Visiting the mall is like volunteering for sensory terrorism. Start with the most boring conversation ever ("I can't BELIEVE I got those jeans for only $49!!!!"), multiply it by two thousand, throw in the scent of freshly-slathered pretzels topped with two tons of Axe , add too many middle-aged women wearing spray-on denim pants and toss it all in a light French dressing of commercialism. --Voila! Like a Bishop's Buffet of Butter-Coated Buffoonery!
I wonder if an autistic person has ever enjoyed visiting the mall. Seriously.
So, this afternoon, I spent a half hour at the mall, hanging out with a jumble of nervous men. We were loitering just outside of Victoria's Secret, trying not to read the mixed messages plastered on the piles of neon-colored underwear heaped on a nearby display table.
Have you ever spent any time outside a Victoria's Secret with a bevy of bumbling men? I found it rather fascinating.
I kept scanning the store, watching for any signs that Allison was still alive. Along the way, I became fascinated with the men who did dare to enter the hallowed, hollowed-out harbor that is Victoria's Secret. Sex dripping from its life-sized posters, scantily-clad ribs poking out everywhere, Victoria's Secret is not for the faint of heart. Or for an undisciplined teenaged boy.
By the time Allison signaled for me and my plastic, I said goodbye to my new friend, an older gentleman who claimed to have a few granddaughters shopping at the store. Yeah, right.
Inside the store, I felt immediately vulnerable, like a Russian spy with a lousy fake mustache, certain that I was about to be found out. I tried to keep my eyes to the floor, but I couldn't prevent the sleazy, silky messages from slinking their way up to my eyeballs. "Private property!" "HOT!" "Do Not Pass Go!" (I just made that one up)...
And then, I bumped into a bra display , causing about 10 cups of sugar to fall to the floor. I gathered them up as quickly as possible while Allison did her best to not know me.
Finally, we made our way to the front register (which is actually in back, which, I suppose kind of makes sense). The lady asked if I'd found everything and I didn't even laugh!--Go, Jane! Then she asked for my phone number and, as usual, I gave her a fake one (sorry, East High!).
As we left, I high fived my new friend and once again wondered to myself what, exactly, is the appeal of heading to the mall.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
An Eye-Opening Experience
Every so often, someone comes along and removes the plank from our eyes and we just can't get over the view!
Childbirth was like that for me. Sure, I was pretty much one of the lead actors in that event, but I'll be honest with you...I didn't really know what I was doing. And it's not like anyone consulted me anyway, aside from occasionally asking me to grunt or squeeze or quit massaging the morphine drip.
Otherwise, I was pretty much a vessel that night. A vehicle, if you will, for the real star--Eric Carlson Holt (or Allison Shepard Holt, if you happened to have caught the sequel).
This past week, I had a similar experience, although I must say that I have managed to retain my girlish figure and can even lift things that weigh over 10 pounds, despite it!
On Tuesday night, this scraggly guy, Dawson, caught my eye while I was trolling the human-meets-canine site called Petfinder. He lived a little too far for a long-distance relationship--Kansas City--but I couldn't shake his good looks.
So I called his number. Got an answering machine but, an hour or so later, his handler, a woman named Debbie, called me back. She said she'd just figured out how to upload his photo and--Voila!--the calls started pouring in. Fortunately, mine was the first, so I had first crack at Dawson.
She even pointed out that he'd been living in Holt, Missouri, which, frankly, this otherwise postmodern girl took as a sign.
So I made arrangements to come to Missouri on Saturday, to meet the dapper guy at a local McDonalds outside of Kansas City.
Suffice it to say that I never made the trip, even though I am looking at Dawson (now referred to as "Finn") while I type this.
Enter the plank-removing part of my story. The part where three rescue groups, including a bunch of people who had never met and who had no reason to assume I was anything but a dog-trolling schmuck (but kindly thought otherwise) made sure Dawson (now Finn) found his way to me.
For this to happen, one kind person--Alma Knoll, with Midwest Wheaten Rescue--first mentioned she had a friend heading to KC the next day to help out some rescued Boston Terriers. Enter Jennifer, who rescues those Terriers, and a man whose name I never did learn, who drives dogs wherever they need to be driven, just to give them a second chance.
Oh, then there's Debbie, Dawson's kind caretaker, who must have taken some personal time at lunch just to round up the paperwork and make a drive to a local convenience store north of the Missouri River, where she handed over Dawson, so that he might make his way home. To me. And my family. Sight unseen.
If you haven't figured it out yet, these folks have passion and commitment. And they do amazing work. And, until this week, I had almost no idea such an underground railroad existed for animals.
For awhile that day--and even now--my head got all swirly as I tried to understand this most rootsy of grass-roots organizations each working together--willingly--on the off chance that they can improve a dog's life.
...oh, and a family's life, as well.
Yeah, much like my birthing ordeals, this week's strange venture has paid off in spades for the Holt family. Already, we love Dawson Finn like one of our own, and he's found his place in our lives...
...right there, in our hearts. Where he belongs.
Childbirth was like that for me. Sure, I was pretty much one of the lead actors in that event, but I'll be honest with you...I didn't really know what I was doing. And it's not like anyone consulted me anyway, aside from occasionally asking me to grunt or squeeze or quit massaging the morphine drip.
Otherwise, I was pretty much a vessel that night. A vehicle, if you will, for the real star--Eric Carlson Holt (or Allison Shepard Holt, if you happened to have caught the sequel).
This past week, I had a similar experience, although I must say that I have managed to retain my girlish figure and can even lift things that weigh over 10 pounds, despite it!
On Tuesday night, this scraggly guy, Dawson, caught my eye while I was trolling the human-meets-canine site called Petfinder. He lived a little too far for a long-distance relationship--Kansas City--but I couldn't shake his good looks.
So I called his number. Got an answering machine but, an hour or so later, his handler, a woman named Debbie, called me back. She said she'd just figured out how to upload his photo and--Voila!--the calls started pouring in. Fortunately, mine was the first, so I had first crack at Dawson.
She even pointed out that he'd been living in Holt, Missouri, which, frankly, this otherwise postmodern girl took as a sign.
So I made arrangements to come to Missouri on Saturday, to meet the dapper guy at a local McDonalds outside of Kansas City.
Suffice it to say that I never made the trip, even though I am looking at Dawson (now referred to as "Finn") while I type this.
Enter the plank-removing part of my story. The part where three rescue groups, including a bunch of people who had never met and who had no reason to assume I was anything but a dog-trolling schmuck (but kindly thought otherwise) made sure Dawson (now Finn) found his way to me.
For this to happen, one kind person--Alma Knoll, with Midwest Wheaten Rescue--first mentioned she had a friend heading to KC the next day to help out some rescued Boston Terriers. Enter Jennifer, who rescues those Terriers, and a man whose name I never did learn, who drives dogs wherever they need to be driven, just to give them a second chance.
Oh, then there's Debbie, Dawson's kind caretaker, who must have taken some personal time at lunch just to round up the paperwork and make a drive to a local convenience store north of the Missouri River, where she handed over Dawson, so that he might make his way home. To me. And my family. Sight unseen.
If you haven't figured it out yet, these folks have passion and commitment. And they do amazing work. And, until this week, I had almost no idea such an underground railroad existed for animals.
For awhile that day--and even now--my head got all swirly as I tried to understand this most rootsy of grass-roots organizations each working together--willingly--on the off chance that they can improve a dog's life.
...oh, and a family's life, as well.
Yeah, much like my birthing ordeals, this week's strange venture has paid off in spades for the Holt family. Already, we love Dawson Finn like one of our own, and he's found his place in our lives...
...right there, in our hearts. Where he belongs.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Rah! Rah! Sis Boom Pshaw!
A really good cheerleader never lets the facts get in the way. A great squad will stick with the plan--and the man--even when the score tells a very different story. Could you imagine what it would be like if, down 35-to-zip, the squad suddenly changed their tune?
"Rah! Rah! We'll Take Off Our Bras if you'll just do SOMETHING!"
True, such a cheer might rally the troops, but it certainly wouldn't help their focus.
Say what you will about the man, but Hitler was, for awhile there, quite the little cheerleader. Somehow, he was able to rouse an entire nation to actually believe that this mousy little brunette was on to something with the idea of a pure race, a BLONDE race, even.
You'd think the comb over and that creepy little mustache would have been a clue . . .
Ultimately--thankfully--common sense eventually prevails. Ultimately, those kooks on the edges--those goofy, loud folks whose monomaniacal focus eventually grows tiresome and downright silly--fade away, victims of their own inbreeding.
...and, as a Darwinian preacher might say, the flexible and adaptable rise up and inherit the earth.
In the past year or so, I have come to believe that true change is only possible if we can bring together disparate groups and find a common thread that holds us together.
Last spring, I had the opportunity to listen to Frank LaMonte, a lawyer from the Student Press Law Center, who spoke passionately about the need to reach across the table and make plans with people we'd otherwise never choose as dinner partners. LaMonte, who looks like a short(er) Tom Cruise, overcame this disturbing comparison to enthrall us all with his tales of insurmountable odds overcome by the formation of surprising partnerships.
I, for one, am heartened by the chance to rub up against odd bedfellows. Not only am I sure to come away with a good story or two, but, if I'm paying attention, I also have the chance to learn a thing or two.
I have some real concerns about the path public education is on. Considering LaMonte's advice about reaching across the table, I'm convinced we can find creative, lasting solutions to these concerns when we stop focusing on the single-issue passions that separate us and start looking for the things we hold in common.
Do I want to invite Rush Limbaugh to my dinner table? Heck no! First of all, I'm afraid he'd find my migraine medicine in the kitchen cabinet. Am I willing, though, to sit across a conference table and begin tapping his energy, his ideas, his brain for solutions that we all can live with?
I think so. Which is just further proof that I would have made a lousy cheerleader.
"Rah! Rah! We'll Take Off Our Bras if you'll just do SOMETHING!"
True, such a cheer might rally the troops, but it certainly wouldn't help their focus.
Say what you will about the man, but Hitler was, for awhile there, quite the little cheerleader. Somehow, he was able to rouse an entire nation to actually believe that this mousy little brunette was on to something with the idea of a pure race, a BLONDE race, even.
You'd think the comb over and that creepy little mustache would have been a clue . . .
Ultimately--thankfully--common sense eventually prevails. Ultimately, those kooks on the edges--those goofy, loud folks whose monomaniacal focus eventually grows tiresome and downright silly--fade away, victims of their own inbreeding.
...and, as a Darwinian preacher might say, the flexible and adaptable rise up and inherit the earth.
In the past year or so, I have come to believe that true change is only possible if we can bring together disparate groups and find a common thread that holds us together.
Last spring, I had the opportunity to listen to Frank LaMonte, a lawyer from the Student Press Law Center, who spoke passionately about the need to reach across the table and make plans with people we'd otherwise never choose as dinner partners. LaMonte, who looks like a short(er) Tom Cruise, overcame this disturbing comparison to enthrall us all with his tales of insurmountable odds overcome by the formation of surprising partnerships.
I, for one, am heartened by the chance to rub up against odd bedfellows. Not only am I sure to come away with a good story or two, but, if I'm paying attention, I also have the chance to learn a thing or two.
I have some real concerns about the path public education is on. Considering LaMonte's advice about reaching across the table, I'm convinced we can find creative, lasting solutions to these concerns when we stop focusing on the single-issue passions that separate us and start looking for the things we hold in common.
Do I want to invite Rush Limbaugh to my dinner table? Heck no! First of all, I'm afraid he'd find my migraine medicine in the kitchen cabinet. Am I willing, though, to sit across a conference table and begin tapping his energy, his ideas, his brain for solutions that we all can live with?
I think so. Which is just further proof that I would have made a lousy cheerleader.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Love is in the Details
The Republican Presidential Primary is making this secondary teacher a little crazy these days. Then again, so are Iran and No Child Left Behind and the new guy on 10/11. . . . which is why this blog is dedicated to the details that I love in my life.
•GOD BE PRAISED for the joy of browning meatballs! Hallelujah for the pleasure I get in poking their pink, porcine bodies with a simple dinner fork, nudging out their crusty inner selves amidst a pool of better-than-average olive oil!
•THREE CHEERS for the little chihuahua who hollered to me after church this morning, beckoning me to the fence, where my fingers weaved their way to his tiny, white stomach, much to the delight of both of us! As if he knew this was his job today!
•PRAISE BE to our tidy gas fireplace insert and the nearly life-like, surprisingly warm flame it cranks out with the simple flick of a switch!
•GLORY BE to all those awesome killer notes that bubble up in all the songs that run through my head! Especially glad for the last song in church this morning, chock full o' winners, even if people clapped over the delightful bells. . . !
•HOLY TOLEDO! I LOVE it when the daily Word Jumble falls happily, quickly and logically into my lap! The only thing that is better? When daughter Allison figures out the Jumble before I do! Let the Angels sing their praises to this clever offspring!
•AMEN to all those lovely moments when I share a look with a student, who "gets" what I'm thinking! Here's to loads more of those moments in 2012!
•LET THE GOOD WORD BE SPREAD! I am always grateful for the tolerance, patience and humor of the friends and family who fill my life and allow me to express myself, however clumsily!
•GOD BE PRAISED for the joy of browning meatballs! Hallelujah for the pleasure I get in poking their pink, porcine bodies with a simple dinner fork, nudging out their crusty inner selves amidst a pool of better-than-average olive oil!
•THREE CHEERS for the little chihuahua who hollered to me after church this morning, beckoning me to the fence, where my fingers weaved their way to his tiny, white stomach, much to the delight of both of us! As if he knew this was his job today!
•PRAISE BE to our tidy gas fireplace insert and the nearly life-like, surprisingly warm flame it cranks out with the simple flick of a switch!
•GLORY BE to all those awesome killer notes that bubble up in all the songs that run through my head! Especially glad for the last song in church this morning, chock full o' winners, even if people clapped over the delightful bells. . . !
•HOLY TOLEDO! I LOVE it when the daily Word Jumble falls happily, quickly and logically into my lap! The only thing that is better? When daughter Allison figures out the Jumble before I do! Let the Angels sing their praises to this clever offspring!
•AMEN to all those lovely moments when I share a look with a student, who "gets" what I'm thinking! Here's to loads more of those moments in 2012!
•LET THE GOOD WORD BE SPREAD! I am always grateful for the tolerance, patience and humor of the friends and family who fill my life and allow me to express myself, however clumsily!
Hoping Against Hope
Hope is a funny creature. Borne of the past and the future, it can be downright dismissive of the present. True, hope can get us out of bed, but it can also make us resentful of the moment we find ourselves in.
The kind of hope that is a prize dangling at the end of some as-yet unreachable string makes me ache. When it is fuzzy and ill-defined, though, hope can bring me peace.
When I awoke this morning, the practical-minded 50-year-old in me felt the fuzzy kind of hope for Henry the Adoptable Hound, knowing that, wherever he may live, his life will be good. And, in turn, I felt some degree of peace.
When my 16-year-old daughter Allison awoke this morning, though, her young mind saw only the dangling prize, the chance to call Henry ours. She eventually wore me down, and I admitted that I, too, could not take my eyes off that loveable prize.
Like all things, hope has its dark sides. Focus too long on the dangly kind of hope and, inevitably, you face resignation. And fuzzy hope, for all of its well wishes, can lead to a kind of bland naivete that avoids the sharp edges of life.
As in all things, right now I seek some sort of balance between bittersweet memories, the tinge of hope and the contentment of the here and now. I still ache for Hobbes. Yet I ache, too, when I think of Henry.
I'm not sure it's a peaceful ache I'm feeling right now, but I do know that my hope is more complicated than I'd care to admit.
The kind of hope that is a prize dangling at the end of some as-yet unreachable string makes me ache. When it is fuzzy and ill-defined, though, hope can bring me peace.
When I awoke this morning, the practical-minded 50-year-old in me felt the fuzzy kind of hope for Henry the Adoptable Hound, knowing that, wherever he may live, his life will be good. And, in turn, I felt some degree of peace.
When my 16-year-old daughter Allison awoke this morning, though, her young mind saw only the dangling prize, the chance to call Henry ours. She eventually wore me down, and I admitted that I, too, could not take my eyes off that loveable prize.
Like all things, hope has its dark sides. Focus too long on the dangly kind of hope and, inevitably, you face resignation. And fuzzy hope, for all of its well wishes, can lead to a kind of bland naivete that avoids the sharp edges of life.
As in all things, right now I seek some sort of balance between bittersweet memories, the tinge of hope and the contentment of the here and now. I still ache for Hobbes. Yet I ache, too, when I think of Henry.
I'm not sure it's a peaceful ache I'm feeling right now, but I do know that my hope is more complicated than I'd care to admit.
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