Since Dad died on Christmas Eve, this will -- technically -- be our third Christmas without him in two years. Numbers are odd, aren't they?
I've been thinking about language lately. Really, I should have said that Dad passed away, but that suggests peace to me. Death itself, I assume, was peaceful for him. For us, as you know, a relief.
We imbue words with so much power. Connotations trump denotations. When I write, I choose carefully and opts for those with the most emotion. When I teach, I aim for the same. To hell with neutrality.
I think I'm still angry.
I have that right. I claim that right, and I won't surrender it for the sake of being nice. Don't tell me that time makes it easier. It just makes it harder to remember events. Not emotions, however. Never emotions.
Since posting the article on CMU's Dr. Randy Pausch in September, I've been thinking more about the art of living. That's what it is, really. An art.
And so I flew to Louisville, talked boldly to strangers with the same interests, and dressed up because I wanted to. When I came home, I got rid of what I call my "thin" clothes -- classic, professional clothing that I wore pre-baby and kept because I plan to lose those last few pounds. (Let's face it, after four years, those pounds aren't going away. I'm going to finally dub them curves and go buy new slacks.)
If living is an art, then one needs to decorate. I tried new dishes in Louisville, and now find the processed meals at the local chain restaurants lacking more then ever. Love, Toni Morrison's latest in hardback, is on my bookshelf, just waiting for me to dive in; it's far from the usual romances I pick up.
Gavie and I are planning how we'll decorate the backyard with wildflowers and other fauna next summer. We're working on preserving seeds from his garden for the spring planting season. As we clean up the yard and prepare for the fall, we look for slugs and worms and are always very successful.
And I have my other blog, Ferocious Tigers, which is where I work on my roar.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Hello?
Little Captain Chaos is learning how to talk on the phone. Like his mom, he walks around the house while he talks, chattering away about all sorts of things while doing something else. He picks up the phone, asks one of us the number, dials, and starts talking.
"Hello, Gwammy? It's me... Nothing... Fuzz is eating... Yes... Good..."
About ten minutes later, he'll say good-bye and hang up.
Uncle Mikey is next. He gets to hear all about Gavie's stuffed animals.
Third will be Aunt Nana. He'll give her a dissertation on the flowers on our front porch.
Finally, the phone will begin to beep. Or, actually, stop beeping, a sure sign that Chaos has drained all power from the mystical device.
He may take after me when it comes to phone-talking, but he's all his dad when it comes to screwdrivers and hammers. At four, he can already operate both. When the phone stops working, he knows that the batteries are dead.
Dead batteries are remedied with a screwdriver (thankfully NOT a hammer, though that might be because we keep the hammers out of reach).
At four, he's already all legs and moves fast. For kicks, this last time, I just watched. I do that sometimes, just watch him and see what happens. I like to see how he problem-solves.
Gavie went right for the utility drawer and nabbed the screwdriver and two double-A batteries. I kept watching. Within minutes he had the back of the phone removed and the triple-A batteries removed...
Oh, don't worry, readers. It was a toy phone.
"Hello, Gwammy? It's me... Nothing... Fuzz is eating... Yes... Good..."
About ten minutes later, he'll say good-bye and hang up.
Uncle Mikey is next. He gets to hear all about Gavie's stuffed animals.
Third will be Aunt Nana. He'll give her a dissertation on the flowers on our front porch.
Finally, the phone will begin to beep. Or, actually, stop beeping, a sure sign that Chaos has drained all power from the mystical device.
He may take after me when it comes to phone-talking, but he's all his dad when it comes to screwdrivers and hammers. At four, he can already operate both. When the phone stops working, he knows that the batteries are dead.
Dead batteries are remedied with a screwdriver (thankfully NOT a hammer, though that might be because we keep the hammers out of reach).
At four, he's already all legs and moves fast. For kicks, this last time, I just watched. I do that sometimes, just watch him and see what happens. I like to see how he problem-solves.
Gavie went right for the utility drawer and nabbed the screwdriver and two double-A batteries. I kept watching. Within minutes he had the back of the phone removed and the triple-A batteries removed...
Oh, don't worry, readers. It was a toy phone.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Dying a Good Death
Dr. Randy Pausch spoke at Carnegie Mellon University yesterday, addressing his life as he prepares for his death. Within a few months, readers, it is likely that pancreatic cancer will claim him, turning him into another forgettable statistic.
It is unlikely, however, that those who were fortunate enough to know him will ever feel he's just another number or will ever forget him. After reading the Post-Gazette article on his presentation to the standing-room-only crowd, I doubt he'll be that to me either.
I'm currently teaching a psychology class where they're being put through the paces of goal-setting. I keep asking them for more details about their goals, pushing for them to make things concrete... and thus more attainable. Today I read them the article about him, discounting the fact that he bears the title of "CMU professor" because I don't want to give anyone reason to use his profession as an explanation for his achieving his goals.
It isn't, I told them, about titles. They don't mean a thing when it comes to your behavior.
Reaching your goals takes a high degree of discipline, regardless of your title or station in life. It takes a willingness to put yourself out there, to open up and say "here's my heart," and risk having it trod upon. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I exploded today in my English class. Why do people have to live down to the expectations of society? Why do they have to say "this is where I come from" and think that it's reasonable to repeat the cycle? All I want is for them to realize that they can do more then they realize.
Dr. Pausch is dying as admirably as anyone can. I hope that, when I'm his age, a young 46, I can look back at my life and find that I can go on with the same integrity he has today.
It is unlikely, however, that those who were fortunate enough to know him will ever feel he's just another number or will ever forget him. After reading the Post-Gazette article on his presentation to the standing-room-only crowd, I doubt he'll be that to me either.
I'm currently teaching a psychology class where they're being put through the paces of goal-setting. I keep asking them for more details about their goals, pushing for them to make things concrete... and thus more attainable. Today I read them the article about him, discounting the fact that he bears the title of "CMU professor" because I don't want to give anyone reason to use his profession as an explanation for his achieving his goals.
It isn't, I told them, about titles. They don't mean a thing when it comes to your behavior.
Reaching your goals takes a high degree of discipline, regardless of your title or station in life. It takes a willingness to put yourself out there, to open up and say "here's my heart," and risk having it trod upon. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I exploded today in my English class. Why do people have to live down to the expectations of society? Why do they have to say "this is where I come from" and think that it's reasonable to repeat the cycle? All I want is for them to realize that they can do more then they realize.
Dr. Pausch is dying as admirably as anyone can. I hope that, when I'm his age, a young 46, I can look back at my life and find that I can go on with the same integrity he has today.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Six-two-oh! Oh la la!
620
Six-two-oh.
Six hundred and twenty points!
Glorious, glorious number! One step closer to fulfilling those admission requirements for Duquense University.
THAT number, by the way, is my math score on the GRE, which I took this past Saturday. I loathe those things, you know.
This was the celebratory e-mail sent to some:
OVER and DONE with. It took three long hours today. Somehow I did NOT get a headache, though I was so light-headed at one point I began to wonder about the policy on fainting at the keyboard.
For the record, I have never been this uptight in my life about academics and tests. Ever. I got a 620 on the math, if I remember correctly. Don't know what that means yet, to be honest.
As long as I don't have to square it, divide it, or find out what happens when it goes 50 mph in 20 minutes while my verbal score goes 49 kph in 30 minutes, I'm as happy as happy can be for now. Just wanted to let y'all know... and wanted to thank you for putting up with my nerves this week (some more then others).
Have a nice day! :)
(I know I will, now that I know it's an acceptable score for admission and that I needn't retake it!)
Six-two-oh.
Six hundred and twenty points!
Glorious, glorious number! One step closer to fulfilling those admission requirements for Duquense University.
THAT number, by the way, is my math score on the GRE, which I took this past Saturday. I loathe those things, you know.
This was the celebratory e-mail sent to some:
OVER and DONE with. It took three long hours today. Somehow I did NOT get a headache, though I was so light-headed at one point I began to wonder about the policy on fainting at the keyboard.
For the record, I have never been this uptight in my life about academics and tests. Ever. I got a 620 on the math, if I remember correctly. Don't know what that means yet, to be honest.
As long as I don't have to square it, divide it, or find out what happens when it goes 50 mph in 20 minutes while my verbal score goes 49 kph in 30 minutes, I'm as happy as happy can be for now. Just wanted to let y'all know... and wanted to thank you for putting up with my nerves this week (some more then others).
Have a nice day! :)
(I know I will, now that I know it's an acceptable score for admission and that I needn't retake it!)
Sunday, August 19, 2007
When I grow up...
... I want to be a writer, a teacher.
Add one: a consultant.
Ponder this career: a teacher in the university, a writer whose focus is in education, and a consultant who works in the post-secondary world -- with emphasis in the world of for-profit education.
Golly, much better then my usual "everything" when asked what I want to do.
What am I going to write?
(The only answer to that, right now, is a shameless plug for Ferocious Tigers.)
Add one: a consultant.
Ponder this career: a teacher in the university, a writer whose focus is in education, and a consultant who works in the post-secondary world -- with emphasis in the world of for-profit education.
Golly, much better then my usual "everything" when asked what I want to do.
What am I going to write?
(The only answer to that, right now, is a shameless plug for Ferocious Tigers.)
Monday, August 06, 2007
Fifty-one weeks
There are moments, snapshots if you will pardon the cliche, where life stills and you see exactly what you were meant to see. You sit and barely breathe and take in the reality and wonder just how you were so fortunate.
Right now, was the rain splatters on the roof, as I sit comfortably at my computer, I find myself unable -- again -- to really describe what is, in essence, a week a econ camp. A week where I hand over exactly half of my vacation days and a good bit of money to volunteer as a company advisor. It is, I admit, a job that makes little sense to me at times. The surrender of time and money earn me the opportunity to sit through speeches that I've just about memorized, exhaustion, and a huge workload waiting for me upon my return to reality. I get the chance to work with teenagers who may or may not want to hear what I have to say. I set my wake-up calls for 7 a.m., roll into the college at 7:45, and do not stop for the next ten hours or so.
Only 51 weeks until I get to go back.
When I go back, I'll walk into the hospitality suite and see the people I've grown to know and love. We'll talk about out children and, in some cases, grandchildren. We'll update each other on jobs and life in general. It will be as if we'd never left.
When I go back, we'll find new ways to make each other laugh. This year we passed around brown lunch bags, preparing to hyperventilate when Jim began his training on Saturday. We hazed new-to-week-III'ers John and Jeremy by putting them in the center of the Market Game and "forgetting" to mention the rush of 200 students (though we did take their eyeglasses and name tags off to avoid injury). Scott managed to keep his composure during his Monday presentation, despite most of us standing in the back of the auditorium imitating elevator doors with our hands (long story). Deb and I discovered new ways to answer the phone in our hotel room (but that's all I'm saying there).
When I go back, we'll sit in the Bell Foyer at some point and listen to Guido play the piano, and I'll look around at the people and marvel at it all. Twenty-four people who help each other because they are there for the kids and not the glory of a computer-generated certificate come Friday night. Several of us have remarked on the camaraderie of our group, on the "magic" that seems to happen when we gather. There are neither cliques nor squabbles, there's never a moment of cruelty for the sake of a cheap laugh, and competition between the us is non-existent. These are good people that I volunteer with, I tell my family.
That's the magic, by the way. The way that everyone gives without taking.
Right now, was the rain splatters on the roof, as I sit comfortably at my computer, I find myself unable -- again -- to really describe what is, in essence, a week a econ camp. A week where I hand over exactly half of my vacation days and a good bit of money to volunteer as a company advisor. It is, I admit, a job that makes little sense to me at times. The surrender of time and money earn me the opportunity to sit through speeches that I've just about memorized, exhaustion, and a huge workload waiting for me upon my return to reality. I get the chance to work with teenagers who may or may not want to hear what I have to say. I set my wake-up calls for 7 a.m., roll into the college at 7:45, and do not stop for the next ten hours or so.
Only 51 weeks until I get to go back.
When I go back, I'll walk into the hospitality suite and see the people I've grown to know and love. We'll talk about out children and, in some cases, grandchildren. We'll update each other on jobs and life in general. It will be as if we'd never left.
When I go back, we'll find new ways to make each other laugh. This year we passed around brown lunch bags, preparing to hyperventilate when Jim began his training on Saturday. We hazed new-to-week-III'ers John and Jeremy by putting them in the center of the Market Game and "forgetting" to mention the rush of 200 students (though we did take their eyeglasses and name tags off to avoid injury). Scott managed to keep his composure during his Monday presentation, despite most of us standing in the back of the auditorium imitating elevator doors with our hands (long story). Deb and I discovered new ways to answer the phone in our hotel room (but that's all I'm saying there).
When I go back, we'll sit in the Bell Foyer at some point and listen to Guido play the piano, and I'll look around at the people and marvel at it all. Twenty-four people who help each other because they are there for the kids and not the glory of a computer-generated certificate come Friday night. Several of us have remarked on the camaraderie of our group, on the "magic" that seems to happen when we gather. There are neither cliques nor squabbles, there's never a moment of cruelty for the sake of a cheap laugh, and competition between the us is non-existent. These are good people that I volunteer with, I tell my family.
That's the magic, by the way. The way that everyone gives without taking.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Captain Chaos Strikes Again!
If you ask me just how tall little Chaos is, I can now tell you that he is exactly tall enough to begin dragging a kitchen chair over to the fridge and reach for whatever Forbidden Fruit sits atop it. Yesterday, it was Scotch Tape.
Eager to save a coloring book from the terror of a ripped page, he decided that tape was the answer. Eager to prove that "only four" is actually "already four" and that Mommy doesn't know what she is talking about when she says "no, I'll get it for you in a minute," Chaos took matters into his own hands.
The next thing I know, he is dragging a kitchen chair across the room and shoving it up against the fridge, climbing up, standing on tip-toe, stretching to reach...
He's just not quite tall enough, readers, to do more then curl his little hands around the top of the freezer door and pop the seal.
The next thing you see if my four-year-old hanging on, his little feet dangling, as the freezer door swings wide open.
It was, in his estimation, the coolest thing ever. When my heart starts beating again, I'll let you know if I second the motion.
Eager to save a coloring book from the terror of a ripped page, he decided that tape was the answer. Eager to prove that "only four" is actually "already four" and that Mommy doesn't know what she is talking about when she says "no, I'll get it for you in a minute," Chaos took matters into his own hands.
The next thing I know, he is dragging a kitchen chair across the room and shoving it up against the fridge, climbing up, standing on tip-toe, stretching to reach...
He's just not quite tall enough, readers, to do more then curl his little hands around the top of the freezer door and pop the seal.
The next thing you see if my four-year-old hanging on, his little feet dangling, as the freezer door swings wide open.
It was, in his estimation, the coolest thing ever. When my heart starts beating again, I'll let you know if I second the motion.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Musings
Pennsylvania, Alabama, Italy, Oregon, San Francisco, Tennessee, and Maryland.
Parents who exchange stories and pictures and You Tube videos without ever holding their friends' children. Babies who will grow up knowing about but maybe meeting each other only once or twice -- until they are adults who can travel on their own. Best friends unseen for a decade who keep in touch, still able to talk about everything and laugh about how young we once were.
All only a click away.
God love the Internet. On-line we can share our lives. In blogs we can tell the world about exploits involving little pink dresses, college pranks, professional headaches and dreams, and our travels. We can go on about our children and their exploits as well, laughing at what was not exactly laughable at one point. A virtual gathering whenever and, thanks to wireless, wherever.
I can curl up on my couch with a cup of hot tea and a laptop, sending and receiving as I relax. No longer am I tied to a desktop computer and banished to the upstairs. It's not nearly as cozy as curling up with old-fashioned letter, such as my friend Vanessa still sends, but it's a close second.
Chantel's blog keeps me up-to-date on her lovely Penny, for whom I have a box of presents and will mail someday (just a little more space to fill first). Meanwhile, Jen sends photos of her darling Olivia, and I laugh when I see the undeniable family resemblance to the woman I started kindergarten with. Kirby kept me posted on his travels to China, while Josey sends e-mails guaranteed to earn a replay of WHAT?! Then she laughs and tells me it's the only way to get my attention. I retaliate, of course. That's what friends are for.
We make our own friends, but in truth we are really making new families. Few, if any, of us will have the luxury of raising our families and watching our children play with a gaggle of cousins. Not just on family vacations or when we have the time off to drive an hour or ten but whenever they want because the entire family lives within walking -- or shouting -- distance.
Gavie's growing up in a young neighborhood, with a dozen or so other children. On the Fourth he was able to run and play while we and the other parents sat and watched. It was all very picturesque.
I think, for the first time since moving here, I felt like we were home.
Parents who exchange stories and pictures and You Tube videos without ever holding their friends' children. Babies who will grow up knowing about but maybe meeting each other only once or twice -- until they are adults who can travel on their own. Best friends unseen for a decade who keep in touch, still able to talk about everything and laugh about how young we once were.
All only a click away.
God love the Internet. On-line we can share our lives. In blogs we can tell the world about exploits involving little pink dresses, college pranks, professional headaches and dreams, and our travels. We can go on about our children and their exploits as well, laughing at what was not exactly laughable at one point. A virtual gathering whenever and, thanks to wireless, wherever.
I can curl up on my couch with a cup of hot tea and a laptop, sending and receiving as I relax. No longer am I tied to a desktop computer and banished to the upstairs. It's not nearly as cozy as curling up with old-fashioned letter, such as my friend Vanessa still sends, but it's a close second.
Chantel's blog keeps me up-to-date on her lovely Penny, for whom I have a box of presents and will mail someday (just a little more space to fill first). Meanwhile, Jen sends photos of her darling Olivia, and I laugh when I see the undeniable family resemblance to the woman I started kindergarten with. Kirby kept me posted on his travels to China, while Josey sends e-mails guaranteed to earn a replay of WHAT?! Then she laughs and tells me it's the only way to get my attention. I retaliate, of course. That's what friends are for.
We make our own friends, but in truth we are really making new families. Few, if any, of us will have the luxury of raising our families and watching our children play with a gaggle of cousins. Not just on family vacations or when we have the time off to drive an hour or ten but whenever they want because the entire family lives within walking -- or shouting -- distance.
Gavie's growing up in a young neighborhood, with a dozen or so other children. On the Fourth he was able to run and play while we and the other parents sat and watched. It was all very picturesque.
I think, for the first time since moving here, I felt like we were home.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Another baby step.
I gave away my white and green doll's house today. I loaded it into the car and trucked it to my mother's, the intent being to give it to her neighbor's seven-year-old daughter. Due to a few other errands, it ended up sitting in my backseat for a few hours, baking in the sun. Getting in the car to make the final leg of the trip, I inhaled one more time, taking in the scent of warm wood. My memories stirred then, ones I gave little thought to recently.
When I was twelve, I took $22 of my hard-earned newspaper delivery money and plunked it down on a four-room assembly-required pressed-wood dollhouse. Dad and I put it together at the dining room table. Over the next year, I poured my heart into it, painting and decorating it. Then re-painting and re-decorating. I learned how to wallpaper, how to wield an X-Acto knife without losing any fingers, and how to "kit-bash." Most of the furnishings were re-upholstered, re-painted, re-something. I never met a kit I couldn't redesign. I also learned how to use Sculpy and Fimo, and soon my dollhouse was teeming with people and toys. Eventually I started selling my clay toys at a local miniature shop.
When I exhibited my dollhouse at the shop's annual show and sale, the raffle prize was a seven-room one-of-a-kind white and green dollhouse. My little brother and his friend, who were in sixth grade and looking to kill time, stuffed the raffle box. We took the house home that night.
Between the night I took the house home and the day I married, I practiced the art of Martha Stewart in miniature. I took a break from the clay and moved to needlepoint and tiny flower arrangements. The house still needed something, so I learned how to measure and cut and stain. Soon enough, every room had baseboards and moulding. It was lovely by the time I was finished with it.
Surprisingly, packing it away, as I moved into married life wasn't that hard. I hadn't put the same love into it as I had with the one my father and I built together. That, with it's sandpaper shingles and die-cut gingerbread, was infinitely the favorite. The smaller one was the one I took with me to my new house. The large one was "too big." I'd learned on that one, true; but how many of us treasure the workbooks we used in grade school?
The Mother's Day after Dad was diagnosed with cancer, I convinced the big guy to buy The McKinley dollhouse kit for me as a gift. I wanted to build something again, not just win by default. And I wanted to build it with my father. I wanted to spend the time with him like I had fifteen years earlier.
The kit is half-assembled and in my basement. Dad simply didn't have it in him to build, so I started the shell myself. The directions were -- are -- easy enough. But I just don't want to do it anymore. I don't want it anymore.
I want another dollhouse though; I miss the challenge of working in such small spaces with delicate materials. However, building, to me, will always be a father-daughter event -- and perhaps someday mother and son. Tomorrow, Gavie and I are going to put all of my birthday money on the (pre-built) house I've chosen. He and I are going to work on it together, though I'm limiting his input and keeping the hammers out of his hands.
So when I pulled that old cumbersome dollhouse out of the backseat today and gave it away, it was without much feeling at all, unless you count my eagerness to make room for the new and the chance to spend time with my son.
When I was twelve, I took $22 of my hard-earned newspaper delivery money and plunked it down on a four-room assembly-required pressed-wood dollhouse. Dad and I put it together at the dining room table. Over the next year, I poured my heart into it, painting and decorating it. Then re-painting and re-decorating. I learned how to wallpaper, how to wield an X-Acto knife without losing any fingers, and how to "kit-bash." Most of the furnishings were re-upholstered, re-painted, re-something. I never met a kit I couldn't redesign. I also learned how to use Sculpy and Fimo, and soon my dollhouse was teeming with people and toys. Eventually I started selling my clay toys at a local miniature shop.
When I exhibited my dollhouse at the shop's annual show and sale, the raffle prize was a seven-room one-of-a-kind white and green dollhouse. My little brother and his friend, who were in sixth grade and looking to kill time, stuffed the raffle box. We took the house home that night.
Between the night I took the house home and the day I married, I practiced the art of Martha Stewart in miniature. I took a break from the clay and moved to needlepoint and tiny flower arrangements. The house still needed something, so I learned how to measure and cut and stain. Soon enough, every room had baseboards and moulding. It was lovely by the time I was finished with it.
Surprisingly, packing it away, as I moved into married life wasn't that hard. I hadn't put the same love into it as I had with the one my father and I built together. That, with it's sandpaper shingles and die-cut gingerbread, was infinitely the favorite. The smaller one was the one I took with me to my new house. The large one was "too big." I'd learned on that one, true; but how many of us treasure the workbooks we used in grade school?
The Mother's Day after Dad was diagnosed with cancer, I convinced the big guy to buy The McKinley dollhouse kit for me as a gift. I wanted to build something again, not just win by default. And I wanted to build it with my father. I wanted to spend the time with him like I had fifteen years earlier.
The kit is half-assembled and in my basement. Dad simply didn't have it in him to build, so I started the shell myself. The directions were -- are -- easy enough. But I just don't want to do it anymore. I don't want it anymore.
I want another dollhouse though; I miss the challenge of working in such small spaces with delicate materials. However, building, to me, will always be a father-daughter event -- and perhaps someday mother and son. Tomorrow, Gavie and I are going to put all of my birthday money on the (pre-built) house I've chosen. He and I are going to work on it together, though I'm limiting his input and keeping the hammers out of his hands.
So when I pulled that old cumbersome dollhouse out of the backseat today and gave it away, it was without much feeling at all, unless you count my eagerness to make room for the new and the chance to spend time with my son.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Ferocious, precocious, and four
The battle of bed continues. For some reason unbeknownst to us, the child has taken to loathing bedtime. Absolutely hating it. In his eyes, bedtime is overrated and useless. Something meant for the masses, the mortals... certainly not for him.
I know it's not fear. What make me so certain? Mainly because of the fact that, when he gets out of bed and runs into my bedroom (where I sit and write each night while waiting for him to fall asleep), he is trying very hard not to laugh. He's actually trying to look scared and upset.
The ear-to-ear grin kills the effect, of course.
Several parents I know close their children's door or put a gate up to keep the little critter contained. Since a gate would be nothing but a broken bone waiting to happen, we've opted for the closed door approach.
He hates that worse then he hates bedtime.
It's like kryptonite. Captain Chaos is rendered powerless in the face of the closed bedroom door. Before I even have the door closed, he has resorted to crocodile tears and promises that he'll stay in bed if I open the door. My favorite is when he starts to holler for me to open the door because he's asleep. (If he actually were asleep, I think all of his yelling would wake him -- don't you?)
Soft-heart that I am, I always open the door before he falls asleep, though never on his cue. Only on mine and only when I think he really means what he promises.
Each night is a new challenge. Each night brings a new opportunity for him to come up with excuses to stay awake and out of bed. Some nights he'll bellow for someone to tuck him in eight times. Other nights he'll insist that he can't reach the box of tissues on his nightstand. Sometimes he just insists that he's not tired.
Last night, though, we had a new one. It was a good bluff, and had I not gone through the whole pre-bedtime snack time song and dance, I would have bought it. But, alas for Gavie, I wasn't born under a rock last night.
"Mommy! I'm hungry!"
Wonder what tonight will bring?
I know it's not fear. What make me so certain? Mainly because of the fact that, when he gets out of bed and runs into my bedroom (where I sit and write each night while waiting for him to fall asleep), he is trying very hard not to laugh. He's actually trying to look scared and upset.
The ear-to-ear grin kills the effect, of course.
Several parents I know close their children's door or put a gate up to keep the little critter contained. Since a gate would be nothing but a broken bone waiting to happen, we've opted for the closed door approach.
He hates that worse then he hates bedtime.
It's like kryptonite. Captain Chaos is rendered powerless in the face of the closed bedroom door. Before I even have the door closed, he has resorted to crocodile tears and promises that he'll stay in bed if I open the door. My favorite is when he starts to holler for me to open the door because he's asleep. (If he actually were asleep, I think all of his yelling would wake him -- don't you?)
Soft-heart that I am, I always open the door before he falls asleep, though never on his cue. Only on mine and only when I think he really means what he promises.
Each night is a new challenge. Each night brings a new opportunity for him to come up with excuses to stay awake and out of bed. Some nights he'll bellow for someone to tuck him in eight times. Other nights he'll insist that he can't reach the box of tissues on his nightstand. Sometimes he just insists that he's not tired.
Last night, though, we had a new one. It was a good bluff, and had I not gone through the whole pre-bedtime snack time song and dance, I would have bought it. But, alas for Gavie, I wasn't born under a rock last night.
"Mommy! I'm hungry!"
Wonder what tonight will bring?
Monday, June 04, 2007
Today, in Cuba.
I'm lifting this from Chantel's blog.
Yes, the capitalization is deliberate.
On Tuesday, June 5, TODAY’s Matt Lauer will take viewers on a special visit — to Cuba. Join Lauer as he reports live from Havana to discuss the current political and cultural climates of Cuba. The broadcast will include reports on Castro's health, a discussion about Castro's importance in the country, where its political future is headed, Cuba’s relations with the U.S. and how the U.S.- Cuba embargo affects both countries. It will a unique and exciting trip — it's one of the very few times an American TV show has broadcast live from Cuba, so don't miss it!
This is the write-up on the TODAY Show's website. I could rewrite it a thousand different ways. Instead of "special visit," I'd change the words to "sobering visit." I'd rewrite the line about "castro's importance in the country" to read, rather, "castro's oppressive hold on the country," and switch out the line about the embargo to read "how Cuba uses the embargo as an excuse to mask the freedoms in denies its people." But all that rewriting would assume a program that will reflect the realities in Cuba, and not the usual tropes about Cuba's health care, colorful people, and music. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Matt Lauer's "unique and exciting trip" is not only one of the "very few times an American TV show has broadcast live from Cuba," but also, the first time that any American TV show has gone there and told the truth. In the meantime, I've sent Matt Lauer a note, which follows. You can send one, too.
Dear Mr. Lauer,
Consider that the hotel you are staying in is one that is verboten to Cuban citizens, that the clean, decked-out beaches are only for tourists, and the three square meals you are getting while in Cuba are denied to ration-card carrying Cubans. Consider that the young girls you see loitering about in Havana may well be underaged jineteras, prostitutes trying to make ends meet and hoping against hope that you might call them tonight. Consider that a government that does not allow information access to its citizens is adept at hiding the truth from everyone.
Once you’ve considered all this, ask someone in the Cuban government why they feel the need to oppress their people this way. And Matt, don’t settle for anything other than a real answer, which has nothing to do with the embargo, or sacrifice for the common good. If you can be as ballsy as the Ladies in White, Cuban dissidents who weekly march to protest the unjust imprisonment of their husbands for political reasons, then you will have secured a place in history as the first American journalist not only to broadcast television from the island, but to take a pair to Cuba.
Sincerely,
Chantel Acevedo
=============================
'Nuff said, wouldn't you agree?
Yes, the capitalization is deliberate.
On Tuesday, June 5, TODAY’s Matt Lauer will take viewers on a special visit — to Cuba. Join Lauer as he reports live from Havana to discuss the current political and cultural climates of Cuba. The broadcast will include reports on Castro's health, a discussion about Castro's importance in the country, where its political future is headed, Cuba’s relations with the U.S. and how the U.S.- Cuba embargo affects both countries. It will a unique and exciting trip — it's one of the very few times an American TV show has broadcast live from Cuba, so don't miss it!
This is the write-up on the TODAY Show's website. I could rewrite it a thousand different ways. Instead of "special visit," I'd change the words to "sobering visit." I'd rewrite the line about "castro's importance in the country" to read, rather, "castro's oppressive hold on the country," and switch out the line about the embargo to read "how Cuba uses the embargo as an excuse to mask the freedoms in denies its people." But all that rewriting would assume a program that will reflect the realities in Cuba, and not the usual tropes about Cuba's health care, colorful people, and music. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Matt Lauer's "unique and exciting trip" is not only one of the "very few times an American TV show has broadcast live from Cuba," but also, the first time that any American TV show has gone there and told the truth. In the meantime, I've sent Matt Lauer a note, which follows. You can send one, too.
Dear Mr. Lauer,
Consider that the hotel you are staying in is one that is verboten to Cuban citizens, that the clean, decked-out beaches are only for tourists, and the three square meals you are getting while in Cuba are denied to ration-card carrying Cubans. Consider that the young girls you see loitering about in Havana may well be underaged jineteras, prostitutes trying to make ends meet and hoping against hope that you might call them tonight. Consider that a government that does not allow information access to its citizens is adept at hiding the truth from everyone.
Once you’ve considered all this, ask someone in the Cuban government why they feel the need to oppress their people this way. And Matt, don’t settle for anything other than a real answer, which has nothing to do with the embargo, or sacrifice for the common good. If you can be as ballsy as the Ladies in White, Cuban dissidents who weekly march to protest the unjust imprisonment of their husbands for political reasons, then you will have secured a place in history as the first American journalist not only to broadcast television from the island, but to take a pair to Cuba.
Sincerely,
Chantel Acevedo
=============================
'Nuff said, wouldn't you agree?
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Niche
It all comes down to finding my niche. I've decided that. What's my niche? Trashy romance? I'm working on it -- an average of 500+ readers a month can't be wrong. But what about the rest of me? What about the tens of thousands of dollars I spent, and will continue to spend, on my education?
In high school -- and this is indeed a cringe-worthy moment, Chantel! -- I wrote an editorial for the school paper and, being the editor, got it published without anyone (namely the advisor) reading it over. It was, um, an article on the merits of the NC-17 rating and how (and I quote!) a "whole new generation could experience" a particular flick that, until my college years, I thought was something entirely different. How was I, then still a prim little Catholic school girl, to know that someone would name a woman Emmanuel?! And film her in 3-D no less!
Yeah, how's that for cringing?
(I'm much wiser now. An all-women's Catholic college will do that to you, I suppose.)
My editorial on the senior class play was much better informed, polarizing the class and making our point known by having a good many seniors sign the editorial in protest to what we -- rightly or wrongly -- considered unfair.
The point is that once-upon-yesterday, I didn't shy from making my opinions known. I had a niche.
We're back to Guy again. I watched his presentation twice today, showing it to both of my management classes. Tomorrow the organizational business class gets to see it. Wednesday brings it to my economics class.
Make meaning, find a niche, write. My brain was on overdrive today.
Truthfully, this blog alone has a niche: keeping me in touch with family and friends. I'm keeping this niche. What I want to do is write something professional, something relevant. Methinks it's time for a third blog.
And, since conventional wisdom is "write what you know," I'm going to do that. I'm also going to go out on a few limbs and, while they'll be much better researched then that high school editorial, I'm going to see just what happens when I stop apologizing for or just flat-out avoiding having an opinion.
My topics? What else? Education, management, and ethics.
More to come! I'll keep you, eh, posted!
In high school -- and this is indeed a cringe-worthy moment, Chantel! -- I wrote an editorial for the school paper and, being the editor, got it published without anyone (namely the advisor) reading it over. It was, um, an article on the merits of the NC-17 rating and how (and I quote!) a "whole new generation could experience" a particular flick that, until my college years, I thought was something entirely different. How was I, then still a prim little Catholic school girl, to know that someone would name a woman Emmanuel?! And film her in 3-D no less!
Yeah, how's that for cringing?
(I'm much wiser now. An all-women's Catholic college will do that to you, I suppose.)
My editorial on the senior class play was much better informed, polarizing the class and making our point known by having a good many seniors sign the editorial in protest to what we -- rightly or wrongly -- considered unfair.
The point is that once-upon-yesterday, I didn't shy from making my opinions known. I had a niche.
We're back to Guy again. I watched his presentation twice today, showing it to both of my management classes. Tomorrow the organizational business class gets to see it. Wednesday brings it to my economics class.
Make meaning, find a niche, write. My brain was on overdrive today.
Truthfully, this blog alone has a niche: keeping me in touch with family and friends. I'm keeping this niche. What I want to do is write something professional, something relevant. Methinks it's time for a third blog.
And, since conventional wisdom is "write what you know," I'm going to do that. I'm also going to go out on a few limbs and, while they'll be much better researched then that high school editorial, I'm going to see just what happens when I stop apologizing for or just flat-out avoiding having an opinion.
My topics? What else? Education, management, and ethics.
More to come! I'll keep you, eh, posted!
Friday, June 01, 2007
New Title, New Ideas, New Approach...
... new reason to stress.
It's all Guy's fault. Not that I ever met him, mind you. Heck, until today I thought he was the fellow behind Kawasaki motorcycles. It's all a particular mentor's fault, too. If he hadn't mentioned Guy to me in a conversation, I wouldn't have clicked on the link to his blog, I wouldn't have read his remarks, and I wouldn't have watched the video for his Art of the Start presentation.
But, the Fates have their quirks, and now here I am... pondering the role of this blog in the great blogosphere out there.
I thought of e-mailing him with a pleasant little "thank you for changing my entire perspective on the world of management and this is how I'm going to use your ideas/blog/video in my classroom," but haven't been able to craft a note that doesn't sound like a burgeoning sycophant penned it. Yet. I have at least 45 minutes before my next class kicks in...
But what does this blog do? What is it's point? Is it really just a little vanity rag to showcase the mis-adventures of Gavie and talk about my life? I'd really rather not become one of those mindless bloggers who just rants.
If a blogger posts and no one reads it, does she really post?
Well, gang, the ego is kicking in right along with the realization that I need to write or else I will implode (explode?) due to the innumerable amount of opinions crowding my brain. Today's thought: why not write something with meaning?
(By the way, that's Guy's first rule: make meaning.)
What do I need to write?
It's all Guy's fault. Not that I ever met him, mind you. Heck, until today I thought he was the fellow behind Kawasaki motorcycles. It's all a particular mentor's fault, too. If he hadn't mentioned Guy to me in a conversation, I wouldn't have clicked on the link to his blog, I wouldn't have read his remarks, and I wouldn't have watched the video for his Art of the Start presentation.
But, the Fates have their quirks, and now here I am... pondering the role of this blog in the great blogosphere out there.
I thought of e-mailing him with a pleasant little "thank you for changing my entire perspective on the world of management and this is how I'm going to use your ideas/blog/video in my classroom," but haven't been able to craft a note that doesn't sound like a burgeoning sycophant penned it. Yet. I have at least 45 minutes before my next class kicks in...
But what does this blog do? What is it's point? Is it really just a little vanity rag to showcase the mis-adventures of Gavie and talk about my life? I'd really rather not become one of those mindless bloggers who just rants.
If a blogger posts and no one reads it, does she really post?
Well, gang, the ego is kicking in right along with the realization that I need to write or else I will implode (explode?) due to the innumerable amount of opinions crowding my brain. Today's thought: why not write something with meaning?
(By the way, that's Guy's first rule: make meaning.)
What do I need to write?
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Welcome, little one.
Michelle!!!!!!!So long time has gone since we exchanged words....
I have the great news!!
Edoardo is born at 2.29 am, on Monday, April 2nd. All is going well.
Now we have a good reason to meet: to make our children play together.
Take care,
Nick
Dear little Edoardo,
Welcome to the world! Welcome from your Aunt Michelle over here in Pittsburgh (which was, I might add, recently named the Most Livable City)! Your daddy and I met a long, long time ago, when we were teenagers and he was on a school trip to the U.S. His principal and my principal were somehow friends, or friendly (I never was too good on remembering some details), and the next thing I knew I was one of the "student ambassadors" chosen to lead a total stranger around for the day.
How do I describe it? Your dad and I hit it off and, twelve years later, here we are. We've kept in touch, fallen silent, and resumed our friendship as if only minutes had passed. I've a large box of his letters tucked safely in my closet. On my bookshelf, I've a three-ring binder with a year's worth of e-mails, all exchanged in the twelve months after 9-11. Your dad knew me before I met my husband, the "big guy," and long before I had my son Gavie. Of course, I can say the same. I knew him when -- when he was single, when he was in the military -- and I know him now, now that he's a proud papa, now that he's not sleeping much.
I hope you're keeping him on his toes!
The picture I've posted on this blog is the only one I have of your father and me. It was taken that day, when I was a senior in high school and dying to get out into the wide world of college. We were in "my" office, where the student newspaper, The Minaret, was produced. I had my own key and felt very, very important. By the way, I think you dad's finally taller then me. :)
Gavie is four now, just old enough to teach you a few tricks guaranteed to make both of your parents go grey. When we come to Italy someday, you two will no doubt have a very good time.
Take care, little one.
Love,
Aunt Michelle
P.S.
Tell your dad to send more pics!!!
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Finished? So soon?
Was it really four months ago that I drove up the winding drive and started what I had pledged oh-so-long ago? Find an adjunct position at my beloved alma mater, Seton Hill. A New Year's Resolution penned January 2, 2006, just a week after losing my father. Sometimes I wonder if he had a hand in it, if he gave a little nudge to someone down here.
We like to believe that the dead can do that. It helps make the absence less real.
But this post isn't to conjure anything but the amazing sense of accomplishment (for lack of a better word) felt today as I left the Hill. Natalie Merchant's song Wonder came on when I hit the CD play button.
When it was first released, I misheard the lyrics.... laughed as she came to my cradle, oh this child will be able... laughed as my body she lifted, oh this child will be gifted -- with love, with patience, and with pain... she'll make her way...
The muse that comes to bless this child doesn't promise the gift of pain, I realized after a few listenings. She promises the gift of faith.
I like the first, the misunderstood version, better.
Call it a survival tactic, a way to maintain sanity perhaps, but I think that there is a certain gift that comes with pain -- the gift of strength. The cliche "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" means that you do experience everything unhappy. You do have moments when it seems that the world is falling apart and that you are a powerless nothing. You have moments when you aren't riding a wave but tumbling within it, drowning.
It allows you to have other moments, ones like today, when I finished my first stint as an adjunct. They called me "professor," even though -- technically -- I'm not. (Yet. I'll know in January.) Seems that I accidentally put that title on my course website. I don't know quite how I did that. I don't know how to remove it, either. (Then again, I still have trouble with the copy machine's stapling function.)
I'm going to miss this group. They were incredible. Attentive, prepared, literate, well-mannered... a teacher's dream. Virtually every class ended the same way: four o'clock would come too soon, and I'd walk to my car feeling as if I could conquer the world, humbly astounded at myself. Was I the same one who, up until last December, questioned whether or not I should remain a teacher or pursue that writing career? Should I admit to that?
This August will mark my tenth year teaching. Ten years is nothing in many respects. In others, it's astounding. My classroom stories from those ten years range from nightmarish to healing, the worst closer to the beginning -- as I suspect would be the norm for any career's learning curve. After all, how I reacted at 24 is no longer how I'd react at 34. Older and wiser, the survivor of a few crash courses in administrative politics and student threats, I know better when to stare adversaries down and when to retreat gracefully.
Seton Hill brought healing I didn't know I still needed. It brought self-discipline, too, which I knew I needed but could never quite manage.
A confession: I was terrified the first day of WCT I. Knee-shaking, white-knuckled terrified. Who was I , fourteen years out of WCT itself, to teach this class? What if I forgot something? Mistaught something from the book? What if they took one look at me and demanded a real teacher? Ten years is a blink. Every ounce of credibility I felt I had went into hibernation mode.
But, as you know, my panic was apparently for naught. If anything, the fear allowed me to grow as a teacher. I am a PowerPoint queen now. My binder of typed notes is four inches thick -- and that's without the fifteen corresponding PPT presentations with thirty or so slides each. (Yeah, pass the pocket-protector. I'm a nerd.)
...people see me, I'm a challenge to your balance... I'm over your head now, I astound you and confound you too....
I'm not so arrogant to think that I strike awe in people. Myself, yes. Others? Give me another decade and ask again. I am, however, pretty damn sure that I've confounded quite a few of you out there. And, if my students could tell you, I'm good at pushing people off balance with my two (in)famous questions: Why? and What if we're wrong?
I have one more, which I didn't use enough this term: What if we're right?
You know, it's easy to think about being wrong. Being right though... man, that's terrifying. It means that we might know what we're doing. I'm up for the challenge though.
So what now? Teach some more, write some more, apply for that Ed.D to become a real professor.
And have more fun then I ever thought possible. You know what? I think that dreams are coming true.
Thanks, gang. Watch out for that plaque.
You know why.
We like to believe that the dead can do that. It helps make the absence less real.
But this post isn't to conjure anything but the amazing sense of accomplishment (for lack of a better word) felt today as I left the Hill. Natalie Merchant's song Wonder came on when I hit the CD play button.
When it was first released, I misheard the lyrics.... laughed as she came to my cradle, oh this child will be able... laughed as my body she lifted, oh this child will be gifted -- with love, with patience, and with pain... she'll make her way...
The muse that comes to bless this child doesn't promise the gift of pain, I realized after a few listenings. She promises the gift of faith.
I like the first, the misunderstood version, better.
Call it a survival tactic, a way to maintain sanity perhaps, but I think that there is a certain gift that comes with pain -- the gift of strength. The cliche "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" means that you do experience everything unhappy. You do have moments when it seems that the world is falling apart and that you are a powerless nothing. You have moments when you aren't riding a wave but tumbling within it, drowning.
It allows you to have other moments, ones like today, when I finished my first stint as an adjunct. They called me "professor," even though -- technically -- I'm not. (Yet. I'll know in January.) Seems that I accidentally put that title on my course website. I don't know quite how I did that. I don't know how to remove it, either. (Then again, I still have trouble with the copy machine's stapling function.)
I'm going to miss this group. They were incredible. Attentive, prepared, literate, well-mannered... a teacher's dream. Virtually every class ended the same way: four o'clock would come too soon, and I'd walk to my car feeling as if I could conquer the world, humbly astounded at myself. Was I the same one who, up until last December, questioned whether or not I should remain a teacher or pursue that writing career? Should I admit to that?
This August will mark my tenth year teaching. Ten years is nothing in many respects. In others, it's astounding. My classroom stories from those ten years range from nightmarish to healing, the worst closer to the beginning -- as I suspect would be the norm for any career's learning curve. After all, how I reacted at 24 is no longer how I'd react at 34. Older and wiser, the survivor of a few crash courses in administrative politics and student threats, I know better when to stare adversaries down and when to retreat gracefully.
Seton Hill brought healing I didn't know I still needed. It brought self-discipline, too, which I knew I needed but could never quite manage.
A confession: I was terrified the first day of WCT I. Knee-shaking, white-knuckled terrified. Who was I , fourteen years out of WCT itself, to teach this class? What if I forgot something? Mistaught something from the book? What if they took one look at me and demanded a real teacher? Ten years is a blink. Every ounce of credibility I felt I had went into hibernation mode.
But, as you know, my panic was apparently for naught. If anything, the fear allowed me to grow as a teacher. I am a PowerPoint queen now. My binder of typed notes is four inches thick -- and that's without the fifteen corresponding PPT presentations with thirty or so slides each. (Yeah, pass the pocket-protector. I'm a nerd.)
...people see me, I'm a challenge to your balance... I'm over your head now, I astound you and confound you too....
I'm not so arrogant to think that I strike awe in people. Myself, yes. Others? Give me another decade and ask again. I am, however, pretty damn sure that I've confounded quite a few of you out there. And, if my students could tell you, I'm good at pushing people off balance with my two (in)famous questions: Why? and What if we're wrong?
I have one more, which I didn't use enough this term: What if we're right?
You know, it's easy to think about being wrong. Being right though... man, that's terrifying. It means that we might know what we're doing. I'm up for the challenge though.
So what now? Teach some more, write some more, apply for that Ed.D to become a real professor.
And have more fun then I ever thought possible. You know what? I think that dreams are coming true.
Thanks, gang. Watch out for that plaque.
You know why.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Mindlessness at its best.
That last post was pretty heavy, so methinks that lightness is in order this time around. And, I ask you, how much lighter can one get then Britney Spears?
(I can promise you that this blog involves no stress and, apparently, very little in terms of reality.)
Click here to find the MSNBC article: Turning the Tables. It's the second blurb down, the one after Paris being mocked by Prince.
In short, every tabloid's dreamgirl now wants her fans to sneak up on their friends at midnight and take candid, paparazzi-like photos of them. These pics are supposedly going to be used to promote her newest fragrance, Midnight Fantasy.
I don't know, readers. It sounds a bit stalker-ish to me.
Now, there are some rules, of course. Underwear must be worn, for example. Violence and nudity are discouraged, too.
Um... since she's telling her fans that midnight is the witching hour, well.... gee, how do I put this? If you're not doing something that involves nudity or violence at midnight, just what are you doing? Probably sleeping. Maybe, like me, staring at the computer and blogging away. There's an exciting pic: little old me sans make-up in old jeans and an even older t-shirt, sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop. There's a midnight fantasy for you. (Eeeek!)
Frankly, I feel sorry for the girl. She's screaming for someone to pay attention to her. Not to her money. Not to her fame. Not to her mistakes. To her. The person she is underneath all of that tabloid press. Most of us have been witness -- willing or unwilling due to the media -- to her rise and fall; and most of us probably watch with the same morbid fascination we have with train wrecks. It's not that we want to stare. It's just that we can't always help ourselves.
My question is this: who came up with this idea? Who actually thought it would be a good idea to suggest taking secret -- and no doubt un-flattering -- photos of friends for an ad campaign?
"Midnight Fantasy" is a perfume. Perfumes are to attract. Perfumes are sold by beautiful people. Perfumes are not sold by candid pics of my friend sleeping on the couch at midnight... and drooling. Pics like that are meant to be photocopies and hung up in the dorm. Perhaps given a clever caption and sent to a few others. But to sell a perfume whose very name suggests sex, desire, and perfection?
If I buy a new scent, I want to know that the idea being sold with it is one of attractiveness and happiness... not a few shots of some average joes or janes who were blindsided by their camera-wielding "buddies." This isn't the Dove Real Woman ad campaign, you know.
The truth is this: if I'm going to have a midnight fantasy, readers, I suspect there might be more to it then my tired friends chatting on-line.
Was this mindless enough? I think so... thought, somewhat ironically, I did come back and edit it twice since posting this afternoon...
(I can promise you that this blog involves no stress and, apparently, very little in terms of reality.)
Click here to find the MSNBC article: Turning the Tables. It's the second blurb down, the one after Paris being mocked by Prince.
In short, every tabloid's dreamgirl now wants her fans to sneak up on their friends at midnight and take candid, paparazzi-like photos of them. These pics are supposedly going to be used to promote her newest fragrance, Midnight Fantasy.
I don't know, readers. It sounds a bit stalker-ish to me.
Now, there are some rules, of course. Underwear must be worn, for example. Violence and nudity are discouraged, too.
Um... since she's telling her fans that midnight is the witching hour, well.... gee, how do I put this? If you're not doing something that involves nudity or violence at midnight, just what are you doing? Probably sleeping. Maybe, like me, staring at the computer and blogging away. There's an exciting pic: little old me sans make-up in old jeans and an even older t-shirt, sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop. There's a midnight fantasy for you. (Eeeek!)
Frankly, I feel sorry for the girl. She's screaming for someone to pay attention to her. Not to her money. Not to her fame. Not to her mistakes. To her. The person she is underneath all of that tabloid press. Most of us have been witness -- willing or unwilling due to the media -- to her rise and fall; and most of us probably watch with the same morbid fascination we have with train wrecks. It's not that we want to stare. It's just that we can't always help ourselves.
My question is this: who came up with this idea? Who actually thought it would be a good idea to suggest taking secret -- and no doubt un-flattering -- photos of friends for an ad campaign?
"Midnight Fantasy" is a perfume. Perfumes are to attract. Perfumes are sold by beautiful people. Perfumes are not sold by candid pics of my friend sleeping on the couch at midnight... and drooling. Pics like that are meant to be photocopies and hung up in the dorm. Perhaps given a clever caption and sent to a few others. But to sell a perfume whose very name suggests sex, desire, and perfection?
If I buy a new scent, I want to know that the idea being sold with it is one of attractiveness and happiness... not a few shots of some average joes or janes who were blindsided by their camera-wielding "buddies." This isn't the Dove Real Woman ad campaign, you know.
The truth is this: if I'm going to have a midnight fantasy, readers, I suspect there might be more to it then my tired friends chatting on-line.
Was this mindless enough? I think so... thought, somewhat ironically, I did come back and edit it twice since posting this afternoon...
Monday, April 16, 2007
Columbine revisitied
I like to think that there is a special place in Hell for people who chain the exit doors and open fire. In truth, I think that Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the brains behind South Park, had something when they portrayed Hitler having a pineapple shoved up his a** on a regular basis. Come to think of it, perhaps a pineapple isn't enough. Perhaps those who leave their baby daughters out in the snow to freeze to death, who put dying babies into book bags and shove them under twin beds, and who emotionlessly slaughter their classmates need the whole f**king pineapple tree. One tree after another. Continuously.
Day in and day out, I teach my business communications students to write without emotion. I tell them time and time again that to calm down before they pen those professional missives.
I don't think I can do that today.
How lucky I am to not know anyone at Virginia Tech. How lucky I've been over the years to know nary a soul involved in any of the school shootings.
Each day I walk into my own classroom. Each day I stand before students who have book bags that I would never dare look into, believing that ignorance is bliss. I don't want to know who's packing and who's dealing. A stupid sentiment, I'm sure. But am I really any safer knowing what they carry? Or will it only make me more paranoid? Everyday at work, we teachers know exactly what we walk into. Last week a former student was shot by police after a brief foot chase. Had he not pulled his gun, they probably wouldn't have fired. Incidentally, he's considered a "person of interest" in his stepfather's murder. Two weeks ago a seventeen-year-old girl died from an apparent overdose. The woman whose baby was found under the bed... yep, had connections here. Each term, at least one student will have to drop out due to incarceration. Students who go m.i.a. are common.
We walk into that and we teach and we try so damn hard to pull those who want to learn up to where they want to be but don't quite have the coping skills to do on their own. We pester and cajole, bribe and bargain. Let me help you. Come to class. If you at least try, I can show you where you're right and where we can work to improve. I can't help you if you don't come to school. We call absent students every day. We try to live by the school's catchphrase: "Students First. We Care."
We pound our heads against the wall sometimes.
I don't yet know the story behind today's massacre. As I write this, they've yet to identify the gunman. It makes me think, though, about what must go on in such a person's mind. Is such an act really a last resort, as pop psychology and magazines tend to explain? Somehow I doubt it. Not this time.
It makes me think about my students, many of whom I know -- for the most part -- lack basic coping/problem-solving skills.
Tomorrow we have finals. Tomorrow I will have a student or two or six walk in and say: "I don't have a pencil. What do I do?" That person will honestly not know what to do when faced with a Scan-tron exam and no pencil. Bringing a pencil or asking a classmate to borrow one will not cross that student's mind. When you grow up in an environment that does not prepare you for the pressure that comes with an authority figure asking you where your pencil is, how will you deal with the student who attacks you, who perhaps accuses you of dating her man or sleeping with his woman?
We had a forum of student safety some time ago. I was mercifully absent that day. It wasn't, you see, a meeting on improving our physical safety on campus. It was to discuss creating a "safe" environment in the classroom -- one where the students would feel like they could raise their hands to answer questions and risk being wrong.
Oh the goodness of that migraine. I'm not sure that I could have handled that meeting. The next day a fellow teacher told me that a request for call buttons was denied because they "didn't want the students to think that [we] didn't trust them."
It is the consensus of several of us that we won't be a target. We'll just be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Our students won't be the ones who chain the doors and plan; they'll be the ones who pull the gun out of a book bag and start to fire at whomever "wronged" them and God help the bystanders.
So why do I stay? Why don't I go work on some nice, safe little campus somewhere? Maybe because such a thing doesn't exist anymore. Maybe because I know that I'm as safe as my brother, who is an administrator in a very well-off school district. Wealthy kids snap just as easily as poor. My mother actually admitted that she feared for both of us, not just me. We know, from experience, that even "nice, safe schools" have students who might say the wrong thing and turn everyone's world upside-down.
But why stay? Why stay in education at all? To martyr myself someday on the alter of idealism? I suppose that's where it's heading. I suppose that this blog has turned into another ponderance on why I bother to teach grammar during the week when, on weekends, I can explore a myriad of ideas -- ranging from the role of women in the creation of early weaponry to the role of the church in current political ideologies. I can ask "why" and "what if we're wrong" and not worry about someone's mind liquefying because I went too high on Bloom's Taxonomy. I can take risks and ask students to examine their belief systems.
I answered that question before. I stay because, right now, I have a point and make a difference. When I stop having a point, making a difference, then I'll hand in my resignation. I love my students, the vast majority of which are no different from me. My coworkers make each day even more enjoyable. We laugh and talk, have happy hours, punk each other now and then, and find comfort in knowing that we're all in the same boat at work. While I'd love another job, one with more intellectual challenges, I'm content to take my time and find the "perfect" one. I'm still lucky, I don't have to rush and take the first one I come across.
For now, while I look for that perfect job, I'll watch Cartoon Network with Gavie and eat popcorn and laugh at Lazlo and Blue and all of those other lovely little blips of ink -- and, while he giggles at their antics, I'll try to figure out how to teach him how to cope.
Day in and day out, I teach my business communications students to write without emotion. I tell them time and time again that to calm down before they pen those professional missives.
I don't think I can do that today.
How lucky I am to not know anyone at Virginia Tech. How lucky I've been over the years to know nary a soul involved in any of the school shootings.
Each day I walk into my own classroom. Each day I stand before students who have book bags that I would never dare look into, believing that ignorance is bliss. I don't want to know who's packing and who's dealing. A stupid sentiment, I'm sure. But am I really any safer knowing what they carry? Or will it only make me more paranoid? Everyday at work, we teachers know exactly what we walk into. Last week a former student was shot by police after a brief foot chase. Had he not pulled his gun, they probably wouldn't have fired. Incidentally, he's considered a "person of interest" in his stepfather's murder. Two weeks ago a seventeen-year-old girl died from an apparent overdose. The woman whose baby was found under the bed... yep, had connections here. Each term, at least one student will have to drop out due to incarceration. Students who go m.i.a. are common.
We walk into that and we teach and we try so damn hard to pull those who want to learn up to where they want to be but don't quite have the coping skills to do on their own. We pester and cajole, bribe and bargain. Let me help you. Come to class. If you at least try, I can show you where you're right and where we can work to improve. I can't help you if you don't come to school. We call absent students every day. We try to live by the school's catchphrase: "Students First. We Care."
We pound our heads against the wall sometimes.
I don't yet know the story behind today's massacre. As I write this, they've yet to identify the gunman. It makes me think, though, about what must go on in such a person's mind. Is such an act really a last resort, as pop psychology and magazines tend to explain? Somehow I doubt it. Not this time.
It makes me think about my students, many of whom I know -- for the most part -- lack basic coping/problem-solving skills.
Tomorrow we have finals. Tomorrow I will have a student or two or six walk in and say: "I don't have a pencil. What do I do?" That person will honestly not know what to do when faced with a Scan-tron exam and no pencil. Bringing a pencil or asking a classmate to borrow one will not cross that student's mind. When you grow up in an environment that does not prepare you for the pressure that comes with an authority figure asking you where your pencil is, how will you deal with the student who attacks you, who perhaps accuses you of dating her man or sleeping with his woman?
We had a forum of student safety some time ago. I was mercifully absent that day. It wasn't, you see, a meeting on improving our physical safety on campus. It was to discuss creating a "safe" environment in the classroom -- one where the students would feel like they could raise their hands to answer questions and risk being wrong.
Oh the goodness of that migraine. I'm not sure that I could have handled that meeting. The next day a fellow teacher told me that a request for call buttons was denied because they "didn't want the students to think that [we] didn't trust them."
It is the consensus of several of us that we won't be a target. We'll just be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Our students won't be the ones who chain the doors and plan; they'll be the ones who pull the gun out of a book bag and start to fire at whomever "wronged" them and God help the bystanders.
So why do I stay? Why don't I go work on some nice, safe little campus somewhere? Maybe because such a thing doesn't exist anymore. Maybe because I know that I'm as safe as my brother, who is an administrator in a very well-off school district. Wealthy kids snap just as easily as poor. My mother actually admitted that she feared for both of us, not just me. We know, from experience, that even "nice, safe schools" have students who might say the wrong thing and turn everyone's world upside-down.
But why stay? Why stay in education at all? To martyr myself someday on the alter of idealism? I suppose that's where it's heading. I suppose that this blog has turned into another ponderance on why I bother to teach grammar during the week when, on weekends, I can explore a myriad of ideas -- ranging from the role of women in the creation of early weaponry to the role of the church in current political ideologies. I can ask "why" and "what if we're wrong" and not worry about someone's mind liquefying because I went too high on Bloom's Taxonomy. I can take risks and ask students to examine their belief systems.
I answered that question before. I stay because, right now, I have a point and make a difference. When I stop having a point, making a difference, then I'll hand in my resignation. I love my students, the vast majority of which are no different from me. My coworkers make each day even more enjoyable. We laugh and talk, have happy hours, punk each other now and then, and find comfort in knowing that we're all in the same boat at work. While I'd love another job, one with more intellectual challenges, I'm content to take my time and find the "perfect" one. I'm still lucky, I don't have to rush and take the first one I come across.
For now, while I look for that perfect job, I'll watch Cartoon Network with Gavie and eat popcorn and laugh at Lazlo and Blue and all of those other lovely little blips of ink -- and, while he giggles at their antics, I'll try to figure out how to teach him how to cope.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
The Ballad of Turtle Louch
My kid is a great traveller. He didn't complain much -- for a near-four-year-old. He took the airport pat-down in stride (nothing beats taking your shoes off in public), didn't fuss overly much about sitting in the holding area before we boarded (actually, watching the luggage loading was pretty fascinating to the little fella), and loved the airplane bathroom (I probably don't have to explain how I know that little detail).
At Disney, he woke up each morning eager to get out to the day's adventures. Breakfast was a struggle, I admit, because -- after all -- why waste time eating when you can be riding Peter's Pan's Adventure or seeking out Captain Hook for that coveted autograph? For once, there was nary a protest when we said rise and shine.
Each evening, after a long day of sensory-overload, he'd fall asleep on the shuttle that took us back to our hotel, the Caribbean Beach Resort. We'd carry him to the room and tuck him in with Turtle, his current favorite "pet." Each morning, we'd leave Turtle behind. Safe in the confines of the room.
Or so we thought.
Turtle, we had told Gavie, was much better suited to the hotel. There were too many people and too many opportunities for him to get lost at the various parks. Gavie concurred.
So we went to MGM Studios, we visited the Animal Kingdom, and we explored the Magic Kingdom sans Turtle. That was okay, Gwammy bought him a few net "pets" to hold throughout the day. We ate at a dozen different restaurants, had too much cotton candy, and gorged on popcorn. All the while, Turtle sat at the hotel, guarding Gavie's daily acquisitions.
Or so we thought.
You see, one morning was a bit rushed and, well, we left Turtle in Gavie's bed. That night, returning with a sleeping child, we gave the toy little thought. We didn't, in fact, think about Turtle until the next night. It was then that we realized that it was gone.
While Gavie slept, we turned out hotel rooms upside-down. We found a few coins, but that was it. Turtle, we could only assume, had been accidentally bundled up with the sheets when the cleaning lady came through. We called home.
"Code red, code red, Louch homeland security is at elevated levels. Code red, all stations are on alert," the big guy told his younger sister when we called home the next day -- while Gavie was on a ride with Gwammy and out of earshot. He told her about Turtle. Na, as we call her, helped fill in the biggest blank we had: where Turtle came from. Seems that Kohl's was the answer to that. It was from a Kohl's Cares for Kids promotion some time ago.
Knowing the trauma that we'd run into once Gavie missed Turtle, Uncle Donn manned the computer station and hit E-Bay. Within minutes he found a replacement thanks to someone buying a few dozen and reselling them. He and Na re-assured us that all would be well. True, but until that new Turtle came through, we were still on alert. Gwammy bought Gavie a new turtle, Squirt from Finding Nemo. For the remainder of the trip, my son somehow remained none-the-wiser, blissfully unaware that his beloved Turtle was, probably at that very moment, in the spin cycle at Disney's gigantic laundry facility.
It wasn't until Monday night that he noticed. Can we say "heart-broken sobs"? Holding my little boy as he cried for his best friend made me swear that Turtle II would never leave our house. Ever.
Two long days later, the Turtle "came home from Disney," as we told Gavie. "He was staying to help Mickey Mouse a little bit," we lied.
As long as you don't look at Gavie's Christmas portrait (with the original Turtle lovingly clutched in his three-year-old grip) and the different pattern of spots on Turtle II's back, you'd never be the wiser.
A week later, a small padded envelope arrived from Disney. We'd filed a report with the Lost and Found Department, but knowing the size of the laundry facilities and the sheer number of hotels, we had little hope. Judging by the size of the envelope, it was too small to be Turtle anyway. It was probably some little stuffed Mickey, sent to console my son.
It was, instead, one well-washed Turtle. He not only went through the whole wash cycle but also the entire drying process. You know, I never knew that stuffed animals could shrink!
I can only hope that God forgives the white lies of mothers. "Gavie! Come here, honey! Mickey sent Turtle's little brother to you!"
At Disney, he woke up each morning eager to get out to the day's adventures. Breakfast was a struggle, I admit, because -- after all -- why waste time eating when you can be riding Peter's Pan's Adventure or seeking out Captain Hook for that coveted autograph? For once, there was nary a protest when we said rise and shine.
Each evening, after a long day of sensory-overload, he'd fall asleep on the shuttle that took us back to our hotel, the Caribbean Beach Resort. We'd carry him to the room and tuck him in with Turtle, his current favorite "pet." Each morning, we'd leave Turtle behind. Safe in the confines of the room.
Or so we thought.
Turtle, we had told Gavie, was much better suited to the hotel. There were too many people and too many opportunities for him to get lost at the various parks. Gavie concurred.
So we went to MGM Studios, we visited the Animal Kingdom, and we explored the Magic Kingdom sans Turtle. That was okay, Gwammy bought him a few net "pets" to hold throughout the day. We ate at a dozen different restaurants, had too much cotton candy, and gorged on popcorn. All the while, Turtle sat at the hotel, guarding Gavie's daily acquisitions.
Or so we thought.
You see, one morning was a bit rushed and, well, we left Turtle in Gavie's bed. That night, returning with a sleeping child, we gave the toy little thought. We didn't, in fact, think about Turtle until the next night. It was then that we realized that it was gone.
While Gavie slept, we turned out hotel rooms upside-down. We found a few coins, but that was it. Turtle, we could only assume, had been accidentally bundled up with the sheets when the cleaning lady came through. We called home.
"Code red, code red, Louch homeland security is at elevated levels. Code red, all stations are on alert," the big guy told his younger sister when we called home the next day -- while Gavie was on a ride with Gwammy and out of earshot. He told her about Turtle. Na, as we call her, helped fill in the biggest blank we had: where Turtle came from. Seems that Kohl's was the answer to that. It was from a Kohl's Cares for Kids promotion some time ago.
Knowing the trauma that we'd run into once Gavie missed Turtle, Uncle Donn manned the computer station and hit E-Bay. Within minutes he found a replacement thanks to someone buying a few dozen and reselling them. He and Na re-assured us that all would be well. True, but until that new Turtle came through, we were still on alert. Gwammy bought Gavie a new turtle, Squirt from Finding Nemo. For the remainder of the trip, my son somehow remained none-the-wiser, blissfully unaware that his beloved Turtle was, probably at that very moment, in the spin cycle at Disney's gigantic laundry facility.
It wasn't until Monday night that he noticed. Can we say "heart-broken sobs"? Holding my little boy as he cried for his best friend made me swear that Turtle II would never leave our house. Ever.
Two long days later, the Turtle "came home from Disney," as we told Gavie. "He was staying to help Mickey Mouse a little bit," we lied.
As long as you don't look at Gavie's Christmas portrait (with the original Turtle lovingly clutched in his three-year-old grip) and the different pattern of spots on Turtle II's back, you'd never be the wiser.
A week later, a small padded envelope arrived from Disney. We'd filed a report with the Lost and Found Department, but knowing the size of the laundry facilities and the sheer number of hotels, we had little hope. Judging by the size of the envelope, it was too small to be Turtle anyway. It was probably some little stuffed Mickey, sent to console my son.
It was, instead, one well-washed Turtle. He not only went through the whole wash cycle but also the entire drying process. You know, I never knew that stuffed animals could shrink!
I can only hope that God forgives the white lies of mothers. "Gavie! Come here, honey! Mickey sent Turtle's little brother to you!"
Sunday, March 25, 2007
The Magic Kindgom, part I
Hell hath no fury as a mother scorned... by Mickey Mouse.
Okay, I know that moms can go into all sorts of "that's my child" rages for all sorts of reasons -- playground bullies, unfair teachers, whatever. But Mickey Mouse? He's the icon of all that is warm and fuzzy! He's the personification of all that is happiness! Not Mickey Mouse!
Yep. Mickey Mouse. The Big Cheese himself.
We spent last week at Disney World. It was wonderful. Gavie was all eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer magic of Walt's dream. He's at that perfect age: the one where everything he sees is real. When he met Mary Poppins, Captain Hook, and Buzz Lightyear, he was nothing but ear-to-ear smiles. When we rode Peter Pan's Flight, he was entranced. It's a Small World was one of his favorites and being able to sit in Pinocchio's restaurant for lunch and overlook the Small World boats AND WAVE was almost as delightful. Especially when the merry boaters would wave back to him.
Gavie is the ultimate traveler. He took Sunday's 4 a.m. wake-up call in stride, loved the airplane, relished the ride on Disney's Magic Express to the Caribbean Beach hotel, and hit Epcot running. He didn't stop until late that afternoon when he fell asleep on Spaceship Earth (you know, the giant silver golf ball) while he and my mother, Gwammy, went through for the second time that day.
But where, you ask, does Mickey fit in? Monday night. The eight o'clock Spectromagic parade (a.k.a. Electrical Light Parade). We had front-row curbside seats for the event. It was going to be grand!
And it was.
Until that overgrown rodent didn't know my son was waving at him. Blasted parade choreography! That mouse was facing the wrong way when the float went past! He waved to someone else's kids! Nevermind that Gavie was apparently unphased. Nevermind that the much more important Captain Hook waved. That was Mickey, dammit! And my son waved! THEREFORE, the mouse should have turned immediately and waved back!
(Ahhhh, if only all of life's problems could be that simple, huh?)
I guess we can add one more irrational motherly behavior to my list.
Okay, I know that moms can go into all sorts of "that's my child" rages for all sorts of reasons -- playground bullies, unfair teachers, whatever. But Mickey Mouse? He's the icon of all that is warm and fuzzy! He's the personification of all that is happiness! Not Mickey Mouse!
Yep. Mickey Mouse. The Big Cheese himself.
We spent last week at Disney World. It was wonderful. Gavie was all eyes, overwhelmed by the sheer magic of Walt's dream. He's at that perfect age: the one where everything he sees is real. When he met Mary Poppins, Captain Hook, and Buzz Lightyear, he was nothing but ear-to-ear smiles. When we rode Peter Pan's Flight, he was entranced. It's a Small World was one of his favorites and being able to sit in Pinocchio's restaurant for lunch and overlook the Small World boats AND WAVE was almost as delightful. Especially when the merry boaters would wave back to him.
Gavie is the ultimate traveler. He took Sunday's 4 a.m. wake-up call in stride, loved the airplane, relished the ride on Disney's Magic Express to the Caribbean Beach hotel, and hit Epcot running. He didn't stop until late that afternoon when he fell asleep on Spaceship Earth (you know, the giant silver golf ball) while he and my mother, Gwammy, went through for the second time that day.
But where, you ask, does Mickey fit in? Monday night. The eight o'clock Spectromagic parade (a.k.a. Electrical Light Parade). We had front-row curbside seats for the event. It was going to be grand!
And it was.
Until that overgrown rodent didn't know my son was waving at him. Blasted parade choreography! That mouse was facing the wrong way when the float went past! He waved to someone else's kids! Nevermind that Gavie was apparently unphased. Nevermind that the much more important Captain Hook waved. That was Mickey, dammit! And my son waved! THEREFORE, the mouse should have turned immediately and waved back!
(Ahhhh, if only all of life's problems could be that simple, huh?)
I guess we can add one more irrational motherly behavior to my list.
Monday, March 12, 2007
They're rats with fluffy tails.
So there I was, surfing the 'net when BAM! today's topic hit me. Squirrels! Seems that that fuzzy little beasts cause more power outages each year then lightening.
Here's the link: Suicide Squirrels
Here's my blog... an essay on why I hate squirrels.
Imagine, dear readers, a house of seventy-odd years. Character galore: hardwood floors and stained glass windows. A tiled fireplace. Professionally landscaped twenty years previous, meaning that what had been envisioned was well into fruition. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
And sitting next to said house, a tree. No doubt older then the house itself. The tree shades the front yard so completely that the living room and what became the nursery are comfortably cool all summer. The branches arch up, reaching to the sky and touching the clouds above. Each fall, it's an explosion of red and gold, so glorious that one almost doesn't mind raking.
And in said tree are squirrels. Furry little rotten bastards hell-bent on getting into my house. Brown rats with fluffy tails. One in particular, a ring-leader I'm convinced, knew how to slip in and curl up in my laundry basket. It's beady black eyes closed in repose as it enjoyed the warmth that's literally heaped on it, as shirts and pants and towels slide down to chute and land atop it's fat little carcass.
No doubt the dislike I possess comes from the moment I pulled a shirt from the basket and found him rolled up and ready to hibernate. No doubt his desire to torment me came from my ear-splitting, high-pitched scream of fright -- a scream apparently so harsh to his ears that he actually froze. Unmoving. Not even blinking, so terror-ridden was he. He gave nary a protest when the Big Guy came down and threw a rug over the basket, effectively trapping him inside.
Apparently, though, being ousted from my warm abode did not sit well with the creature.
There's something very disturbing about walking up to your front porch and looking up... to see three squirrels watching you and chirping. Rather macabre and Hitchcock-ish, if you will. I was waiting for the beasts to leap upon me much like one of Alfred's birds attacked Tippi a half-century ago.
Thankfully, they decided that menacing chatter was enough.
A little over a year later, they'd no doubt been waiting for the perfect opportunity, I was in the laundry room when I heard scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. I thought it was my cat playing around the furnace. Perhaps she was chasing a bug.
Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch.
I was several months pregnant by this point and too tired to really investigate, so I just stood there and waited for her to come into view.
Scritch.
No. Not the cat. The squirrel. The glorified rodent. AND FRIEND. Playing about my furnace.
No screams this time, just good old-fashioned legwork. I tore up the steps and, in my least-ladylike vocabulary, told my husband and neighbor that we had, to put it politely this time, "guests."
Two of the four-footed overgrown vermin came back just weeks before we were to move. This time they dove down the chimney.
The joke was on them.
You see, the fireplace had been sealed. They landed underneath it where the ashes would have gathered. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. One apparently broke its neck (it wasn't in there long enough to starve), so we only had to deal with one live one. My brother grabbed him about his neck and literally threw him out of the garage.
Did you know that squirrels bounce?
(Disclaimer: no squirrels were harmed in the writing of this post.)
Here's the link: Suicide Squirrels
Here's my blog... an essay on why I hate squirrels.
Imagine, dear readers, a house of seventy-odd years. Character galore: hardwood floors and stained glass windows. A tiled fireplace. Professionally landscaped twenty years previous, meaning that what had been envisioned was well into fruition. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
And sitting next to said house, a tree. No doubt older then the house itself. The tree shades the front yard so completely that the living room and what became the nursery are comfortably cool all summer. The branches arch up, reaching to the sky and touching the clouds above. Each fall, it's an explosion of red and gold, so glorious that one almost doesn't mind raking.
And in said tree are squirrels. Furry little rotten bastards hell-bent on getting into my house. Brown rats with fluffy tails. One in particular, a ring-leader I'm convinced, knew how to slip in and curl up in my laundry basket. It's beady black eyes closed in repose as it enjoyed the warmth that's literally heaped on it, as shirts and pants and towels slide down to chute and land atop it's fat little carcass.
No doubt the dislike I possess comes from the moment I pulled a shirt from the basket and found him rolled up and ready to hibernate. No doubt his desire to torment me came from my ear-splitting, high-pitched scream of fright -- a scream apparently so harsh to his ears that he actually froze. Unmoving. Not even blinking, so terror-ridden was he. He gave nary a protest when the Big Guy came down and threw a rug over the basket, effectively trapping him inside.
Apparently, though, being ousted from my warm abode did not sit well with the creature.
There's something very disturbing about walking up to your front porch and looking up... to see three squirrels watching you and chirping. Rather macabre and Hitchcock-ish, if you will. I was waiting for the beasts to leap upon me much like one of Alfred's birds attacked Tippi a half-century ago.
Thankfully, they decided that menacing chatter was enough.
A little over a year later, they'd no doubt been waiting for the perfect opportunity, I was in the laundry room when I heard scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. I thought it was my cat playing around the furnace. Perhaps she was chasing a bug.
Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch.
I was several months pregnant by this point and too tired to really investigate, so I just stood there and waited for her to come into view.
Scritch.
No. Not the cat. The squirrel. The glorified rodent. AND FRIEND. Playing about my furnace.
No screams this time, just good old-fashioned legwork. I tore up the steps and, in my least-ladylike vocabulary, told my husband and neighbor that we had, to put it politely this time, "guests."
Two of the four-footed overgrown vermin came back just weeks before we were to move. This time they dove down the chimney.
The joke was on them.
You see, the fireplace had been sealed. They landed underneath it where the ashes would have gathered. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. One apparently broke its neck (it wasn't in there long enough to starve), so we only had to deal with one live one. My brother grabbed him about his neck and literally threw him out of the garage.
Did you know that squirrels bounce?
(Disclaimer: no squirrels were harmed in the writing of this post.)
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