I had lots of errands to run today, and was struck by how easy it is for some folks to be friendly and mannered, and how surprisingly unpleasant some can be.
First off, went to get one of my 3 pedicures a year at Modern Nails. I've been going there for at least 10 years (used to have fake nails!) and I always ask for J. She doesn't speak English too well, but always has a nice word for me, and a smile no matter what. I like her.
Then to the bank. I was making a withdrawal for my upcoming trip to Vegas with Tornwordo, and the teller seemed to find it impossible to look at me, or speak to me in more than mono-syllables. She didn't even count out the money audibly, which I thought was weird. I spoke directly to her about a deposit slip, and she couldn't be bothered to stop what she was doing, nor even look up. I had to ask again. And I'm about 1 foot away from her! In these situations I get overly polite; "I ho-ope you have a guuuud day now!" Anyone with a brain can guess I'm being sarcastic, but not 100% sure.
So then, I go to pay off a bill. The woman there is by herself, answering phones, taking payments and giving out loans. And, she's got an earphone on too. Turns out she's supposed to be listening in on a conference call as well. She doesn't have the papers she's supposed to, so when they say over the phone, "Turn to page three," she doesn't know what they're talking about. I know this because in the midst of all this, she tells me. Everything. She wasn't rude, but I just wanted to pay my bill and be off.
Then it's off to get a bikini wax. No, no Brazilian for me. Actually, I used to get bikini waxes all the time, back when I wore a bathing suit more often. Even though I'm fair, I have these frighteningly black hairs that grow at a 45 degree angle out of my skin. No matter how close I shave, I've got stubble.
Too much information? Sorry.
Anyway, G. does my waxing, and is very talkative and pleasant. This is important because ripping out hair near my womanly bits is painful. Forget putting the Koran in the toilet, or making men at Quantanimo Bay stand naked with their hands in the air; just give them a genital waxing. And we, we women, pay for it! Honestly, I had a gift certificate, so I didn't technically pay for it. I think it's only fair if women get it done (and you know, they do it for their partners. I could be wrong, but I don't believe anyone gets a Brazilian just because they like the way it looks.), that men get it done too. I've always felt this way about armpit hair. Why don't men shave that? How does the anti perspirant get to the skin with all that fuzz?
I digress yet again.
Next up is The Wherehouse. I have to return a movie from last night (Being Julia, which I had already rented, but had forgotten. I hate when I do that). They were also having a clearance sale on VHS tapes. I got Chicago, Anti-Trust and The Thomas Crown Affair for $1.99 each. That's the same as renting them! It's always good to have a couple of movies around. So, I take them up to the register, and she rings 'em up.
"That's $10.74 please." Without looking at me.
"um, they were all $1.99 tapes."
"Nope, one was $5.99."
She's already put them in the bag as she was ringing them up. She's still not looking at me.
"Well, they were all marked $1.99..."
"Nope, one was more. It rang up at $5.99."
"Yes, I know, but all three tapes were clearly marked $1.99."
She finally takes the tapes out of the bag and sees that yes, they are all marked $1.99. Immediately she apologizes about her mistake, several times, and rings it up correctly. Tells me to have a good one as I leave.
See, she was a bit of a pain, but then fixed it by being polite. Manners can take us so far, and yet they seem to be, to more than one person, a quaint waste of time.
Went to a little knick knack store to buy some little knick knacks for Tornwordo's impending 40th birthday, and I bring my items to the register. The man behind the counter is ripping someone on the other end of the phone a new asshole. I just want to buy my stuff.
"Shit!" he says after he hangs up. Then, in a forced voice, "How are you today?"
I try to be funny, "Better than you , I think. Ha ha."
He didn't laugh.
Then, on to the vet for Charlie's allergy pills, to the gas station to fill up, to Ross to exchange a pair of pants that I bought the wrong size of, then to Long's to get a spare key made (I'd gone a few days ago, but the key they made for me at that time didn't work.), and lastly to La Salsa. I will say that their Lime-chile Chicken salad is quite good.
So, for the most part, people were mannered, if not downright friendly. However, those poo poo heads out there (do you even know who you are?) really can affect me. Why is it, when someone who's job it is to help or assist others is having a bad day, we, the customer takes the brunt of it? Like saying "hello" or making eye contact would kill them?
I'm glad I'm going to Vegas. Everyone is pretty nice in Vegas. They want your money, but they are nice.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Monday, June 27, 2005
Why I wear sunscreen
At the grocery store tonight, I saw one of my former students. She's about 20 now, and I've run into her a few times. She's a cute, fair-skinned girl.
Well, tonight she was brown. I mean crisped brown. I got my old lady voice out to tell her it wasn't good for her skin. I asked if she had been surfing a lot, and she said,
"yeah, but I've been laying out by the pool every day too."
What!? Are kids still doing that? Don't they know what can happen?
No, my skin doesn't look like an old leather couch just yet, but I did have skin cancer removed from my back earlier this year. It's sun damage that caused it. And, I was careful. I hated getting sunburned. Although, I must say, I did think I looked better with a tan.
I thought times had changed.
At least the self tanners are better. In my day it was QT, and that was it. Nothing else. You got the day glo orange tan or burned. Oh yeah, we had that "deep tanning oil" with what, SPF 2? Yeah, that helped.
But, we didn't know everything then that we know now.
What is the youth of today thinking?
I don't know where I'm going, but I'm here
Okay, so we go back to Donald's apartment. It's great. Two blocks from the beach, a few more from downtown. I'm not sure why we've gone back, but I have to pee, so I don't complain.
Bathrooms. Don't we all check them out? His was clean but not spotless. No judgment there. He had a cute black and white framed photograph on the wall, of a kitten with bubbly suds on its wet head... it was possible that he took the photo. The shower had clear doors, and there was very little hard water deposit on it. That is impressive with the water that comes out of the pipes here. Some hair gel, saline solution for contacts, Tom's of Maine toothpaste, a not too run down toothbrush and a well used bar of soap on the sink counter. I don't go through the cupboards. I'm nosy, but not that nosy.
Back in the living room, Michelle and Donald are exchanging CD's. I notice that the bottom button or two on Michelle's shirt have come undone, and her belly button is showing. Interesting.
Next up, Donald gives her a stack of Consumer Reports he's printed out for her; she's buying a new car (her soon to be ex got the Mustang), and he's helping her do her research.
Are you bored yet? Because I was. Out of my mind bored. I'm sitting on the couch, listening to some funky polka music that's the theme for some even funkier movie I've never heard of, and the two of them are going on about cars. I do see several more framed photographs on the floor which confirm to me that it's one of Donald's hobbies. They aren't horrid. I don't comment on them to him though, because of his and Michelle's intense conversation.
I'm thinking to myself that I'd rather be at home reading my Steinbeck book (East of Eden), blogging, or watching TV. Then I worry that I've spent so much time by myself, that I don't know how to just hang out with other people anymore. I daydream about Antonio Banderas in Love and Shadows. I try to remember if I paid my Macy's bill. I pretend to be curious about the Honda CRV.
Finally, around 6:30 or so, I realize that I haven't eaten anything for 12 hours other than a mocha and a beer. We decide to go get a bite to eat at Q's, a sushi bar.
Oh what joy. I hate seafood. I hate raw seafood even more. Basically, if it swims in it's own excrement, I don't want to eat it. I don't like the smell of it, nothing about it. However, Q's has a good beer list, so I don't complain. Out loud anyway.
I order a Velvet Hammer. That's half Guinness and half hard apple cider. It's one of my favorite drinks. They don't have apple cider though, just raspberry cider. I get a taste of it. Alcoholic kool aid. I don't like it. So then I order a wheat beer. The waitress comes back. Nope, all out.
I smile. Get a Newcastle and order nachos. It was either that or buffalo wings. Michelle and Donald put their heads together for the sushi feast they are embarking on. It's kinda cute actually. Makes me think a sushi bar might be fun for a first date. Well, if I ate sushi. Or, for that matter, went on dates.
Nachos are not so good for dates. Messy, sour cream all over, can't really be eaten easily with hands, nor well with a fork. Eh. A lesson learned. Michelle is cutting her sushi in half before she eats it, has two and a half pieces and is "stuffed."
On to the James Joyce. An "Irish Pub" that has live music this evening. Really LOUD live music that's amplified for a theatre, even though the place is a little cubby of a bar. This is where my old person comes forward. "It's just too damn loud. Can't hear myself think. Going to go deaf listening to this."
This is an interior monologue by the way. In reality, I'm screeching for a Black Velvet at the bar, which Donald reluctantly pays for. He asked if I wanted anything. Doesn't that mean he's offering to pay for it? (Don't worry, I paid him back later. )
Michelle has now decided that her ovaries are hurting (don't ask) and goes outside. "No, no. You guys stay here."
She's not usually a martyr.
Of course, we leave, go back to his place, and he puts in a DVD. It's now past 9pm, and I need to get home to my Charlie boy. Michelle stays there for a while. Remember, she's staying with me for the weekend? And remember she said that Donald was just a "good friend"? Yes, that's the signal I'm getting from both of them.
No. Really. I mean it.
She comes home only about 15 minutes after me. I tell her that Donald obviously is beguiled by her. She says she thinks he and I have lots in common, that we'd make a good pair. Other than both being blue-eyed and hating olives, I don't quite get that, but whatever. I tell her what I said in the blog yesterday:
"If he's interested in you, then he's most likely not going to be interested in me."
And then, she stammers a bit, and says,
"Well... uh... "
"What?"
"I just know you're going to give me a heavy sigh if I say this."
"What? Did you sleep with him?"
"No! Not that. Just uh..."
"What is it? Tell me." (I'm not a patient person)
"I... uh... I'm going to spend the night tomorrow and Monday with shithead (okay, she used his name, but my word is more descriptive). "
"Oh."
"And you know how Donald was going to have a dinner party tonight? Well, I told him that I was staying with shithead and asked if I could bring him (! no comment. Shut your mouth Becky. It's not your life.). Donald said he'd feel uncomfortable with it, and so he changed the night of the dinner."
"Uh huh." (aren't you proud of me so far?)
"But then, Donald said that he hoped that someday I'd have more than just friendly feelings for him."
Oh yeah? That's a shocker. See, Michelle hasn't been single for 19 years. She doesn't know that she can't just flirt with everyone without misunderstandings. When she was married, it was like a little shield or something. She needs to be careful.
"I told him that I can't predict the future, but that I am not feeling anything but friendship for him right now."
Which, he will read as "please wait for me, I'm not ready just yet, but I might be, let me get back to you on that."
Meanwhile, as a consolation prize, she's offering me up to him. Like that's a solution. He's enthralled with her, and he's going to be nice to me because I'm her friend.
Poor guy. He's a sweet, 30-year old man, and I see pining in his future.
Bathrooms. Don't we all check them out? His was clean but not spotless. No judgment there. He had a cute black and white framed photograph on the wall, of a kitten with bubbly suds on its wet head... it was possible that he took the photo. The shower had clear doors, and there was very little hard water deposit on it. That is impressive with the water that comes out of the pipes here. Some hair gel, saline solution for contacts, Tom's of Maine toothpaste, a not too run down toothbrush and a well used bar of soap on the sink counter. I don't go through the cupboards. I'm nosy, but not that nosy.
Back in the living room, Michelle and Donald are exchanging CD's. I notice that the bottom button or two on Michelle's shirt have come undone, and her belly button is showing. Interesting.
Next up, Donald gives her a stack of Consumer Reports he's printed out for her; she's buying a new car (her soon to be ex got the Mustang), and he's helping her do her research.
Are you bored yet? Because I was. Out of my mind bored. I'm sitting on the couch, listening to some funky polka music that's the theme for some even funkier movie I've never heard of, and the two of them are going on about cars. I do see several more framed photographs on the floor which confirm to me that it's one of Donald's hobbies. They aren't horrid. I don't comment on them to him though, because of his and Michelle's intense conversation.
I'm thinking to myself that I'd rather be at home reading my Steinbeck book (East of Eden), blogging, or watching TV. Then I worry that I've spent so much time by myself, that I don't know how to just hang out with other people anymore. I daydream about Antonio Banderas in Love and Shadows. I try to remember if I paid my Macy's bill. I pretend to be curious about the Honda CRV.
Finally, around 6:30 or so, I realize that I haven't eaten anything for 12 hours other than a mocha and a beer. We decide to go get a bite to eat at Q's, a sushi bar.
Oh what joy. I hate seafood. I hate raw seafood even more. Basically, if it swims in it's own excrement, I don't want to eat it. I don't like the smell of it, nothing about it. However, Q's has a good beer list, so I don't complain. Out loud anyway.
I order a Velvet Hammer. That's half Guinness and half hard apple cider. It's one of my favorite drinks. They don't have apple cider though, just raspberry cider. I get a taste of it. Alcoholic kool aid. I don't like it. So then I order a wheat beer. The waitress comes back. Nope, all out.
I smile. Get a Newcastle and order nachos. It was either that or buffalo wings. Michelle and Donald put their heads together for the sushi feast they are embarking on. It's kinda cute actually. Makes me think a sushi bar might be fun for a first date. Well, if I ate sushi. Or, for that matter, went on dates.
Nachos are not so good for dates. Messy, sour cream all over, can't really be eaten easily with hands, nor well with a fork. Eh. A lesson learned. Michelle is cutting her sushi in half before she eats it, has two and a half pieces and is "stuffed."
On to the James Joyce. An "Irish Pub" that has live music this evening. Really LOUD live music that's amplified for a theatre, even though the place is a little cubby of a bar. This is where my old person comes forward. "It's just too damn loud. Can't hear myself think. Going to go deaf listening to this."
This is an interior monologue by the way. In reality, I'm screeching for a Black Velvet at the bar, which Donald reluctantly pays for. He asked if I wanted anything. Doesn't that mean he's offering to pay for it? (Don't worry, I paid him back later. )
Michelle has now decided that her ovaries are hurting (don't ask) and goes outside. "No, no. You guys stay here."
She's not usually a martyr.
Of course, we leave, go back to his place, and he puts in a DVD. It's now past 9pm, and I need to get home to my Charlie boy. Michelle stays there for a while. Remember, she's staying with me for the weekend? And remember she said that Donald was just a "good friend"? Yes, that's the signal I'm getting from both of them.
No. Really. I mean it.
She comes home only about 15 minutes after me. I tell her that Donald obviously is beguiled by her. She says she thinks he and I have lots in common, that we'd make a good pair. Other than both being blue-eyed and hating olives, I don't quite get that, but whatever. I tell her what I said in the blog yesterday:
"If he's interested in you, then he's most likely not going to be interested in me."
And then, she stammers a bit, and says,
"Well... uh... "
"What?"
"I just know you're going to give me a heavy sigh if I say this."
"What? Did you sleep with him?"
"No! Not that. Just uh..."
"What is it? Tell me." (I'm not a patient person)
"I... uh... I'm going to spend the night tomorrow and Monday with shithead (okay, she used his name, but my word is more descriptive). "
"Oh."
"And you know how Donald was going to have a dinner party tonight? Well, I told him that I was staying with shithead and asked if I could bring him (! no comment. Shut your mouth Becky. It's not your life.). Donald said he'd feel uncomfortable with it, and so he changed the night of the dinner."
"Uh huh." (aren't you proud of me so far?)
"But then, Donald said that he hoped that someday I'd have more than just friendly feelings for him."
Oh yeah? That's a shocker. See, Michelle hasn't been single for 19 years. She doesn't know that she can't just flirt with everyone without misunderstandings. When she was married, it was like a little shield or something. She needs to be careful.
"I told him that I can't predict the future, but that I am not feeling anything but friendship for him right now."
Which, he will read as "please wait for me, I'm not ready just yet, but I might be, let me get back to you on that."
Meanwhile, as a consolation prize, she's offering me up to him. Like that's a solution. He's enthralled with her, and he's going to be nice to me because I'm her friend.
Poor guy. He's a sweet, 30-year old man, and I see pining in his future.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Meeting Someone New
So, I haven't written for a couple of days. I wanted to. I like writing. But, there's so much to write about, and so little time to do it, that I've let the blog go blank.
The car-buying extravaganza will be written about, but not right now. Instead, I'm going to write about well meaning friends who don't appear to have a clue as to what they're doing.
I have a friend, let's call her Michelle. She and I have been friends for 8 or 9 years. She’s another teacher at school. Looking at us, you would never think we'd be close. She's in control of herself most of the time, doesn't goof around too much, exercises constantly, and is extremely careful with what she eats. She eats sandwiches with a knife and fork because if she takes too big a bite, she throws up. Seriously. And, she rarely eats sandwiches anyway, because she's a carb-a-phobic. I would guess it’s a pretty amusing sight to see the two of us eating a meal together.
The reason we're friends I think, is because we even each other out. My emotions are always right there, ready to be tossed in your lap. She's reserved, doesn't let a lot of people in. We both help the other one meet somewhere in the middle.
Anyway, she's going through a painful divorce, and is staying with me for a couple of days. She has been throwing herself into activities; Volleyball classes, Parks and Recreation volleyball teams, yoga at the gym, Adult Ed Spanish classes at night, church stuff. She's met a new friend, we'll call him Donald, and she's been raving about him for a few weeks.
Okay, this brings us to the present. She's been trying to be sly about it, but I knew right away she was interested in hooking Donald and I up. She would talk about him, build him up to me in ways she thought I would be impressed. "Oh, he's so smart. He reads Shakespeare and Dante for fun." "Rebekah, you should see his bookshelf, he reads all the time." "Donald really likes playing board games. He's really social." "I can't wait for you to meet him, I think you'll really like him."
Okay. It's not that I have anything against meeting smart, fun new people. I like meeting new people. But, I also was thinking, this single guy, who's spending all this time with Michelle, is probably interested in... Michelle. I also need to mention here, for those of you that understand that the physical appearance of a person is important for some...well, most people, that she and I are, quite different in our looks. Michelle works out so much that she doesn't have a period. For breakfast this morning she ate 12 peanuts, two rice cakes with soy butter, and a power bar. She's tiny, probably 5'3", and weighs about 110 pounds.
I'm not tiny, I'm 5'8" and weigh... well, almost twice what she does. I'm loud, and can be overbearing and obnoxious (I prefer vivacious, but whatever), and she is demure and quiet. But, these are all just thoughts and impressions, so of course, I put them aside.
Plus the fact that there's the tiniest morsel of hope that maybe he might just be swell, and think I'm grand, and fall in love with me, and me with him, and ... you get it.
They go to the Solstice parade downtown, and I don't (I hate parades), and then I meet them at the Solstice party at the park. I look my best. As best as I can after parking in Egypt and walking 700 miles to get to them. I find Michelle and three very under-25-years-old looking people. Not that there's anything wrong with that. One of them is Donald. We all sit on the grass and drink beer and try to have a conversation. I only stick my foot in my mouth once or twice instead of 15 times. As usual, I'm doing most of the talking. I try to shut up, and then there's that awkward silence that's deafening.
So, we all leave, say good-bye to the other two young folk, and Michelle, Donald and I hike back to my car in Egypt. Now he's going to see how I drive? It's not one of my strong points.
We make it in one piece to his apartment.
Stay tuned for the next installment of "I Don't Know Where I'm Going, But I'm Here
The car-buying extravaganza will be written about, but not right now. Instead, I'm going to write about well meaning friends who don't appear to have a clue as to what they're doing.
I have a friend, let's call her Michelle. She and I have been friends for 8 or 9 years. She’s another teacher at school. Looking at us, you would never think we'd be close. She's in control of herself most of the time, doesn't goof around too much, exercises constantly, and is extremely careful with what she eats. She eats sandwiches with a knife and fork because if she takes too big a bite, she throws up. Seriously. And, she rarely eats sandwiches anyway, because she's a carb-a-phobic. I would guess it’s a pretty amusing sight to see the two of us eating a meal together.
The reason we're friends I think, is because we even each other out. My emotions are always right there, ready to be tossed in your lap. She's reserved, doesn't let a lot of people in. We both help the other one meet somewhere in the middle.
Anyway, she's going through a painful divorce, and is staying with me for a couple of days. She has been throwing herself into activities; Volleyball classes, Parks and Recreation volleyball teams, yoga at the gym, Adult Ed Spanish classes at night, church stuff. She's met a new friend, we'll call him Donald, and she's been raving about him for a few weeks.
Okay, this brings us to the present. She's been trying to be sly about it, but I knew right away she was interested in hooking Donald and I up. She would talk about him, build him up to me in ways she thought I would be impressed. "Oh, he's so smart. He reads Shakespeare and Dante for fun." "Rebekah, you should see his bookshelf, he reads all the time." "Donald really likes playing board games. He's really social." "I can't wait for you to meet him, I think you'll really like him."
Okay. It's not that I have anything against meeting smart, fun new people. I like meeting new people. But, I also was thinking, this single guy, who's spending all this time with Michelle, is probably interested in... Michelle. I also need to mention here, for those of you that understand that the physical appearance of a person is important for some...well, most people, that she and I are, quite different in our looks. Michelle works out so much that she doesn't have a period. For breakfast this morning she ate 12 peanuts, two rice cakes with soy butter, and a power bar. She's tiny, probably 5'3", and weighs about 110 pounds.
I'm not tiny, I'm 5'8" and weigh... well, almost twice what she does. I'm loud, and can be overbearing and obnoxious (I prefer vivacious, but whatever), and she is demure and quiet. But, these are all just thoughts and impressions, so of course, I put them aside.
Plus the fact that there's the tiniest morsel of hope that maybe he might just be swell, and think I'm grand, and fall in love with me, and me with him, and ... you get it.
They go to the Solstice parade downtown, and I don't (I hate parades), and then I meet them at the Solstice party at the park. I look my best. As best as I can after parking in Egypt and walking 700 miles to get to them. I find Michelle and three very under-25-years-old looking people. Not that there's anything wrong with that. One of them is Donald. We all sit on the grass and drink beer and try to have a conversation. I only stick my foot in my mouth once or twice instead of 15 times. As usual, I'm doing most of the talking. I try to shut up, and then there's that awkward silence that's deafening.
So, we all leave, say good-bye to the other two young folk, and Michelle, Donald and I hike back to my car in Egypt. Now he's going to see how I drive? It's not one of my strong points.
We make it in one piece to his apartment.
Stay tuned for the next installment of "I Don't Know Where I'm Going, But I'm Here
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Good Things About My Dad
Some of you know I have a difficult relationship with my father. I meant to write this before Father's Day, but couldn't.
Tell me what you think. Changes that need to be made. Should I send it to him?
Good Things About My Dad
1. He taught me how to jump waves in Mexico.
2. Every summer he would drive us to Camp Pilgrim Pines one weekend, and pick us up the next. It was a 5-hour drive each way.
3. If I went with him to the store or the dump, he would buy me a Slurpee.
4. He got scared when I broke my arm.
5. When I got sick, he would give me one of his red hankies to blow my nose.
6. For every bite I took off my plate, he’d take another, when mom wasn’t looking.
7. He wrote to me and said he was sorry for how he left Mom.
8. On Cathedral Oaks Road, he always sped up over the dip.
9. He got out the atlas to see where I was going to live when I got the job in Japan.
10. In 1977, during the Super Bowl game, he drove to the beach to look for me (I knew where I was).
11. After my car broke down for the fourth time, he lent me the $450 to fix it. Then he didn’t make me pay it back.
12. When I was in second grade, he joined Indian Maidens with me.
13. He let me pick out the cashews in his can of mixed nuts.
14. Sometimes after dinner, he would read to us from Erma Bombeck or Bill Cosby.
15. It took him two hours of driving on a Sunday to rescue me from the Los Angeles Greyhound station where I was stranded one weekend. He just made a joke about it when he saw me.
16. I know he still worries about me.
Tell me what you think. Changes that need to be made. Should I send it to him?
Good Things About My Dad
1. He taught me how to jump waves in Mexico.
2. Every summer he would drive us to Camp Pilgrim Pines one weekend, and pick us up the next. It was a 5-hour drive each way.
3. If I went with him to the store or the dump, he would buy me a Slurpee.
4. He got scared when I broke my arm.
5. When I got sick, he would give me one of his red hankies to blow my nose.
6. For every bite I took off my plate, he’d take another, when mom wasn’t looking.
7. He wrote to me and said he was sorry for how he left Mom.
8. On Cathedral Oaks Road, he always sped up over the dip.
9. He got out the atlas to see where I was going to live when I got the job in Japan.
10. In 1977, during the Super Bowl game, he drove to the beach to look for me (I knew where I was).
11. After my car broke down for the fourth time, he lent me the $450 to fix it. Then he didn’t make me pay it back.
12. When I was in second grade, he joined Indian Maidens with me.
13. He let me pick out the cashews in his can of mixed nuts.
14. Sometimes after dinner, he would read to us from Erma Bombeck or Bill Cosby.
15. It took him two hours of driving on a Sunday to rescue me from the Los Angeles Greyhound station where I was stranded one weekend. He just made a joke about it when he saw me.
16. I know he still worries about me.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Taking a break from freaks
The Year I turned 40
He touches my lips, looks at my mouth with concentration
On my back, I look away from eyes so close
A poster sailboat watches over us
My tongue is dry
Another man, a few days later
His hand moves gently across my bare back
I sense rather than feel his touch
I speak a few nervous words
He doesn’t answer
I feel physical pain with both men
Even though each is careful with my body
I’ve been seeing both men for years
Although not exclusively
It’s a need to see them, not a choice
Though I guess everything is a choice
I don’t know if either one is married
And only know one’s first name
It used to be nothing
Meeting up with one or the other
It was regular, simple
Now it’s keeping me whole.
He touches my lips, looks at my mouth with concentration
On my back, I look away from eyes so close
A poster sailboat watches over us
My tongue is dry
Another man, a few days later
His hand moves gently across my bare back
I sense rather than feel his touch
I speak a few nervous words
He doesn’t answer
I feel physical pain with both men
Even though each is careful with my body
I’ve been seeing both men for years
Although not exclusively
It’s a need to see them, not a choice
Though I guess everything is a choice
I don’t know if either one is married
And only know one’s first name
It used to be nothing
Meeting up with one or the other
It was regular, simple
Now it’s keeping me whole.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Part Three of the Freak Neighbors
Am I boring you? I have to ask that often when I'm speaking. If you don't know me well, it's one of my defining characteristics that I talk a lot. A lot. Sometimes too much. That's why this blog is great. Total self indulgence. No one has to read this if not interested, and I get to say whatever I want.
Back to my tale.
Let's see, Friday. Last official day of work at school (of course, I still have to go back today and finish cleaning my classroom). A friend of mine, a teacher's aide at school, just got into Northridge. We planned a surprise congratulations party for him; he thought it was just a little get together to celebrate being done.
So, we're eating, drinking, laughing, and the phone rings. It's Walter. I'm sure he can see the cars, and hear us, but he wants to know if I got the new rental agreement from the new property management company. Yes, I did. Did I get a rent increase?
Oh. Here's the sticky part. No. I didn't. I know I didn't because the landlady had told me the day before that although a couple of us were getting increases, I wasn't.
But, I said that I hadn't seen it with the papers, but that I hadn't looked at the papers too closely, and I had friends over right now. Could I go look for the papers? No, Walter, I have guests right now.
So he said he's "call me later." Later comes, my friends have left, and I'm cleaning up. I see his truck drive past my window, so I quickly turn off all the lights and my stereo. I sit in the dark for 20 minutes, waiting for him to walk by (he has to walk by my window to get to his place from where we park). Chicken shit, I know, but I just didn't want to deal with him.
After 20 minutes, I get tired of it (I'd make a terrible thief, or spy) and turn the lights back on. 3 minutes after, he walks by. Creepy.
But he doesn't call. Saturday morning, I'm up early, doing laundry. No one's around yet at 7 in the morning. At 8 I go out to put my stuff in the dryer, and don't get four steps past my door. Walter is out, working on his truck. Waxing it, actually, one of the things that Mrs. P. doesn't want him to do. I digress.
I see him and turn right around and go back into the house (chicken shit, remember?). He can't be out there all morning, right? I would have to pass by him to get to the laundry room, and I just don't want to talk to him. I stay inside for another hour, watching The Aviator (great film, by the way) and then go to my bedroom window to check if he's still out there. I don't open the window, I don't touch the blinds, just peek out; damned if he doesn't slowly turn his head around like a lizard and look straight at me. ARGH! He's too far away for me to really know if he saw me or not.
I figure this is ridiculous, and go out to the dryer. I waited so long, he was able to do a load of his own, and get his stuff in the dryer. Damn it. I'm walking back, head down so I don't have to make eye contact, and he appears right in front of me as I turn the corner.
"Hi Rebekah. Did you have a chance to see your new rental agreement?"
"Uh, hi. Um, actually no. I know where it is, but I haven't looked at it again this morning."
So far, I haven't lied. One thing about me is that I don't lie. I try to avoid things sometimes, but I don't lie.
"Well, could you look at it for me?"
"You know, uh Walter, I feel uncomfortable talking about this with you. I mean, I don't know what your rent is, or Leslie's, and I don't want to know either."
"I'm not asking about amounts, just whether or not you got an increase in your rent. We moved in about the same time, and I want to know if it's just me or not."
He has a point. But. I already know where this is going.
"Well, see, it's like this, I don't want to get involved in a problem you might be having. I have a good relationship with Mrs. P. If I look at that paper, and I have an increase, everything is fine, but if I look at that paper, and I don't have an increase, well then, I'm involved in something that is really between you and Mrs. P. Do you see how I feel?"
"Yeah, but it wouldn't be fair if you didn't get an increase and I did."
Oi. So I told him I had to go hang up my undies (can't be dried in the dryer, you know) and walked away.
It doesn't end there. (I'm thinking, maybe it should, as I read this, I'm even boring myself). But that's for the next blog.
Back to my tale.
Let's see, Friday. Last official day of work at school (of course, I still have to go back today and finish cleaning my classroom). A friend of mine, a teacher's aide at school, just got into Northridge. We planned a surprise congratulations party for him; he thought it was just a little get together to celebrate being done.
So, we're eating, drinking, laughing, and the phone rings. It's Walter. I'm sure he can see the cars, and hear us, but he wants to know if I got the new rental agreement from the new property management company. Yes, I did. Did I get a rent increase?
Oh. Here's the sticky part. No. I didn't. I know I didn't because the landlady had told me the day before that although a couple of us were getting increases, I wasn't.
But, I said that I hadn't seen it with the papers, but that I hadn't looked at the papers too closely, and I had friends over right now. Could I go look for the papers? No, Walter, I have guests right now.
So he said he's "call me later." Later comes, my friends have left, and I'm cleaning up. I see his truck drive past my window, so I quickly turn off all the lights and my stereo. I sit in the dark for 20 minutes, waiting for him to walk by (he has to walk by my window to get to his place from where we park). Chicken shit, I know, but I just didn't want to deal with him.
After 20 minutes, I get tired of it (I'd make a terrible thief, or spy) and turn the lights back on. 3 minutes after, he walks by. Creepy.
But he doesn't call. Saturday morning, I'm up early, doing laundry. No one's around yet at 7 in the morning. At 8 I go out to put my stuff in the dryer, and don't get four steps past my door. Walter is out, working on his truck. Waxing it, actually, one of the things that Mrs. P. doesn't want him to do. I digress.
I see him and turn right around and go back into the house (chicken shit, remember?). He can't be out there all morning, right? I would have to pass by him to get to the laundry room, and I just don't want to talk to him. I stay inside for another hour, watching The Aviator (great film, by the way) and then go to my bedroom window to check if he's still out there. I don't open the window, I don't touch the blinds, just peek out; damned if he doesn't slowly turn his head around like a lizard and look straight at me. ARGH! He's too far away for me to really know if he saw me or not.
I figure this is ridiculous, and go out to the dryer. I waited so long, he was able to do a load of his own, and get his stuff in the dryer. Damn it. I'm walking back, head down so I don't have to make eye contact, and he appears right in front of me as I turn the corner.
"Hi Rebekah. Did you have a chance to see your new rental agreement?"
"Uh, hi. Um, actually no. I know where it is, but I haven't looked at it again this morning."
So far, I haven't lied. One thing about me is that I don't lie. I try to avoid things sometimes, but I don't lie.
"Well, could you look at it for me?"
"You know, uh Walter, I feel uncomfortable talking about this with you. I mean, I don't know what your rent is, or Leslie's, and I don't want to know either."
"I'm not asking about amounts, just whether or not you got an increase in your rent. We moved in about the same time, and I want to know if it's just me or not."
He has a point. But. I already know where this is going.
"Well, see, it's like this, I don't want to get involved in a problem you might be having. I have a good relationship with Mrs. P. If I look at that paper, and I have an increase, everything is fine, but if I look at that paper, and I don't have an increase, well then, I'm involved in something that is really between you and Mrs. P. Do you see how I feel?"
"Yeah, but it wouldn't be fair if you didn't get an increase and I did."
Oi. So I told him I had to go hang up my undies (can't be dried in the dryer, you know) and walked away.
It doesn't end there. (I'm thinking, maybe it should, as I read this, I'm even boring myself). But that's for the next blog.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Freak Neighbors, part 2
Okay, so I know everyone has that oddball neighbor. It's better than that weird roommate one always gets in college. You know, the one that never goes outside, only wears black, and smokes stinky clove cigarettes? But, at some point, I'm thinking, this has got to stop. It hasn't yet.
So, as I was saying yesterday, our landlady likes me, and dislikes Weird Walter. Somehow, I made a good impression, and he didn't. Whatever. I keep to myself most of the time, I don't complain, and I ask Mrs. P. if I can do things before I do them (paint part of my apartment, have a garage sale, have a Christmas party). She usually says yes, but I know she appreciates my asking. Walter, on the other hand, seems to revel in being oppositional. I don't think this sits well with Mrs. P. He really got on her nerves first when he was "dog-sitting" for a friend. Walter has a tiny studio apartment, with no yard or patio, and this dog was big; part Pit Bull I think. He didn't ask if he could have the dog, so that was his first mistake. Then, of course, Mrs. P. called him on it, since a dog that size isn't that easy to hide. He told her he was only watching the dog for a "couple of days." After 9 days, Mrs. P. talked to him again. This time, Walter said that his friend had moved, and couldn't take the dog to the new place. Mrs. P. told him that he couldn't have it at this place either. He got angry and tried to argue that Rebekah had a dog, so why couldn't he?
Um. Because his rental agreement said he couldn't? Minor detail I guess.
This did not please Mrs. P.
Moving on. Walter just keeps doing these little things that Mrs. P. has asked him not to do; parking in the wrong spot, washing his car in the main driveway, having people stay here without letting her know there will be guests. He also calls our property management company and asks how long it will be until she comes back from one of her business trips (her job takes her all over the country). That certainly doesn't sit well with Mrs. P. either. I think she feels he is sneaking around while she is gone, doing something nefarious.
If I haven't lost you with my long-windedness, I'll bring you to the present.
Friday morning, Walter crept up on me at 7am just after I'd tossed some things into the trash cans.
"uh! Oh, Walter. I didn't see you there."
"Hi Rebekah, can I talk to you?"
It's the last day of school, my hair is soaking wet, and I have to get ready, and he wants to talk? He goes on,
"What kind of relationship do you have with Mrs. P.?"
"Um. Pretty good I'd say."
"It seems like she doesn't like me so much."
"Oh." (What am I supposed to say?)
So he goes on about his imagined affronts, and finally I tell him that I just ask permission to do things. That she doesn't always say yes to what I ask, but she does most of the time. "It's her place." I say, "and she likes things the way she likes them."
"I don't like asking permission to do what I should be able to do."
Oh well. Your headache.
No, I didn't say that. Not out loud anyway.
But I'm thinking to myself how I do NOT want to be pulled into this drama.
Installment 3 will talk about how I have not been successful so far in doing that.
So, as I was saying yesterday, our landlady likes me, and dislikes Weird Walter. Somehow, I made a good impression, and he didn't. Whatever. I keep to myself most of the time, I don't complain, and I ask Mrs. P. if I can do things before I do them (paint part of my apartment, have a garage sale, have a Christmas party). She usually says yes, but I know she appreciates my asking. Walter, on the other hand, seems to revel in being oppositional. I don't think this sits well with Mrs. P. He really got on her nerves first when he was "dog-sitting" for a friend. Walter has a tiny studio apartment, with no yard or patio, and this dog was big; part Pit Bull I think. He didn't ask if he could have the dog, so that was his first mistake. Then, of course, Mrs. P. called him on it, since a dog that size isn't that easy to hide. He told her he was only watching the dog for a "couple of days." After 9 days, Mrs. P. talked to him again. This time, Walter said that his friend had moved, and couldn't take the dog to the new place. Mrs. P. told him that he couldn't have it at this place either. He got angry and tried to argue that Rebekah had a dog, so why couldn't he?
Um. Because his rental agreement said he couldn't? Minor detail I guess.
This did not please Mrs. P.
Moving on. Walter just keeps doing these little things that Mrs. P. has asked him not to do; parking in the wrong spot, washing his car in the main driveway, having people stay here without letting her know there will be guests. He also calls our property management company and asks how long it will be until she comes back from one of her business trips (her job takes her all over the country). That certainly doesn't sit well with Mrs. P. either. I think she feels he is sneaking around while she is gone, doing something nefarious.
If I haven't lost you with my long-windedness, I'll bring you to the present.
Friday morning, Walter crept up on me at 7am just after I'd tossed some things into the trash cans.
"uh! Oh, Walter. I didn't see you there."
"Hi Rebekah, can I talk to you?"
It's the last day of school, my hair is soaking wet, and I have to get ready, and he wants to talk? He goes on,
"What kind of relationship do you have with Mrs. P.?"
"Um. Pretty good I'd say."
"It seems like she doesn't like me so much."
"Oh." (What am I supposed to say?)
So he goes on about his imagined affronts, and finally I tell him that I just ask permission to do things. That she doesn't always say yes to what I ask, but she does most of the time. "It's her place." I say, "and she likes things the way she likes them."
"I don't like asking permission to do what I should be able to do."
Oh well. Your headache.
No, I didn't say that. Not out loud anyway.
But I'm thinking to myself how I do NOT want to be pulled into this drama.
Installment 3 will talk about how I have not been successful so far in doing that.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Freak neighbors
First off, let me say that I live in a great place. It's secluded enough to be quiet, but very close to the school where I work. I can hear the coyotes at night and owls and other birds chirping away. I see rabbits and snakes and lizards, and skunks, and ground squirrels on a daily basis. A horse trail leads right to the dead end of the road I live on. There's little light pollution, so when I look up at the stars, I really see them. If I crane my neck, I can see the ocean out of my bedroom window on a clear day.
I have a two-bedroom cottage... actually a cottage that has been made into a duplex; there is a studio apartment attached at one end, and a yard, and a fireplace. Floor to ceiling windows in the living room and lots of natural light. I moved here so I could get a dog, and Charlie is the love of my life at the moment, so all is good. Right?
Except for Weird Walter. He's the occupant of the attached studio. Mrs. P., the owner of the property lives in the main house, Leslie lives in one of the two attached apartments of the main house, and Hugh lives in the other. Leslie has been here for 10 years, so you know it's a good place. Hugh is a cute Brit professor with straight teeth who's here for a year working on a book. Wish I'd gotten to know him better.
Almost two years ago I moved in. Walter moved in about a week before me. He's about 6 foot 6 inches tall, with a low, s-l-o-w voice that just creeps me out. I avoid him when I can. He walks very quietly, like he's purposely sneaking up on you. I'm always startled when he pops up out of nowhere. I think he likes that.
He asks questions that seem innocent, but then he argues with you.
"Rebekah, do you know if Mrs. P is home yet from her trip?" He'll be standing right next to my car as I get out.
"Oh... Walter, you scared me. Um... yes, I think she is. She put my mail by my door today."
"Well, I called the property management company, and they said she wasn't going to be home today."
(Well then, why the fuck did you ask me then?)
Or,
It's late, 10pm or so, and I'm putting my laundry in the dryer.
"Hi."
"Ah! Oh, it's you Walter; I didn't hear you come up.
"It's a good thing then that I didn't put my hand on your shoulder, heh?" (ew ew ew! Gross. Yes, it's a very good thing.)
So I continue with the dryer, he puts stuff in the washer...
"Can I ask you a question? How come you set the dryer on 'more dry' instead of timed dry?"
"Um. I don't know. Because it gets the clothes more dry than if I put it on 'less dry'? Because that's the way my mom did it?"
"Well, I was reading the dryer's manual (who the hell reads the dryer manual?) and it says that it actually senses the amount of moisture in the clothing when you put it on that setting. blah blah blah..."
I keep getting tricked. Why ask me lame questions when you already know the answer? I swear, this guy does NOT know how to speak to people. And don't tell me he has a crush on me. I have never seen him with a woman, and he has a male friend that comes over and very often spends the night. I could be wrong, but I think he's just daft. My landlady can't stand him. And that's where the tricky part comes in. Because she loves me. Treats me like a daughter. Confides in me about her dislike of him. And that puts me in an uncomfortable position. One which I will write about tomorrow.
I have a two-bedroom cottage... actually a cottage that has been made into a duplex; there is a studio apartment attached at one end, and a yard, and a fireplace. Floor to ceiling windows in the living room and lots of natural light. I moved here so I could get a dog, and Charlie is the love of my life at the moment, so all is good. Right?
Except for Weird Walter. He's the occupant of the attached studio. Mrs. P., the owner of the property lives in the main house, Leslie lives in one of the two attached apartments of the main house, and Hugh lives in the other. Leslie has been here for 10 years, so you know it's a good place. Hugh is a cute Brit professor with straight teeth who's here for a year working on a book. Wish I'd gotten to know him better.
Almost two years ago I moved in. Walter moved in about a week before me. He's about 6 foot 6 inches tall, with a low, s-l-o-w voice that just creeps me out. I avoid him when I can. He walks very quietly, like he's purposely sneaking up on you. I'm always startled when he pops up out of nowhere. I think he likes that.
He asks questions that seem innocent, but then he argues with you.
"Rebekah, do you know if Mrs. P is home yet from her trip?" He'll be standing right next to my car as I get out.
"Oh... Walter, you scared me. Um... yes, I think she is. She put my mail by my door today."
"Well, I called the property management company, and they said she wasn't going to be home today."
(Well then, why the fuck did you ask me then?)
Or,
It's late, 10pm or so, and I'm putting my laundry in the dryer.
"Hi."
"Ah! Oh, it's you Walter; I didn't hear you come up.
"It's a good thing then that I didn't put my hand on your shoulder, heh?" (ew ew ew! Gross. Yes, it's a very good thing.)
So I continue with the dryer, he puts stuff in the washer...
"Can I ask you a question? How come you set the dryer on 'more dry' instead of timed dry?"
"Um. I don't know. Because it gets the clothes more dry than if I put it on 'less dry'? Because that's the way my mom did it?"
"Well, I was reading the dryer's manual (who the hell reads the dryer manual?) and it says that it actually senses the amount of moisture in the clothing when you put it on that setting. blah blah blah..."
I keep getting tricked. Why ask me lame questions when you already know the answer? I swear, this guy does NOT know how to speak to people. And don't tell me he has a crush on me. I have never seen him with a woman, and he has a male friend that comes over and very often spends the night. I could be wrong, but I think he's just daft. My landlady can't stand him. And that's where the tricky part comes in. Because she loves me. Treats me like a daughter. Confides in me about her dislike of him. And that puts me in an uncomfortable position. One which I will write about tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Running on fumes
I'm so god damned tired.
And this time next week, 8:30 on Wednesday night, I'll probably be bored. I finished grading those portfolios finally today at 2:05pm. I would have been done last night, except Travis "forgot" to turn his in until I called his mom yesterday.
This is the first year I've been teaching that not one single student of mine earned an F in English. I don't take credit for that. Every year I agonize over grades. Does it really make that much of a difference whether or not someone earns an F or a D-?
When I was in high school, I struggled with Spanish. I took it in 9th grade, flunked, and had to take it again in 10th. Took the second year of Spanish in 11th grade, flunked, and had to take it over in my senior year. I worked, but just couldn't get it. There were only two of us in 12th grade in Mr. Ochi's 6th period class.
Well, the final exam of the year came around, and my passing the class rested on my doing well. Actually, my getting into UCSB rested partially on my passing Spanish. Seniors got to take the final early because of all the senior activities and such. Donna Jones and I took the final, and at lunchtime that day, went in to see Mr. Ochi. Donna got a B. When he looked at me, with pity in his eyes, I knew what was coming. I'm sure I teared up before he even showed me the D in the gradebook. I was full on weeping at that point. I knew, right then, that I wasn't going to make it, that I'd have to go to City College, and that my brother Danny was never going to let me live it down.
However, that didn't happen. Mr. Ochi, who was strict, and unbending, patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and told me, "Now, now, Senorita S-, I also grade on effort (which had never been true before, but who was I to argue?). You are going to pass this class." Then he showed me the C he had written in the final class grade for me.
Another teacher, Mr. Geary, let me take History as an independent study class. In one semester, I wrote one research report and I got an A. I didn't deserve it.
At UCSB, I had to take at least two science classes. I was an English major. Science classes had labs and met at 8 in the morning. I struggled in Physical Geology. I got an F on the first midterm. I stayed in the class, instead of dropping it. I earned a D on the second midterm. I switched my grading choice to "pass/no pass" and stopped going to class. I knew I wouldn't pass, but it wouldn't show up on my gradepoint average. I would take it again the next quarter.
But, wonder of wonders, when I received my report card that spring, I had a "pass" grade in the class! Of course, there had been some mistake; I hadn't even taken the final. Did I say anything? No. For years I thought that the registrar's office was going to contact me and tell me I hadn't really graduated, because I hadn't really finished that class. That I was going to have to give back my diploma. Nope. I got away with it.
That report card was almost 20 years ago. I think I'm safe now (if they took my Bachelor's away, do you think they'd take my Master's too?). My point is that I didn't always get the grade I really deserved. If I had, I might not be doing what I do now. Did my poor grades demonstrate my inability at success? Did they prove I wasn't proficient at becoming responsible? Did they show whether I learned more than what I could memorize?
No.
I used to agonize over grades much more than I do now. If a student has a 35% in my class, it's a pretty obvious problem. The ones that I used to have such a hard time with, were the 55% students. The ones that almost got it. That's where Mr. Ochi comes in. He said he graded on effort. That's key. And effort isn't something one can measure on a test. However, it is something a teacher should know about each student.
Every student I have this year, tried. Some were more organized than others, some procrastinated more than others, but they all tried.
It was a good year.
But, I really am tired.
And this time next week, 8:30 on Wednesday night, I'll probably be bored. I finished grading those portfolios finally today at 2:05pm. I would have been done last night, except Travis "forgot" to turn his in until I called his mom yesterday.
This is the first year I've been teaching that not one single student of mine earned an F in English. I don't take credit for that. Every year I agonize over grades. Does it really make that much of a difference whether or not someone earns an F or a D-?
When I was in high school, I struggled with Spanish. I took it in 9th grade, flunked, and had to take it again in 10th. Took the second year of Spanish in 11th grade, flunked, and had to take it over in my senior year. I worked, but just couldn't get it. There were only two of us in 12th grade in Mr. Ochi's 6th period class.
Well, the final exam of the year came around, and my passing the class rested on my doing well. Actually, my getting into UCSB rested partially on my passing Spanish. Seniors got to take the final early because of all the senior activities and such. Donna Jones and I took the final, and at lunchtime that day, went in to see Mr. Ochi. Donna got a B. When he looked at me, with pity in his eyes, I knew what was coming. I'm sure I teared up before he even showed me the D in the gradebook. I was full on weeping at that point. I knew, right then, that I wasn't going to make it, that I'd have to go to City College, and that my brother Danny was never going to let me live it down.
However, that didn't happen. Mr. Ochi, who was strict, and unbending, patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and told me, "Now, now, Senorita S-, I also grade on effort (which had never been true before, but who was I to argue?). You are going to pass this class." Then he showed me the C he had written in the final class grade for me.
Another teacher, Mr. Geary, let me take History as an independent study class. In one semester, I wrote one research report and I got an A. I didn't deserve it.
At UCSB, I had to take at least two science classes. I was an English major. Science classes had labs and met at 8 in the morning. I struggled in Physical Geology. I got an F on the first midterm. I stayed in the class, instead of dropping it. I earned a D on the second midterm. I switched my grading choice to "pass/no pass" and stopped going to class. I knew I wouldn't pass, but it wouldn't show up on my gradepoint average. I would take it again the next quarter.
But, wonder of wonders, when I received my report card that spring, I had a "pass" grade in the class! Of course, there had been some mistake; I hadn't even taken the final. Did I say anything? No. For years I thought that the registrar's office was going to contact me and tell me I hadn't really graduated, because I hadn't really finished that class. That I was going to have to give back my diploma. Nope. I got away with it.
That report card was almost 20 years ago. I think I'm safe now (if they took my Bachelor's away, do you think they'd take my Master's too?). My point is that I didn't always get the grade I really deserved. If I had, I might not be doing what I do now. Did my poor grades demonstrate my inability at success? Did they prove I wasn't proficient at becoming responsible? Did they show whether I learned more than what I could memorize?
No.
I used to agonize over grades much more than I do now. If a student has a 35% in my class, it's a pretty obvious problem. The ones that I used to have such a hard time with, were the 55% students. The ones that almost got it. That's where Mr. Ochi comes in. He said he graded on effort. That's key. And effort isn't something one can measure on a test. However, it is something a teacher should know about each student.
Every student I have this year, tried. Some were more organized than others, some procrastinated more than others, but they all tried.
It was a good year.
But, I really am tired.
Monday, June 13, 2005
What If?
My writing group met yesterday, and then we had a barbecue and I drank too much wine. Not enough to be drunk , but enough to have a hell of a headache this morning. Not good when facing 137 eighth graders in their last week of junior high. Ouch.
Our writing exercise was "what if?" based on a poem about the kind of quarterback Hamlet would've been.
Here's what I have so far:
What if the Joabs won the lottery?
What if Tess of the D'Ubervilles played roller hockey?
What if Mrs. Haversham tried Match.com?
What if Jesus was in a boy band?
What if Cinderella was a dominatrix?
What if Dante's Inferno had a special level for those men who never put the toilet seat down?
What if Romeo had met Brittany Spears?
What if the Wicked Witch got Botox and a facelift?
What if Jack Sprat went on the Atkin's diet?
What if Lucy let Charlie kick the football?
What if the three little pigs were chosen for Extreme Makeover, Home Edition?
What if Rhett came back?
What if Huckleberry went to Annapolis?
What if Wordsworth had written about a Mexican pot?
What if Jack Keroac had taken his road trip on the internet highway?
Our writing exercise was "what if?" based on a poem about the kind of quarterback Hamlet would've been.
Here's what I have so far:
What if the Joabs won the lottery?
What if Tess of the D'Ubervilles played roller hockey?
What if Mrs. Haversham tried Match.com?
What if Jesus was in a boy band?
What if Cinderella was a dominatrix?
What if Dante's Inferno had a special level for those men who never put the toilet seat down?
What if Romeo had met Brittany Spears?
What if the Wicked Witch got Botox and a facelift?
What if Jack Sprat went on the Atkin's diet?
What if Lucy let Charlie kick the football?
What if the three little pigs were chosen for Extreme Makeover, Home Edition?
What if Rhett came back?
What if Huckleberry went to Annapolis?
What if Wordsworth had written about a Mexican pot?
What if Jack Keroac had taken his road trip on the internet highway?
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Tired of apologizing
I'm in a mood today. I'm really sick and tired of the finger pointing game. You are wrong because you do this. You are wrong because you are judging me wrong for doing this. You are wrong because you believe this. You are wrong because you don't believe what I believe. ___________ (fill in the blank with whatever group is pissing you off today; Gays, Christians, Women, Parents, Republicans, Jews, Teenagers, Dandie Dinmont Terriers) are the culprits, the enemy, the bad guys.
No one knows what goes through anyone else's mind. One person, ten people, ten thousand people speaking do not represent anyone else that is not speaking. You don't know what I'm thinking, what I believe, unless I tell you. And even then, you only know what I chose to tell you.
An example. Everyone has gone to school of some sort or another, therefore everyone has an opinion of what school is, what teachers are, and what students do. That doesn't make one an expert, any more than going to church or temple or Mosque makes you a theologian. It's easier to lump everyone into a group... we'd never make it through the day otherwise, but it's also damaging.
We base our ideas on our past experiences, yes, but we have to be open as well to new ones. If I say, "everyone that voted for Bush is an intellectual moron," I'm also saying that there is no discussion to be had, because really, what kind of talk can there be with a moron? I am really curious to speak to those who voted for him. Not the group that just came out of fear; I really do believe we have more that going on in our country.
My mother made the statement the other day that "rich people just don't care about anyone else." Another example of broad generalization that gets us nowhere. How can she know that? does one negate the other?
An English professor of mine told me about a letter he wrote to his son while his son was living on a Kibbutz in Israel. In the letter, my professor told his son that negotiations with Palestine was pointless for Israel, since you can't ever have a compromise with a Palestinian. The son wrote back, and told him, "If you say that, then there is no hope."
My professor told me this story just last year, but he said it was an a-ha moment for him. He wrote back to his son and agreed. I believe this too. The moment we start laying blame, guilt, judgment on an entire group of people, we've lost. The audacity we are capable of! As if we, all on our own, know the right way to be ... Or, as is more usual the case, we don't know the right way to be, but it sure as hell isn't the way that group is.
Damn it.
We will get nowhere with that kind of attitude.
Don't you dare say you know me because you know what a Christian is, or a woman is, or a teacher is.
You don't have a clue.
No one knows what goes through anyone else's mind. One person, ten people, ten thousand people speaking do not represent anyone else that is not speaking. You don't know what I'm thinking, what I believe, unless I tell you. And even then, you only know what I chose to tell you.
An example. Everyone has gone to school of some sort or another, therefore everyone has an opinion of what school is, what teachers are, and what students do. That doesn't make one an expert, any more than going to church or temple or Mosque makes you a theologian. It's easier to lump everyone into a group... we'd never make it through the day otherwise, but it's also damaging.
We base our ideas on our past experiences, yes, but we have to be open as well to new ones. If I say, "everyone that voted for Bush is an intellectual moron," I'm also saying that there is no discussion to be had, because really, what kind of talk can there be with a moron? I am really curious to speak to those who voted for him. Not the group that just came out of fear; I really do believe we have more that going on in our country.
My mother made the statement the other day that "rich people just don't care about anyone else." Another example of broad generalization that gets us nowhere. How can she know that? does one negate the other?
An English professor of mine told me about a letter he wrote to his son while his son was living on a Kibbutz in Israel. In the letter, my professor told his son that negotiations with Palestine was pointless for Israel, since you can't ever have a compromise with a Palestinian. The son wrote back, and told him, "If you say that, then there is no hope."
My professor told me this story just last year, but he said it was an a-ha moment for him. He wrote back to his son and agreed. I believe this too. The moment we start laying blame, guilt, judgment on an entire group of people, we've lost. The audacity we are capable of! As if we, all on our own, know the right way to be ... Or, as is more usual the case, we don't know the right way to be, but it sure as hell isn't the way that group is.
Damn it.
We will get nowhere with that kind of attitude.
Don't you dare say you know me because you know what a Christian is, or a woman is, or a teacher is.
You don't have a clue.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
A Lemon Poppyseed Muffin and a cup of English Breakfast Tea
Is just the perfect thing before walking Charlie on the beach at 8am.
Friday, June 10, 2005
I haven't counted, but there's a lot
I have a massive amount of body products. Lotions, creams, body washes, sugar scrubs, self tanners, anti aging creams, body powder, liquid powder (yes, such a thing exists), soaps, exfoliating, perfume, body spray, moisturizing body mists, body butters, masques, gels, oils...
I'll stop.
It's an addiction. One which I can hold out against for months at a time, and then, I'm not sure what starts it, I discover some new product or scent that I MUST have. I think about it, and look it up on the internet, and visit it in the store if it is a regular retail item. Most are not. I frequent a makeup board that is probably akin to an alcoholic just "visiting" a bar. It's not a good thing for me. I'm embarrassed to count how many items are in my possession. Rick has seen the cupboard in my bathroom that houses it all. It's absolutely ridiculous.
Earlier in the year, I thought I was on the road to recovery; the La Conchita landslide happened very close to home. One of our aides at school lost everything. I mean everything; one of her housemates died. She narrowly got out of her house in time. She really did get out with just the clothes on her back.
I realized I had all this stuff, but it meant nothing. I was able to collect quite a bit of it to donate (because so much of it wasn't even opened yet), along with sheets and food and money, to the survivors who were trying to start over. I knew and know it really was nothing. I didn't do everything I could have, but it was a start for me.
Yet, here it is, less than 6 months later, and I'm thinking I need that Aquolina Pink Sugar Duplicate scented double whipped shea butter cream.
Something for me to work on.
I'll stop.
It's an addiction. One which I can hold out against for months at a time, and then, I'm not sure what starts it, I discover some new product or scent that I MUST have. I think about it, and look it up on the internet, and visit it in the store if it is a regular retail item. Most are not. I frequent a makeup board that is probably akin to an alcoholic just "visiting" a bar. It's not a good thing for me. I'm embarrassed to count how many items are in my possession. Rick has seen the cupboard in my bathroom that houses it all. It's absolutely ridiculous.
Earlier in the year, I thought I was on the road to recovery; the La Conchita landslide happened very close to home. One of our aides at school lost everything. I mean everything; one of her housemates died. She narrowly got out of her house in time. She really did get out with just the clothes on her back.
I realized I had all this stuff, but it meant nothing. I was able to collect quite a bit of it to donate (because so much of it wasn't even opened yet), along with sheets and food and money, to the survivors who were trying to start over. I knew and know it really was nothing. I didn't do everything I could have, but it was a start for me.
Yet, here it is, less than 6 months later, and I'm thinking I need that Aquolina Pink Sugar Duplicate scented double whipped shea butter cream.
Something for me to work on.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Rebekah, The Missionary.
Most of my friends know I lived and taught in Japan for three years. What many forget, or don't know is that I was a missionary for those three years. Yes, you heard correctly. A Christian Missionary. "On Religious Mission" was stamped into my passport. I represented The United Church of Christ (UCC) as a teacher at the Christian girl's school, Kobe Jogakuin, in Nishinomya.
Now, yes, I taught English, not religion, and yes, I wasn't going door to door trying to save people, but the fact remains; I was a Christian in a 99% non-Christian society, and the idea was that I was going to also share that fact with those I met.
And, about two weeks into it, I freaked out. Was I getting paid out of that offering plate that went around at church (that I didn't always put money in)? I had lots of questions, who was I to tell other people what to believe? How presumptuous could I be? I should quit.
I didn't quit. Here is how it made sense to me. I believe that all religious faiths are based in basic truths. I want to expose myself to and learn about as many as possible in my short time here on the planet. In a country like Japan, which is polytheistic, being a Christian is difficult. One must "give up" all other beliefs, gods, worship, all for Christ. This, in a way, almost negates their ancestry. Obviously, it isn't easy to do. In Japan, Christians are thought of in a similar way to how I think of the Amish; very strict beliefs and codes of behavior, no veering off the straight and narrow path, always chaste and pious.
I'm none of those things. My moral code moves around. I make mistakes. I'm far far far from perfect. I came to terms with and came to embrace my being a missionary as an opportunity to give the people with whom I came into contact a different but still accurate picture of what a "Christian" is.( And, I found out that my salary came directly from the school. They paid the church board, and the church board paid me.)
On to the present. Most people think of Christians these days as gay-bashing, right wing, neo-conservatives who are trying to stick their holier-than-thou value system down every one's throat. That is, most people except the Christians who are not gay-bashing, right wing, neo-conservatives. And, there are many of us.
Here is the mission statement from the UCC. There is a concentrated effort being put forth by many churches to fight the negative opinion of what a Christian is. The reason we are not as strong as the right wing, bible thumpers is that we aren't backed by the power of big government, an entire political party, big business or often, even those for whom we fight. However, we continue on. The UCC has evolved from the Congregational Church; one in which there is no hierarchy, and one which is one of the oldest and most established protestant churches in the United States.
You might remember the brouhaha over an ad campaign during the holidays at the end of last year. A TV ad showed people of different ages, races, genders, and pairings, trying to attend a church. Bouncers were outside with a velvet rope, allowing only the "chosen" to enter. The voice-over ran, "Jesus didn't turn people away, neither do we." Major television networks refused to carry the ad, but it got national attention anyway. The ad was created and run by the UCC.
Don't give up. Even though I believe that everyone is responsible for his or her own beliefs, and I believe that everyone is entitled to those beliefs, whether or not I agree with them, even when I find their beliefs repugnant and reprehensible, I don't believe another's beliefs should dictate my own.
Thinking people, whether Christians or not, need to come together to make this country a better place, rather than laying blame.
Now, yes, I taught English, not religion, and yes, I wasn't going door to door trying to save people, but the fact remains; I was a Christian in a 99% non-Christian society, and the idea was that I was going to also share that fact with those I met.
And, about two weeks into it, I freaked out. Was I getting paid out of that offering plate that went around at church (that I didn't always put money in)? I had lots of questions, who was I to tell other people what to believe? How presumptuous could I be? I should quit.
I didn't quit. Here is how it made sense to me. I believe that all religious faiths are based in basic truths. I want to expose myself to and learn about as many as possible in my short time here on the planet. In a country like Japan, which is polytheistic, being a Christian is difficult. One must "give up" all other beliefs, gods, worship, all for Christ. This, in a way, almost negates their ancestry. Obviously, it isn't easy to do. In Japan, Christians are thought of in a similar way to how I think of the Amish; very strict beliefs and codes of behavior, no veering off the straight and narrow path, always chaste and pious.
I'm none of those things. My moral code moves around. I make mistakes. I'm far far far from perfect. I came to terms with and came to embrace my being a missionary as an opportunity to give the people with whom I came into contact a different but still accurate picture of what a "Christian" is.( And, I found out that my salary came directly from the school. They paid the church board, and the church board paid me.)
On to the present. Most people think of Christians these days as gay-bashing, right wing, neo-conservatives who are trying to stick their holier-than-thou value system down every one's throat. That is, most people except the Christians who are not gay-bashing, right wing, neo-conservatives. And, there are many of us.
Here is the mission statement from the UCC. There is a concentrated effort being put forth by many churches to fight the negative opinion of what a Christian is. The reason we are not as strong as the right wing, bible thumpers is that we aren't backed by the power of big government, an entire political party, big business or often, even those for whom we fight. However, we continue on. The UCC has evolved from the Congregational Church; one in which there is no hierarchy, and one which is one of the oldest and most established protestant churches in the United States.
You might remember the brouhaha over an ad campaign during the holidays at the end of last year. A TV ad showed people of different ages, races, genders, and pairings, trying to attend a church. Bouncers were outside with a velvet rope, allowing only the "chosen" to enter. The voice-over ran, "Jesus didn't turn people away, neither do we." Major television networks refused to carry the ad, but it got national attention anyway. The ad was created and run by the UCC.
Don't give up. Even though I believe that everyone is responsible for his or her own beliefs, and I believe that everyone is entitled to those beliefs, whether or not I agree with them, even when I find their beliefs repugnant and reprehensible, I don't believe another's beliefs should dictate my own.
Thinking people, whether Christians or not, need to come together to make this country a better place, rather than laying blame.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
The 88 poetry portfolios still loom
Procrastination. I'm the queen of it. I have so many things to do, and yet none get done. Indulge me here (or don't; go play This Game game instead), for I'm about to list the many things I should do.
- Finish grading these damn papers. If I had done 20 a night since they turned them in on the 25th of May, I would have been finished by now.
- Clean my kitchen and living room. The carpet/vinyl flooring guys are coming tomorrow morning to fix the crappy job they did, and I'm a slob. I need to get it clean.
- Clean my bathroom. The guys might want to use the toilet when they're here, and I again, don't want anyone to see my sloppyocity.
- Pay my bills. I've been carrying three of 'em around for two days now in my purse. I don't want to get a late charge because I'm just too lame to get my work done.
- Make up invitations for the party I'm hosting (I know, what was I thinking?) on the 18th. One of our friends from school, Victor, got accepted to Northridge and is moving this summer. He's a teacher's aide and had been a pal for several years. He doesn't know it's a party for him, he thinks it's just a get together. I have to make some food and coordinate who's bringing what. Deborah, one of my friends has this idea that she's going to buy a big basket of stuff for him and ask everyone else to chip in... that never works.
- Finish grading the Corrective Reading Notebooks. That's not even hard! Just tedious and boring.
- Make questions for the Socratic Seminar tomorrow
- Return the bathing suit I ordered from Spiegel. It's a horrific granny suit in bright orange and fuschia. It looked good in the catalogue.
- Return the dress I ordered from Newport News. It was supposed to be size 1x.
- Send my crotchety asshole dad a Father's Day card. I got him a subscription to Golf week. It was a free subscription, but he doesn't have to know that.
- Get off the computer so I can get these things done.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
7 days left
The kids say to me, "Ms. Sillars, do we have to do any work? I mean it's the end of school."
I say, "Yes it is, the end of school, not the beginning of summer."
It's hard though, since I'm ready to get out as well. This time of year is difficult for all. As a teacher, I'm madly trying to get everything I've put off graded, so I will have final marks for everyone. However, what most kids don't know, is that I had to submit the names of kids who are earning "A's, and are possible valedictorians, by May 27th. Yes, 19 days before graduation. Then, tomorrow I have to submit the names of those students who are failing. That's 8 days before the end of school.
Every year, I'd try to be ethical, and keep teaching and requiring homework and grading it, but it really wouldn't matter. Because, as of tomorrow, it's all over. I've complained about it, agonized over it, but it's the way things are.
So, I compromise. Today and tomorrow we are holding a Socratic seminar. Kids get to talk, and I just listen. There's a score sheet, and if someone refuses to add to the conversation, I note it, but really, do kids have to have a damn grade to prove they've learned something? I don't think so.
I wish I could just give them all "A"s and be done with it. I hate grading papers, as I've mentioned before, and besides, how many kids actually read my suggestions written in green or purple ink? Grades have become so imperative to some parents that they become more important than whether or not their child is growing into a good human being. The pressure from some parents is incredible; and the easy thing to do is just cave in. Yesterday I had a call from a mom wanting extra credit for her daughter so she could earn an "A" instead of a "B." I give extra credit once a semester, and the daughter had chosen not to do it. Now, with just a few days to go, mom decides to talk to me.
I said no.
And now, I have to grade 88 more poetry portfolios.
I say, "Yes it is, the end of school, not the beginning of summer."
It's hard though, since I'm ready to get out as well. This time of year is difficult for all. As a teacher, I'm madly trying to get everything I've put off graded, so I will have final marks for everyone. However, what most kids don't know, is that I had to submit the names of kids who are earning "A's, and are possible valedictorians, by May 27th. Yes, 19 days before graduation. Then, tomorrow I have to submit the names of those students who are failing. That's 8 days before the end of school.
Every year, I'd try to be ethical, and keep teaching and requiring homework and grading it, but it really wouldn't matter. Because, as of tomorrow, it's all over. I've complained about it, agonized over it, but it's the way things are.
So, I compromise. Today and tomorrow we are holding a Socratic seminar. Kids get to talk, and I just listen. There's a score sheet, and if someone refuses to add to the conversation, I note it, but really, do kids have to have a damn grade to prove they've learned something? I don't think so.
I wish I could just give them all "A"s and be done with it. I hate grading papers, as I've mentioned before, and besides, how many kids actually read my suggestions written in green or purple ink? Grades have become so imperative to some parents that they become more important than whether or not their child is growing into a good human being. The pressure from some parents is incredible; and the easy thing to do is just cave in. Yesterday I had a call from a mom wanting extra credit for her daughter so she could earn an "A" instead of a "B." I give extra credit once a semester, and the daughter had chosen not to do it. Now, with just a few days to go, mom decides to talk to me.
I said no.
And now, I have to grade 88 more poetry portfolios.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Family, getting there on time, and trying keep my mouth shut.
(an aside. Charlie just got ahold of a wad of paper that was in a shoe box. You know, what they stuff the shoe with so it looks beautiful and well-formed. As soon as I started typing, it was his cue to start ripping it apart in the other room. I ignored it at first, as it's usually one of the postcard inserts from one of my many magazines. It got louder, and so I went to investigate. He sees me, grabs the paper wad and runs into my bedroom; madly ripping as many tiny bits of it apart as I yell "no" at him and lunge to grab the paper. He takes it and rips several more tiny pieces of paper, my bedroom now looking like someone threw confetti, and then allows me to grab it. It could've been worse, I know. It could've been the shoe.)
Alright, back to my topic. My sister Amy's 39th birthday is tomorrow. She just bought her first house, in Chatsworth, and so we were all to meet there, oo and ah over the place, and then go to lunch. Chatsworth is a bit less than 100 miles away; on Mapquest it's supposed to be a 1 hour and 27 minute drive. We were to be there at 11:00am. Okay, no problem.
But. My mother doesn't drive more than 10 miles at a time, in daylight, and not on the freeway, so I had to drive her. Again, no problem.
Except. She calls last week and says, "So honey, I'll get there at 8:30 so we can get to Amy's on time." I tell her that that's way too early, and that we'd get to Amy's house an hour early.
"Well, we'll just have more time to spend with her, and she can open her presents. It will just be easier."
("For whom?" I'm thinking.)
I try to compromise: "How about 9am, Mom? That will give us plenty of time to get down there early, and I can walk the dog and all that without rushing."
"Okay, but I'll still plan on being at your place at 8:30. If you have to do a couple of things, I'll wait."
"Maw-ahm (this is said in an exasperated tone). We don't have to get there so early. Danny's not going to be there until 11:00."
"Fine, if it's too much trouble, you don't have to go. I can always take the train. It goes right to Chatsworth."
This is what I call the "put-upon, Jewish-but-not-really-Jewish, mother" routine. I know she's manipulating me, it totally makes me nuts, and it always works.
"no, no, Mom. It's not that. I just don't want to leave so early. I have a ton of stuff to do before the end of school."
"Sweetheart... I'll get there between 8:30 and 8:40, you take your time, and we'll get there. I just don't want to have to rush once we're on the road."
So I gave in. Hated myself, am whining about it now, but I gave in.
And. This morning? I'm getting dressed, and I hear a car in the drive. It's Mom. What time is it? 8 fucking 12 in the morning. She comes in, I say she's early, have a seat, and she says no, she's going to be sitting for a while in the car. So, I'm racing around the house, trying to get the card and my sister's presents and put the towels away and make sure Charlie has enough water, with her just hovering over me. Saying nothing. Now, I know I should have taken my time, but I got so revved up and angry at her... I was all sweaty and a big old grouch when we got in the car. I did stop at Starbucks to get a coffee, and hopefully kill some time.
We got to Amy's at 10:17. Yes, her house is great, no, I don't care where she puts the zinnias or what color her master bathroom is. Actually, it was great to see her so happy. But, it was also totally boring after the first ten minutes. My brother, Danny? He showed up at 11:45. Of course.
So, we finally get to go to lunch. Nope, Amy has a surprise. We're all going to have a cookout at her house! Just like we used to. All of us together.
This idea was met with silence. See, my mother is a terrible cook, Amy is more adventurous than talented in the kitchen, and my brother and his girlfriend mostly eat takeout and microwaveable food from Trader Joe's.
Danny: "Oh, wouldn't you rather we take you out? No clean up or anything."
Mom: "Honey, that's a sweet idea, but you've been working so hard, let us take you out."
Me: "Yeah Amy, wouldn't you like to go somewhere and get something quick and easy?"
Amy: "No you guys, I got hamburgers, and chips, and diet soda, and stuff to make salad like Mom used to make. We can all help each other."
I need to say here that never in my recollection did my family ever cook together. I remember the kitchen being off limits at all times except when I had express permission from my mother, which was rarely. We certainly were never allowed in there when she was busy. We just got underfoot and in her way.
Oi. But Amy has that sad little puppy look on her face, and it is her birthday, so we all shut up. However. Danny is put in charge of the grill, where he soon drops one of the hamburgers through the grill, and ends up mangling most of the others. He doesn't barbecue. Mom makes the salad she made when we were little: Chopped iceberg lettuce, chopped pickle, cubes of cheddar cheese, sunflower seeds and Parmesan cheese from the big green shaker.
It's not very good.
We ate, we made nice, and I got home around 3:30.
So, here's the question. When it obviously makes another person feel safer, or more comfortable or happier, why is it so annoying when it's simply not what oneself would like to do? Why is it so hard to just let go, and go with it, rather than become all uptight, as I did, and then complain about it here?
Alright, back to my topic. My sister Amy's 39th birthday is tomorrow. She just bought her first house, in Chatsworth, and so we were all to meet there, oo and ah over the place, and then go to lunch. Chatsworth is a bit less than 100 miles away; on Mapquest it's supposed to be a 1 hour and 27 minute drive. We were to be there at 11:00am. Okay, no problem.
But. My mother doesn't drive more than 10 miles at a time, in daylight, and not on the freeway, so I had to drive her. Again, no problem.
Except. She calls last week and says, "So honey, I'll get there at 8:30 so we can get to Amy's on time." I tell her that that's way too early, and that we'd get to Amy's house an hour early.
"Well, we'll just have more time to spend with her, and she can open her presents. It will just be easier."
("For whom?" I'm thinking.)
I try to compromise: "How about 9am, Mom? That will give us plenty of time to get down there early, and I can walk the dog and all that without rushing."
"Okay, but I'll still plan on being at your place at 8:30. If you have to do a couple of things, I'll wait."
"Maw-ahm (this is said in an exasperated tone). We don't have to get there so early. Danny's not going to be there until 11:00."
"Fine, if it's too much trouble, you don't have to go. I can always take the train. It goes right to Chatsworth."
This is what I call the "put-upon, Jewish-but-not-really-Jewish, mother" routine. I know she's manipulating me, it totally makes me nuts, and it always works.
"no, no, Mom. It's not that. I just don't want to leave so early. I have a ton of stuff to do before the end of school."
"Sweetheart... I'll get there between 8:30 and 8:40, you take your time, and we'll get there. I just don't want to have to rush once we're on the road."
So I gave in. Hated myself, am whining about it now, but I gave in.
And. This morning? I'm getting dressed, and I hear a car in the drive. It's Mom. What time is it? 8 fucking 12 in the morning. She comes in, I say she's early, have a seat, and she says no, she's going to be sitting for a while in the car. So, I'm racing around the house, trying to get the card and my sister's presents and put the towels away and make sure Charlie has enough water, with her just hovering over me. Saying nothing. Now, I know I should have taken my time, but I got so revved up and angry at her... I was all sweaty and a big old grouch when we got in the car. I did stop at Starbucks to get a coffee, and hopefully kill some time.
We got to Amy's at 10:17. Yes, her house is great, no, I don't care where she puts the zinnias or what color her master bathroom is. Actually, it was great to see her so happy. But, it was also totally boring after the first ten minutes. My brother, Danny? He showed up at 11:45. Of course.
So, we finally get to go to lunch. Nope, Amy has a surprise. We're all going to have a cookout at her house! Just like we used to. All of us together.
This idea was met with silence. See, my mother is a terrible cook, Amy is more adventurous than talented in the kitchen, and my brother and his girlfriend mostly eat takeout and microwaveable food from Trader Joe's.
Danny: "Oh, wouldn't you rather we take you out? No clean up or anything."
Mom: "Honey, that's a sweet idea, but you've been working so hard, let us take you out."
Me: "Yeah Amy, wouldn't you like to go somewhere and get something quick and easy?"
Amy: "No you guys, I got hamburgers, and chips, and diet soda, and stuff to make salad like Mom used to make. We can all help each other."
I need to say here that never in my recollection did my family ever cook together. I remember the kitchen being off limits at all times except when I had express permission from my mother, which was rarely. We certainly were never allowed in there when she was busy. We just got underfoot and in her way.
Oi. But Amy has that sad little puppy look on her face, and it is her birthday, so we all shut up. However. Danny is put in charge of the grill, where he soon drops one of the hamburgers through the grill, and ends up mangling most of the others. He doesn't barbecue. Mom makes the salad she made when we were little: Chopped iceberg lettuce, chopped pickle, cubes of cheddar cheese, sunflower seeds and Parmesan cheese from the big green shaker.
It's not very good.
We ate, we made nice, and I got home around 3:30.
So, here's the question. When it obviously makes another person feel safer, or more comfortable or happier, why is it so annoying when it's simply not what oneself would like to do? Why is it so hard to just let go, and go with it, rather than become all uptight, as I did, and then complain about it here?
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Material things I could do without, but don't want to.
1. My electric teakettle. It's fast, I never have to wash it, and it has automatic shut off. I messed up two regular tea kettles on the stove before I got the electric one; I’d fill it up, turn on the flame, leave the room, and half an hour, an hour later, I'd come back to a bone dry metal carcass on the stove. (I've also forgotten about eggs that I was boiling. Who knew they exploded when you do that?)
2. Half and Half for the tea I make with aforementioned electric teakettle. I only drink non-fat milk, and try to avoid things like butter and sour cream, but half and half in my English Breakfast tea with a little sugar is just the best way to start the day. It's decadent in a little way.
3. Scented candles. No, these are not necessary for reading at night, nor do I have a bathtub in which I have luxurious relaxation sessions. I just like scents. Some, like Pink Sugar, or Honey Buns, smell comforting and sweet. Others, like Cucumber Sandwiches or Ocean Breeze smell clean and cool. Even others help me relax, like my Vanilla Amber or Beach tins. I even had one, Grenadine and Chinese Lily, that I liked to burn when I was making dinner. It smelled elegant and refined. These candles do cost money, but last a long time. I have enough now that I’ve had to impose a candle-buying moratorium until I’ve used most of them up. Still, I wouldn’t want to give the ones I have away.
4. Netflix. Okay, I gave up Showtime, I gave up HBO, and then I gave up all but basic cable. In April 2004, I gave up cable completely. I get a very fuzzy channel three now (ABC), and once in a while the local PBS station comes in. So, Netflix. I pay about 20 bucks a month, and have 3 movies out at any time. Talk about convenience. No going to the video store and wandering around hoping something will catch my eye, and no running out at 10:50 at night to return my movie in time. Yes, it’s an indulgence, but one I truly enjoy.
5. Kleenex tissues with lotion: I know, what a marketing rip-off, right? No, it isn’t. When you have allergies every six out of seven days, and you are sneezing and wiping your nose nonstop, it’s no time for generic tissues. You know the industrial strength ones in which you can even see tiny bits of bark? They are bad. I buy generic laundry detergent, and generic dish soap. I buy the cheapest brand usually of whatever it is I need. But, not with my tissues. When Kleenex came out with the lotions ones a few years ago, I bought a box just to see what the big whoop was about. I can tell you, it’s a big whoop. No longer do I have to fear wiping my nose will hurt. No more are the sides of my nose red and cracked. No more do I have to worry about those dry little pieces of skin that stay just barely attached to my nostril and make people think I have boogies hanging off my nose. And, the tissues are strong. No more do I have to worry about blowing my nose too hard, and breaking through the tissue into my hand. Yes, this is something I could do without… but am glad I don’t have to.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Debt
I'm terrible with money. I love spending it. I'm horribly materialistic, and most people know of my bath and body product addiction. I don't have a digital camera, or I'd take a picture of all my lotions and shower gels and creams and powders and fragrances. I have enough lotion for eternity, yet I always want more. I don't know why buying things means so much to me, or why I only buy small items. I still have the same tiny TV I bought 7 years ago when I got my own apartment, and I still have the half-price-because-it-was-a-floor-model stereo I bought at Sears over 10 years ago. I've never bought a couch, or a chair or even a coffee table.
Yet I nickel and dime myself to death.
Today I got a phone call from my dentist's office. See, a few months ago, he put in my first crown. Insurance only paid for half of the $1000 price tag. I paid$130 of my bill...Then ignored the monthly statements. Don't ask me why I did that; I know better. Anyway, it was a fairly ominous call stating that I needed to pay the $400 I owed in full. Ouch.
And the thing is, I've been working so hard to pay off my credit card debt. For 5 years, I've been paying about a fourth to a third of my monthly paycheck to my debt. As of July, I should be done. I say should be, because I'm doing it through a credit counseling service. Right now, there's a bit of a problem with the amount that's allocated to each of the remaining credit cards that need to be paid off. It's possible that I will overpay one of them, and not finish paying off another one, but that will be a temporary problem. It will all be worked out by the end of the summer.
Also, my car (and it's 13%!!!) loan will be paid off with my last payment in July. Oh happy day.
But, that doesn't help the immediate situation. $400 is an amount I should have in savings, but I don't. I will figure something out; I always do. I just wish I'd learn.
What is it about spending money I don't really have that is comforting to me? Why do I do it? Do I think I'm going to lose it if I don't spend it right away?
It's a question for the shrink I guess.
I need to go do some calculating.
Yet I nickel and dime myself to death.
Today I got a phone call from my dentist's office. See, a few months ago, he put in my first crown. Insurance only paid for half of the $1000 price tag. I paid$130 of my bill...Then ignored the monthly statements. Don't ask me why I did that; I know better. Anyway, it was a fairly ominous call stating that I needed to pay the $400 I owed in full. Ouch.
And the thing is, I've been working so hard to pay off my credit card debt. For 5 years, I've been paying about a fourth to a third of my monthly paycheck to my debt. As of July, I should be done. I say should be, because I'm doing it through a credit counseling service. Right now, there's a bit of a problem with the amount that's allocated to each of the remaining credit cards that need to be paid off. It's possible that I will overpay one of them, and not finish paying off another one, but that will be a temporary problem. It will all be worked out by the end of the summer.
Also, my car (and it's 13%!!!) loan will be paid off with my last payment in July. Oh happy day.
But, that doesn't help the immediate situation. $400 is an amount I should have in savings, but I don't. I will figure something out; I always do. I just wish I'd learn.
What is it about spending money I don't really have that is comforting to me? Why do I do it? Do I think I'm going to lose it if I don't spend it right away?
It's a question for the shrink I guess.
I need to go do some calculating.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Secrets
Rick's 100 juicy details (look Ma, I did it!) got me thinking about secrets. Then, on a message board I belong to, this link was posted. I loved the idea of the anonymous postcard. And all the art that's out there in every day people, just waiting for a place to be expressed.
But, I don't have many secrets. I really don't. I've always thought about it this way; if I'm an open book, no one will ever be able to "have anything on me." But, it's not like I'm walking around paranoid, thinking someone will want to blackmail me.
Of course, I have things I don't want certain people to know, but I think I'm an emotional exibitionist. I say things people think are inappropriate, or are "too much information," but I like to think I tell the truth.
I've been thinking about this for a few days now. Trying to come up with something, even if it's not truly a secret, that most people don't know about me. Considering that two of the possible three who read this know me better than anyone else, that's a real challenge. Here goes:
But, I don't have many secrets. I really don't. I've always thought about it this way; if I'm an open book, no one will ever be able to "have anything on me." But, it's not like I'm walking around paranoid, thinking someone will want to blackmail me.
Of course, I have things I don't want certain people to know, but I think I'm an emotional exibitionist. I say things people think are inappropriate, or are "too much information," but I like to think I tell the truth.
I've been thinking about this for a few days now. Trying to come up with something, even if it's not truly a secret, that most people don't know about me. Considering that two of the possible three who read this know me better than anyone else, that's a real challenge. Here goes:
- I imagine my death quite often. Actually my memorial service. Who would travel to be there? I think of which stories my friends and family would choose to tell. What kind of person they would say I was. I wonder who would take care of Charlie, and who would read my many journals. Alternately, I see myself seriously injured or ill in the hospital. That's better, because I'd get to see who comes to visit.
- I worry most about dying alone. To whom would I leave my family antiques? The jewelry that's been in my family for generations? The special pieces my mother has given me over the years?
- I imagine writing novels with thinly veiled references to all the people who have done badly by me or hurt me.
- Sometimes I think I'm impossible to love.
See, everything I write in terms of secrets is all the "poor me" kinda stuff that no one wants to read anyway. It's not interesting or charming or witty.
I suspect I'm not the only one with these secrets.
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