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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
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!
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!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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 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?
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 20, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 17, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Paint Organization 101
It was almost a relaxing day. I didn't have a huge things-to-do list and we had no commitments. Actually, the only not so fun chore was touch up painting. But it was only a 45 minute job, start to finish. Okay, it was supposed to be a 45 minute job, start to finish. I had already taken out the quart cans of paint we'd bought years ago when we were deciding on colors. I had already determined which exact shades we picked and was ready to go. Somehow, when the paint dried, the touched up area was shiny and it was really obvious where I'd painted. It turns out that when we bought the gallons of paint they used a different base tint than we'd used for testing. It made just enough of a difference to make a mess. We ended up having to find the correct gallons and recoat whole sections of wall.
Painting Tip:
When you store paint, use a permanent marker and clearly label the can "hall" or "dining room". If you are going to keep your tester colors, label them "do not use for touch-ups". In fact, throw away old colors. If you paint your living room off -white and a few years later repaint it sandy white, they are similar shades and both correctly labeled "living room". Get rid of the off -white or label it "do note use for touch-ups". Taking three minutes to update labels could save you an entire afternoon of repainting your touch-ups.
Other than this small debacle, I had a relaxing day. I got my reading done, took Magic for a really long walk in this gorgeous weather and caught up on the phone with an old friend. (Hey, Old Friend, you haven't followed my blog yet!) Best of all, and here my true colors are showing, I found a wonderfully frustrating game on Big Fish Games.
Comment on Comment:
Matt, thank you very much for commenting on Farmville. Matt quit Farmville too and his comment makes me feel validated.
As soon as I e-mail this to all my friends who I am haranging to follow me, I am going to be watching the Rutgers Game. R! U!
Painting Tip:
When you store paint, use a permanent marker and clearly label the can "hall" or "dining room". If you are going to keep your tester colors, label them "do not use for touch-ups". In fact, throw away old colors. If you paint your living room off -white and a few years later repaint it sandy white, they are similar shades and both correctly labeled "living room". Get rid of the off -white or label it "do note use for touch-ups". Taking three minutes to update labels could save you an entire afternoon of repainting your touch-ups.
Other than this small debacle, I had a relaxing day. I got my reading done, took Magic for a really long walk in this gorgeous weather and caught up on the phone with an old friend. (Hey, Old Friend, you haven't followed my blog yet!) Best of all, and here my true colors are showing, I found a wonderfully frustrating game on Big Fish Games.
Comment on Comment:
Matt, thank you very much for commenting on Farmville. Matt quit Farmville too and his comment makes me feel validated.
As soon as I e-mail this to all my friends who I am haranging to follow me, I am going to be watching the Rutgers Game. R! U!
Friday, September 10, 2010
The Dishwasher ALWAYS Needs To Be Emptied
Plans and real life don't always see eye to eye. My husband, BP, opened the dining room window and announced into the garden where I was sitting that he was starving. Being the accommodating person that I am, and fairly hungry myself, I packed up the books I was planning to read and we headed off to Jose Tejas, one of our all time favorite restaurants. We ordered a chicken and steak fajita for two with a side of guacamole. It was the best guacamole I ever ate in my life. Then, instead of coming home and reading, as long as we were in the neighborhood, we picked up some ice cream at the Dairy Maid and barged in on BP's sister and brother-in-law. The plan was to stay an hour. I'm guessing everyone knows how that goes. It went until 11:00 and when I got home I thought mostly about going to sleep. I didn't think about it that long, and then it was today.
The grand plan for today was to go to the beach, stroll the boardwalks through Bradley Beach, Ocean Grove, and Asbury Park, have lunch, and read/nap on the sand until about 4:00. Before all that could happen though, I had it in my head to get my reading done, and do some technical things that I don't really understand on this blog. I chose to get the technical stuff out of the way and I did it with a surprising minimum of frustration. But, of course, it took longer than I expected and it was the appointed time for leaving for the beach.
I took Magic, my black lab, out for a quick walk, and noticed the sky was cloudy. It was kind of cool and maybe a little windy. The beach is an hour away. We're having company tonight and we need to straighten up a little. The dishwasher needs to be emptied. BP's knee is bothering him. We could just stay home and I could catch up on all these little things.
No. The dishwasher ALWAYS needs to be emptied. There's always something to read and no house is ever completely mess free and devoid of things-to-do. So I put on my sneakers, packed one of the books for the beach, took a bathing suit and a jacket, to be ready whichever way the weather was going to go, and off we went.
It was a great day. I walked 13,000 steps. We had a really nice lunch at a place we thought was going to be a dive. Once on the beach we were graced with the companionship of a one-legged seagull. BP listened to a book on his iPod while I read a couple of chapters. Then I took a very little nap until BP started getting bitten by killer flies. They must have been alarm flies because the attack occurred at exactly 4:00.
We left. We came home. The mess was still there. The dishes were still in the dishwasher. We took care of both and now we're waiting for our company. It looks like everything got done, the fun and the mundane alike.
Tomorrow's Goals:
Live it up!
The grand plan for today was to go to the beach, stroll the boardwalks through Bradley Beach, Ocean Grove, and Asbury Park, have lunch, and read/nap on the sand until about 4:00. Before all that could happen though, I had it in my head to get my reading done, and do some technical things that I don't really understand on this blog. I chose to get the technical stuff out of the way and I did it with a surprising minimum of frustration. But, of course, it took longer than I expected and it was the appointed time for leaving for the beach.
I took Magic, my black lab, out for a quick walk, and noticed the sky was cloudy. It was kind of cool and maybe a little windy. The beach is an hour away. We're having company tonight and we need to straighten up a little. The dishwasher needs to be emptied. BP's knee is bothering him. We could just stay home and I could catch up on all these little things.
No. The dishwasher ALWAYS needs to be emptied. There's always something to read and no house is ever completely mess free and devoid of things-to-do. So I put on my sneakers, packed one of the books for the beach, took a bathing suit and a jacket, to be ready whichever way the weather was going to go, and off we went.
It was a great day. I walked 13,000 steps. We had a really nice lunch at a place we thought was going to be a dive. Once on the beach we were graced with the companionship of a one-legged seagull. BP listened to a book on his iPod while I read a couple of chapters. Then I took a very little nap until BP started getting bitten by killer flies. They must have been alarm flies because the attack occurred at exactly 4:00.
We left. We came home. The mess was still there. The dishes were still in the dishwasher. We took care of both and now we're waiting for our company. It looks like everything got done, the fun and the mundane alike.
Tomorrow's Goals:
- to get that reading done
- to touch up paint the house with the paint and brushes that I purchased six week ago
- to watch the Rutgers game
- to either walk, bike, or kayak
- to write
Live it up!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
A Brand New Blog for a Brand New Day
Happy New Year! Today just happens to be Rosh Hashana, so I'd like to send out my good wishes to those celebrating tonight.
I've been thinking about blogging for a while now, and today I decided on a topic. My topics are life and time as they go together. We all have the same amount of hours in a day. Some people make much more of those hours than others. Some people build financial empires, or at least mini-empires that provide wealth of varying degrees for themselves and their employees and the rest of their business community. Other people write and publish books that influence opinion, inform, and entertain the rest of us. Still others hold political offices and shape the course of events in their towns or states, or even the country and the world. So far, I'm not any of those people.
I am an urban middle school science teacher, and yes, I touch the future. I also make a great deal of contact with my computer chair as I play endless hands of solitaire, ponder the status of my fantasy football team, and religiously check in to train and feed my virtual racing frog. Back in July I made the decision that I can, want to, and should be doing more to enjoy life and contribute to the world at large. With a mercilessly stern hand I unfriended about seventy of my closest strangers and blocked both my virtual farm and my especially beloved and beautifully developing frontier. It took hours and hours and hours to collect the nails and paint to get that virtual schoolhouse up and running. And that, I realized, was a problem.
I could easily rattle off a list of things I like to do. I love long walks in the woods, kayaking, reading, writing poetry, and swimming in the ocean, but I haven't made time for these activities with any regularity. I have always admired people who get involved in issues that affect the lives of others for the better--people who organize clothing and food drives, who volunteer at homeless shelters, who run in charity marathons. In fact every single event that I have ever attended or heard of has been thought of and implemented by somebody. But I have never done anything of the sort myself. Okay, I make occasional runs to the Goodwill Thrift store, but I suspect that's more of a way to clean out the closet than it is a charitable donation. There are people who think about learning to draw, speaking another language, getting a master's degree, or figuring out a way to get paid to go to Antartica. That's me. Then there are the people who actually go out and do these things. That's who I want to be.
Today is a new day and my mission is to get out there and live. Work time is prescribed. Down Time, the time we spend outside of work, is when we live. For some people, the two blend together seamlessly. The purpose of this blog is to document my own transformation from someone who just kind of exists from workday to workday into someone who decides on how to spend each day and "does it". I am inviting, okay, begging, for anyone out there reading this to join me in making each day count. Please send me your comments on great ways to spend a life. Clue me in on the things you do to make a difference in the world or to make a difference for yourself and your family.
It's late afternoon and I am feeling productive. School is closed today and tomorrow. I got up early anyway and hiked the long trail at Plainsboro Preserve. I haven't done that in awhile and I was pretty exhausted by the time I got back to the car. I have been carrying a pedometer in my pocket for several years with the standing goal of walking 10,000 steps a day. I don't make it very often, but today I was over 9000 by 10:30. It was at about step 7000 that I came up with the idea for this blog. I'd like to say that I came right home and set straight to work, but the truth is that while I did go directly to my computer, I spent several hours messing around aimlessly before actually getting productive. I'm co-reading four books and as soon as I finish writing I'm going to turn to them for about 20 minutes each. They're all non-fiction, so it's kind of like studying different subjects in school. Tonight my husband and I are alone so we're going out to dinner at an undecided location. After dinner I'm going to draw a motivational picture of a potted flower with the caption "bloom where you are planted". It's from a Cursillo retreat weekend that I went to about 20 years ago. We drew the picture as a group activity and I kept it in my classroom for years because I liked the message. Then I went on maternity leave and the picture was gone when I returned. Yesterday I got it in my head to redraw it, and that's what I'm going to do tonight.
There's still about six hours of Today left. Let's live it up!
Donna
I've been thinking about blogging for a while now, and today I decided on a topic. My topics are life and time as they go together. We all have the same amount of hours in a day. Some people make much more of those hours than others. Some people build financial empires, or at least mini-empires that provide wealth of varying degrees for themselves and their employees and the rest of their business community. Other people write and publish books that influence opinion, inform, and entertain the rest of us. Still others hold political offices and shape the course of events in their towns or states, or even the country and the world. So far, I'm not any of those people.
I am an urban middle school science teacher, and yes, I touch the future. I also make a great deal of contact with my computer chair as I play endless hands of solitaire, ponder the status of my fantasy football team, and religiously check in to train and feed my virtual racing frog. Back in July I made the decision that I can, want to, and should be doing more to enjoy life and contribute to the world at large. With a mercilessly stern hand I unfriended about seventy of my closest strangers and blocked both my virtual farm and my especially beloved and beautifully developing frontier. It took hours and hours and hours to collect the nails and paint to get that virtual schoolhouse up and running. And that, I realized, was a problem.
I could easily rattle off a list of things I like to do. I love long walks in the woods, kayaking, reading, writing poetry, and swimming in the ocean, but I haven't made time for these activities with any regularity. I have always admired people who get involved in issues that affect the lives of others for the better--people who organize clothing and food drives, who volunteer at homeless shelters, who run in charity marathons. In fact every single event that I have ever attended or heard of has been thought of and implemented by somebody. But I have never done anything of the sort myself. Okay, I make occasional runs to the Goodwill Thrift store, but I suspect that's more of a way to clean out the closet than it is a charitable donation. There are people who think about learning to draw, speaking another language, getting a master's degree, or figuring out a way to get paid to go to Antartica. That's me. Then there are the people who actually go out and do these things. That's who I want to be.
Today is a new day and my mission is to get out there and live. Work time is prescribed. Down Time, the time we spend outside of work, is when we live. For some people, the two blend together seamlessly. The purpose of this blog is to document my own transformation from someone who just kind of exists from workday to workday into someone who decides on how to spend each day and "does it". I am inviting, okay, begging, for anyone out there reading this to join me in making each day count. Please send me your comments on great ways to spend a life. Clue me in on the things you do to make a difference in the world or to make a difference for yourself and your family.
It's late afternoon and I am feeling productive. School is closed today and tomorrow. I got up early anyway and hiked the long trail at Plainsboro Preserve. I haven't done that in awhile and I was pretty exhausted by the time I got back to the car. I have been carrying a pedometer in my pocket for several years with the standing goal of walking 10,000 steps a day. I don't make it very often, but today I was over 9000 by 10:30. It was at about step 7000 that I came up with the idea for this blog. I'd like to say that I came right home and set straight to work, but the truth is that while I did go directly to my computer, I spent several hours messing around aimlessly before actually getting productive. I'm co-reading four books and as soon as I finish writing I'm going to turn to them for about 20 minutes each. They're all non-fiction, so it's kind of like studying different subjects in school. Tonight my husband and I are alone so we're going out to dinner at an undecided location. After dinner I'm going to draw a motivational picture of a potted flower with the caption "bloom where you are planted". It's from a Cursillo retreat weekend that I went to about 20 years ago. We drew the picture as a group activity and I kept it in my classroom for years because I liked the message. Then I went on maternity leave and the picture was gone when I returned. Yesterday I got it in my head to redraw it, and that's what I'm going to do tonight.
There's still about six hours of Today left. Let's live it up!
Donna
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