Wednesday, September 30, 2009

I'm sorry I'm not at my desk.

Until I get back, please enjoy the armadillo cam.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

First Impressions

Walking into a viewing is always very awkward. It is most definitely a private moment, yet it is shared with the rest of the folks in the room, the ones who also would like to personally say their good-byes.

As I walked toward my Gramps's casket last week, I flashed back to Momo, his wife's, viewing. I was eight and very much afraid. I remembered how a few nights before that moment I had tried to comfort my brother in the middle of the night when we both woke up in tears. I had told him that certainly they would find a cure for cancer - in the next few minutes! Scientists worked around the clock for that sort of thing, didn't they? - and Momo would be ok. That might have been my first lesson regarding the fragility of hope. She died that day.

The reality of the circumstances hit me at Momo's viewing. And as I walked towards Gramp's body, I remembered how, on that day, he leaned over her body and held her hands. He kissed her nose and whispered to her. That was his final private moment with her and it may have been the most intimate moment I've ever witnessed. Now he was the one in the casket and I was the one by his side.

I took my Gramps's hand and whispered to him that I remembered how tender he was to Momo and that I hoped he understood how much he was loved - that there was so much of him that I admired, that I wasn't brave enough to kiss him right then but that I wanted to. I whispered that he would always stay with me and that I would protect the memory of him very carefully. "I love you I love you I love you I love you.."

I felt the pressure - the awkwardly felt, yet very private grief - of those next in line.

I took a deep breath and let go.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Overheard: Substitute Report

This is an actual letter from a substitute left to my dear teacher friend who had to be out for a day:

God Help You!
6th Period

This class had some kids (Elroy and Nuisance) that tried to be disruptive. I sprayed Nuisance with insecticide and put him in his proper seat. The insecticide might have affected his brain and/or his work ethic because he did virtually nothing except chew the biggest wad of gum I've ever seen. His mouth was considerably more mammoth than the wad of gum. He finally put his head down on the desk, exhausted... probably from all that chewing. Conclusion: Give Nuisance a wad of gum daily.

Oh no! Nuisance resurrected; wanted to go to the restroom. Did I let him? Well, yes, of course! Anything to help the poor guy... and the rest of us.

** No student was actually sprayed with insecticide (so back the hell off) and all names have been changed (in case that poor, innocent student would actually be embarrassed about his poor behavior at school). And if you think I'm being too mean or cold hearted in this post, then Darlings, it is clear that you've never taught ninth grade. :)

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Another Day at the Coffee House

I had about fifteen minutes before I was due at the sitter's to pick up Jack and resume my role as working mom. Because I allow myself some time to detox - as in to take the toxins out of my body left there by the strain of 150 other parents' kids needing my attention RIGHT NOW - I decided that breathing at the coffee house would be the least I could do. This was, of course,under the condition that I do homework as I breathed.

I ordered my coffee and looked for a seat. The only one available was across from a man who kept trying to catch my attention. You know what it's like - the stare and smirk that begs a person to look him square in the face. I wasn't trying to be unfriendly. And on my off Thursday*, I would've chatted with him. But I just needed to be invisible for fifteen glorious minutes.

I did my best to avoid his gaze. I sat down, took out my Hemingway and a pencil, placed my makeshift bookmark on the table (real bookmarks are too cliche), and tried to look busy. Importantly so.

It didn't work.

"So, it's pretty hot out there," he tried.

I looked up, trying to wipe the annoyance off my brow. "Yeah. It is."

"Did you order a hot drink on such a hot day?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, "It makes me feel more studious." I lifted my Hemingway to show him that I was working, in hopes that he would get the message.

It didn't work.

"Luckily my favorite drink is cold."

"That must be difficult in the winter," I remarked, trying not to add too much sarcasm in my inflection.

"Nah," he said. "I have a favorite hot drink, too, so it's good."

I looked him square in the eye. He wasn't an unattractive man, and he seemed really friendly. I wondered if he thought he could pick up a girl at a coffee house on a Tuesday afternoon. It seemed an unusual tactic, but then I had been out of that game for quite some time. In fact, I'm not sure I had ever truly played that game. I smirked at the thought of him trying to talk to me. If he knew about me - about the fact that I'm married, that I have a small son, that I'm a work-a-holic, a teacher no less - then he wouldn't be so friendly, would he? Or would he?
We were just talking about drinks, after all. It wasn't like he was soliciting anything else. And by anything else, I mean a product of some sort - Tupperware or a donation to his church's building fund. Maybe the fact was he was simply friendly. But that doesn't exist, does it?

My fifteen minutes were up. I had to go. As I packed my bag, I tried to get his attention to say good-bye, though it felt really awkward. I stared at the side of his face trying to get his attention. He did not look up.

He had gotten the hint.


*when, after school, Rich gives me a huge break by allowing me to grade or read or write or breathe while he takes care of Jack

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Picture Perfectionist

The auditorium was dimly lit except for the occasional bursts from the bulbous, umbrella-like flashes that flanked each of the three predictably blue and black backdrop tarps on the stage. Creeping my way down the aisle among the sea of empty seats, I wondered how it was that I still hated picture day so much. I had, after all, been having my school picture made for the last thirty years or so, minus my four years at college, 'the blissful years' I call them, and I still had not mastered the art of being suitable or even marginally presentable in that one inch by one inch yearbook square.

I think the problem started when I was eight. It was at this impressionable age that I was finally conscious enough of my own reflection to notice that my previous school pictures were ridiculous. I realized in a single moment that all those times my parents opened the white picture envelope to see that year's picture, they weren't giggling at the delight of a picture well taken. They were laughing because my smile was too forced (to the point of painful grimace), or because my curls had not withstood the game of tag at recess, or because the caption of that year's photo, "deer in headlights," would be whispered among the extended family that holiday season.

I realized, when I was eight, that school pictures were just another punchline given at my expense. But that wasn't the horrible part. The horrible part was they were right. I was as un-photogenic as they come.

After having that epiphany, I remember practice posing. The night before picture day I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and practice smiling. I would tell my brow to relax to rid it of the fear lines. I would tell my lips to soften to be more picturesque and less like a taut white line. I would measure the exact amount of gum line that should show, using my finger as a guide, so that the next day I could set my smile as it looked in the mirror when I finally got it right. I would raise my eyebrows and lower them to see what looked distinguished, or happy-go-lucky, or amused. I would pause at each expression, willing myself to remember it so that I could recall it as the mood struck the next day.

Every year I practiced which is probably why my pictures continued to get worse and worse. I think my parents eventually stopped trying to give them away as gifts as the photos became less endearing and more ridiculous. After all, they weren't hoping to offend anyone, including extended family. Plus they didn't want the pictures to be misconstrued as a shortcoming in their parenting skills. They knew they had to purchase a package so as not to devastate me, but they did buy the smallest package so as not to be too wasteful.

These were my thoughts that day in the auditorium. I stepped to the front of the line, a perk of being a teacher, just in time to hear the photographer saying, "No. No! Just stop. Turn your head a little more.. No! (sigh) Look. You have to relax. Let's start over. Stand up."

"Shit," I thought. "Of course I got in this line. It has to be karma of some sort. But what did I do to deserve this repeated torment?"

"Next!" the photographer called.

I stepped forward and took a deep breath, hoping that I wouldn't be as humiliated as the poor soul who went before me.

"Have a seat," the photographer said. "Perfect."

"What?" I thought. "Did he say 'perfect?'" I smiled, allowing myself a second of relief. "I have done this before, you know," I quipped. Maybe this would be the year I would break the cycle. Surely I was due some sort of reprieve after all of these years of aggravation.

"Ok. Now turn your head a bit.. No. Not like that. Just a little.. Your shirt.." he said.

"What?" I asked.

"Your shirt. Pull it down some." I started smoothing out my shirt. "No," he said, "Pull it. It's too.. Just.. It's the collar. It's too close to your neck." I pulled, trying frantically to understand his wild gesticulations.

He eventually gave up and sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Just smile."

My face reverted back to all of those frozen practice moments. I felt the panic creeping out of my pores and into the camera lens. I grinned my most forced smile, cursing the likes of all of those perfect kids - the photogenic ones whose pictures, K-12, still adorn the hallways of their parents' homes.

Click.

Another picture day come and gone.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Sunday, September 20, 2009

First Impressions

Walking into a viewing is always very awkward. It is most definitely a private moment, yet it is shared with the rest of the folks in the room, the ones who also would like to personally say their good-byes.

As I walked toward my Gramps's casket last week, I flashed back to Momo, his wife's, viewing. I was eight and very much afraid. I remembered how a few nights before that moment I had tried to comfort my brother in the middle of the night when we both woke up in tears. I had told him that certainly they would find a cure for cancer - in the next few minutes! Scientists worked around the clock for that sort of thing, didn't they? - and Momo would be ok. That might have been my first lesson regarding the fragility of hope. She died that day.

The reality of the circumstances hit me at Momo's viewing. And as I walked towards Gramp's body, I remembered how, on that day, he leaned over her body and held her hands. He kissed her nose and whispered to her. That was his final private moment with her and it may have been the most intimate moment I've ever witnessed. Now he was the one in the casket and I was the one by his side.

I took my Gramps's hand and whispered to him that I remembered how tender he was to Momo and that I hoped he understood how much he was loved - that there was so much of him that I admired, that I wasn't brave enough to kiss him right then but that I wanted to. I whispered that he would always stay with me and that I would protect the memory of him very carefully. "I love you I love you I love you I love you.."

I felt the pressure - the awkwardly felt, yet very private grief - of those next in line.

I took a deep breath and let go.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Overheard: Substitute Report

This is an actual letter from a substitute left to my dear teacher friend who had to be out for a day:

God Help You!
6th Period

This class had some kids (Elroy and Nuisance) that tried to be disruptive. I sprayed Nuisance with insecticide and put him in his proper seat. The insecticide might have affected his brain and/or his work ethic because he did virtually nothing except chew the biggest wad of gum I've ever seen. His mouth was considerably more mammoth than the wad of gum. He finally put his head down on the desk, exhausted... probably from all that chewing. Conclusion: Give Nuisance a wad of gum daily.

Oh no! Nuisance resurrected; wanted to go to the restroom. Did I let him? Well, yes, of course! Anything to help the poor guy... and the rest of us.

** No student was actually sprayed with insecticide (so back the hell off) and all names have been changed (in case that poor, innocent student would actually be embarrassed about his poor behavior at school). And if you think I'm being too mean or cold hearted in this post, then Darlings, it is clear that you've never taught ninth grade. :)

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Another Day at the Coffee House

I had about fifteen minutes before I was due at the sitter's to pick up Jack and resume my role as working mom. Because I allow myself some time to detox - as in to take the toxins out of my body left there by the strain of 150 other parents' kids needing my attention RIGHT NOW - I decided that breathing at the coffee house would be the least I could do. This was, of course,under the condition that I do homework as I breathed.

I ordered my coffee and looked for a seat. The only one available was across from a man who kept trying to catch my attention. You know what it's like - the stare and smirk that begs a person to look him square in the face. I wasn't trying to be unfriendly. And on my off Thursday*, I would've chatted with him. But I just needed to be invisible for fifteen glorious minutes.

I did my best to avoid his gaze. I sat down, took out my Hemingway and a pencil, placed my makeshift bookmark on the table (real bookmarks are too cliche), and tried to look busy. Importantly so.

It didn't work.

"So, it's pretty hot out there," he tried.

I looked up, trying to wipe the annoyance off my brow. "Yeah. It is."

"Did you order a hot drink on such a hot day?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, "It makes me feel more studious." I lifted my Hemingway to show him that I was working, in hopes that he would get the message.

It didn't work.

"Luckily my favorite drink is cold."

"That must be difficult in the winter," I remarked, trying not to add too much sarcasm in my inflection.

"Nah," he said. "I have a favorite hot drink, too, so it's good."

I looked him square in the eye. He wasn't an unattractive man, and he seemed really friendly. I wondered if he thought he could pick up a girl at a coffee house on a Tuesday afternoon. It seemed an unusual tactic, but then I had been out of that game for quite some time. In fact, I'm not sure I had ever truly played that game. I smirked at the thought of him trying to talk to me. If he knew about me - about the fact that I'm married, that I have a small son, that I'm a work-a-holic, a teacher no less - then he wouldn't be so friendly, would he? Or would he?
We were just talking about drinks, after all. It wasn't like he was soliciting anything else. And by anything else, I mean a product of some sort - Tupperware or a donation to his church's building fund. Maybe the fact was he was simply friendly. But that doesn't exist, does it?

My fifteen minutes were up. I had to go. As I packed my bag, I tried to get his attention to say good-bye, though it felt really awkward. I stared at the side of his face trying to get his attention. He did not look up.

He had gotten the hint.


*when, after school, Rich gives me a huge break by allowing me to grade or read or write or breathe while he takes care of Jack

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Picture Perfectionist

The auditorium was dimly lit except for the occasional bursts from the bulbous, umbrella-like flashes that flanked each of the three predictably blue and black backdrop tarps on the stage. Creeping my way down the aisle among the sea of empty seats, I wondered how it was that I still hated picture day so much. I had, after all, been having my school picture made for the last thirty years or so, minus my four years at college, 'the blissful years' I call them, and I still had not mastered the art of being suitable or even marginally presentable in that one inch by one inch yearbook square.

I think the problem started when I was eight. It was at this impressionable age that I was finally conscious enough of my own reflection to notice that my previous school pictures were ridiculous. I realized in a single moment that all those times my parents opened the white picture envelope to see that year's picture, they weren't giggling at the delight of a picture well taken. They were laughing because my smile was too forced (to the point of painful grimace), or because my curls had not withstood the game of tag at recess, or because the caption of that year's photo, "deer in headlights," would be whispered among the extended family that holiday season.

I realized, when I was eight, that school pictures were just another punchline given at my expense. But that wasn't the horrible part. The horrible part was they were right. I was as un-photogenic as they come.

After having that epiphany, I remember practice posing. The night before picture day I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and practice smiling. I would tell my brow to relax to rid it of the fear lines. I would tell my lips to soften to be more picturesque and less like a taut white line. I would measure the exact amount of gum line that should show, using my finger as a guide, so that the next day I could set my smile as it looked in the mirror when I finally got it right. I would raise my eyebrows and lower them to see what looked distinguished, or happy-go-lucky, or amused. I would pause at each expression, willing myself to remember it so that I could recall it as the mood struck the next day.

Every year I practiced which is probably why my pictures continued to get worse and worse. I think my parents eventually stopped trying to give them away as gifts as the photos became less endearing and more ridiculous. After all, they weren't hoping to offend anyone, including extended family. Plus they didn't want the pictures to be misconstrued as a shortcoming in their parenting skills. They knew they had to purchase a package so as not to devastate me, but they did buy the smallest package so as not to be too wasteful.

These were my thoughts that day in the auditorium. I stepped to the front of the line, a perk of being a teacher, just in time to hear the photographer saying, "No. No! Just stop. Turn your head a little more.. No! (sigh) Look. You have to relax. Let's start over. Stand up."

"Shit," I thought. "Of course I got in this line. It has to be karma of some sort. But what did I do to deserve this repeated torment?"

"Next!" the photographer called.

I stepped forward and took a deep breath, hoping that I wouldn't be as humiliated as the poor soul who went before me.

"Have a seat," the photographer said. "Perfect."

"What?" I thought. "Did he say 'perfect?'" I smiled, allowing myself a second of relief. "I have done this before, you know," I quipped. Maybe this would be the year I would break the cycle. Surely I was due some sort of reprieve after all of these years of aggravation.

"Ok. Now turn your head a bit.. No. Not like that. Just a little.. Your shirt.." he said.

"What?" I asked.

"Your shirt. Pull it down some." I started smoothing out my shirt. "No," he said, "Pull it. It's too.. Just.. It's the collar. It's too close to your neck." I pulled, trying frantically to understand his wild gesticulations.

He eventually gave up and sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Just smile."

My face reverted back to all of those frozen practice moments. I felt the panic creeping out of my pores and into the camera lens. I grinned my most forced smile, cursing the likes of all of those perfect kids - the photogenic ones whose pictures, K-12, still adorn the hallways of their parents' homes.

Click.

Another picture day come and gone.