Sunday, December 5, 2010

Christmas Tree 2010

As I decorate my Christmas tree, I’m reminded of different themes I've adopted over the years.  One year, it was all blue and purple ornaments; the next year was all red and green. One year was all angels, and another was all Santas. I went through a Victorian stage and a rustic folk art stage. I would comb through stores, looking for decorations that fit my motif, and then ponder my creation with a tiny dose of smugness at my aesthetic vision. Some years, as I channeled Martha Stewart, I’d even tie in a ‘gift wrapping’ theme with my house decorations.  I have no idea where that person is now, but she’s long gone. I still love to decorate my house, but now the theme is “Ornaments That Have Managed To Not Get Broken.”  I have a 6-foot-tall fake tree that I bought at KMart eight years ago for $20. It actually sheds pine needles, like a real tree, but I think it’s due to a lack of quality design rather than whimsy.
In my first apartment back in Philadelphia, I bought a real tree.  But, being the scatterbrain that I am, I was lax about watering it and by December 20, it was a fire hazard.  By the time I’d dragged it to the apartment complex dumpster, it was a bare stick trailing a path of pine needles. I splurged on another one my first year in California, but my pug Albert viewed it as his very own pee-post, to be marked on repeatedly, even though he was the only male dog who came near it. It’s been a plastic tree for me ever since.
It’s strange that I decorate a tree at all. I don’t spend the holidays here and there are no gifts underneath it for a significant other or children. I do it because it makes me happy to see it lit up at night, and because it’s something I’ve always had. So the tradition will stand at least until every plastic needle has fallen off the plastic frame, or every ornament is broken. Until then:
O Christmas Tree! O Christmas Tree!
Such pleasure do you bring me!

Thursday, October 28, 2010

I'm a Big Meany

I made two students cry today.  I take no joy in this, but I do have to admit to a grim satisfaction.  Both are two of about a dozen students who have exerted little effort into my class, and are now failing. It’s only the first quarter; they have ten weeks to bring their grade up before it pounds their GPA.  But suddenly the gravity of an impending F has struck the masses, and these two were bold enough to suddenly take action.  Both approached me at the beginning of their respective class periods to ask if they could do extra credit or be excused from some missing assignments.  Now if a student is experiencing some trauma at home, or has been classified by our Special Ed department as needing some accommodations, I’m more than happy to work with the student to improve their grade.  I never excuse an assignment, but under the right circumstances, I’ll extend the deadline or allow the student to do alternate, but equally rigorous, work.
These two students do not qualify for that kind of courtesy. Both admitted that they just didn’t do the work because it bored them, or they didn’t feel like it, and now they’re in trouble at home because of the resulting grade. One girl, as an excuse as to why she didn’t turn in a literature project, said, “Well, I just don’t like to read.”  I told her that I didn’t know what kind of response she expected from me, as I am an ENGLISH TEACHER. I didn’t go into teaching for the money; I went into it because of my love of the subject matter. And this was an interesting assignment: I let the students choose their books, reminding them ad nauseum to choose a book about a subject they love. As a result, if I have to read one more literature log on Twilight, I’m going to suck the blood out of a deer myself. But at least the kids are reading, and I have to remind myself of that.
This student stared at an open book for five weeks during Silent reading time in class, then informed me the day the assignment was due that she didn’t like the book she choose, so she wasn’t going to do the project. Now this same girl is one of two students asking to do extra credit, which means I have to think of an assignment, and then grade it when they decide to hand it in. I told both kids the same thing: “You choose not to do the work I assigned, so why would I give you more work? How is that fair to your classmates who did the work they were supposed to, when they were supposed to?”  That’s when the tears sprung into their eyes.  I think because I am basically good-natured in class, they were not expecting me to be so inflexible on this. But I couldn’t shy away from teaching them a lesson.
So maybe English class isn’t their cup of tea. I get that. But this is a bigger issue. Even if an F goes home on the quarter grade report, maybe they’ll learn that sometimes in life, we have to do things that bore us. I wish life could be all house parties and days at the beach, I really do. But life involves a certain level of drudgery and routine for most of us, and it’s an unavoidable evil. It’s better that they learn that blowing off a required task results in an “F”, rather than a pink slip. Or that they have to explain that failure to their parents, rather than to the family of a person whose death they inadvertently caused because they didn’t pay close attention to a prescription’s directions or the instruction manual for heavy machinery.  They have to learn how to learn, and deal. 
So, in each case, I handed the kid a tissue and told them to go outside to get themselves together.  I don’t feel badly about it, and I’m sure they muttered every expletive in their vocabulary about me.  It’s a cliche to say that they’ll thank me someday, but I can send this little lesson out to the cosmos and hope that the result down the line will make each of these kids a slightly better person. I’m not holding my breath for a Thank You card, though.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

I Feel The Earth Move Under My Feet

I have been reminded yet again by "CBS Sunday Morning" that we Californians are long overdue for The Big One, the catchphrase used for the massive earthquake that will basically level the state. The San Andreas fault runs just north of where I live, and is the geological culprit that gets the most press. But the state is rife with faults, any one of which could be ground zero for a big, destructive quake. 
It’s easy to shrug it off and just go to the beach. Aside from insane real estate and traffic, life is California is enjoyable. The weather is temperate, the people are pleasant, the scenery is lovely. There’s a reason people come west to live.  But it is on the cusp of several tectonic plates that are rubbing against each other, and each time a deadly earthquake hits someplace else in the world, we Californians are reminded that it’s not a matter of “if”, but “when”.  And when it does happen, will we be prepared? And what will our enjoyable life be like afterward?
I didn’t live here when the Northridge quake hit, but my friends who did all have horror stories, ranging from broken plates to sudden unemployment, due to destroyed businesses.  We occasionally have little trembles, but aside from being unnerving, they don’t disrupt my day that much.  The Northridge quake was a 6.7 on the Richter scale, and caused billions of dollars in damage. The death toll and the damage from the Big One, potentially a 8 or above, will be unimaginable. The state will be crippled, no matter how many drills and reinforcements are put into place now.
Geologists and seismic researchers remind everyone that that there’s no way to predict a quake. They can watch the buildup of stress along a fault line, and point out where the weak points may be, but when a quake starts, there’s usually only a few seconds of rumbling before the shaking begins. We are warned to have a plan and an emergency bag. I have one with a first aid kit, some cans of tuna and some water, but it’s impossible to know what will be needed, if power and water is destroyed.  My sad little red backpack doesn’t seem like it will be of much help if utilities are knocked out for weeks or even days. I also worry about my dogs’ survival.  These creatures are my kids, for all intents and purposes, and how will I keep them healthy and safe in a massive disaster?
Life is a gamble, and there isn’t a place in America that isn’t prone to some kind of natural disaster, whether it be hurricane, floods, tornadoes, and crippling blizzards.  All I can do is make sure I have my emergency pack and my camping equipment in a place where I can find them quickly, and just pray I’m home when it happens, so I can take care of myself and the dogs.  Beyond that, I’m powerless, and I know it’s pointless to worry.  Now I think I’ll go sit outside in the warm sun.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Little Red Schoolhouse, Malta, Colorado


Schoolhouse
Originally uploaded by WhizzoChocs
I used to drive by this place when I went to visit my parents. It always struck me as so desolate and sad, and the perfect place for a ghost or a murderer's hideout. It's located in Malta, a dot of a town near Leadville, which is itself a dot of a town. It used to be a bustling railroad stop, but now it's a depressing turn in the road, surrounded by slag heaps and debris. This schoolhouse has no sign that I could ever spot, so I never knew the history behind it, but it's clearly taken care of by someone. The view from the front door is amazing; the Twin Lakes and an unobstructed view of the Rockies. I always wondered what it would be like to have been the teacher here. It would be very cold in the winter, but lovely the rest of the year.
Sadly, my parents moved away from Chaffee County, so I have no reason to drive through Leadville anymore, but I think on my next trip to Colorado, I may take a spin through the area.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

New Camera

I saved some funds and used birthday money to buy a FujiFilm FinePix S2550HD camera. It’s so sweet, the nicest camera I’ve ever owned. It’s got all of the proverbial bells and whistles, which I spent a good part of last night figuring out.
I walked around the harbor today, taking photos of boats and seagulls and flowers. I felt a little self-conscious about carrying and pointing a camera, like I was a spy or lonely perv. I wanted to try the burst mode, but I felt a little shady standing in the parking lot, trying to get a photo of a flying bird. It was almost comical because the harbor is packed with seagulls, but every time I pointed the camera in one direction, a bird would fly over my head from another direction. It was almost like they were plotting together to make me spin around wildly. The final insult was when I lowered my camera, a great blue heron soared right over. I actually jumped up and down with annoyance. I’ve read that in photography, patience is as important as talent, so that’s clearly something I’m going to have to work on.
I daydream about being a freelance photographer and writer, traveling to tourist attractions and historical sites and publishing my stories. And then when I made enough money, I’d buy a sweet RV and travel the country year round, documenting and describing parks and urban projects and festivals. And then I’d win the Nobel Prize and then... OK, my daydreams do evolve to the point of delusion. I accept that. Until all that happens, I’ll post things here. Here’s my first photo.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

A Day in the Life of WhizzoChocs

In Doris Lessing's novel 'The Golden Notebook', the narrator notes everything that happens to her on one day. It's a good writing exercise because it forces me to notice details and connect abstract thoughts to concrete things. So here is my day, for your reading pleasure (I assume it's for your pleasure, or you'll stop reading right now.)
I sleep through two alarms, but I'm finally nudged awake by the mutt, who must have gotten tired of listening to the beeping. It's raining, so I try to get inspired to take the dogs for a walk.  I give the mutt her first dose of medicines.  She has Cushing's Disease and has to take expensive but life saving meds three times a day. I scroll through Facebook and Twitter on my phone, while I sip a cup of coffee. It's Green Mountain coffee which I have delivered every six weeks.  It's a luxury, but it's my one culinary indulgence. I don't spend money on good wine or food, so I can justify it.  I can't put off the dog walk any longer.  I dig out raincoat and Crocs for me, and wrestle the harnesses onto the dogs, who have figured out that it's raining, and yes, I'm still making them go out in it.  As a tight pack, we trot up to the park and then I let them go to do their business.  The mutt relieves herself quickly; the ten-pound dachshund is a little more delicate and looks at me morosely.  I check the traffic report on my phone and discover that there's an accident on my route to work, so now the morning pace must be accelerated.  I scoop the dachshund up, and we walk quickly back home.
I feed the dogs, make some toast, have another cup of coffee.  I used to watch the comically inept local news for traffic and weather, but now that I have apps for both on my phone, I can sit in silence and darkness without the TV on.  It's a nice way to gather strength for the day.
Get dressed. Decide against the outfit I picked out and opt for jeans and a thermal. My fashion style has slowly deteriorated (or evolved, depending on how you look at it) over the years. I used to wear skirts and blouses, or dresses, usually with panty hose and high heels. I now choose comfort over professional appearance, and my command of the classroom has not diminished. Take one last gulp of coffee, put a little eyeliner on, then I'm out the door.
The traffic is terrible.  The accident mixed with the rain doubles my commute time.  I pull into the parking lot just as the first bell is ringing and ignore the good natured ribbing I get from my students who are clustered around my door. 
My first period is very funny.  It's mostly boys and they're all good kids. They have a final draft of an essay to hand in, and despite my numerous reminders and warnings about excuses, my podium is rushed like I'm a vampire heartthrob by teens with a dozen stories about why they don't have their assignment. I wave them away. I've been teaching too long to listen to the same stories students have been offering since the start of civilization.  Well, maybe Roman students didn't claim that their printer broke, but I'm sure their excuses were as lame and hackneyed.
I hand back a test and we go over it as a class. We're reading "Of Mice and Men", so I read aloud to them and ask questions. They seem to be enjoying it, if only for the cursing.  I remind them that tomorrow is Silent Reading day.  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, my five classes read a book of their choice for 15 minutes.  I actually have them do it because I want to be able to read for 75 minutes, twice a week.  I don't care if they like to do it or not. I'm tempted to make it a daily event, but it really does cut into class time.
Second period is my prep period. A friend and colleague emails me to ask if I can help her proctor the SATs on Saturday.  I had planned to go spend the day at the Autry Museum of Western Heritage  but I need the money.  Besides, SAT testing is a nice block of time to get some grading done. And if I get enough grading done, I can put it aside and read the new Bill Bryson book which I just got and am enjoying very much. The museum can wait until another week, so I say yes.
Third and fourth period roll by.  The juniors are reading "The Crucible".  My mood sours a little as the day progresses, but I chalk it up to PMS.
At lunch, my classroom is a refuge for students trying to escape the rain.  There's a nice chatter about the upcoming weekend, and Homecoming dance.  A student comes to me to tell me that his stepfather has pancreatic cancer and that's why his grade is suffering.  I have no reason to doubt him, so we talk about what can we do that will improve his grade without adding extra stress.
Fifth and sixth period round out the day.  I stay late to enter grades into the online gradebook. I think about just doing it at home, but I get so little schoolwork done at home. My attention span whittles down to nothing, and it's just easier to do as much as I can at school.
Drive home is much better than morning ride. I'm listening to "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" on my iPod.  I really haven't been enjoying it until the last few days, where the story has picked up and it's finally interesting.   I think about how thankless my job is, but then I realize that I've never heard of a job where workers get sincere thanks.  Maybe that's just not something we humans should expect from our careers.  Maybe the paycheck is enough.
Get home, and dogs are ecstatic to see me again. Clearly they had convinced themselves that I was never to return and they were abandoned forever. The frenzied greeting of my dogs never fails to make me smile.
I putz around on the computer, while eating hummus and crackers.  The rainclouds clear out so I walk the dogs along the bike path behind my house. There are eucalyptus trees along the edge, and the smell of their wet leaves is heavenly.  After we get back, I feed the dogs, pour a glass of wine, and rummage around the fridge for dinner.  I've got a bunch of leftovers on the verge of going bad, so I saute some asparagus, heat up the rest of a casserole, and wash and destem a basket of strawberries.  I watch the Simpsons and Scrubs and read friends' blogs
It's now 7 p.m.  Not an account of a full day, but the plan is to watch reruns of Seinfeld, then Ghost Hunters.  I'll take a shower, pack a lunch, get the coffeemaker ready, and pick out something to wear.  I want to get to bed early, because I'm really tired and I have the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in.  I anticipate a delightful sleep.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Singledom and Childfreedom

    I am single. Unattached.  Whizzing through life solo. Now, let me stop you before you start with the inevitable questions like, “Have you tried eHarmony?” or “Would you like to meet my neighbor? He just got divorced.” I am single by choice.  And I’m not alone.  CNN reported on August 20 that “There are 96 million people in the United States who have no spouse. That means 43 percent of all Americans over the age of 18 are single, according to the U.S. Census Bureau...Of the singletons, 61 percent of them have never said ‘I do.’"
    I am one of those 61%. I used to tell strangers that I was divorced because people seemed to find that more understandable than never married. If I did say I’d never been married, inevitably the next question was, either directly or implied, “Are you a lesbian?”  I’m not, for the record. I was never offended by the assumption, but  I was irritated by the fact that “not married” meant “not interested in men.” I love men; I just don’t want to live with or answer to one.
    I am a quirkyalone, a term coined by writer Sasha Cagen in 1999: Quirkyalone-- n. adj. a person who enjoys being single (or spending time alone) and so prefers to wait for the right person to come along rather than dating indiscriminately; relishing equal doses of solitude and friendship; attracted to freedom and possibility. (quirkyalone.net)  This is me to the letter. I don’t reject the idea of pairing off someday, but I’m perfectly content for it NOT to happen. If I do, the guy will need to be PERFECT for me, and no, I will not lower my requirements to accommodate a less-than-perfect partner into a life that is already good.  What will be will be, and I’m not going to waste one precious second trying to force my life into a direction that it’s not naturally heading. I have lots of good friends, I have two devoted dogs, and I have an unwavering, obsessive love of solitude.  These elements are entirely under my control and are enough to complete my happiness.
    I HATE dating. Friends of mine talk about how they love the first date, the opening salvos of a potential relationship.  Not me. I loathe sitting across the table from someone and feeling like I’m on a job interview, (What music do you like? What brought you to California?) I have to admit, at some point, that I couldn’t care less about sports or cars or video games or what a guy does for a living. and so therefore,  I’m interviewing for a “job” (either wife or girlfriend) that I don’t really want.
    And if I do make it past a dozen dates, that’s no good either. Throughout the years, I’ve increasingly become a bad girlfriend: self-centered, insecure, defensive, indifferent. All those things guys complain about to their friends, I embody. I don’t like who I am when I’m someone’s girlfriend, and that reflects onto whatever hapless man I’m linked to. It’s not fair to either of us. 
    Adding to my resolve is the objective of dating.  If the ultimate goal is to find a life partner, then again, no thank you. I have no intention of ever voluntarily living with anyone.  My space is mine, and as much as I respect a guy’s right to have all his guy stuff around, I don’t want it polluting my space. I love coming home to a quiet house, the only noise being the joyful yips of my dogs, celebrating my return.  Once that scene plays out, I can melt onto my couch and relish the silence for as long as I like. I don’t worry about making conversation or being pouty about having to watch something on television that I don’t like.  My home is my cave, my fortress, my domain, filled solely with things that please or amuse me. I can’t see giving that up, ever.
    Then there’s the touchy issue of children.  I don’t want any, either full-time or part-time. The men I meet all seem to want kids or already have them, and this is an instant dealbreaker for me. Again, spare me the platitudes like, “But parenting is the most rewarding thing you can do” or “Medical advancements have made such strides. You can still have one!”  I know. I made the conscious decision not to be a mother, either biological or adoptive.  At various times in my life, I thought I would have children, but it never completely felt right. I assumed I would because that’s what women do: breed. But it slowly began to dawn on me that I didn’t want kids, I didn’t need kids, and all the things I love about my life would be drastically changed or eliminated if I had kids. Perky moms tell me that you don’t MIND giving up all the fun things in your life, because they’re replaced by other fun things involving your children.  But I really, REALLY like my fun things, and I can’t imagine that hanging out at a playground or child’s birthday party can be any better than say, a spontaneous roadtrip, a wildly experimental cooking session, or a day with no plans or activities at all.  I have many friends who have kids, and while I don’t mind listening to stories about their parental adventures, I do need to sit on the urge to say, “That’s cool. Now you listen to the cute things my dogs did.” I have nothing to add to parent talk, except the occasional “Oh, that’s sweet.”
    I'd say that 90% of the people I talk to about it are fine with my decision not to procreate, as it's becoming more commonplace. Pew Research Center reported that nearly one-in-five American women ends her childbearing years without having borne a child, up from one-in-ten in 1970 (June 25, 2010).  But every once and awhile, I'll meet someone who assumes that I didn't have kids because I couldn't land a man.  That rankles me and gets me snarky about parenthood and smug coupledom. It’s an archaic notion that all people need to pair off and breed.  Or they'll say something like, "You can always adopt" like I'm a moron who wants a kid but doesn't know where to get one.  It makes me laugh when they suggest that I'm just being selfish. I counter with "You bet I'm selfish. Good thing I don't want to be a parent, because purely selfish parents turn their kids into clingy miniature versions of themselves." And really, no one becomes a parent for entirely unselfish reasons. You become a parent because you want something to nurture and love, and to love you in return. How is that not just a tiny bit selfish? If you’re up for the lifelong task, all the best. My dogs fulfill my limited needs for loving and nurturing, but I can also leave them with a dog sitter or home alone with a chewy, with a minimum amount of guilt on my part.  My mutts and I have an understanding that the law does not extend to a human dependent. I know. I watch the news.
    I’m very happy with my life. If someone should come along who will complement that rather than complicate it, that'll be fine.  I’ll shove aside some of my stuff and let him bring a few boxes in. But I’m not holding my breath for it, or scanning the internet.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

A Side Effect of Living Alone

When one lives alone, it’s easy to allow your self-indulgence to lead to decisions that are detrimental to your health. Luckily, I have no interest in drug use or heavy drinking, but I do tend to overeat, since everything in the fridge and the cupboards is selected BY me, FOR me. As a result, my weight has been steadily climbing. Not that having a living companion would change that much. One chirpy little “Let’s go for a hike” from a skinny roommate or boyfriend would send me scowling to my room with a box of Hostess SnoBalls. I’ll exercise when I damn well please, and suggestions to do otherwise can be crammed hard, thank you very much. But it’s easier for me to be very lazy when I'm not being observed and judged by someone else. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE living alone, and will always do so. But this does put the onus of my controlling my health squarely and exclusively on my shoulders.  I started Weight Watchers online this week.  I’m not announcing this to give them free advertising or to get “You go, girl!” feedback.  I’m stating it as a new thing in my life, a thing that will hopefully IMPROVE my life, both immediately and in the long run. I have no dreams to be a bikini model or a swizzle stick. I always have been and always will be heavy. I’m not doing this out of any concern about my looks but about my health. My cholesterol level is twice what it should be, my blood pressure is elevated. I am technically obese, which is such an ugly word, but it must be said. My clothes are uncomfortable, and I refuse to buy a whole new wardrobe in larger sizes to accommodate my girth, especially when I have within my power the ability to take control of it. I have made a conscious and careful decision to live alone for the rest of my life. As a result, I MUST stay healthy, both mentally and physically, or else I’ll be forced to surrender my independence and solitude, and become a burden to a family member or God forbid, an assisted living facility.  This is what I need to remind myself of when I’m tempted to eat a quarter of a cake or a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. My autonomy must be maintained, at all costs.  I can rationalize any abuse to my body as a carpe diem fling. But as I approach my 45th birthday, I have to accept that balance is needed every day, for tranquility and strength. So of course, I’m not giving up on the Ben and Jerry’s but what I WILL do is focus on keeping all things in balance.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

A Poem for 9/11

For the Falling Man     by Annie Farnsworth 

I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky, in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband, daddy.
Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths —
but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.    

Friday, September 10, 2010

Happy Little Thing for September 10

I have a set of identical twins in my class who can get a little snippy about being mistaken for one another, even though they are IDENTICAL. In order to avoid annoying them today, I pretended that I was reading something on my desk, and asked without looking up "Ryan, what teacher did you have before me?" As I looked up to see which one would answer, they BOTH did. It was actually kind of funny.
Oh, and it's FRIDAY!!!

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Happy Little Thing for September 8

I've rediscovered the song Canned Heat by Jamiroquai.  I've been cranking it loud and hard on my commute this week.  I always think of Napoleon Dynamite busting a move to it, and that makes me smile even more.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Happy Little Thing for September 8

Rarely am I impressed with my culinary creations.  I focus on making my meal healthy and easy, so it's usually edible, but not memorable.  Tonight, staring into the abysmal hollow of my refrigerator, I gathered some veggies and pizza dough that were all well past their expiration date. I knew I was toying with a host of possible food poisoning maladies, but I was hungry and too tired to go to the store.  I sauteed the veggies, wrapped them all in the dough and baked it.  I must say, it turned out extremely tasty.  The vegetables melded into a lovely melange, and the dough was crunchy and a nice contrast to the filling. Should I quit my job and open a restaurant that serves just this dish? Nope, but I could serve it to friends and not have to face awkward polite responses and excuses.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Happy Little Thing for September 7

I was dreading my first period class when I saw the class list.  Thirty-nine sophomores is bad enough, but 29 of them are boys. My experience has been that classes are always more difficult to manage and engage if there's a gender imbalance. Too many girls means drama.  Too many boys means 56-minute pissing contests. Even though it's early in the year, I'm cautiously delighted with this group.  Many of the boys are friends, and they're genuinely very, very funny. So far, they're courteous and just a little squirrely.  We have to spend a lot of time together, especially during standardized testing, when all the testing is done in the first period class for the whole week. I hope this group stays this entertaining.

Happy Little Thing for September 6

The mixture of the smells from cilantro fields and the ocean.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

LOADS of Happy Little Things for September 5

Here are two parallel versions of the morning I had today.
The first one is the grumpy version.  I woke up early and decided to take the dogs to the beach. We get there, I lock the car, we go on to the beach. The dogs are frantic with happiness, It’s foggy and kind of chilly, but they brave the cold water to fetch the sticks I throw in. We all romp and play until we’re exhausted.  The dogs are cold and hungry and limping from fatigue, so I decide it’s time to leave.  I reach into my pocket and my car keys are not there. Mind you, we’ve run up and down the beach, but it’s a huge key ring, so I assume it’ll be very easy to find them.  I criss cross the beach a dozen times at least, to no avail. Meanwhile, both dogs are shivering and whimpering. I call a friend who lives nearby, but she is out of town for the long weekend.  I call Subaru Roadside Assistance, a service that was highly touted by the car dealer when I bought the car.  The operator is snarky and annoyed that I can’t recall how many miles I have on my car, nor can I read the vehicle identification number without my glasses.  She won’t answer any of my questions (specifically “Is there anything that Subaru can do to help me in this particular situation?”) until I give her the necessary information. I hang up on her. I call AAA.  They are more sympathetic, but can’t help.  My phone starts to die, so I can’t call anyone else.  I borrow a phone from someone in the parking lot and call a cab to get a ride home so I can get my spare key and then come back. I have to leave my car at the beach with my purse, iPod, and house keys in full view.  If someone finds my keys before I get back, they can deduce from the Subaru key chain which car is mine and empty it out, or just steal it altogether.

Now, here’s the pleasant version of the same events. I thank God for the friendliness and kindness of people.  When I first realized I couldn’t find my keys, I started stopping other beachgoers and asking if they’d seen them. No one had, but everyone was concerned, and some helped me look around. They in turn told other people, so at one point, nearly everyone on the beach was looking for my keys.  A sympathetic couple let me borrow their phone to call a cab, and the man at the taxi company was very kind.  The cab arrived right away, driven by a lady named Tanya, who was an enthusiastic dog lover and didn’t mind my sandy dogs in her backseat.  She assured me that my car would be fine and she just knew that someone would find the keys and turn them in.  She drove me home, waited until I got my dogs settled and found my spare key, then drove me back to my car. My car WAS fine when we got back, and she knocked $10 off of my fare.  When I got my car opened, and everything hidden and secured, I went back to the beach to look again. I talked to a courteous young lifeguard and a few more beachgoers, and they all promised to keep an eye out for my keys. I drove home and fed the dogs and ate some breakfast.  About an hour later, a girl from the YMCA called and said that someone had found my keys at the beach, noticed my Y membership card that’s attached to the key ring, and dropped them off there.  The staff looked me up, and despite the fact that I’ve let my membership lapse, I’m still in the files so they phoned me to let me know that they would hold my keys at the front desk and I could come get them at my earliest convenience.
So even though the situation was aggravating, I got to talk to several lovely people whom I otherwise would not have spoken to had my original intention of playing at the beach with my dogs gone to plan. I’ve rarely had to RELY on the kindness of strangers, but I am dearly grateful for it.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Addendum to Happy Little Thing for September 4

Glass of champagne with a splash of Pimms and a fresh strawberry.

Happy Little Thing for September 4

Being back at school has reawakened my appreciation of weekends.  Every day is a day off during the summer, so it's easy for me to forget how precious free time really is.  Today, I slept in, lingered over a couple mugfuls of coffee, took the dogs for a long walk, went to the farmers market, did a little yardwork, then took a nap. I'm now winding up a major goof-off session on my laptop, and am preparing to take the dogs to the park.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Happy Little Thing for September 3

The lovely silence of my classroom on a Friday afternoon after school.  It was a good week, getting to know the kids and slowly getting back into the routine of a day partitioned into 56 minute blocks. And now I decompress, as I do every afternoon.  I sit quietly, take stock of the day, and wait for the parking lot traffic to clear out.   It's a long weekend, so that makes this time that much sweeter.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Happy Little Thing for September 2

As loath as I am to get up early, it's at once both peaceful and energizing to walk the dogs through the deserted park in the foggy dawn.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Happy Little Things for September 1

It was the first day of the school year today. It's always exhausting, because I have to switch from being a lazy, self-centered couch load to being on my feet all day, attempting to engage herds of 40 teenagers at a time for 56 minutes.  But it was a good day.  The best part was that many of my former students made a point to stop into my classroom to say hello.  It is nice to reconnect with colleagues and students.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Happy Little Things

School starts again tomorrow, and as the school year progress, I tend to get dark and negative.  SO, I thought about this old post I did for LiveJournal, about looking for Happy Little Things every day.  I'm going to see how far I go with it.  Here's the original post, as introduction:

Bob Ross, if you don't know, was an art instructor who had a show on PBS for ages. He was so soothing and tranquil as he painted and chatted with the camera. He'd produce a very passable and pleasing painting by the end of every show, and he especially liked to coo about the "happy little trees" he was creating.

In honor of him, and just trying to be more appreciative of life in general, I'm going to try to post a "Happy Little Thing" each day.

My first Happy Little Thing is Bob Ross. He died in 1995, but I hope wherever he is, there are loads of happy little trees.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

The Small and Big of It All

I don’t like killing spiders. Maybe it’s a zen thing, or that I just feel that a creature shouldn’t be squashed out of existence just because it had the misfortune to wander into my bathroom sink.  So, when I see a spider, I rig an elaborate trap (usually involving a cup and a piece of paper,) do a ridiculous, frantic ritual of capturing the offending insect, and then fling the captive spider out into my front yard. As a result, the bushes right by my front door are a glittering metropolis of spiders.

I just watered the foliage in my yard, and now I’m sitting on my doorstep, looking at the spider webs in the bushes. I spot a spider that has braved the sudden water storm, and is methodically spinning a web between two small branches.  I look more closely, and I can see several other webs, all glistening with water drops. The spider’s entire reason for living is spinning these webs to feed itself and I assume, its young.  What I also assume is that it doesn’t realize (or care) that the webs look lovely beaded with water, with the sun shining through them. It’s a spontaneous, beautiful piece of art, right there for my viewing enjoyment. It’s a fine reward for not mashing its creator into a tissue.

About a week ago, I was in Colorado, shivering on my parents’ patio at 2 a.m., staring up at the sky at the Perseid meteor shower. There was no moon, and the sky was full of stars.  Just looking at the Milky Way, all 200 billion stars of it, made me dizzy and that’s just the teeny-tinest fraction of the known universe.  The universe is 12-14 billion years old and 156 billion light years wide, (give or take a light year) and just crammed packed full of stars and planets and God knows what else. To add to the sheer enormity of it all, there are theories of parallel universes, beyond our dimension. THIS universe, that humans can only see the smallest part of, may be just one of millions. That’s a lot of space. I firmly believe that there’s other life out there; there HAS to be. Something, somewhere out there has to have crawled out of primordial ooze and evolved into a creature that can look up and marvel at its own view of the stars.  I thought about all those other worlds, other creatures. What things keep them awake? What’s important to them? What do they think about? What are their lives like?

I’ve been stewing lately about some things in my life that are irking me.  As an introvert, it’s so easy for me to become mired in labyrinthine thoughts and projected scenarios. But what’s the point? I can either change something or I can’t. If I can, I need to take action. If I can’t, I need to deal and not spend time thinking “What if?” When I think about the lives of a spider and a creature 50 billion light years away, can my little issues really be worth wasting precious time on? I need things like this to remind me that I’m a tiny part of the huge web of existence. I don’t mean in a diminishing way, just that everything, whether it’s got two, eight, or fifty legs, are all in the same cosmological boat chugging across time and space, and there’s something comforting in that. I think I’ll go take a walk.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Hair

I got my hair cut today.  Not really worth noting, but yet in a way, it is.  I went from having very long hair (down to the middle of my back) to shortish hair (level to my ears.) I've been letting it grow for probably five or six years, but I realized a few weeks ago that I never wore my long hair down. I always pulled it up into a bun or a ponytail. It seemed silly to be maintaining all that hair and never displaying it, so I thought it would be nice to have some of it lopped off.  I didn't plan to get THAT much cut off, but the stylist misunderstood my request and only glanced at the photo I brought.  When she made the first cut, it was too late to stop her.  I was pretty upset at first but after a few hours, I started to think that it looks okay. AND it will grow again, so I'm trying not to fuss about it.
I lived in London for a college semester. My friend got his hair buzzcut at the now defunct Kensington Market, and one day on a whim, I got the same cut. I loved it.  It was a breeze to take care of, and struck me as very hip.  I was interning at Melody Maker Magazine, and I wanted to fit in with the music journalists who buzzed in and out of the office. The only drawback was when I was constantly called "Sir" by shop clerks.  That's kind of rough on a young woman's self esteem.  I grew it out before I came home, so I wouldn't give my parents a stroke, but I do have fond memories of it.
My whole life, I've only taken sporadic interest in my hair. This has driven some of my girly-girl friend insane, but I do get bored talking about products and procedures, and I can think of a thousand different things that I could do with the $75 many women plunk down at a hair salon.  I take my chances with SuperCuts, come what may. I have also, in the past, butchered my hair with expired hair dye, purchased at swap meets for $2, with a wide range of results, from movie star glamorous to Muppet nightmare. I'm lucky I don't look like Curly from the Three Stooges.
I actually like the color of my hair; it's brown with gold and red highlights in the sun.  It's baby-fine and prone to soft curls. Over the last few years, some strands of gray have started to creep in.  The first one I spotted rocked my world a little, but after that, I was fine with it. I've always pictured having long, silver hair when I'm an old woman, like Georgia O'Keeffe.  I like the look of gray hair and I'm going to let it come as it will, because I can't bear the idea of becoming a slave to the colorist.  I know gray hair denotes old age, but it also denotes wisdom, theoretically.  I think I've got a few years until I'm all gray, so a short haircut is a nice change.  I may feel differently after the first time I'm called "Sir".

Monday, August 16, 2010

Introduction

I am an unapologetic dilettante.  I dabble in various interests for various amounts of time, without becoming an expert on anything. One day I’m interested in the English Civil War and the next day, I’m into String Theory.  The day after that, it might be ecclesiastical architecture or Gnosticism. My mind bounces around like a ball in a pinball machine, and while that kind of intellectual turmoil has molded me into being very shallow, it also keeps me constantly entertained and engaged.  

Although I have many interests, I have few talents. Well, just one talent, really. I am a fairly competent writer but I lack discipline and practice, because I am the definition of the word “slacker”. I’ve turned goofing off into a life philosophy and the meaning of my existence. It’s amusing, but it also seems like a slight waste of time as well.  This is why I’ve resolved (yet again) to blog. An athlete keeps their gym bag in their car; an artist carries around a sketchbook.  If I have a repository for writing, I may actually do it more often and keep the one talent I have from drying up and dying.

Topics will range, as the cliché goes, from the ridiculous (I wish fanny packs weren’t so lame because they really are incredibly convenient) to the sublime (why does Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” move me to tears?)  Of course, the running theme throughout all my blog entries will be me, because I’m also immensely self-centered.  I don’t mean arrogant. I mean I’m narcissistic in its literal sense: I’m fascinated by myself. I think all writers are egocentric to some degree. Why else would we assume other people want to read what we write?

YOU are reading this, so my evil plan has worked.  Please feel free to stop back occasionally. I can promise neither quality nor quantity, but I will occasionally post a photograph that might be nice to look at. Or a manifesto. The sky’s the limit when a slacker is in charge.

By the way, my blog’s name derives from one of my favorite Monty Python sketches, wherein Mr. Milton, the sole proprietor of the Whizzo Chocolate Company, must defend his revolting assortment of candy flavors to the Hygiene Squad, including the Crunchy Frog: "We use only the finest baby frogs, dew-picked and flown from Iraq, cleansed in finest-quality spring water, lightly killed, and then sealed in a succulent Swiss quintuple smooth treble cream milk chocolate envelope and lovingly frosted with glucose."  Much, MUCH more on Monty Python in later entries.  I promise.