Bubba's Got Nothin' On Me

Last night I saw a documentary on Tom Hanks.  They, of course, showed a brief clip of Forrest Gump.  I love that movie and have seen it many times.  One of my favorite parts is when Foreest meets Bubba and Bubba tells Forrest all about how to prepare shrimp.  The list continues through several scenes. 

One might think that this is a funny but unrealistic exchange.  I am not certain.  Imagine, if you can, asking me what I've been doing at work lately.

"I teach about rocks.  I talk about rocks six times a day.  I've developed a graphic organizer that includes the formation of each type of rock, including subclassifications and examples.  My students have read about rocks, answered rock questions, drawn rock posters, played rock Bingo, completed a rock wordsearch, done a rock crossword, and sung a rock song to the tune of Row, Row, Row Your Boat.  We watched a rock video about space aliens coming millions of miles to Earth to study rocks.  I made my students test rock streak and rock hardness, and had them hunt for rock crystallization.  They wrote descriptions of rocks and my best class got to write the rock test."

Next week we're studying dirt.

Run, Forrest, run! 

I Missed Black Friday and Christmas Isn't Coming

Something's wrong.  I got off to a different start to the Christmas season and now I'm totally discombobulated.  Here's the way it's supposed to go.  I get up in the wee hours Friday morning.  I shop until it's time to go to Gamer Thanksgiving.  On Saturday I put up the tree and decorate the house.  We eat leftovers and watch a Christmas movie.  Sunday I wrap all the presents and run out to the store for anything I may have forgotten.  Done.

This year, a week later, not so done.  Okay, let's say I'm barely started.  The tree is up and the house is decorated, more or less.  Well, less because I decided it's time to eliminate garlanding the stairs and hanging Christmas banners from the balcony.  BP toyed with not putting up the village, but he reasoned that if he doesn't do it this year, then next year he won't do it because he already didn't do it last year.  Got it?

I have done almost no shopping.  I have lists from the girls.  They are sitting next to me making imaginary noises.  They are whispering that Christmas shopping cannot be done while blogging, grading papers, or reading a book.  I tried shopping online, but I only accomplished two items.  Then I spent an hour buying two sweaters for myself, but that's a fiasco for another time.  So today it is my ambition to write a master shopping list and schedule time to execute it.  Since it is Sunday and I don't have anything truly pressing to do, I might even hit a few stores today.  Or not.  I guess it would be unacceptable to just save the job for next Black Friday. 

 

Hey, Santa's Elbowing Out the Turkey! Cry Fowl!

First, let me make it perfectly clear that I have, in the past, been a Black Friday shopper.  In fact, I regarded it not so much as a Christmas chore, but as a major annual sporting event.  I have been seen in the pre-dawn police-guarded line waiting to get into Walmart to nab an obscenely cheap TV.  I have experienced total shopping cart gridlock inside a Toys R Us.  I've wandered aimlessly through the mall no longer clear on which relatives I was still shopping for.  I have known the thrill of capturing the parking space right next to the door and I have entertained thoughts of curling up for a nap in a department store fitting room.  Happiness is both starting and finishing your Christmas shopping in one day.  It's very much like running a marathon… a very crowded marathon.  I've done Black Friday and I totally get it.
 Black Friday is the day after Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving is the day we hang back with our families and eat ourselves to the border of sick.  That's just us.  For other folks, Thanksgiving is a day to volunteer at a soup kitchen.  For others it's a football marathon in which no body moves from the sofa.  Some more ambitious sporting types might venture to the yard for an actual game of football.  It's a day for parades, turkey, and endless pile of pots and pans to scrub, and a night of crawling through traffic for those who went over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house.  No matter what a family's situation or choice of activity, or whether they choose None of the Above, Thanksgiving is a day when even Sears employees are entitled to celebrate the national holiday as they feel fit.  
Black Friday may be the Holy Grail of business days and I respect that, but Thanksgiving is still a national holiday.  Santa should not be elbowing out the Turkey.  While it is a shopper's choice to skip the feast, opening the shopping frenzy on Thanksgiving takes the holiday away from the people who work the sales floors of America.  My own teenager works for a major electronics chain, and if she had been assigned to work it would mean the whole family would have to forego the annual trek to the family feast.  When a store opens on Thanksgiving, someone's mother won't be there to cook the turkey.  Someone's father won't be playing touch football.  One extra day will not increase the amount of green headed for our nation's economic coffers this Christmas season, but it will cancel an opportunity for families to be families.  Black Friday is an important event, but so is Thanksgiving.  Let's keep them both, just not at the same time.

Happy Thanksgiving and Thank You For the Tea

Laura won a free Mary Kay makeover and a free product.  The sales agent, Mary Ann, came to our house last night.  Like any other salesperson, she was eager to see not only Laura, but anyone Laura could bring to the table (literally).  Since this was not set up until 9:00 Sunday night, and the appointment was Monday night, there was no opportunity to drag anyone else in.  So Mary Ann presented her wares to Laura and Tara.  And me. 

I did my very best impersonation of a Mary Kay customer.  I was cordially offered assistance in bringing her stuff into the house.  I made tea.  I dutifully flipped through the narrated portion on the sales catalog, only wandering onto the wrong page once. 

Our first application was lip defolient.  I looked at Laura and at Tara.  There lips were white.  According to the mirror, mine were not.  Mary Ann looked at my styrofoam makeup pallet and determined that I started with the wrong product.  She patiently reissued the white stuff.  After that I was good and obediently applied each cream and color, and pretty much did it in the way Mary Ann instructed.  I have to admit that the hand lotion kit was an instant sale for me, but some stuff I had no idea about.  I applied things, looked in the mirror, and found my after reflection to be identical to the before reflection.  But I smiled and agreed with everything.

Tara's make up looked great.  Laura's looked good too, but she wasn't quite satisfied.  She had some complaint about eyeliner, but I didn't really know what she was talking about.  Then she dashed upstairs to get her own eyeliner, and applied it to one eye.  Yup.  Her own stuff looked better.  I have to admit I was impressed with my daughters' taste in colors and skill applying the face goop.  They learned everything they know about makeup from...someone besides me.

My eye makeup was a little more, uh, complicated.  The base coat was fine.  The second color was good, except for where it stepped out of bounds.  I corrected it out.  After a brief consultation, Mary Ann, Laura, and Tara decided on a third color for me.  I applied it and immediately hated the blue smear.  I removed it and after the second caucus, tried plum.  This time Mary Ann put it on.  The jury wasn't convinced.  Then it was decided that I should try eyeliner.  Now I was nervous.  I hate, hate, hate applying eye make up and I never, ever do it well.  Mary Ann came around to my side of the table and got to work.  I tried to sit still and not scrunch up my eyes.  I held the edge of the table.  Then I gripped the chair.  I was almost finished planning my escape when she finished--with the first eye.  No one was impressed with the result.  Someone suggested I try only mascara on the other eye.  I happily complied because mascara is much friendlier than eyeliner.  No one liked that either. 

Laura noted that my eyelashes are straight and short.  I asserted that I like them just fine.  Mary Ann suggested that I tried using an eyelash curler.  The girls just laughed because they know my history with eyelash curlers.  It goes like this.  The curler comes out.  I run away.  End of history.  I have a childhood memory.  My sister used to curl her lashes.  On occasion I'd sneak into her room and practice using her lash curler.  Normal stuff.  Then one day my sister mentioned to my mother that some friend of hers was curling her eyelashes when the friend's mother walked in and startled her.  She jumped and ripped out all her eyelashes.  That story scarred me for life and I have been totally satisfied with my short straight lashes ever since. 

So, the makeover ended.  I went to bed, got up, saw that the makeup had worn off during the night.  I put on my regular makeup and went to work.  Apparently I didn't look too closely in the mirror.  Even more apparently, last night's make up was not that becoming anyway.  As soon as my homeroom came in, a girl in the front row said, "Miss, you're wearing makeup!"

"It's the same stuff I wear everyday."

"No.  You've got purple up here," she said, pointing to the outside of her eyelids.

I guess it didn't wear off.  In another class a girl asked me if I had a black eye.  Later one of the boys asked me if I was tired.  At dinner Laura observed that I had eyeliner on just one eye.  I stood at a mirror at least four times today and didn't notice a thing.  Do people really examine other people like that?  And if so, why?

While I admit to having fun last night, I am just not a makeup person.  The Mary Kay lady, of course, tried recruiting Laura.  She questioned Tara about the Mary Kay party she'd been to a few months ago.  She thanked me for the tea and wished me a Happy Thanksgiving.  I'm pretty sure she's not expecting me to call for another order.  I think she's right.

I Told You So. Now Answer the Phone!

I am not going to rant about BP because neither he onr our children have to do with the story I am about to tell.  I just want to preface with an ongoing argument.  The phone rings.  He looks at it but doesn't answer because he doesn't recognize the number.  I yell to answer the phone.  If our daughters are not in the house we have to answer the phone because they could be in trouble and calling us from someone else's phone.  He hands it to me. It it always a telemarketer, a wrong number, or worse, a political candidate.  He says I told you so.  But now it's my turn.  I am going to rant about a man whom I have never met.

I'm on my way home from work and am winding through the streets of Perth Amboy.  The car in front of me swerves off the road and rams into a parked van.  The man in front of her stops and gets out.  I stop and get out.  The man helps the driver out from behind her deployed airbag.  I call 911.  She is okay.  The man goes on his way.  The driver asks if she can use my phone to call her husband.  She is understandably shaking so I dial for her and hand her the phone.  There is no answer so she thinks I might have dialed wrong.  She tells me the number again and I redial.  Again there is no answer.  We try calling her neighbor but there was no answer there either.  I put the phone back in my pocket and wait just a few minutes until the police come and I leave. 

A couple of blocks later I'm stopped at a red light and get to thinking that her husband might be back or might have missed the call because he was in the bathroom or something.  So I pick up my phone and try calling back.  This time he answers.  I introduce myself and explain that his wife was in a car accident but was not hurt and that the police are with her.

Man:  The phone rang before but I didn't answer because I didn't know who it was.
Me:  Your wife was trying to call because she was in a car accident.
Man:  Where?
Me:  At the corner of Washington St. and East. Ave.
Thinking:  You would know this if you'd answered your phone.

Man:  (aggitated) How am I supposed to get there?  I have the kids here and I don't have car seats.
(They are definitely grandparent age and probably watch their grandkids.)

Me:  I don't know.  I just wanted to let you know what happened. 
Thinking:  I can't help you there.  Work it out.

Man: (yelling) I can't go anywhere!  How is she gonna get home?
Me:  Perhaps the police will take her.
Thinking:  If you answered your phone instead of staring at it you could have all this worked out.

Man:  (a little cooler) What happened?

Me:  She swerved into a parked van.

Man:  (ready to shoot the messenger) Jesus Christ!  How did she do that?

Me:  I couldn't say.  But she is alright.

Man:  Can't she just drive home?

Me:  The car was pretty badly damaged.
Thinking:  Hello, I'm a stranger, not your fairy godmother.

Man:  Jesus Christ!

Me:  I just wanted to let you know what happened.
Thinking:  Maybe she'll ask the police to take her to someone else's house.  Who'd blame her?

Man:  Okay.  Thank you. 
Click.

Lessons learned:  #1  It's bad form to yell at strangers who are trying to help.
                           #2  Answer your phone!  The caller will tell you who it is.
                           #3  BP, I told you so.  Now answer the phone.

I'm Going to Study Art with Leonardo

So far, I'm going to Arcadia.  I can't speak for Tara, but I was sucked right in.

Arcadia University is in Glenside, Pennsylvania, a suburb about twenty minutes north of Philadelphia.  The directions said to turn left into the castle entrance.  I was driving too fast and missed the entrance but knew it immediately because there was definitely a castle on my left. 

The castle was modeled after Alnwick Castle in Scotland.  You might know it better as Hogwarts.  Thirty students are allowed to live in the castle, and I'd like to be one of them.  I walked through the lower level and it was dark, cavernous, and majestic.  Our art program information session was held in the Mirror Room.  The seats were all facing the floor to ceiling windows.  It was lit by ceiling chandelier and wall candelabras.  The back wall sported a large fireplace topped with a mirror.  The doors behind us were mirrored.  These doors were later opened so we could exit into another elegantly esconced room.   If I were filming The Ball sequence in a fairy tale movie, this would be the set.

The presentation was given by a small team of art professors and students.  The emphasis was on travel.  Arcadia has study abroad programs to everywhere in every academic discipline.  In fact, all students are required to either leave the country or find another culture in our own nation.  Just for the record, my passport is up-to-date and I figure I could be packed for anywhere in under an hour. 

Most of the campus is modern.  In fact the new student center will be completed before September.  They have nice dorms, a library, classrooms, green expanses of lawn, besides the medieval castle.  They've got lots of computers, wireless computer service, a pool, a gym, and lots of course choices.

Then there's the art center.  Think Leonardo da Vinci in the 21st century.  The old carriage house and stables form a square to house me in my new career as an artist.  The doors are pointed archways.  The stairs creak and you'd better hold the railings.  One studio flows into the other.  The equipment is the same as we've seen everywhere else, but this building is old in the most charming way possible.  I could imagine the Maestro painting and inventing in a place like this.  At one point in the tour we were following the hall and I looked out the window down onto the little courtyard.  Then I looked into the room on my left to find tables of extra-large Macs for graphic design.  Now meets then.

So Arcadia is my first choice school.  I will get my housing request in immediately.  I know I could test well enough to get through Admissions, but I'd still have to present a portfolio.   Everything can be bought online except artistic talent.  Tara, can I borrow something of yours?

Two blogs in one day?  Was today extraordinarily notable?  No.  But I did set out to write three blogs this week, and I only wrote two.  Also, I am stuck in traffic on the Parkway and am looking for a way to amuse myself.  So I'm writing this rough draft on the back of a Stockon dance flyer, leaning on the Stockton introductory brochure, and writing with a Stockton Police pen.  By the way, we're coming home from the Stockton open house.

The college open house/touring season actually started in the summer.  I know someone who covered three campuses in two days back in July.  I didn't realize it then, but that is impressive.  We didn't see anything during the summer because Tara was ultra-involved in the lifeguarding season.  By the time we were ready to roll, the colleges went on recruitment hiatus to concentrate on freshman orientation and the start of the school year. 

On our first excursion, a day heated by hell, we, along with other families of high school seniors, had spring in our steps.  We were hanging onto the welcoming words of college presidents.  We eagerly inspected dining halls and dorms while we enthusiastically imagined our children soaking up knowledge in the hallowed halls of learning.  A month later, we run into the same folks "on the circuit".  They are looking tired and confused about which dorm they are currently standing in.  I look at them empathetically and know that I am the same as them.

We are over halfway through the applications.  Since Tara is a studio arts major we still have the "portfolio season" which will require more trips, the awful "waiting for decisions" period, the financial aid phase, and the fateful decision finale.  This will bring us to the end of high school rites of passage, the shopping for college, the packing of the car, and finally, the day my youngest will step solo to her hallowed  halls of learning.  In Tara's case, the halls are actually studios with huge tables, state of the art giant screen computers, and dark rooms housing high tech equipment whose function I can only guess at.  This is the gain for which we are willing to go through the pain. 

Then BP and I are going on vacation.

I started off yesterday morning by reviewing my things-to-do list for the past week.  I was on track for completing all major items, except attending the open house at Stockton, which I will be doing in 18 minutes.  I was totally unsurprised to see that the little rip in the bathroom wallpaper is still there after about a year.  My sock drawer is still a minefield and I have not made any headway on obtaining a new copy of my birth certificate, which is a 5-year plus project.  The only alarming item was planning lessons for Monday.  It is now Sunday morning and I will be gone most of the day.  So tonight I will be in my office pondering soil profiles. 

For now I will celebrate the things I did accomplish.  Yesterday I wrote an e-magazine article on Advent calendars which should appear on helium.com.  You can be assured that I will advertise this widely. 

I cleaned the garage.  This was motivated by the change of weather and not wanting to de-ice my windshield every morning.  I am also proud of having sorted and paired all but two gloves, and neatly stored a dozen or so hats, and 20, yes 20 scarves.  I also found a pair of girls size 7 snowpants, obviously out of commission for ten years. 

Then BP and I  winterized the back yard.  We dragged everything out of the shed, including the broken ice chest and the nonoperational snow blower.  We stacked up the umbrella, hammock, and cushions, covered the grills and air conditioner, and securely wound up the garden hose.  The ice chest is parked next to the ripped swing cushion, but we dragged the disfuctional snow blower back in the shed with the other stuff.  If it does not meet a mechanical by the first snowfall, it too will be taking a ride in the big metal truck.
Fifteen minutes later, cozy in the house, BP picked up the yard debris I tracked in.  "What is all this shit?" he muttered.  "Just a leaf," I answered as I picked up the last piece of foliage.  YUCK.  I checked unders my shoe.  I then went out to unwind the hose to I could clean off the dog poop that made the leaves stick so efficiently.

It's a Bad Idea To Hike With a GPS Meant for the Road

I almost jumped out of my skin when the voice of my long dormant GPS announced into the silence, "You have reached your destination."

I had not reached my destination.  I was sure of two things.  One, I had no idea how to use my GPS for geocaching.  Two, I was no longer in the Plainsboro Preserve.  I leaned against a street light pole and futilely poked at the screen.  I had just emerged from the woods and was standing in a clearing between two houses somewhere in Plainsboro.  An SUV passed by, and I wondered if I qualified as a suspicious person just hanging out in a hoodie, checking an electronic device on a remote corner in the middle of the day.  I thought to be possible and returned to the woods. 

From the cover of trees I checked the map and determined that I was lost.  I vetoed the idea of walking on the street towards the possible location of my car.  I briefly, very briefly, toyed with the idea of calling BP or Diane to come get me.  But even dejected novice geocachers have their pride, so I turned the Tomtom off, shoved it in my pocket, and started retracing my steps. 

I walked along the pond's edge until  I came to the little ridge leading back down to the green rocks.  I hadn't see the green rocks until my foot got slimed on the way in.  Twenty minutes ago I had been happy to see what I thought was a putting green ahead.  There's no reason the Preserve couldn't be adjacent to a golf course.  But the smooth green was actually pond scum and my right foot was a little damp. 

Back up the hill to the railroad tracks.  Stop, look, listen, look again, keep listening.  Go.  Step over.  Step. Step. Step over.  Step. Step. Step over.  Don't even think about tripping.  One more step over.  Down the hill.  What was I doing on the tracks anyway?  Oh, yeah... I was convinced I was going to find a cache on the other side.  Right.

Down into the mostly dry river bank.  Foot on the log.  Hand on the tree.  Get some leverage on the branch.  There we go.  To the right is where I had gone wrong.  To the left is where I was okay to start with before I went wrong.  I remember the big rusty canister.  Duck through the thorn bushes and here I am on the trail.  Slush, slush.  It's always soupy here.  And just half a mile to the parking lot.

Back at the car I was consumed by morbid curiosity.  I restarted the GPS and followed it to the point it claimed as my destination.  I followed it blindly for two or three miles, down a beautiful country road so off the beaten path that the campaign signs hadn't been planted.  I turned into a gorgeous neighborhood and arrived on New Turkey Island Road.  "You have reached your destination."  No cache here, just a lesson.  It's a bad idea to hike with a GPS meant for the road. 

"Twas the Late Afternoon Before Halloween

As you know, we spent the day checking out Marywood University in Scranton, PA.  One would think that my blog would have to do with the college.  One would be incorrect.  Several hundred people went to the same open house.  Let them write about it.

Tara informed me yesterday afternoon as we were leaving that she and Jesse (the boyfriend) are going trick-or-treating as hippies.  We'd have to shop quickly because she had invited a handful of friends over to watch scary movies and eat unhealthy amounts of candy.  We figured that after we returned (Saturday afternoon) we could go look at costumes.  Then today at lunch we came up with the idea to pass our planned exit home and go to Woodbridge for the costume.  This evolved into Tara getting her friends to locate Halloween and party stores in the Scranton area.  This way we could  go to the Party City just 2.0 miles from our current location and be on our way home, two hours and 45 minutes away.  With our handy GPS this should be a piece of cake.

The first thing the GPS told us after receiving the address was that it was impossible to get there from our current location.  Then it said something about there being an unpaved road.  After a few false starts finding the Marywood exit, we were on the road and it gave directions to the store 2.0 miles away.  23 miles of  mountain passes and half an hour later, it announced that we had arrived at our destination.  There was a Fresho's Restaurant, a Pep Boys and a law office.  In the process of making a U-Turn we found a really steep road leading down to a big mall.  We eagerly ran inside to find it to be the only major mall with no Halloween store. 

So we drove around the parking lot trying to find a steep uphill road leading back onto the highway in the correct direction.  This accomplished, we looked again and reassured ourselves that our "destination" really did hold a restaurant, a Pep Boys and a law office.  Not a family to give up, we programmed in the next closest address in Dickson City.  This was fortuitous because we had just passed a sign welcoming us to Dickson City.  Within a quarter of a mile we were informed by the GPS that we had again reached our destination.  We pulled in to find a box store shopping center with a Target.  BP let us off at the door.  He was going to wait in the car.  Target had no costumes larger than girls size 12.  We know this for fact because we picked one my one through the 500 or so costumes on the rack.  Okay, there was the Robin, as in Batman -and-, mixed in to give us false hope.  We hemmed and hawed in both the juniors and girl departments for an alternative before admitting defeat and going to the car. 

BP picked us up.  We saw a Walmart down the other, far, far end of the parking lot, and were headed in that direction when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a Halloween costume poster in the window of Marshalls.  We leapt from the moving vehicle only to find that all costumes in this store were children's size 6 or smaller.  As long as we were there we decided to quickly peruse the women's department for something vaguely hippie.  After five minutes I located Tara and told her that no can shop quickly at Marshalls.  It is a collection of single editions of every garment manufactured on this planet in the last five years. And Daddy is waiting in the car.

Off to Walmart.  We chose unwisely and followed the sign to the holiday department.  Christmas holiday.  Then Tara saw orange, but it was the hunting department.  She asked a saleslady who pointed us to the far opposite end of the store.  More picking.  No adult sized costumes.  At all.

Crestfallen and defeated, we returned to the car.  BP was no longer offering curb service, so we had to walk the lot, trying to determine which of the three dozen red minivans was correct.  There we were- minivan number 36.  As we inched down the aisle, Tara staring sullenly out the window at the valley below,  suddenly shreiks, "Party City!!!!!"  How in God's name do we get down there?  We continue inching around the lot, find the correct road out, proceed down another extremely steep road, and get ourselves to the entrance to the lower parking lot. 

We enter the store and elbow through the day-before-Halloween crowd.  We find several suitable choices in the correct size.  We debate, choose, and find the end of the cashier line about ten feet up an aisle.  It's all good now.  

I share with Tara that up until last year, every single October since Laura was old enough to trick-or-treat, I have had a recurring nightmare.  I dream that it is Halloween, kids are out trick-or-treating, and I have not bought costumes yet.  I am frantically shopping through leftovers and trying to assemble an ensemble at the last possible moment.  I did not have that nightmare this year.  I lived it.

Okay, this is a new experience.  I have exactly fifteen minutes to write my blog before I time out and am signed off.

I am at the Hilton in Scranton, PA.  Tomorrow we are going to the open house at Marywood University.  We wisely decided to drive up tonight rather than rise way before the sun tomorrow.  On the way up here nobody actually asked, "Are we there yet?", but we each implied it.

 Upon leaving home Tara discovered that she didn't pack the car adaptor for her DVD player.  "It's going to be a long, miserable drive."

Me, somewhere on Route 287:  How long ago did we leave home?

Me, on Route 80:  We're still in NJ.

Tara after passing East Stroudsburg:  I see a sign for Scranton.  We're almost there!

BP:  No we're not. 

Tara:  Yes we are.  The sign says Scranton.

Me:  It's the beginning of the road to Scranton.

Tara:  Then why does the sign say Scranton?

BP:  Mom doesn't know.

Sign:  Scranton 30 miles.

Someone:  There's no cars up here.

Someone:  It's 42 degrees up here.

Someone else:  All the leaves are off the trees.

Me:  I don't know about this Tara.  If you go here you're getting the warmest coat I can find. 

BP:  And mittens.

Tara:  I won't be coming home to visit very often.

Me:  I don't blame you.

BP:  We're not really car people, are we?

Me:  That's why God invented airplanes.

BP:  So we're never drving to Florida or California, are we?

Never.

With one minutes to spare, stay tuned 'til tomorrow.

The Unlikeliest of Places

Thursday afternoon at 4:40 I was holding up a plain white wall in a hair salon in New Brunswick. 

Before this happened and after this happened I was living a typical day.  I went to school and taught science.  I drove my red minivan home along the usual route.

Afterwards I ate dinner, walked the dog, fed my virtual frog, and watched last week's Apprentice. 

But in between ordinary and normal, I took a journey to "what am I doing here?"  It wasn't even unexpected.  I planned this sidetrip from my life.  I picked up Tara and her friend Gina.  We drove to New Brunswick, hunted for a parking spot while dodging Rutgers buses and students, walked two blocks and entered a hair salon called Sparks.  We were not getting hair cuts.  

Tara was there to get her belly button pierced.  Since she is under 18, she needed a parent present.  I had been hoping that parent would be BP, but he had another appointment that could easily have been scheduled any day of the year, but fatefully occured at the exact moment of Tara's belly button event.  I had been proclaiming for years that I wanted nothing to do with this piercing thing.  But there I was. 

I don't remember the name of the man in charge of poking holes in people.  Usually I don't remember people.  This guy I remember.  For lack of a proper name, I will call him Pierce, with absolutely NO connection or resemblance to Pierce Brosnan.  Pierce was a big tall red head with giantly guaged ears sporting black earrings at least an inch in diameter.  These things were apparent from the front, notable from the side, glaringly obvious from the back, and most likely viewable by astronauts on the space shuttle.  His right forearm was adorned with some sort of artwork.  His left forearm bore a solid black stripe which disappeared up his sleeve.  I can only assume that the stripe is the tail end of a more elaborate design on parts of his body that I will not ever have occasion to see.  But if I ever did end up passing this guy on a beach, I would know it was Pierce from New Brunswick.

Let me stop here to make it plain that I hate belly buttons.  They are the ugliest part of the human body.  I don't care how beautiful, well-toned, or fit you are.  I don't care if you are a supermodel.  You have an ugly belly button.  Period.  I will be averting my eyes. 

Stage One:  Pierce is swabbing Tara's belly button with brown antiseptic.  He is doing a thorough job.  Gina is watching.  I have briefly seen what he is doing and am now studying the desk in the corner of the room.

Stage Two:  Pierce draws a line and a dot on her navel and tells her to look in the mirror to check that it is straight.  She looks.  Gina looks.  They agree that the markings are straight.  I peek and hurriedly agree.  Then I examine the floor. 

Stage Three:  Tara lies down on the padded table.  Pierce tells her he is going to take some measurements.  She is to lie perfectly still and look at the ceiling.  Gina and I see Pierce use a silver ruler to take measurements.  Slightly queasy, I watch Gina watching the measuring in the mirror. 

Stage Four:  Pierce tells Tara something about forceps, a puncture, and taking a deep breath.  I am leaning into the wall, staring at white paint, concentrating on breathing, and trying not to listen.  At some point I glance at Tara.  There is some sort of equipment attached to her midsection.  Gina is making a joke about aliens coming out of her.  Pierce proclaims that if aliens come out he is booking.  I am back to studying the paint. 

Stage Five:  The task is done.  Gina asks, "Are you okay?"  Tara answers, "Yeah, I'm fine."  Gina says, "I was asking your mother."  I say, "I'm fine."  Pierce interjects, "If anyone cares, I'm fine too."  We all laugh.  Tara gets up and I let go of the wall. 

Tara pays and we leave the salon.  We are standing on the street and life returns to normal.

Chalk Board vs. Computer

You know the saying, "back to the drawing board"?  Is a drawing board the same as a chalk board?  Because I am definitely ready to go back to the chalk board.  Teachers in our school are constantly being told to incorporate technology.  Some of us embrace technology wholeheartedly, although I can neither confirm nor deny its effectiveness.  Then there are others of us that are apprehensive, bordering on negative, or one might say, plain ol' stubborn and old-fashioned.  The events of today gives credence to the wisdom of technological backwardness. 

I have six MacBooks in my classroom.  I haven't used them for a variety of reasons which don't really figure into the problem at  hand.  But yesterday I got to thinking that I really should make use of my laptop and projector.  This past weekend I bought a devise to marry the laptop and the projector with the intention of using it to show a movie or a website.  Then I got to thinking that I could let the kids dictate notes on earthquakes, and we could make a class copy of seismic facts.  The kids would like that.  I could easily keep track of a set of notes for each of six classes.  I would be utilizing technology.  We could use the notes to review and reinforce and repeat.  And repeat again as needed.

So this morning I get to work bright and early to make a set of copies and set up the computer/projector combo.  I go straight to the copy room at 7:25 to find seven people ahead of me on line for the single working machine. (We were copier-less for two days.)  I left my copy with the art teacher who was last on line.  Then I returned to my room to set up the technology.

I connected everything with no problem.  I worked in the front of the room, which is too close to the board to be clear.  But it wasn't a problem because I was just testing the system.  I wasn't planning to actually set it in place until after homeroom.  I looked through the icons and didn't see a Word program.  I found all my old documents that had been copied off my desk computer, but I couldn't figure out how to write a new document.  I disconnected the laptop and ran back to the copy room, dutifully remembering to lock the door behind me.  Technology does, after all, require additional security.  I figured I could get assistance while waiting my turn for the copier.  There were still two people ahead of me.  Neither of them could figure out how to open a new document either.  I left my colleagues puzzling over the situation while I ran back to my room to get copy paper.  Last time I checked there was paper in the room, but it was all gone so I needed to get my private stash.  I unlocked the door, grabbed paper, and ran back.  I made the copies, with five minutes until homeroom, grabbed the laptop and my keys, and dashed to Hans's room.  Maybe he'd know how to use the stupid thing. After all, he's the one who started me thinking about using the computer in the first place.

I barged into his room without saying good morning and demanded, "How do I write on this thing?"  He said he'd try to remember.  It was an icon with birds on it.  He found it quickly.  Since I hadn't used it before I had to register.  First name.  Last name.  Initials.  Do you want to register now, later, or never?  "Never," Hans suggested.  Never, I readily agreed.  The kids were on the way up.  Bingo!  I was in.  I muttered a hasty thank you as I and all my stuff shuffled hurriedly out the door and unlocked my own room.  I dumped everything and dispatched a student to get the breakfast.  Joanne, my parter homeroom teacher,  oversaw my class as I frantically reset the screen for full page, my preferred font, and a large print.  I was ready.  Joanne also watched the class while I ran to the ladies' room, an errand teachers never neglect because the next rest stop is two hours away. 

Breakfast over, books at the ready, I dismissed my homeroom and greeted my first period class, who are, at least in my eyes today, saints.  I warned them immediately that I was not too tightly wrapped at the moment, so they should not approach me until everything was set up.  I displaced two students to properly place my projector and laptop.  It was at this point that I realized that each of my dozen or so extention cords are for two-pronged plugs.  Naturally I needed a three-pronged model.  I called Hans who sent one over.  My students kept themselves relatively quiet if not busy while I worked through my difficulties.  I was almost ready when the projector went to sleep.  One of the kids woke it up.  Good.  I was in business for approximately two characters.  I wanted to write "EARTHQUAKES".  I got EA up there when I got the circly icon thing.  It kept spiraling.  I waited patiently.  Then I waited nervously.  Someone suggested that I reboot.  I did.  The kids in the back were singing "The Wheels on the Bus".  I gave them a dirty look.  Finally signed back in, I looked up at the screen.  The background was being projected, but not the applications.  I called for the computer teacher.  While I was waiting two helpful students came to offer opinions and assistance.  They looked into my eyes and backed away cautiously.  The computer teacher came, mucked around, and left promising me an answer.  I moved the whole mess to a side table.  I owe first period an entire science lesson because we did exactly zero work.  They, however, stayed away, for which I am totally grateful. 

Second period I wrote notes on the board.  Class went smoothly.  Third period was lunch.  Yes, my kids eat at 9:55.  I still hadn't heard from the computer teacher.  I called the other computer teacher. Fourth period I wrote on the board.  Things went swimmingly.  The other computer teacher came, mucked around, and left with the manual for the projector.  She promised to call someone who would know what to do.  Fifth period I have another teacher with me.  After class I told Ron my trials and tribulations.  He said someone else had the same problem and he knew how to fix it.  He went to some obscure setting and dragged something across a screen.  Voila!  My problems were over.  I called both computer teachers and told them the crisis was over. 

I am happy to report that seventh and eighth period I was up and running.  Now all I have to do is figure out how to keep my computer/laptop set up in the center of a classroom while 165 sixth graders come in and out in 45 minute intervals.  I will have to ensure the safety of this technology, make sure no one trips on the cord, always remember to lock the door, and hope there are no more obscure settings that I don't know about.  It's certainly doable, but it makes my non-secure, totally wireless, indestructable, 100% dependable chalk board sound like the real winner.

The Mommy Whistle

I stayed up until 2 a.m.  I wasn't doing anything of importance, but by the time I was finished doing basically nothing, it was almost 2.  I got into bed and read four and a half sentences.  My Kindle fell and woke me up, so I turned out the light and went back to sleep.

At about 6:30 Magic reported that someone was out for an early morning jog.  At 6:40 a cat crossed the street.  At 6:56 a couple of insects flew by our mailbox.  I didn't actually get out of bed to witness these incidents.  After eight years of her early morning sentry duty, I can understand every word that Magic says.  I try not to respond, although I have resorted to the all-purpose human to dog response, "Magic, NO!"  To this, she inists, "Yes, the cat not only crossed the street, but he's digging under your bushes."  Then I mutter, "Look Magic, I don't care who went where.  It's none of my business.  Just let me sleep."  Then she goes away to the stair landing and patrols the front step from on high.  I go back to sleep.

Until 7:23.  At this time I hear a soft, high pitched whine.  It's kind of like a dog whistle, only it's a mommy whistle.  I call it a mommy whistle rather than a human whistle, because I am the only person in the house who can hear and respond.  She uses it to tell me if she's trapped in another bedroom and needs me specifically to get out of bed and open the door.  She will also to use it to remind me that I closed my door without her inside.  On weekend mornings she whistle whines to tell me she's hungry.  When I invariably ignore the summons she gets louder and more urgent and hints that she really, really has to go out.  When she's starved and is close to losing consciousness, she calls from the back door and does a little dance as soon as I come into view.  I know she doesn't have to go out.  I know this because she never, ever, ever pulls this routine on a rainy day, during which she is adamant that she won't be going out until next week.  She knows the routine.  She goes out and then gets fed. 

So I stagger down the stairs and let her out.  She runs down the steps and waits for me to sit down at the computer to check the headlines and get sucked into reading something, which admittedly can happen within 8 seconds.  After 12.3 seconds, she comes back to the door and reminds me that she is wasting away.  I let her in, feed her (oh, thank God!) and continue with whatever has sucked me into the computer.  A few minutes later I'm squinting at the screen because I didn't yet put in my contacts, and realize that I'm cold.  I make a cup of tea, grab a blanket, and continue squinting and reading.  Soon I realize that I am up for the day after half a night's sleep, and Magic is upstairs dilligently working on her early morning nap.

I'm Going To College

If anyone wants me between now and Thanksgiving, I'll be at college.  Actually, I will be at colleges.

This morning Tara took her SATs.  I spent the entire testing session looking at, no, meticulously examining information on a select group of colleges in three states.

I started by taking notes about the colleges on a list of art appropriate schools in and around our area.  I jotted down student populations, availability of housing, percentages of commuters versus residents, and where information was available, I noted the percentage of residents who still reside on campus during the weekend.  I tallied in-state versus out-of-state student populations, noted exorbitant university pricetags, tracked particularly wonderful study abroad opportunities, and hunted for schools with the highest amounts of scholarship money available to give to me.  I verified the existence of photography concentrations at each school's website, and differentiated bachelor of arts degrees from bachelor of fine arts degrees, noting, of course which schools clearly delineated the four year course requirements.  I virtually toured all fourteen campuses and included a listing of approximate driving times.  Still worried that I may have missed something, I cross-references each entry with it's corresponding page number in Barron's Profiles of American Colleges. I then condensed my research onto one standard spiral notebook page and presented it to Tara upon completion of her test.

Then the two of us sat at the computer and I watched her view all fourteen websites.  We eliminated three schools and scheduled campus tours for each semi-finalist.  By Thanksgiving I will have used a normal year's worth of gasoline, learned to navigate the entire eastern half of Pennsylvania, and be qualified to conduct campus tours anywhere in the world.  

The Chicken Was Not Trying To Cross The Road

I've got a story to tell.  It's not my story, but it's something that could have happened to anyone.  Well, maybe not.

The story has a preface.  Last week Amy was driving down Route 1 and saw a chicken on the side of the road.  This is of course, odd, and like everyone else on the road, she drove on wondering how a chicken got to Route 1.  Then she got to worrying about the chicken but it was too late to do anything about it.  Life went on.

Yesterday, Amy is driving on Georges Road, on the other side on South Brunswick, which, if you were wondering, is absolutely not a rural or farming community.  It's afternoon and the kids from the middle school had been recently dismissed.  There's a bunch of kids gathered around doing... something.  They are gathered around a chicken!  Another chicken on the road?  So Amy pulls over because the kids, in their effort to keep the chicken off the road, are inadvertently herding it into traffic.  She gets out and comes up with the idea to use the old "trail of breadcrumbs" trick to lure the chicken to safety.  So she takes some crackers out of her car and distributes them to the kids.  The plan is working and Amy calls animal control to come rescue her bird friend. 

Soon after, a police car arrives at the scene.  The officer approaches and asks her if she's the Good Samaritan who called...

"Yes, I am," replies Amy, who is rather proud of her humanitarian efforts.

"to say that there's a suspicious woman on the side of the road with a group of middle school children?"

Pause for shock and awe.

"Name?" continued the police officer.  "Address?  Is this your vehicle?  Is it registered in your name?"

"Are you kidding me?" sputtered a totally deflated Amy, as she proceeded to answer all the officers questions. 

After reviewing the situation, he let Amy leave.  I'm sure the officer had no doubt of the veracity of her story.  The chicken made a credible witness for the defense, and no one can make this stuff up.

It Was A Computer Error

It all comes down to a computer error.  I know it doesn't matter because my fantasy baseball team is #8 out of 10.  It's the last day of the season and I'm on the next to bottom rung of the consolation ladder.  But it is still in my nature to fight until the end, if for no other reason, then for the sake of fighting. 

So yesterday afternoon I get an idea.  I decide to pick up every available pitcher who still has a pulse and stack them all up on my team for today.  I log on to the ESPN.  I go to the Players page.  I punch up probable pitchers for Sunday.  There are several of them, and I decide to take all but the guy who loses fifteen points every game.  But something is wrong.  There should be a little icon in the Action box to click on and add that player to your team.  The Action box is blank.  Everything else on the page looks normal.  So I go to another page, and their Action boxes are blank too.  I sign out thinking it is really shady of ESPN to remove the "add" option a day early. 

Fast forward to midnight.  BP is online.  He's comparing my team to Gene's.  Gene has a mess of pitchers.  Those are my pitchers!  Well, they're the pitchers I wanted to add.  He put them on an hour ago.  They should be mine.  It was all a mistake.  ESPN didn't take away the "add" option.  There was an error on the site and I didn't realize it.  If I'd gone back...if only.  Growl. 

So I did the mature thing.  I texted "u suck" to Gene.  I had hoped the text would at least wake him up from a sound sleep, but he didn't even ask why until this afternoon. 

As of this minute I am down by 9 lousy points with very few innings to go.  I'm thinking I lost.  If things change I will add the update to this blog and all will be right in the world.  If not, I am sulking and blaming the entire world of Computerdom.

IHOP is Messing With My Head

After the Rutgers game BP and I went for a late dinner at IHOP.  Going back to ancient times when we were in high school we always loved going out for breakfast at night.  Viva la French Toast.  A cheese omelet.  Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity.  Truly food for the soul. 

Then we picked up the menu.  The food police were there.  They weren't physically there, as it sitting at the next table evangelizing us to repent from our homefries and turn away from bacon and sausage.  But they left their calling card.  Every menu item is now marked with calorie count.  When I shook my head at the omelet column asking "How much is that?" I was not referring to the price.  Everything I've always loved on the IHOP menu would cost over 1000 calories. 

Every page is now peppered with a lower calorie, healthier selection.  I could have ordered substitute eggs with turkey sausage.  Instead I panicked and got a cheese steak.  It was 890 calories.  As the waiter approached I realized the 890 calories was just for the sandwich.  The accompanying fries were another 300.  I ordered it anyway.  In retrospect, I still wish I'd stuck to breakfast, but I was under duress.

The cheesesteak was okay, but BP's pancakes looked better.  Throughout the meal I volleyed between two thoughts.  Thought A was "I should have ordered something healthier whether I liked it or not."  Thought B was "The dog is going to have to take me for a long walk tonight."  BP suggested that I could have ordered a bowl of oatmeal.  Humbug.

As a reflect on all this I realize that the food police have gotten their way.  They want us to think rationally about our food choices.  They want us to feel guilty and be miserable.  So next time I head off for a late night breakfast, I will solve the problem by going somewhere with a less expressive menu.  This is not a sensible suggestion and I know I'm not thinking straight.  IHOP is messing with my head.

Taking the Day Off While at Work

A workshop, an extended nap, and gender segregation at Games.  That's today's synopsis.

I spent yesterday and today at a workshop on supporting English Language Learners after they exit the bilingual program.  It was a decent workshop- not the greatest I've ever attended, but way far from the worst.  I prefer to think of them as days off from work for the following reasons.

1.  I theoretically get to sleep later.  This is only a theory because I still have to get Tara up and out of the house before 6:45 even though I don't have to leave the house until 7:30.  Some day this will mean I get to sleep until 7.

2.  I get a chance to park in a real parking lot.  If the workshop is out of district there is always a parking lot.  Some schools have parking if you get there early enough.  But if all the teachers are in the lot, then there will be parking on the street in reasonable proximity to the school.  This is good when you're accustomed to circle the block like a buzzard waiting for someone to leave home to you can have their parking space.  At this workshop I was totally out of luck.  My workshop was held in the administration building, which was built in 18-something, considerably before anyone was trying to park a car.  So parking on what used to be a playground is reserved for administrators, secretaries, and Adult School staff.  But, years ago someone pointed out that there are a handful of unreserved spots in the back alley entrance to the building.  Since the neighborhood vehicles were packed bumper to bumper and it was pouring rain, I snuck to the back of the building and found a spot with no reserved sign, no loading area sign, no permit required sign, and no door to block.  And to sweeten a beautiful situation, someone opened the back door so I didn't have to walk all the way around.  The bad news is that at the end of the day, I found a ticket-looking paper on my windshield.  I searched carefully for the phone number of the person whom I would be arguing the ticket with.  To my great relief it was not a parking ticket but a warning from the Board of Education that I have been permanently registered as a parking offender.  That was yesterday.  Today I parked three blocks away and walked in the rain all the way around to the front of the building.

3.  We get breakfast.  Sometimes.  The rule is that the Powers-That-Be are not allowed to spend money feeding us coffee and bagels.  They can only spend money on breakfast for people coming in from somewhere else, like other Powers-That-Be.  But the bilingual supervisor sprung for a nice breakfast spread both mornings.  We know better than to get used to it.

4.  We get to rest our voices.  As of Wednesday at dismissal my throat was raw and felt swollen from six shows a day, five days a week, plus barking supplemental orders such as:  sit down, get your book bag, put your book bag away, be quiet and listen,  be quiet and listen, be quiet and listen, didn't you hear the bell, get up, get out, let's go!  I am happy to report that they hired a substitute drill sergeant and my throat will feel perfectly normal until Monday.

5.  We get to use the bathroom whenever we want.  This is a workshop perk beyond all else.

6.  We get a whole hour for lunch.  This means we can go out.  Of course we walk because we are all either too far from our car or are afraid to give up our spot.  And off we go without having to walk anyone to the cafeteria or leaving enough time to pick anyone up on the playground.  Heaven.

7.  The workshop ends at a specific time and we can leave, for absolute certain.  There will be no one to keep for detention.  No administrator will want to see you for just a minute.  I can not hear myself being paged to the office, nor do I have to speak for the parent who stopped in at the last minute.  I am sure that something in the classroom is out of order, but I don't have to clean it up, well not until Monday.

Grading Papers

I just spent four hours grading papers.  I didn't even touch the Flip Book projects.  That's for tomorrow. 

It has been said that teacher's grade papers from the top of the stairs.  They throw the whole stack into the air.  The papers landing closest to the top are A's.  Right below them are the B's.  Next are the C's, and then the D's.  Anything hitting the floor below failed.  This is nothing more than urban legend.  But it should be true.

In a pass/fail class it's even easier.  Face up passes; face down fails.  Bleary-eyed as I am, this plan looks to be a thing of beauty. 

Too Much Fun For a Tuesday

We had way too much fun for a Tuesday night.

A couple of weeks ago Laura and Billy went to the Pines Manor to look into booking their reception hall.  Laura came home with an impressive menu and the date for a food tasting.  I wasn't sure what a food tasting was.  I didn't think I was going to be able to go anyway because I had bell choir practice.  The practice, however, was canceled, and I was back in the game plan.  At 5:30, Laura, BP, and I swung by Crossroads to kidnap Tara after her voice lesson.  I say kidnap because Tara is more of a chicken nugget and fry person, and not so much a critic of fine food.  She had been planning on staying home with a big bowl of macaroni and cheese. Kraft, of course.  So off we went to meet Billy and his mom, Alice, at the Pines Manor, without much of an idea what to expect.

We walked into a banquet room to be greeted by two white-gloved waiters, one bear glasses of champagne, the other with fried shrimp.  We noted a central buffet table, three waitered stations in the corner, and an open bar - complimentary.  The six of us found a table right in front of the DJ, staked our claim with our pocketbooks, and headed to the central buffet.  It would be fair to say that it was a nice spread.  I started with a little calimari, a piece of sushi, bruschetta, salami with cream cheese, a deviled egg, and a nice piece of eggplant rolatini.  My second round included shrimp, apricot chicken, an amazing Asian beef, some sort of pate, and a little bit of salmon with dill sauce. 

Everyone availed themselves of the bartender's service.  Laura was eating something with sausage when she frantically gestured for my soda.  Alice and BP established that the operative word was "hot".  I then went to the carving station.  I took a bit of red snapper and a slice of roast beef.  I got some of the penne everyone had been raving about.  Then I went for a scoop of rigatoni with something green, broccoli rabe, I think.  The waiter told me to take some more because I didn't get any sausage.  So that's what Laura was eating.  I declined the sausage and returned to the table.  Let me just say that the spice may have orginated on the sausage, but it permeated the broccoli rabe and the rigatoni itself.  Alice was kind enough to get me another Coke. 

As I'd been sitting there, I noticed that people were coming and going to what might have been an ice cream bar.  They were walking away with something white in a little goblet with stuff on top.  I suspected vanilla ice cream, but it looked like shredded cheese on top.  At some point Laura and Alice had their own little goblets.  Mashtinis.  The white stuff was mashed pototo.  The toppings were gravy, shredded cheese, crumbled bacon, and chives.

Then for dessert there was marble wedding cake, German chocolate cake, a fruit torte, a variety of pastries, and several kinds of candy, and a chocolate fountain with pound cake, strawberries, and marshmallows.  The most interesting of these options was the chocolate.  One, highly suspect from the beginning, was a truffle with olive oil and sea salt.  We all came to the same conclusion - yuck.  The milk chocolate was good.  Then there was a chocolate ganache with some sort of liqueur.  I didn't try it and no one remarked on it. 

There was also a dark chocolate plum soaked in absinthe.  Tara wanted to try one.  But first she requested a glass of water and a few napkins for just in case she didn't like it.  She stuffed it into her mouth.  She started fanning herself.  She puckered up her whole face and tried nobly not to drool as her mouth burned.  We were all laughing at her.  It was at this moment that a photographer sat down at the table to hawk his services.  He sat next to Tara and was not looking directly at her.  We, on the other hand, couldn't take our eyes off her outrageously funny predicament.  The photographer started talking and we just sat there laughing hysterically and basically ignored the poor man.  We finally explained what was going on.  He promised to return later (after we were done rolling on the floor). 

Also of note was the music.  Early in the evening the DJ noticed Tara singing every song and came over to drop off his business card and note Tara's "diva quality".  When the florist came to deliver his sales pitch, he was side tracked by Tara's singing performance.  As he went on, we were all slightly more focused on the song Margueritaville than on centerpieces.  We tried to maintain a polite if not concentrated attention to the man, but when "Sweet Caroline" came on, that was the end.  The florist decided to join us since he couldn't beat us.  On queue, we all - me, BP, Tara, Alice, and the florist, raised our arms and punched out "so good, so good, so good!"  The people at the table next to us jumped.  Everyone in the room turned.  The DJ laughed.  And Laura, who was across the room with Billy examining photo albums, didn't bother to look up.  She knew the commotion was just us.  This is why Laura isn't overly concerned about her choice of deejay.  She needs someone who will stick to her playlist.  We don't need someone who will motivate the guests to get up and dance.  We need someone who will bring multiple microphones for us because we are our own entertainment.  Nobody else in the place was dancing in the seats during a food tasting.

Boy did we have fun!

The Tale of the Tailgate

Tailgating is as much a part of football as the game.  This weekend the tailgate and the game came out about the same.

Before I go any further in the recounting of the ensuing events, I want to clearly state that I was given one job to do.  I was assigned to go to the dollar store to buy small disposable loaf pans.  The dollar store did not have them, so I went to Stop and Shop and returned with my designated item.  I was also in charge of driving.  There were absolutely no mishaps in this area.  Disclaimer concluded.

We should have known we were fated for failure before we left home.  I was on the phone with my mother.  BP was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper at the kitchen table.  I mentioned to my mother that we had tickets to the Rutgers game and were leaving in a few minutes.  Perry jumped up.  Tickets!  He got them and we were out the door. 

Matt arrived at our home without a chair.  BP grabbed one of our canvas fold-up chairs out of the garage for him.  We loaded up the car with our share of provisions and supplies, and proceded to pick up Terry and Gene.  They put their share of provisons and supplies in the back of our van, and off we went.

Once situated in the parking lot, we procured a somewhat hilly area in the shade, not quite in front of our parking spot.  We immediately set to work setting up our tailgate camp.  I was carrying one of Gene and Terry's chairs and their small table that we use for holding utensils and just-cooked food.  Within a couple of minutes, the group directly in front of our car moved, so we immediately grabbed all our stuff and moved to our rightful turf.  I refolded the small table and relocated it to the new site.  However, by an act of negative divine intervention, the plastic in the workings of the folding table cracked.  We placed the remains in the back of the van.  We would just have to keep everything on the big table, which is actually not so big.

We soon realized that we would have a little extra room because Terry left the paper towels in her minivan.
Gene started the grill.  Terry put out the snacks and condiments.  BP set up the chairs.  He set up four chairs.  The fifth chair that he had taken for Matt was actually my beach umbrella.  So instead we opened up a beach blanket.  I opened two packages of cheese and the onion dip.  When I peeled the tamper proof seal on the dip, we realized that Terry left the garbage bags next to the paper towels.  This wasn't much of a problem because we had a plastic shopping bag we could use for garbage.  We just hung it from a nearby bush, nice and high so the bears couldn't get to it.

Everything was set up.  It was time to sit back and relax.  And I tried.  But the chair just folded up on me.  I sprang back up thinking that whoever set up the chair didn't open it all the way.  I thought wrong.  Upon closer inspection, the plastic footings on both back legs were split across the middle.  We laid the remains in the back of the car next to what used to be the little folding table.

I settled onto the picnic blanket.  The guys were talking around the cooler.  Terry sat, with no trouble, on the remaining chair.  She opened her beer.  V-O-L-C-A-N-O.  Most of it dripped on the ground.  A napkin took care of the beer that landed on the chair.  Then she got a water bottle so she could wash her hands. 

The burgers were grilling and order had been restored.  Then BP wore an expression usually reserved for a man having a stroke.  He left the rolls at home.  And somehow, some way, this was my fault because I did not help him pack the bag.

Terry and I shrugged and declared it a low-carb meal.  But the guys weren't eating burgers.  They had Polish hot dogs with sauerkraut, hot dog onions, and "man's mustard" (spicy Polish stuff guaranteed to put hair on your chest).  And they wanted hot dog rolls.  Gene was determined.  Going to a store was out of the question, so there was only one option.

Perry and Matt were too despondent to move, so I volunteered to accompany Gene.  We surveyed the landscape.  The people to our right were eating premade sandwiches.  The people to our left had knife and fork food.  But past them were a group with a spread similar to ours.  We donned our most pathetic expressions, which at this point, was not very difficult.  We humbly approached these neighbors and Gene, by way of introduction, announced, "We f***ed up.  Do you have any extra rolls?"  We left with three hamburger rolls and sympathetic assurances that this kind of thing happens to everyone.

So the guys ate their hot dogs on hamburger rolls.  Matt briefly rested his plate on the table on the hill.  Perry, across the table, picked up his plate, which hit the mustard, which knocked over the ketchup, which caused the remaining half of Matt's misbunned hot dog to roll off the table and unto the dirt.  Quickly applying the three-second rule*, he brushed it off and ate it.     

* The Three-Second Rule stipulates that if food falls on the floor, it is still edible if you retrieve it within three seconds. 

I thought the meal was done, but the guys were just biding time and making room for another round of dogs.  A debate arose.  They needed more bread.  As everyone knows, you just can't beg from the same people twice.  So they were checking out the people across the aisle.  The people situated behind the truck next to us were finished eating and were packing up.  After repeatedly ignoring Terry's advice to ask the truck people before they put everything away, she just yelled to the guy that we needed hot dog rolls. And it was done.

 We  packed up.  We went to the game.  Rutgers lost.  We came back to the car.  It was hot.  Everyone was thirsty and grabbed a beer.  Terry fished around in the dark for the bottle opener.  She handed it to Matt.  In mid-use the bottle opener fell apart in his hand.  At this point there was nothing to do but laugh and drink.  Luckily Matt was able to strain, through his teeth, the teeny pieces of bottle that broke along with the bottle opener.  He took a different beer.  We laid the defunct bottle opener in the hearse alongside the table and the chair, and went home.

 And that is the woeful Tale of the Tailgate.

Sixth Time Around!

It is occurring to me right now that it is difficult to write about circling a building six times.

I came home with over 11,000 steps on my pedometer.  I spent my day walking around the outside of the school with my classes as they looked for evidence of weathering and erosion.  I did it six times, plus traveling up and down the stairs.  I did it seven times if you count the trip I made by myself yesterday to map out our "points of interest."  For me, weeds growing in a sidewalk crack are a point of interest.  I also found mold on a wooden board, sunken cement, and garden variety street debris piled up next to a curb.  And this was good.  Best of all, I was able to compare the weathering of bricks layed in 1993 with bricks layed in 1923.  I'm not saying I was unhappy doing this.  In fact, it was kind of cool to look up close at something we pass by every day and never really see.  What kind of person leads six consecutive tours of water damaged building material and calls it a good day?

I Came Home From Work Filthy

I came home from work filthy.  I had dirt under my fingernails and huge black marker smudges on my hands and up my arms.  Forntunately I wore my basic black today so it's not readily apparent how much mud is ground into my clothing. 

There are days when I go to work and can confidently proclaim that there is not enough money on this planet to pay me for what I do.  But today was one of the days when I can lean back and wonder that  they pay me to do this.  I earned a living by playing with dirt and water and sand and chalk to demonstrate weathering and erosion.  What a wonderful mess! 

I fully understand that not everyone gets my point of view.  Another teacher, not a science teacher, heard me saying something about disposing of mud without clogging the sink, and she just shook her head, happy that she didn't have to deal with constant mess of lab work with middle schoolers.  To me, this is the fun part.

Years ago, I left the classroom on my lunch break and returned to find a dozen big plastic storage bins stacked up higher than me, parked next to the window.  Everyone else had received the same.  The powers that be ordered fully loaded science kits for a new text that we didn't know about yet.  The contents?  It depends on who you ask.  To any normal adult, the boxes were clumsy eyesores filled with unrelated crap that nobody knew what to do with.  I didn't know quite what to do with it either, but there I stood like a kid on Christmas morning, sorting wondrously through boxes of Slinkies, plastic trucks, wooden blocks, and a wide assortment of things whose identity I couldn't yet determine.  I was now the proud owner of a dozen Secci Disks, whatever they might be.  (These are patterned disks that can be lowered into water to measure visibility.  You'd be able to spot one in the Caribbean; at the Jersey shore, not so much.)  And sandpaper and little cardboard jewelry boxes, and a whole carton of plastic wrap, aluminum foil, and baggies!  Wow.  You know you're a science teacher when odd supplies are a cause for celebration.

 

TV Overload

Except for a twenty minute walk, I have uncharacteristically spent an entire afternoon/evening in front of the TV.  I started with the second half of last week's "The Apprentice".  I haven't watched in at least two years.  I forgot how contrived the whole thing is.  As always, it's easy to pick out the last people anyone would want working with them.  It is assured that the most awful people will never get fired until close to the end.  This way viewers will come back to find out what crap they'll pull next week.

Then I watched the news.  Last week I saw a spot about a guy, Stephen Wampler, with cerebral palsey who was trying to climb El Capitan.  He was strapped onto a custom fitted litter and was using both hands to pull himself up five inches at a time.  El Capitan is about 3000 feet tall, a little higher than two Empire State Buildings.  I had been wondering if he made it.  Well, today, after over 6 days and more than 20,000 pull ups, he reached the top.  Good for him!

After a quick dinner/clearing of leftovers from the fridge, it was time for Jeopardy!  Then, since I hate "Wheel of Fortune," I opted for Family Guy, which I don't really love.  But, apparently, I liked it enough not to do anything drastic, like change the channel or hit the off button.

In the short interrim while we were waiting to start House, BP was on one couch, and I was on the other.  Magic was next to me.  Perry was eating Cheese Doodles and tossed me one.  I caught it, bit off half, and gave the other half to Magic.  Then we did it again, and several times more.  Finally I missed one that bounced into the corner and Magic got it.  I am disappointed to report that Magic did not share her Cheese Doodle with me.

Then we watched House.  Now BP is watching "The Event".  I've wandered off.   I should have wandered much further much longer ago.

Just Sunday Stuff

Thank you all for your comments on yesterday's post!  Your responses mean a lot to me.

Just a snapshot of our house right now.  Tara is upstairs cleaning her bathroom within an inch of its life.  She has been working on it for hours.  I will not break the spell by going up there to investigate.

BP is watching football.  We are happy because the Jets won, and won by playing really well.  I am happy because I am playing BP in fantasy football and it looks like I am going to win.

I have just finished cleaning the kitchen.  It was necessary to clean the stove because I made potstickers a little while ago.  I turned on the gas and got side tracked looking for something else while the pan was heating up.  I forgot it was on.  I added two tablespoons of oil.  It did not sizzle wildly, so I felt safe adding the quarter cup water.  Wrong!  I am not sure the words sizzle and spit convey the ensuing sound.  Snap, crackle, and pop would be more appropriate.  And maybe "explode".  Tara ran to the upstairs railing, probably wondering if she should call 911 for an ambulance as well as a firetruck.  BP got off the recliner--on a Sunday.  I turned the gas off and waited the disaster out from a safe distance.  When it was over I thought it would be best to wash the pan and start from scratch.  This is why I needed to clean the kitchen.

I am also a strange combination of exhausted and well rested.  On this beautiful last-of-summer afternoon, I took my Kindle outside on the hammock and read.  Then I was standing on the shore of a whitish blue bay surrounded by glaciers.  It was a gorgeous, balmy day. My kayak was in front of me and I decided to go for a short paddle.  I went a little way out, put the paddle down, and took out my Kindle.  As I read, I let my leg trail over the side and found the Alaskan water to be wonderfully warm.  I held my Kindle over my head and gently slid into the bay for a swim, careful to keep the Kindle out of the water.  The water was beautiful, but I soon realized that I couldn't get back into my kayak without getting the Kindle wet.  So I decided to float on my back in the direction I came from.  I kept floating and floating.  I inadvertantly wound up in the mooring area and I could hear an announcer on the public address system saying, "The woman is now going down under the cruise ship.  When I opened my eyes, I realized that I had wandered deep down in the bay and I could see the entire outline of the ship above me.  I have always been afraid of swimming under boats, but I was just horrified that my Kindle was getting wet.  I used my legs to propel myself as quickly as I could, still holding the Kindle as far up as I could stretch.  Finally I felt sand and floating leaves as I reached the beach.  I checked the Kindle and was incredibly relieved to find myself in the hammock in my back yard in New Jersey. 

I am well rested from my nap, but exhausted from that long swim.

The Vehicle Quest Begins

It was all set.  We were going to a car dealership to look for Tara's first set of wheels.  Repossession Sale.  Doors open at 8:00.  Prices as low as $99. 

With a $99 as a base price, I figured our $3000 budget would get us a bargain.  There were about 25 vehicles in total.  Approximately five of them were $99.  We weren't interested in those so we looked across the aisle.  Most of the over-99 cars were in the mid-$20,000's.  We did find a nice looking Jeep for $2700.  Tara hopped in and I sat next to her.  The car was clean.  The body was undented and reasonably shiny.  Jeeps are sturdy.  We dispatched BP to locate an available salesman.  While we were waiting, another customer approached and pointed out how crooked the Jeep was parked.  That's because he took it for a test drive and it died before leaving the parking space.  It only made it a couple of feet and he backed it back in after they got it restarted.  So much for bargains.

Then we went to a no-haggle used car lot that we'd seen along the way.  Everything there was out of our range. 

So we headed to the used car division on a regular dealership.  We parked.  We looked.  There was not a single vehicle marked with a price.  Kevin came to wait on us, hand extended.  He said hello.  It's nice to meet you.  I said there were no prices on the cars.  Then realizing my total lack of manners, I said hello.  He said there were no prices on the cars so he could spend more time building a friendship with us.  I'm not sure what my face said, but he immediately worked on bonding with BP.  Every car on the lot was over our budget, except for a scratched up, dull red 1999 Chevy sitting off to the side bordering the sales lot and the section reserved for cars awaiting transport to the glue factory.  He couldn't tell us the price offhand, but he invited us to his desk so he could look it up.  As we walked he asked Tara if she knew his niece, which she did.  Now he was finding common ground with the kid.  I listened resentfully and was on the verge of a good old-fashioned sulk.  I could not get over the lack of price labels.  "How much is this car?" I muttered to BP.  "How much you got?"

He left us at the desk while he found the price.  Kevin asked Tara if she would drive a car like that.  She said no.  She wanted something "fresher".  Kevin chuckled and made some comment about her being a princess.  He might as well have come right out and accused her of feeling like she's too good to drive the junker.  He caught my expression and switched to affirming that "of course you'd like a fresher car.  What girl your age wouldn't?"  As he handed us his business card he assured us that he gets new cars in every single week and she won't be getting her license for a whole month.  We can stop back in as often as we'd like and check out his website.  Then he helpfully pointed out the location of his name, phone number, fax number, and website on the card, and shook our hands again. 

Now here's a question for my readers.  Is it normal for used cars on a lot not to have clearly displayed prices?
Please reply to me and seriously answer that question.  If you don't, I will be forced to drive out and sample other lots to find out for myself.  The used car salesmen of the world probably won't like that.

A Short Description of Teaching

It's 5:13.  I got home from work about ten minutes ago.  BP commented that I've been working late all week.  My spontaneous reply was, "Yeah.  I've really been enjoying it."  After I said it, I realized that while my response was totally honest, it was a strange, strange thing to say.  Once the kids leave, I take my time straightening up the classroom.  I plan the next day.  Then in my travels to make copies or drop something off at the office, I invariably find someone, more likely several someones, who I end up talking with.  Then I wander back to my room, find some other little job to do, and then, eventually I go home. 

So why do I like being at work after hours, when I am not getting paid an extra cent to just hang out?  Why are there always other teachers to hang out with?  I think it's the quiet.  The kids have gone home.  The phone has stopped ringing.  The announcements have stopped.  The bells are not proclaiming time to move on to something else.  It's quiet and calm.  There's room to think and get things done without interruption or time constraints.  Teachers can hold entire conversations while seated.  Usually we shout at each other in sound bytes as we pass in the hall amidst 1400 adolescents changing classes. 

Teaching is a fast paced, stressful job.  It is like being on stage doing improvisation in front of a captive and sometimes hostile audience.  There are no ushers to escort hecklers to the street.  The audience may not  be permitted an intermission, nor are they allowed to leave discretely, so all restroom breaks must be announced during your performance.  A class is a 45 minute show.  Then the audience leaves and a new group immediately takes its place.  You start again.  And again.  And again.  And again.  And again. You can be on an incredible roll and have them eating out of your hand.  You're at the top of your game and the next sentence out of your mouth is the punchline.  At that exact moment the phone rings and you must inform five people that the guidance counselor wants to see them.  But before they can leave you must pause to write a hall pass. 

Sometimes the audience harbors animosity towards you.  Sometimes they just hate each other.  The Hatfields and the McCoys are routinely assigned to the same room.  People who in real life will gravitate to different neighborhoods (like Appalachia and the upper east side), who will choose different professions (like cops and robbers), who will embrace different philosophies (like the Dalai Lama and the Taliban), are required by law to share closet space, crayons, and lab report grades.  When they get on each other's nerves or erupt into a nuclear war, the U.N. will not be sending a team of diplomats to set up negotiations.  Mostly because there is nothing to negotiate.  They still have to share closet space, crayons, and lab report grades.  So who keeps the peace?  The teacher.  But this must be done while continuing to entertain the rest of the troops. 

So when all the turmoil is done, when the last audience has left the theater, the teacher is left with quiet.  This is why we just hang out.

Lethargy, Nail Salons, and Photograpy

I'm forcing myself to come back from three days of lethargy.  I was planning to let tonight slide and start fresh in the morning, but I got a brief pep talk from Rich, and I'm back at the keyboard.  Thank you, Rich.

So, what caused this lethargy?  Monday night at the Writer's Exchange I got mixed reviews on my plans for a blog.  It's not the content itself that stirred the doubtful reception, but the electronic medium.  Of the eight opinions available to me, exactly none of them offered concrete advise on how to proceed in getting a blog to catch on with a regular audience.  I was mostly offered shrugs, I-don't-knows, and "is it even possible to make a living like that?"  Usually this group is lively, upbeat, insightful, and encouraging.  I like these people.  But Monday night I was hanging on a limb by myself.  Although I should not have, I let the discouragement give me permission not to write on Tuesday.

Then came Wednesday.  I already missed one day, so I might as well miss another.  No one would notice anyway.  So I fell into The Witch's Prison, a computer game, and spent the entire evening not seeing a really obvious search object, and devoted over an hour to solving a puzzle that I didn't understand the rules for solving.  Now I understand the rules, but I haven't found the solution.

I was hoping that I would be back in my weird little asylum world tonight, but Tara was on the computer.  Searching for used cars!!!  Saturday morning we're going to a dealership to look for a car.  For Tara.  Is that even possible?  Then she went to get her nails done at 6:30.  Perry took over the search.  Jeopardy! was preempted for extended coverage of fallen trees and delayed trains in New York City.  I watched an episode of Seinfeld (the frozen yogurt) and then aimlessly flipped channels until the computer was free.  I pounced.

I hope all fantasy baseball people are reading this.  I know I am the seventh place team.  I understand that I was fair to middling all season.  But did you see my score on Tuesday?  210 points.  That's two hundred ten.  And THAT is a Donna first down! (Only Rutgers football fans will get my last sentence.) Gloat completed.

At 7:45 I called Tara and asked her if she was close to needing to be picked up.  She said no.  I thought this was odd, but I was keeping myself amused.  At 8:20, two hours into this nail salon thing, I told myself that she had to be ready soon.  I drove to the salon and there she was, hands still resting on the table.  The only explanation the manicurist gave me was that they had to put on a whole new set because the place she got her nails done at last time use a different kind of whatever it is they use.  According to my watch, she had time to grow a new set.  So I thumbed through a promotional book put there by wedding photographers.  Then I read a teaching book on my Kindle.  Then the season premier of The Apprentice started and I wished it were socially acceptable to tell everyone in the salon to stop talking and blow drying.  Not only were they keeping me from hearing the introduction, they were talking about changing the channel.  We finally left at 9:15, two hours and forty-five minutes from her appointment time. 

Let me go back a minute to that wedding photography book.  It was a compilation of the highlights of the work of several photographers.  Most of it was standard.  A few pictures were exceptionally nice.  Three were exceptionally bizarre.  The least objectionable was a shot of some older lady's feet.  She was wearing a gold dress with matching shoes, and bright purple nail polish. 

Then there was a shot of a very short old woman who was having such a good time her grin took on a cartoonishness.  She was standing next to a young woman whose head was not in the photograph.  But, oh boy, her boobs were just about falling out of her dress.  So what I was looking at was a pair of boobs next to a bugged out octogenarian.

Last, and weirdest of all, was a picture of a bride and groom.  They were standing face to face.  His face was buried in his hands, sobbing.  In a graveyard.

The foot picture was not great, but would pass as "what not to wear".  The old lady and the boobs could be a candid shot that most people would opt not to include in the album.  Both the old lady and the owner of the boobs would be vying for the picture in order to make sure it got run through the shredder. 

And some sentimental couple, under awful circumstances, might decide to make a private stop at a gravesite.  I'm guessing his parents were recently deceased and in his way he was making them part of the wedding, a bittersweet idea.  But why on earth would they invite the photographer along?

I can even suppose that a photographer could, maybe, run into offbeat clients who want these pictures.  But why in the world would that photographer choose these prints to represent him in a book meant to drum up business?  I do not know the answer to this question, but I do know that we will not be hiring him for Laura's wedding.

Good night.  Go live it up.

How To Lose an Hour and a Half

Today I was going to leave school right after dismissal.  All I had to do was straighten up my desk and look over tomorrow's lessons.  About halfway through tomorrow the other science teacher walked in with a cardboard box and a great idea for an earthquake demonstration.  We discussed it for a minute or two, and off he went to test it.  As soon as he left I came up with another idea to make it even better.  Off I went to tell him.  We had a great idea.  If only we could demonstrate the effect of earthquakes on buildings.  So then I was retrieving Legos from my closet.  Ten minutes later we had a great lesson all set up.  All I had to do was straighten up my desk and look over tomorrow's lessons.

The very last paper I had to clear involved coordinating a library visit with two other teachers.  This coordination involved three conversations.  The third conversation led to questions over the school breakfast procedures, the difficulties of switching classes so often, and how we are going to get the students missing from the computer into the computer.  Only then did I actually look over tomorrow's lessons.

Then there was one stop on the way out to say hello to a friend.  Just five more minutes won't kill anyone.

This is how I lost an hour and a half of an afternoon.

Sundays tend to be boring, I thought.  Yup.  I was ready to just loll about on the couch  and scoff down a steady procession of snacks for the rest of the day.  That's a long rest of the day when it's only noon.  I had been thinking about kayaking, but cool, rainy weather doesn't quite make Cedar Creek a great idea.  So I made myself  write a short list of ways to spend a boring Sunday.  First, I could go down to the basement and find the proper colors of green and terra cotta so I can fix the touch up painting from yesterday.  Second, I could clean out my closet.  Third, I could bake banana bread.  Fourth, I could type the English essay Tara was campaigning for me to type.  Fifth, I could go back to my original predisposition, the one in which I loll about on the couch and scoff down a steady procession of snacks for the rest of the day.

It was time to apply the process of elimination.  I thought about taking care of the paint situation, but that would require a trip to Home Depot in the rain and would be less appealing that the state of boredom I was dealing with in the first place.  Typing the essay was probably on par with painting.  Lying on the couch and baking banana bread would both keep me in physical proximity to the child with the untyped essay and would hamper my attempts to avoid the situation.  Therefore, I concluded, today would be an excellent day to clean out my closet.

I threw out a kitchen-sized garbage bag of shirts I haven't worn hundreds of moons due to the fact that they were really old and worn out.  I rediscovered a whole bunch of shirts that count as new again because I forgot I had them.  I decided against going through the winter shirts stowed away in storage tubs.  Doing that would be akin to admitting that summer is really over, and I'd rather milk that one until sometime in October when I'm absolutely forced to wear a warm jacket.  I did, however crazy this sounds, lay out all my clothes for the week.  By the time I finished the job, the English essay was typed and the student typist wanted to go to Barnes and Noble.

Barnes and Noble!  Yes.  Yes.  Yes.  A bookstore is one place I never turn down.  Tara had a gift card to spend and she headed off to the DVD section.  I went in seach of the book I returned to the library and wanted to buy so I could own a copy.  Oddly enough, they only have it at the Menlo Park store.  The clerk offered to call the store and have it reserved for me.  Then he turned the computer screen toward me and I realized that it's a $26 book if it's already sitting on the shelf, but I could get it for $18 if I buy it online.  This makes no sense to me.  I will do it, but I'm not seeing the logic. 

Not having a book to purchase, I found a magazine and made myself happy and comfortable in the reading area.  Too soon it was time to go.  Tara bought two seasons of I Love Lucy.  I'm not much of a TV watcher, but I'm looking forward to seeing that. 

Once home I checked in with fantasy football.  My quarterback is the one off the field with a concussion.  We ate our standard Football Sunday dinner:  hors d'euvres.  This week was Past Prime Pigs in Blankets, other pastry-wrapped goodies that can't truly be identified, chicken nuggets, and mozzarella sticks.  Next week I think we'll do wings and maybe Chinese dumplings.

So now Sunday is close to over, and it wasn't boring after all.  A short walk, a hot shower, a cup of tea and a little reading will finish it off nicely.  If my running back would score some points it would complete the picture.