is the element of surprise that teeters in the background when people gather to unwind.
Who'da thunk that I'd walk into my own living room, hardly recognizing the furniture in its new, if not temporary, spaces? I suppose I could have been appalled by the newly uncovered dust bunnies that surfaced, the candy-wrappered secrets now revealed by a couch that no longer harbored them. But, mostly, I spent my time trying not to pee my pants in delight. In my circles, a well-timed prank is like a love song. And I felt very loved by my furniture-moving peeps.
I didn't even mind that Parabi, the teacher from Bangladesh, wooed Hobbes the Hobo Dog with frightening amounts of brownies and barbecue chips, the threat of doggy diarrhea still pinched in a not-so-distant future. She seemed so happy and content to do this one thing in a land that otherwise was so foreign to her, that I could hardly begrudge her these acts of disaster-laced canine kindness.
When a party is in the works, few things can be planned for, beyond parts of the menu and a fresh supply of toilet paper. True, as the host, I get to set the time and date and invitation list. Yet, I could not have known that I would meet two Russians and an Egyptian, when the annual East High Fall Staff Bash began at my house Friday afternoon. I could not have anticipated the glorious overabundance of brownies, each uttering its own siren song, luring me to the table time and time again. I could not have known that John, with his impeccable party radar, would once again sense when to head to my house, unannounced yet warmly received.
And I could not help but be amazed that, even though I have known some of these people for most of my adult life, the conversations would be fresh and new, the moments together both anticipated and surprising. That they left willingly before my 9 p.m. bedtime was just the icing on an already excellent cake.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Mama, May I?
October 10, 2010
I had the pleasure of getting in on the ugly end of a mother's rant Thursday after school. She'd come to school, all huffy and a tad bit puffy, book in hand, to right what she thought was a ridiculous wrong.
"You'd keep a kid from Homecoming because of an overdue book?!" she sputtered.
See, East High has the radical notion that even teenagers can handle natural consequences, taking responsibility for both their actions and their inactions.
Thus the overdue book and Homecoming.
"I mean, I'm all for holding kids accountable, but blahblahblahblahblabh...."
Is that why you're here, and not your son?" I thought to myself.
"I can't tell you how sick I am of coming to school to take care of these things for him...."
At this point, foam began forming in the corners of her mouth, while my ear drums were beginning their self-protective retreat. My eyes began to fog over, too, as I dreamed of a world where people still were expected to lay in the beds that they had made. Or hadn't made.
I dreamed of a world where parents and their kids seldom interacted, unless it was to clarify that the dishwasher needed unloading. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tap into my own recollections of a youth spent mostly away from and uninvolved with my own parents.
I can't recall even once telephoning my mom to rescue me, aside from that day in my short-lived shoplifting phase that ended in the back room of Wards. And, even then, I only called home because the policeman made me.
And look how I turned out. Okay, okay, but I really did have a happy, well-balanced, generally fine childhood followed by a nice time at college and beyond. And I always loved my parents through it all, which is why I left them out of it.
If this mom truly hates her role as rescuer-in-chief, then I'd recommend she quit rescuing her son. That overdue book held great powers that she snuffed out by returning it to the library herself. Had she just let the power of the written word do its thing, her son would have spent last Friday night home alone, grinding with his G.I. Joe doll in his bedroom, while his sweaty peers were being expelled--one by hip-thrusting one--from the dance at school.
He had the chance to learn some important lessons that night. G.I. Joes are lousy kissers, and overdue library books are powerful things that should not be ignored. Even at a lousy nickel a day.
I had the pleasure of getting in on the ugly end of a mother's rant Thursday after school. She'd come to school, all huffy and a tad bit puffy, book in hand, to right what she thought was a ridiculous wrong.
"You'd keep a kid from Homecoming because of an overdue book?!" she sputtered.
See, East High has the radical notion that even teenagers can handle natural consequences, taking responsibility for both their actions and their inactions.
Thus the overdue book and Homecoming.
"I mean, I'm all for holding kids accountable, but blahblahblahblahblabh...."
Is that why you're here, and not your son?" I thought to myself.
"I can't tell you how sick I am of coming to school to take care of these things for him...."
At this point, foam began forming in the corners of her mouth, while my ear drums were beginning their self-protective retreat. My eyes began to fog over, too, as I dreamed of a world where people still were expected to lay in the beds that they had made. Or hadn't made.
I dreamed of a world where parents and their kids seldom interacted, unless it was to clarify that the dishwasher needed unloading. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to tap into my own recollections of a youth spent mostly away from and uninvolved with my own parents.
I can't recall even once telephoning my mom to rescue me, aside from that day in my short-lived shoplifting phase that ended in the back room of Wards. And, even then, I only called home because the policeman made me.
And look how I turned out. Okay, okay, but I really did have a happy, well-balanced, generally fine childhood followed by a nice time at college and beyond. And I always loved my parents through it all, which is why I left them out of it.
If this mom truly hates her role as rescuer-in-chief, then I'd recommend she quit rescuing her son. That overdue book held great powers that she snuffed out by returning it to the library herself. Had she just let the power of the written word do its thing, her son would have spent last Friday night home alone, grinding with his G.I. Joe doll in his bedroom, while his sweaty peers were being expelled--one by hip-thrusting one--from the dance at school.
He had the chance to learn some important lessons that night. G.I. Joes are lousy kissers, and overdue library books are powerful things that should not be ignored. Even at a lousy nickel a day.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Timing Is Everything
October 9, 2010
Come Wednesday morning, I was starting to get a little paranoid. Especially after the garage door let out a long and languorous moan as it made its way up my car's bumper, leaving marks not only on the bumper, but also on my very soul.
After all, it was the second time in twelve hours that my car had been in an accident. And both had occurred in my driveway.
The night before, after a most excellent dinner out with friends (proving that it is possible to have an excellent time--if not an excellent dinner-- at Spaghetti Works, where, apparently, there's no real pressure to clean off the salad bar), I'd shooed everyone out of the car halfway up the drive, knowing we'd struggle to unload in our cramped garage. My act of kindness, though, quickly turned against me, when I could not resist gunning the engine and chasing down said friends. Alas, one of the car's back doors swung open, just as I was passing the porch railing at an impressive 18-mph-clip.
I don't think I'll file that one with my insurance company.
Generally, I swagger through life with the confidence of a booty-rich pirate, never doubting that things will be good and bounteous. In my defense, most of my confidence is rooted in others, who possess both the skills and the good will to clear the path for the rest of us so that we seldom encounter the proverbial fallen limbs of life along our own trails.
Sometimes, though, I encounter a series of glitches that force me to start looking over my shoulder. Repeatedly.
Midweek proved to be one of those times.
My dual car "accidents" (after all, how can I really call them "accidents," sans quotation marks, when both were the direct result of my stupidity, something that is no accident?) were followed, in quick succession, by a string of other unfortunately-timed incidents.
First was the email from our school newspaper publisher, who should have been congratulating us on the timely delivery of our first issue, one we'd spent copious amounts of time preparing. Instead, though, theirs was a doom-and-gloom message, cloaked in an "OMG--DIDN'T WE TELL YOU THAT WE CHANGED THE SIZE OF OUR NEWSPAPERS?!" tone. My initial reaction was to rifle through the fridge and medicine cabinet, for anything marked "18 percent alcohol" in the ingredients' list. My second, more-reasoned-less-seasoned response was to tell the publisher that I looked forward to hearing about their no-additional-charge solution, the one that did not involve me.
The email was followed by "A Series of Unfortunate Events," including but not limited to: the white-tinged and very visible proof to my students and peers that I do, in fact, apply deodorant (most) every day; the mysterious disappearance of six oh-my-god-do-you-know-how-much-these-cost,woman!? senior-class portraits, the realization that our yearbook pages included neither column guides nor page numbers, and the discovery of chin hairs so taut and full of potential as to qualify them for quill-pen consideration.
I was starting to feel like lady luck had packed her bags for another destination.
And then I walked by our school's official sign-in guard, a man who takes our themed Spirit Week days to a new level. On this, Respect Our Elders Day, he had managed to cram his 250-pound frame into a sprightly, flower-spattered dress, complete with accompanying hose, wig and blush (or maybe it was house paint, I'm not sure).
Seeing him stationed at the front desk, the official "First Face of East High," warmed my heart. That the people who lined up in front of his check-in desk happened to be visiting teachers from such far-away lands as India, Burma and Bangladesh, each of whom spoke a different language but all of whom were thinking "What the...?!" in their native tongues, . . . well, it made me realize that I was going to be okay after all.
Thank you, Mark Siske, for proving to be the turning point in my bad luck. I'm glad it found your strong, capable, smartly-dressed shoulders to fall upon!
Come Wednesday morning, I was starting to get a little paranoid. Especially after the garage door let out a long and languorous moan as it made its way up my car's bumper, leaving marks not only on the bumper, but also on my very soul.
After all, it was the second time in twelve hours that my car had been in an accident. And both had occurred in my driveway.
The night before, after a most excellent dinner out with friends (proving that it is possible to have an excellent time--if not an excellent dinner-- at Spaghetti Works, where, apparently, there's no real pressure to clean off the salad bar), I'd shooed everyone out of the car halfway up the drive, knowing we'd struggle to unload in our cramped garage. My act of kindness, though, quickly turned against me, when I could not resist gunning the engine and chasing down said friends. Alas, one of the car's back doors swung open, just as I was passing the porch railing at an impressive 18-mph-clip.
I don't think I'll file that one with my insurance company.
Generally, I swagger through life with the confidence of a booty-rich pirate, never doubting that things will be good and bounteous. In my defense, most of my confidence is rooted in others, who possess both the skills and the good will to clear the path for the rest of us so that we seldom encounter the proverbial fallen limbs of life along our own trails.
Sometimes, though, I encounter a series of glitches that force me to start looking over my shoulder. Repeatedly.
Midweek proved to be one of those times.
My dual car "accidents" (after all, how can I really call them "accidents," sans quotation marks, when both were the direct result of my stupidity, something that is no accident?) were followed, in quick succession, by a string of other unfortunately-timed incidents.
First was the email from our school newspaper publisher, who should have been congratulating us on the timely delivery of our first issue, one we'd spent copious amounts of time preparing. Instead, though, theirs was a doom-and-gloom message, cloaked in an "OMG--DIDN'T WE TELL YOU THAT WE CHANGED THE SIZE OF OUR NEWSPAPERS?!" tone. My initial reaction was to rifle through the fridge and medicine cabinet, for anything marked "18 percent alcohol" in the ingredients' list. My second, more-reasoned-less-seasoned response was to tell the publisher that I looked forward to hearing about their no-additional-charge solution, the one that did not involve me.
The email was followed by "A Series of Unfortunate Events," including but not limited to: the white-tinged and very visible proof to my students and peers that I do, in fact, apply deodorant (most) every day; the mysterious disappearance of six oh-my-god-do-you-know-how-much-these-cost,woman!? senior-class portraits, the realization that our yearbook pages included neither column guides nor page numbers, and the discovery of chin hairs so taut and full of potential as to qualify them for quill-pen consideration.
I was starting to feel like lady luck had packed her bags for another destination.
And then I walked by our school's official sign-in guard, a man who takes our themed Spirit Week days to a new level. On this, Respect Our Elders Day, he had managed to cram his 250-pound frame into a sprightly, flower-spattered dress, complete with accompanying hose, wig and blush (or maybe it was house paint, I'm not sure).
Seeing him stationed at the front desk, the official "First Face of East High," warmed my heart. That the people who lined up in front of his check-in desk happened to be visiting teachers from such far-away lands as India, Burma and Bangladesh, each of whom spoke a different language but all of whom were thinking "What the...?!" in their native tongues, . . . well, it made me realize that I was going to be okay after all.
Thank you, Mark Siske, for proving to be the turning point in my bad luck. I'm glad it found your strong, capable, smartly-dressed shoulders to fall upon!
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Til Death--Or Faulty Memory--Do Us Part
October 6, 2010
This weekend, a perfectly fine time on the porch with neighbor Jody was nearly ruined by talk of wedding photos. Normally, a topic like this wouldn't upset me, but the fact that I had absolutely no idea in the world where my wedding photos were...well, that left a funny taste in my mouth. Not "funny hah hah," either.
What does it mean when a person who otherwise assumes she's enjoying her 21st year of marriage can't find evidence the event actually took place? And, when said photos weren't surfacing, I realized I couldn't even locate the words to describe the event.
What did your dress look like?
It was white and kind of longish.
Did you wear a veil?
Yeah. It was white and kind of shortish.
What did your bridesmaids wear?
Dresses with flowers on them. They were black and kind of middling. The dresses, not the bridesmaids.
Sometimes, I wonder what it is I value anyway. I mean, I really enjoyed my wedding, even though I showed little interest in the details of the event. I pretty much let my mom dress me for the big day, a decision which, through the years, has proven to be a more successful approach than dressing myself. The one detail I remember caring a lot about was the menu. And then, when the night finally rolled around, I was lucky to get a handful of aged celery sticks and a lukewarm wedding weanie on my plate.
Fortunately, Allison knew where the wedding "album" was. I say "album" but it was more like a 45 rpm, small with just a couple of hits on it. Bob the Picture Man took our photos, mostly because he was cheap. He charged nothing to make us pose all night, asking only that we order at least $100 in photos. As I recall, my family managed to order $101.13 in photos, thus the reason Jody only needed about 45 seconds to scan through one of the most significant days of my life.
There's something to be said for a tightwad.
This weekend, a perfectly fine time on the porch with neighbor Jody was nearly ruined by talk of wedding photos. Normally, a topic like this wouldn't upset me, but the fact that I had absolutely no idea in the world where my wedding photos were...well, that left a funny taste in my mouth. Not "funny hah hah," either.
What does it mean when a person who otherwise assumes she's enjoying her 21st year of marriage can't find evidence the event actually took place? And, when said photos weren't surfacing, I realized I couldn't even locate the words to describe the event.
What did your dress look like?
It was white and kind of longish.
Did you wear a veil?
Yeah. It was white and kind of shortish.
What did your bridesmaids wear?
Dresses with flowers on them. They were black and kind of middling. The dresses, not the bridesmaids.
Sometimes, I wonder what it is I value anyway. I mean, I really enjoyed my wedding, even though I showed little interest in the details of the event. I pretty much let my mom dress me for the big day, a decision which, through the years, has proven to be a more successful approach than dressing myself. The one detail I remember caring a lot about was the menu. And then, when the night finally rolled around, I was lucky to get a handful of aged celery sticks and a lukewarm wedding weanie on my plate.
Fortunately, Allison knew where the wedding "album" was. I say "album" but it was more like a 45 rpm, small with just a couple of hits on it. Bob the Picture Man took our photos, mostly because he was cheap. He charged nothing to make us pose all night, asking only that we order at least $100 in photos. As I recall, my family managed to order $101.13 in photos, thus the reason Jody only needed about 45 seconds to scan through one of the most significant days of my life.
There's something to be said for a tightwad.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Show Your Work, People!
October 2, 2010
These days, long vision is about as popular as long division. Unless your name is Descartes or Leona Penner, you probably haven’t hankered for either in a long, long time. That’s because, these days, we like easy solutions, snappy sound bites and quick resolution. Long vision and long division both prize patience and process, though. Both can be ugly to endure, but both also reward how we got there as much as they celebrate where it is we ultimately have arrived.
As much as I suffered through high-school math (I use the word “suffered” because it is both accurate and acute), I have to give credit to those math teachers who gave credit for showing our work. They knew that, when we take the time to show our work, to diligently track our move from one stage to the next, we also get the chance to track our growth or our mistakes. We get to move from long division to long vision. And that is a gift worth enduring Algebra for.
Worst are the politicians these days who will do just about anything for a positive headline and a nod in the voting booth. Collectively, they seem to lack both the thinking cap for math and the courage to plan for a future that is further away than, say, tomorrow. Or November 6th. Whichever happens first. In their pursuit for the short-term victory, they are dooming our futures. Who can be bothered with global warming, crippling debt or poverty when none of these possesses the shine and “ah factor” of tax cuts and mama-bear posturing?
I hunger for a politician who possesses the cojones to repeal tax cuts and asks us to start paying for a future that is worth living. And I will be the first to raise my hand in support of just such a policy, setting my sights and betting my hard-earned money on the long vision that sees a future that is bright for everyone, not just the politicians.
These days, long vision is about as popular as long division. Unless your name is Descartes or Leona Penner, you probably haven’t hankered for either in a long, long time. That’s because, these days, we like easy solutions, snappy sound bites and quick resolution. Long vision and long division both prize patience and process, though. Both can be ugly to endure, but both also reward how we got there as much as they celebrate where it is we ultimately have arrived.
As much as I suffered through high-school math (I use the word “suffered” because it is both accurate and acute), I have to give credit to those math teachers who gave credit for showing our work. They knew that, when we take the time to show our work, to diligently track our move from one stage to the next, we also get the chance to track our growth or our mistakes. We get to move from long division to long vision. And that is a gift worth enduring Algebra for.
Worst are the politicians these days who will do just about anything for a positive headline and a nod in the voting booth. Collectively, they seem to lack both the thinking cap for math and the courage to plan for a future that is further away than, say, tomorrow. Or November 6th. Whichever happens first. In their pursuit for the short-term victory, they are dooming our futures. Who can be bothered with global warming, crippling debt or poverty when none of these possesses the shine and “ah factor” of tax cuts and mama-bear posturing?
I hunger for a politician who possesses the cojones to repeal tax cuts and asks us to start paying for a future that is worth living. And I will be the first to raise my hand in support of just such a policy, setting my sights and betting my hard-earned money on the long vision that sees a future that is bright for everyone, not just the politicians.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Buh Bye, Fancy Pants!
October 1. 2010
Eight days in and I realize I’m a complete flop at the role of Modern Woman. No surprise there, I suppose. After all, one day last week, I wore mint colored socks with my brown shoes. I looked like an out-of-season Girl Scout cookie.
For the past eight days, my calendar, which I usually look at for the pretty pictures, became my cruise director, nudging me to volleyball matches, reunion parties, parent-teacher conferences, piles of student papers. Not really the kind of cruise director that deserves a tip, if you ask me. Probably works for one of those cruise lines that serves distended bowels at each port.
I may have survived the last eight days, but I did not really shine. Throughout it all, I tried to find inspiration in the millions of women who live this way every day. I tried to remember that some women not only wear different outfits each day but also wear hose with their dresses. Certainly these women don’t come home after work and wonder what happened to their slips.
I tried to remember that there are women out there whose daily calendars are divided into 15-minute increments, most of which have something more important than “period started, I think” etched between the lines.
I tried to stand up straight, put on a little blush, brush my hair, match my pants and shirts, floss my teeth, pluck my eyebrows, and not laugh when I had to help Allison find a strapless bra. I even tried to explain to the mom at parent-teacher conferences that I didn’t teach her daughter, but when she said how much her daughter loves me, well, I just couldn’t correct her, even though I knew it was wrong to let her keep on praising “me.”
Like I said, I tried. God knows I tried.
Turns out, I’m pretty much hard wired to fail at femininity.
But it also turns out that I rock when it comes to free time. And I had heaps of it today, after calling “uncle” and taking the day off. Still woke up at 5, but, from then on, the pace and the choices were mine. I rode my bike, I worked the puzzles, I walked the dog, I watched a Chinese cowboy flick, I played Scrabble,—quite well, thank you—I cleaned the hot tub, I wandered the garden, abuzz with insect life, and I was refilled.
It’s good to know that I can fake it, if I need to. That I can limp along Fancy Female Lane, fooling those who don’t get so close as to see the lines in my face or take note of the wrinkles in my clothes. More than that, though, it’s good to know that, in the flash of an eye, I quickly find my old rhythm, my old t-shirts, my old self. I am like an old, dependable blanket, comforted by my cotton underwear and well-worn habits.
Eight days in and I realize I’m a complete flop at the role of Modern Woman. No surprise there, I suppose. After all, one day last week, I wore mint colored socks with my brown shoes. I looked like an out-of-season Girl Scout cookie.
For the past eight days, my calendar, which I usually look at for the pretty pictures, became my cruise director, nudging me to volleyball matches, reunion parties, parent-teacher conferences, piles of student papers. Not really the kind of cruise director that deserves a tip, if you ask me. Probably works for one of those cruise lines that serves distended bowels at each port.
I may have survived the last eight days, but I did not really shine. Throughout it all, I tried to find inspiration in the millions of women who live this way every day. I tried to remember that some women not only wear different outfits each day but also wear hose with their dresses. Certainly these women don’t come home after work and wonder what happened to their slips.
I tried to remember that there are women out there whose daily calendars are divided into 15-minute increments, most of which have something more important than “period started, I think” etched between the lines.
I tried to stand up straight, put on a little blush, brush my hair, match my pants and shirts, floss my teeth, pluck my eyebrows, and not laugh when I had to help Allison find a strapless bra. I even tried to explain to the mom at parent-teacher conferences that I didn’t teach her daughter, but when she said how much her daughter loves me, well, I just couldn’t correct her, even though I knew it was wrong to let her keep on praising “me.”
Like I said, I tried. God knows I tried.
Turns out, I’m pretty much hard wired to fail at femininity.
But it also turns out that I rock when it comes to free time. And I had heaps of it today, after calling “uncle” and taking the day off. Still woke up at 5, but, from then on, the pace and the choices were mine. I rode my bike, I worked the puzzles, I walked the dog, I watched a Chinese cowboy flick, I played Scrabble,—quite well, thank you—I cleaned the hot tub, I wandered the garden, abuzz with insect life, and I was refilled.
It’s good to know that I can fake it, if I need to. That I can limp along Fancy Female Lane, fooling those who don’t get so close as to see the lines in my face or take note of the wrinkles in my clothes. More than that, though, it’s good to know that, in the flash of an eye, I quickly find my old rhythm, my old t-shirts, my old self. I am like an old, dependable blanket, comforted by my cotton underwear and well-worn habits.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)