Yesterday

Yesterday my friend's dog died. Very suddenly and painfully from "Bloat." I don't know exactly what Bloat is, but it causes the animals insides to burst. I haven't been able to talk to Victoria yet, and she's the kind of person that keeps everyone at arm's length. That dog was everything to her. Everything. Victoria doesn't let people in, doesn't want help, comfort or pity ever, and feels safest when she's acting tough.

You might wonder how she and I became friends. Well, she's also smart and funny, and we used to enjoy each other's company quite a bit. Over the last year I got weary of her "toughness" and have backed off. Her dog though, is my dog's first friend. A great big galump of a dog, a Rotwieller mix, who was wandering the freeway one day. Victoria found her and adopted her. Cookie was so laid back she was almost asleep. She protected Charlie from other dogs when play got too rough, but she wasn't a rough and tumble dog herself.

I couldn't stop crying last night. I will miss Cookie deeply, but I can't imagine how hard this must be for Victoria. I'm anticipating she will not want any kind of sympathy or soothing words. which makes me feel sorry for her too. I don't know what to do when I see her. Somehow, along the way, she learned to act like this, and just continues to do so. Something like this happens, and she has no way to allow those feelings out.

Selfishly, I want to do something for her, share my own feelings of sadness with her, give her a hug. But I don't think she will let that happen.

The dog park/party possibility 

Non-linear thinking day

Yesterday was a full day. A good one, but busy. Went on the trail behind my house again, and scoped out the doggie park for the doggie party I plan to have soon. Then we went to Stella Mare's, for my brother's 43rd birthday. While there I had the best hamburger in my whole life. It was Kobe beef, with Fontina cheese, Arugula, garlic mayo (which they called "aioli" which always cracks me up), and basalmic vinegar-marinated, grilled onions. It was amazingly tasty, and well worth the $14 price tag.

It might have tasted so wonderful because I was truly hungry. See, I started Weight Watchers three and a half weeks ago, and I'm doing pretty well. Have lost 10.6 pounds already. The big change for me is that I'm not eating anything I want, any time I want it. I'm paying attention. And man, does food taste better now or what? Sheesh.

I'll write about it in more detail another time, but my goodness, it's not that hard at all. I can still eat all the things I want to eat, but I plan to now, instead of just jamming whatever's around into my face (that could be rude, but I'm talking about food here people).

After the birthday lunch, Mom and I went to Nordstrom's. I had a dress on hold there from another store, which I had to try on. It was too big! heh. I felt good about that. I still have to shop in the large Marge section (the big woman's sizes) which somehow are always housed on the top floor of department stores, behind the bedding and housewares sections. I've never seen a petites section hidden away like that, only the fat women clothes. Which generally are comprised of tunics and track suits. Bitter I am about that. Anyway, we get to the section, and there's a model showing off some clothes...some kind of event, and the saleslady greets us as we walk up to the racks,
"Hi! We're having a celebration today. Please help yourself to cake and some punch."

Okay, we aren't big enough? They are serving cake in the Women's section of the store! The regular sizes are in the "misses" section, and then there's the petite and junior sections. Which are all on the second floor together. Are they serving cake in those sections? I think not. Probably serving carrot sticks and celery juice. Anyway, I thought it was funny. And I didn't have any cake.

Around five o'clock, Charlie and I got in the car and trundled off to Ojai to visit my friends who just bought a house there. I brought the Setgame that em introduced me too last year. Buy it, and have fun. We ate great Mexican food (still counting my points) and had a good time. The drive is about 45 minutes each way, and I got home around eleven. Very late for me.

Lastly, if you have time, go read Stacked. The post about the Camel's nose really rang true for me.

Trying again

Okay, so yesterday I didn't get to what I wanted to talk about; I'm going to try again today. Here's the question: When do other's needs and comfort levels become more important than our own?

I find so often in my little world, that people are so concerned with their own immediate desires that they dismiss anyone else's. Kindness is forgotten in the pursuit of personal demands.

Having been the recipient of this lack of kindness many times in my life, I try hard (and only sometimes successfully) to keep kindness in my life. When I meet a man who's kind, I am very impressed, and usually attracted to him.

This isn't to say that I'm the poster child for kindness and thoughtfulness; I have been known to hurt others feelings unintentionally because I didn't think enough ahead to see how someone else might interpret my words or actions. And that is a kind of carelessness. Yes, we can't always guess how another will react to what we do, but we can try.

Back to the question above. Where is the line? Where do you draw the line between you and other people when it comes to kindness?

An example. There's a woman at school, and I don't care for her. I've worked with her for almost 10 years, and at first I couldn't explain it. She tries to be friendly, but something about her bugged me. I felt guilty about not liking her, since I had no good reason I could articulate for that dislike. She wore far too much perfume, so I avoided sitting next to her at lunchtime, but again, not a reason for dislike. However, over the years, I've found that my instinct was right. She's not nice to the students she works with, and she butts into conversations she's not a part of. It feels sometimes that she's eavesdropping, but I don't think she intends that.

Okay. So almost every year I have a Christmas party at my house. I invite everyone at work to come. My friend Michelle asked me, "Why'd you invite Sally? I thought you didn't like her?"

And there's my little act of kindness. I may not care for Sally, but I don't want to intentionally hurt her feelings. I invite everyone from school, because I don't want anyone to feel left out. The people who are my friends come, and the people I don't socialize with, don't come. Yes, there's one or two people that attend that I wouldn't hang out with otherwise, but is two hours with them in my house with a bunch of other people so horrible that I would risk hurting their feelings? No.

This is a tiny thing. I know I'm not going to change the world with this. Again though, it goes back to what's more important; our feelings or other's feelings? I don't think there's an answer. They are both important. I don't think anyone should be a doormat, nor do I think we should have to drastically change our personalities to suit someone or another's needs. On the other hand, thinking of others before only thinking of ourselves isn't a bad way to go.

I posted a bit ago about being careful. This comes up most often with my students. I am always careful to say things in a constructive way, rather than a negative way. Well, I always try to do that. When my first instinct is to say,
"You are actually going to turn that piece of illegible crap in to me as your essay?" I edit myself to say,
"You know, this looks like a great first draft. Now you're ready to do some editing, aren't you?"

It's part of my job as a teacher. I've let the student know what he or she needs to do next, and I haven't hurt their feelings. Our feelings get hurt enough in this world. It takes a bit more thought to speak this way, but it's worth it in the end.

I used to attend, and then work at a summer camp in the Southern California mountains. There was a group who used to come in and use the camp after our camps had run. They had a big banner they'd put up in the dining hall each August:

"Everyone, at all times, is doing their best."

When I get too judgmental, this is what I try to remember. Even when the person being judged is myself.

talking

The three of you that read this have probably noticed I don't post too much during the week. When I do post, I write a lot, just like I talk.

Tornwordo's blog the other day about annoying things one does, got me thinking. I do lots of things that probably bother people. Most of the time not so much that they won't speak to me again, but still.

Introspection is not new to me; I'm pretty aware of most of my flaws: I talk far too much, I like to be the center of attention, I'm a sore loser...and even a worse winner, of board games, I can be blunt to the point of rudeness, I can be far too honest when I don't have to be, I complain a lot, I can be very whiny, did I say I talk too much? I am very loud at times, and I can be quite a gossip. I brag sometimes too.

Now, none of these things are done to cause pain... well most of them aren't, yet I've had people tell me I needed to change some of them. That's fine, I expect my friends to tell me when I'm out of line. I want my friends to tell me when I'm out of line (even when they don't want the very same thing back from me... but that's another post). What's strange is which flaws seem to bug people the most; the talking too much and the complaining too much. Not the gossiping, not the poor sportsmanship, not even the bragging. Those are things I find distasteful about myself, and am trying to improve upon.

But the talking? I've been talking since I was 9 months old. Seriously, full on words at 9 months. I love words. I talk in my sleep. So much that I have friends who won't share a hotel room with me. Actually though, most think that little quirk is funny. Anyway...

Anyone who's met me, knows within the first hour that I am constantly speaking. I'm a junior high school English teacher... I talk all day long. I've been blogging only a few months, but have kept a diary or a journal since I was in the second grade. I still have that first diary. A yucky, muddy, 1972 shade of yellow, with one of those drawings of a sad kid with big eyes on the front, and "my diary" in loopy letters stamped in gold. It still has the lock (broken by my older brother) on it.

So, even when not making any noise, I was and am still talking. I don't know why. It truly is the way I am. It hasn't gotten in the way of my having some fabulous friends. People whose friendship proves to me that I can't be that bad a person, because why would someone as cool as he or she be friends with me for so long unless I had some special qualities? Remember when your mom used to say, "You have to like yourself first, before anyone else will like you"? Later, all the self-help books said you had to "Love yourself first, before you're ready to share that love with other people."

I always thought that was bullshit. I used to say to my mom, "How am I supposed to like myself if no one else does?" I still think it goes both ways. Maybe I'm not as evolved as some folk, but I always feel better about myself when I have friends. For one thing, I have a lot less time to mull over all my shortcomings.

So, back to those who have told me that they see my talking too much as a fault. I wonder why that is? Interrupting, which I also do, is bad, but just talking a lot? I have a lot to say. I'm sure everyone does, but I don't paint, nor do I invent things, or even have children to put my energy into. My art, my expression is my voice. I think out loud, and I think a lot. Sometimes I can be very boring. I know that. I've even bored myself, and that's an uncomfortable feeling, let me tell you. I tell my students "I don't need to know every thought you have the moment you are having it," when they interrupt me, but I'm sure at times I do the same thing.


What's funny right now, after reading back over what I have just written, is that it's nothing that I intended to write tonight. It's just what came out. Kind of like how I talk. I go ahead, say what I say, and go with it. Sometimes it's fruitful, and sometimes it isn't. But, it's always who I am.

filling up every moment

I'm not a type A personality type. I like downtime. I like lots of it, although I haven't had much of it lately. I spent four hours at school yesterday, planning out the whole week, trying to make sure I addressed state standards at all time, gave appropriate homework, and wrote up a vocabulary quiz. I like planning, actually, just wish there was more time to do it in the work day. I do not like going in on weekends.

Today, things went well, but I had a meeting at 4:00pm. It was for BTSA, (Beginning Teachers Something or Another), for which I am a "support provider teacher."

This two year program is for new teachers, and they must complete it to earn their clear teaching credential. It sounds good in theory, but it takes up a hell of a lot of time. Far more for the new teachers than the support teachers.

Problem is, no one in their right mind wants to be a support provider. Here's what it entails:

• 18 hours of trainings, either from 4-7pm after school or 8-3pm Saturday sessions.
• Monthly meetings/seminars with the BTSA program "team" These are actually called "events." They run 2-3 hours.
• Hourly meetings each week with the participating teacher

But surely you are compensated, you ask?

Yes. At the end of the school term, I will receive an $1100 stipend. I have to pay taxes and other fun stuff on it, so it's really closer to $800, but whatever.

I worked it out; it's approximately $15 an hour. It's not what I make as a teacher. I actually make more per hour just doing lunch duty every day.

Why didn't I say "no"? There are a few reasons. One was that I was asked during our first English department meeting, in front of the person who needed a support teacher. Put right on the spot. Stuttering and stammering I tried,

"But I don't even know what it entails. I don't know the time commitment, or what the responsibilities are."

Our department chair, who is a friend of mine, and is also a support provider said,

"Well, you have to go to a couple of trainings (there are 6!) and you get paid. Pretty well too (no, not pretty well). You are the only one who has been here long enough to do it (that's true. We have two 2nd year teachers, and our one brand new teacher. We also have two transfer teachers who, although they are not new, are not equipped to be a mentor teacher just yet. My department chair is doing it for the 2nd year teachers, and also getting $2000 for it, but for the same amount of time), and we have to do this (we? Where's the we? I believe she is saying I have to do this).

I wiffled and waffled, but broke down and said I'd do it.

So it was my choice, and I shouldn't complain, but I am. I feel like I got cornered into this, and although Jackie is a lovely person, it is an astonishing amount of time. The state of California set this up, and so of course it's full of forms and requirements that don't necessarily help new teachers. They have to do it though, or they won't get their credential. The state has set it up so there is immense guilt if you don't "help out" the new teacher and mentor him or her. It's not that I don't want to help, but if I can only give it in the way that is dictated by the state, I would like some more money for that please.

What would've happened if I had said "no"? I don't know. There's got to be situations in which that's happened. Then what?

Oh yeah, I know, looks good on my resume. Yeah. Because where I live is such a hole, right?

I'm not leaving. Besides, my school district is the only one in town.

This is such a pain in the butt.

tired puppies, a bag of poop, and Katrina's leg 

A picnic kinda place 

a meandering stream (one of the two terms I remember from Geology 101. The other is Glaciation). 

First little creek crossing 

The trail behind my house

Okay, I've been here two years now, and I've never explored the horse/hiking trail behind my house. It goes from the end of my street to Tucker's Grove, a local park about two miles away.

Katrina and I met at the park with our dogs, we left her car there, and then I drove the whole lot of us back to my house. We set off.

It was lovely, and I'm a bit ashamed of myself for not going before now. I never had someone to go with me, and since it is rather isolated back there, I haven't gone alone. What about Charlie you ask? Okay, so technically I wouldn't be alone, but if something happened out there, Charlie's just not the "Timmy fell down the well and needs your help" kind of dog.

To those of you who don't know me, the picture is of Katrina and her dog Jelly, not me. I'm trying to figure out how to add another picture within my blog, but after my writing, but I may not be successful. That is the view of the Santa Ynez foothills, and is also the view I have from my street. This was just a couple hundred yards in from the trail head, and it looks like we're out in the country. Which we are. Sortof. Not really.

If my mail is on a rural route, does that count?

Anyway, there was a little creek, and we crossed over a dam, and it was shaded most of the way, and Charlie didn't putz too much. We watched out for poison oak, which the dogs ignored, and I took lots of pictures of the pooches. We didn't run into any horses, although you could see evidence quite often along the way of their travels on the same path. And, that evidence of which I speak was as interesting to the dogs as the poison oak was not.

"Charlie NO!" was heard quite often on the trail, as I raced to keep him from dive bombing into fresh horse poop. I did a decent job of it.

Charlie did well crossing over the tippy stones in the creek, and didn't get too wet. I didn't fall in either, which is a minor miracle.

At the park, the trail ended at a large field. One which is now an off-leash play area for dogs. Whoo boy! I didn't know about this place. Somewhere Charlie can run and eat grass and not get too dirty off-leash. It was an added bonus. There were picnic areas with barbecue stations, a bathroom, and a water fountain. What a great place to have a doggie friendly party.

Got me thinking. What about throwing Charlie a birthday party? I know, how lame... but see, it's not for him, not really (god, I hope he's not logging on and reading this when I'm at work). It's for us, the doggie owners. The doggie owners who aren't allowed to bring our lovely guys to parties. Those same parties to which people bring their toddlers and young children. Those parties that could have been fun, but instead end up being all about whether Alexi's boo boo needs a kiss, or whether Kevin's hot dogs are cut up in small enough pieces. Parties where we have to edit our conversations because "little pitchers have big ears." Parties that end at 8:30 because it's past Sammy's bedtime.

I sound bitter, but I'm not. I'm just excited about the thought of a party specifically encouraging people to bring their dogs. I think my dog takes up a lot less time, space and concern than a child, yet he's not allowed a lot of places that noisy, screamy, demanding kids are. That's life, and I'm not going to cry about it.

However, I am going to plan this party.

Maybe we can all hike to it first on the trail behind my house?

Being bitchy

I'm still in a bad mood today.

Yesterday I was called "bitchy" by someone whose opinion of me matters. Something I said was taken differently than I intended, and feelings were hurt. I hate hurting feelings, but I hate being misunderstood as well.

Every day I have to weigh my words. Make sure my comments are inclusive of all beliefs, lifestyles, genders and political views. Call on the girls 50% of the time, the boys the other 50%. Give individual attention to all my 137 students, and be careful to say and do nothing that might damage their self-esteem. Check up on any students that miss a homework assignment, and make personal contact with every parent or guardian.

Then, last night, I had to speak for an hour and a half, with only four 4-minute breaks, to the parents of my students. I had to give an overview of my curriculum, course of instruction, classroom culture, grading and discipline policies, the California State standards for 8th grade English, and do so without faltering or leaving anything out. I had to reassure parents that I am capable, experienced, and above all, love their children as they do. I had to be diplomatic with the parents of the Honors student, who feel their child is better than others, and again with the parents of the Reading students, who don't know why their child is behind in school.

Careful all the fucking time.

I get home, and the satellite television has been installed. Except, my landlady tells me, it couldn't be installed in my place with the same dish. So she paid the $50 to have another one installed on my roof. She told me that I could "pay her back if I wanted." Uh huh. Of course I'm going to pay her back (I'm the one who didn't get the rent raised in August, remember?).

Oh yeah, she also slipped the guy $20 to install it without an official charge. So again she says, "well, that was my decision, so you can decide what to do about that." Again, I know where my bread is buttered, so I pay her that too. So, that's the $70 I spoke of last night. But here's the thing. I am not getting any regular stations. No ABC, no CBS, nothing. I get the flippin golf channel, and QVC, but no regular broadcast channels. The banner shows up for the local channels, but there's no picture. Which means no Lost, no CSI, no Alias.

Here's the kicker. Because I'm on my landlady's bill, I can't call and complain to DirectTv. I know there's a way to get the channels, I just don't know what it is. I can't find out, because I'm not allowed to call.

So, on and on the polite, carefully worded utterances out of my mouth. I try again today to find out what's going on from my landlady, but she's been "too busy" to deal with it. See, she's leaving on a three-week trip Monday. So, unless it's taken care of today, it won't get taken care of. I don't want to be pushy, and I know that while there's so many folks without drinkable water, I shouldn't complain, but I do. I'm not interested in watching 6oo weird channels. I just want to see a few shows that are premiering next week.

And I'm tired of being careful.

Today was crap

God I'm in a pissy mood.

What an awful day. And I'm out $70 fucking bucks. God damn it.

Back-to-school night

The rant's gonna be short today; this is one of those days that try me.

I have a reading meeting at 8:00 this morning. I have to bring all "data, instruction, curriculum and assessment" materials to this meeting. "Data, instruction, curriculum and assessment" is the new mantra this year. Last year it was "contractuality and accountability." Is contractuality even a word?

Anyway, in this meeting, I'm supposed to explain what all the material means to my principal. See, I'm the reading coordinator at my school. Great job. I love it. Really. I mean it.

That's another thing you don't hear too much about. The unsaid demand that you run a club, sit on a committee and volunteer for other jobs. Yes, I get an extra $1000 a year to be the reading coordinator, but the thing is, if I didn't do these extra things, I wouldn't be considered a "team player." Just last year, another teacher's contract wasn't renewed (which is a nice way to say she was canned), and one of the reasoned cited was that she didn't get "involved" enough with the school. Meaning she hadn't started any clubs (no pay for that) or sat on any committees (no pay for that either). These things aren't part of our contract, and they actually take away from the time we could be spending at school working on student work, grading papers, lesson planning, speaking with parents, etc. I think student clubs are great. We need committees for different reasons. What I get frustrated with is how it's just another expectation of all teachers to participate in these extra activities.

Did I tell you the meeting is only 15 minutes long? Yep. Oh, and did I tell you we only got our students properly placed three days ago? So I don't really have any data, other than the standardized test scores that placed the kids in the program in the first place. We all know how accurate those test scores are, don't we?

This is where I belong

My classroom. I was there until 7:45 last night. People think, "oh, but you have summers off." Or maybe, "But you get to leave by 3 o'clock."

That's only partially true. It's not that I'm complaining about what I do, I'm complaining about the misunderstanding so many people have about what I do.

I've been entrusted with the teaching of the 62 California state English standards. No wait, not just teaching, but assessing how well the students have acquired those state standards. Also, I must work with my fellow teachers in the school and district so that we have common assessments of our students.

What that means is that we are supposed to be giving the same tests. Tricky, considering that I might be teaching metaphor and alliteration with The House on Mango Street, and another teacher might be doing it with a poetry unit. Ah... there's the push. There's nothing our administration would like better than to have all teachers on the same page of the same book on the same day.

And developing these common assessments? We aren't given any extra time or release time to create these. We're just supposed to have them. If we don't, and our students don't continue to make improvements every year on the state standards test, we will be sanctioned by the state and the federal government.

We are supposed to, by the year 2014, have all students at all grade levels, perform at 100% proficiency on these standardized tests. Tests that were not created by teachers, by the way. Testing standards such as this one:

Literary Response and Analysis, Structural Features of Literature:
3.1 Determine and articulate the relationship between the purposes and characteristics of different forms of poetry (e.g., ballad, lyric, couplet, epic, elegy, ode, sonnet).

Do you know the difference between an elegy and an ode? I didn't either; had to look it up. Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's good to have standards. Just not standards that force us to treat students as if they were a product on an assembly line.

I've heard people say we need to use a business model to "fix" our schools. Bullshit. I'm a teacher. I work with kids. Kids who have lives outside of school. I can't control anything other than the 49 minutes or so they get with me. Students are not widgits. They don't all perform at the same time and the same way. And I don't want them to.

Oi. I have to go. I've only gotten started on this rant. Just you wait.

Runny nose, itchy skin

My nose has been running and dripping for the last few days. Fall must be on its way. I have horrible allergies, but they act up the most during the dry, fly around in the air time. Spring isn't so bad.

I take Claritin, but it really doesn't help all that much. There's some nasal spray thing that I have been prescribed, but it's so gross to use. I guess it's my own fault.

Charlie's been itching like crazy the last few days too. He's got his own doggie antihistamine, and when it gets really bad, I give him benydryl too (his vet told me too. Don't worry, I'm not medicating my dog on my own).

The gardeners are coming today, and I remembered to shut my windows, so a fine (or not so fine) layer of grit doesn't meet me when I get home, after they use the $%^#!! leafblowers on the driveway.

I have my house, and my dog, and my antihistamines. I have a good job, and nice clothes. I'm going to have different television stations to watch. I have a car that works, and a mom I love that lives in town.

Things are good.

Post 100

Wow.

Blogging has broken my writer's block. I'm not writing every day, but that's okay; I'm not one for strict rules. At least, not that I set for myself anyway.

I raced home at lunch today (only get 33 minutes) to put Charlie dog in the bedroom. Usually he's not allowed in there at all when I'm gone, but today was the day the satellite TV guys were coming to install our new system. I was thrilled. I've been without most channels for a year and a half now, and although most of the time I don't miss it, there are times, like tonight, when it would be a welcome addition to my nightlife.

Anyway, Charlie gets all freaked out when strangers come in, and he has tried to bite my landlady twice (what do you think she must smell like for him, the half-chicken dog, to try and bite her?), so I put him in the bedroom. I was coming home at 3:30 today, so it wasn't so bad. Besides, he loves to jump up on the bed.

But, I get home at 3:30, and no satellite dish. My landlady called me and said that there was a mixup, and they'll be here on Thursday instead. Sometime between one and five o' clock. So, bedroom banishment again for the wee little doggie. Except that Thursday is also back-to-school night. A hideous evening of 15-minute classes with the oh-so-involved parents of my students. It starts at 7pm, and I am basically non-stop talking until it's over.
"But Becky, you like talking."
Not like this, I don't. I have no problem standing in front of 35 junior high school students. I've done Kareoke many many times. I've even gone to open-mike night and read my poetry into a microphone.

But parents?
eek.

It's just exhausting. Last year was the best when a man brought not one, not two, but three pet lizards with him. Really. And, he was wearing a neck brace.

Someone didn't get enough attention when he was a child.

Anyway, I also have an 8am meeting that day with the principal, an English department meeting from 8:15 to 9:15am (it's late start Thursday), a full day of classes, my afterschool tutoring group, and then a meeting at the high school at 3:30 for our increased insurance costs ($171 more a month out of my paycheck than last year. Did I tell you I don't get any kind of raise this year? And I won't get another raise, except Cost-of-living, if the f%$#ing school board deigns to pass it on to us, until 2010. Isn't that charming?), I have to be back at school at 6:30 at the latest, but... really I need to be there sooner unless I want to park in Oregon.

When am I going to put Charlie in the bedroom? When am I going to be able to let him out?

Oh yeah, I have to dress up really nice and professional-like for this.

I can't wait.

On a happier note, I took Charlie for a walk today at the off-leash park near the beach, and when I came around a turn, I heard fluttery wind chimes. Someone had hung a tiny little one from the branches of an old Cypress tree that sits out on a ledge overlooking the sea. It made me smile.

Couple loads of laundry done

I like doing laundry, I don't even mind folding it, but for some reason I hate putting it away. I'm not the only one either. Why is that? What is the deal with putting stuff away? I am not a tidy person, and anyone who has ever been to my house knows that, but still, I wash, I clean, and then leave stuff out. I have skirts and shirts hanging from hangers from doorknobs when they just as easily could be hanging from the closet rack. I have folded piles of clothes on top of my dresser and chair and in my laundry basket, when they could be in my bureau drawers.

I have a pile of shoes on my bathroom floor. It would take me all of three minutes to put them all away neatly, but I don't. I think about it, but I don't do it.

The only way my house gets straightened up is to have guests over. Then, I clean furiously, run out of time, and then start jamming things willy nilly into boxes, which I don't like to do.

See, if you do look into my cupboards, or drawers or closets, you'll see that I'm not a "stuffer" I don't like just stuffing things away (I'll do it, if I have to, but I don't like it). Everything is organized and neat. I have short sleeve shirts in one place, pajamas and nightgowns somewhere else, tank tops and shorts here, long sleeves and turtlenecks there. My mess is right out there for everyone to see.

I wonder if there's some metaphor there. You know, how we keep our home is really a reflection of who we are?

I don't like to get rid of things. Something reminds me of that summer we went water skiing at the lake, or I was reading this book when I met that new friend. Or, I might use this some day. I'm not a knick knacky person though. Just catches dust as far as I'm concerned.

Let's go back to the metaphor. I'm not a secretive person, and I usually don't hide things (like my mess) away. I like to think I have my head on straight, and know myself pretty well, and really, if you look closely, I am pretty well organized on a basic level when it comes to my home.

My ex-roommate had a girlfriend (now his wife) whom I didn't like, for a number of reasons. One was that I thought she was deceitful. I never knew when she was telling the truth. She was all about appearances. Her idea of cleaning was to shove dirty dishes into the cupboards with the clean ones, to take the towels in my bathroom (that she had used to remove her make-up) and throw them on the garage floor near the washer, and to spray lime-scented air spray instead of actually taking out the garbage.

The most telling moment with her was when she grabbed the dish towel, you know the one used to dry clean dishes? and used it to wipe the green goo that was coming out of her four-year-old daughter's nose. Bad enough, yet with my own eyes I saw her put the towel back on the handle of the oven where we kept it.

Somehow, she met a man (my roommate), a smart man (usually), with a kind heart and a reliable work ethic, yet here I am, single as ever, with no prospects, possibilities or chances at all in the present.

How fair is that?

Metaphors. I could go on and on.

Maybe appearances are more important than I've given them credit for.

Because you know dahling,

"It's not how you feel, it's how you look. No one really cares how you feel. But you looook Mah-ve-lous!"

The Movies

What they taught me:

When you want to emphasize something, repeat it.

If you’re fat, you’d better be funny.

Cool people only shop at boutiques.

Always have a place to throw your keys when you walk in the door.

All good apartments have hardwood floors.

Staring deeply at someone for at least 5 seconds means you are about to kiss them.

Old women in housecoats are always nosy.

If you take a bath, always have lots of lit candles around.


What they taught me which later I found out wasn't true:

No one ever slobbers when kissing.

Only drug addicts have bad hair days.

Someone else always picks up the dog doo and cleans the litter box.

Crime doesn’t pay.

Teachers are either evil or self-sacrificing martyrs.

Any problem can be solved in 2 hours and 20 minutes.

People with money are shallow.

You can transform the “plain” girl by taking off her glasses, putting mousse in her hair, and giving her a pair of high heels.

All New Yorkers have 7 locks on their front doors.

If you want to steal computer files from and office, just dress up like the cleaning crew.

When two people of the opposite sex are yelling at each other, they end up making out on the floor.

Men with mullets beat their wives and drink Budwieser.


What they didn’t teach me:

One can attend four years of college without smoking pot, getting pregnant, or attending a fraternity party.

Sometimes, you don’t talk to your seatmate on the plane.

Very silly sounds happen during sex.

Some adults dislike coffee.

High school reunions are usually held at the Elk’s Club and still revolve around the popular kids.

Eating lobster with a bib is rarely sexy.

No one sits on a window seat, looking wistfully out at the rain.

True love does not always conquer all.

Just read this

This is what is going on.

More and more

You know, when even Good Morning America is pointing out that FEMA isn't anywhere to be found, that's something.

I don't have cable, and so have missed most of the television coverage this last week. I do get a fuzzy Channel 3, which is the ABC station here in town. This morning I watched as people asked questions of the Governor of LA, and of the Deputy Director of FEMA. Both just skirted question after question. It was pointless.

The water is finally starting to recede, and the mayor of NO says there may be up to 10,000 dead when this is all over.

I say that number is low.

Is there anyone out there who really thinks our government is doing the best they can?

And since when does being the head of an Arabian Horse Racing association make you qualified for disaster response?

I may only be a junior high school teacher, but it sure doesn't make sense to me.

Mama and the Train (no, I didn't throw her off)

My sister lives in the San Fernando Valley. I've written about driving there before. It's less than two hours, and most of the drive is on a large highway that few people use. It's an easy jaunt.

There is also an Amtrack station about a mile away from her house. She has been urging my mother and me to take the train and go visit her for a weekend. Me? I prefer to drive. Besides, Charlie isn't allowed on the train in any circumstances.

Last weekend Mom calls me and says she's going to go down and see Amy on Friday, and come back on Saturday on the train, and would I like to go too? I remind her about the no pets policy, the fact that it's Labor Day weekend, and that it's the first week of school and I am swamped with stuff to do.
"Are you sure Charlie can't come on the train?"
"Yes Mom, I went into the station downtown and asked a real live person."
"Oh."
Long silence.

I told her I would love to go some other time when I could drive, but I needed more notice.

Okay, so the end of my first week of school comes along. School gets out at 2:30 for most kids, and I'm in my room trying to get set up for this week, so I don't have to come in over the weekend. Around 3pm, my cell phone rings.
"Oh hi honey. I'm about to go now to Amy's. I'm going to drive...even though I didn't want to leave my car at the station...I'm driving over to the station now. I wanted to get a taxi but they said they don't have any cabs available right now... it's not such a good place... the train station... to leave my car.... but it's only overnight..."

"Mom? Wait a minute. I don't get what you're saying. When does your train leave?"

"Um, three-thirty. Yes, around three thirty. But I want to get over there early enough so I don't miss my train, and I'm worried if I wait for a taxi I'll miss the train. I called Yellow Cab, and they said they are all booked up right now, and you know Rose Cab never shows up. I said I'd never use Blue Dolphin cab again. It's just that the station isn't in the best part of town you know..."

(Okay, first off, my mom lives about 2 miles from the station. Also, it's not like our town is a huge city. It's small, and the "bad" areas just have less paint. It's not like gangs and streetwalkers are hanging out by the station. The station is actually right next to a citrus grove. Yeah, a real bad element there. Lastly, there are about 10 cab companies she could use. If you read closely, you'll see that she only called one. Then called me. Just to say "goodbye." Uh-huh.)

"Mom, I could take you."

(I know, shut up. I offered myself up to it this time, I know.)

"Oh no honey. I couldn't ask you to do that. That's not why I called. Oh, but it would help out so much... no, you have things to do, don't you? You don't want to come all the way out here, do you?"

Well, no. But that's not what I said. Besides, as I said before, it's a small place. She's acting like I'm going to have to drive 30 miles to get her. She lives six miles away from where I work.

"It's okay Mom. I have to go out and pay rent anyway, since I forgot yesterday. I'll be out there in a few minutes."

"Are you sure dear? I mean, it would be such a big help, but I don't want to put you out. I just called to tell you I was going, I didn't mean for you to have to take me..."

So she's outside her apartment building waiting for me. We get to the station, and she looks at the ticket again.
"Oh, I wasn't right, the train comes closer to 4 o'clock. "

Yep, I didn't have to rush, the train comes at 3:57. Well, I guess in her mind that's close enough to 3:30, right?

I wait with her until we see the train come up, and I send her off. I go and buy notebooks for my students who said they couldn't afford the $1.59 ones I asked them to get. I use the $20 my mom stuffed into my glove box "for gas." She's always doing that. We argue about it, and she wins. My sister and I have this plan to start a savings account for her just with the money she gives us. It bugs me that she feels the need to pay me for doing a favor. I go pay my rent, buy a bunch of fruit and vegetables at the grocery store, and head home.

My sister calls at ten to six.

"Becky? Mom is stuck on the train. They haven't left yet."
"What? I put her on the train when it came in the station! Why didn't she call me?"

Amy tells me how Mom called her and said that there had been a problem with a freight train, and so all the other trains were backed up. There was going to be up to a three-hour delay. Amy suggested they do the visit another time, but no, Mom was already on the train, and she was comfortable. Amy then suggested calling me and at least getting a bite to eat while she waited, but no again. What if they train left while she was off of it? It was up to a three-hour wait, but it could be shorter. So, instead of 6:27, Mom would get in closer to 9:30pm. That is, if the train really did get going in three hours.

So, why did Amy call me? Well, you see, Mom has this thing where she turns off her cell phone except when she's using it. She doesn't want to 'wear out the battery." She will get quite cross at times when I don't answer my phone for some reason or another, but if I talk about how I can't reach her she says, "if the battery runs down, then where will I be?"

I've told her many times, "Just plug it in and charge it every night." but she doesn't. She finally told me that the guy at the cell phone place told her "it's better for the battery to let it run down almost all the way before charging it again."

I think she just doesn't want to be bothered with charging it, and so made up the story about the cell phone guy.

And so, there's no way to get ahold of Mom, so Amy wants me to drive out to the station again to see if Mom will get off now. She's thinking it's going to be too late when Mom arrives for them to do anything, and that Mom must be hungry by now. If we could call her, it would solve all this, but we can't.

I know, some of you cell-phone-less folks are thinking, "well, what would you have done before you all had cell phones?"

The point is, we do all have cell phones, Mom just chooses not to use hers in a way that's convenient for anyone else.

I don't really want to go out there, as I had just gotten home, and I wanted to relax. Besides, what if the train left already? No, Amy tells me that Mom said she'd call when the train got going again. So, yes, I get in the car and head out there again.

There is a train off to the side at the station, but not one where people can board. I walk the length of the boarding area, trying to see into the train, but it seems empty. None of the doors are open, and I see no one on it. I call my sister and tell her what I see.
"That's weird."
"Yeah, so what do you want me to do now?"

Amy then calls "Julie" the voice message system for Amtrack. Julie doesn't help much, so she gets on the phone with a live person. She then calls me back on her cell phone, and is trying to talk to both of us at the same time. It's not too successful, and I start to get annoyed.

Finally, we figure out that the train isn't at our station, and hasn't gotten to the next one. It's stopped in the middle somewhere, so Mom couldn't get off now if she wanted to.

Argh.

I leave a message for Mom to call me if she wants me to pick her up at the next station, and tell Amy to tell her that if she calls.

Then I sit at home, drinking diet Pepsi in case I have to pick her up. And I really wanted a glass of wine.

At 9 or so, Amy calls and says Mom's staying on the train. Great.

Then, Saturday? Mom's ride back? Some train hit a car on the same track (an empty car, no one was hurt), and there was going to be at least a 4-hour delay.

Amy had to drive Mom home.

The mundane

So, I have now found out that the worst thing to do when you have a fresh fruit stain (in my case, blackberry, on my brand new light blue hooded sweat shirt) is to put Shout or some other stain remover on it. Do they tell you this on the back of the Shout bottle? Of course not.

Yesterday at the barbecue, I popped a berry in my mouth, bite down before I shut my mouth all the way, and squirt... three drops of deep purple juice right down my front. I didn't spill any margaritas, even though those are served in the stupid tippy glasses that are just a pain to drink from. No, no. I had to get the most difficult stain to remove.

So, of course, I ran into Katrina's laundry room and sprayed Shout on it. When I got home last night, I sprayed Wine Away on it too. Then, this morning, come to find out that you aren't supposed to do that. That one should use ice water as soon as possible to get the stain out. Barring that, Vinegar is supposed to do the trick.

Too late now. Darn it. And usually I wear my ratty old black sweatshirt, but not last night. If it was black, it wouldn't show. Since it's ratty, I don't care as much about it.

But nope. Had to be wearing the new one.

So, remember folks: FRuit stains need FReezing water.

(I know it's stupid, but think how I feel).

Reading and Writing

My students sometimes ask me, "Why do we have to read? Can't we just watch the movie?"

Reading what someone else has written, with words I wish were mine, connects me in a way that movies or television can't. My friend Chella has posted on her blog a Langston Hughes poem I had never read before. It says what I can't.

She also e-mailed to me the NY Times article by Maureen Dowd.

What's happening isn't a movie. I wish it was only that.

Despair

It's what I'm feeling right now. No matter what I say, it won't help anyone. Short of giving money, there's nothing I can do. People have lost everything, some their lives, and more are going to die.

Anger, frustration, blame...it just doesn't matter. It changes nothing right now.

Things are only going to get worse.

So, I try to act like everything is fine. I walk my dog Charlie, I drink a non-fat, no whip Mocha from Starbuck's, I count my points and track them in my Weight Watcher's weekly journal, and later I'll bring a bottle of wine to my friend's house for a barbecue.

But it's not fine.