Auntie Facebook Just Won't Let It Go

Facebook keeps asking me to declare my relationship status.  About once a week, when I sign on through my smartphone, a little panel pops up, urging me to finish my profile, but the only thing missing is the state of my lovelife. Facebook is like that annoying relative who keeps asking about every detail of your life and then gets huffy when you don’t want to answer. I don’t know why they’re so keen to have that information, and if they are, I don’t know why they don’t allow me to choose “Other” as they do with Religious and Political views. They provide a menu of options, but none fit my situation. I don’t want to put Single because the unspoken connotation is “Single and Looking, Gentlemen!”. I don’t want to select “It’s Complicated” because it really isn’t.  It’s very, very simple: I’m a Singularity. Introvert. Spinster. Quirkyalone. Unattached. Solo Mio. Autocratic Overlord of my own Sovereign State. Stubbornly independent to the point where I will sometimes place my well-being in danger. I hesitate to use the word “Loner” because while I do very much enjoy my solitude, I also like hanging with friends. I’m not ANTI-social, just selectively social. I’m not a hermit, because I leave my house all the time. And I’m not Anti-Couple, unless the couple in question is insufferable, condescending, or insistent that I join the Smug Couple Kingdom by letting them set me up with their neighbor/brother/coworker.  In many cases, one of the members of the most vehemently self-righteous couples will confide in me privately that their partner drives them nuts. Misery loves company, I guess. I don’t know the right label to describe my status, but Facebook doesn’t have it on their pulldown menu.

There just seems to be no way to say that I’m single and very happy.  Many people read that as, “You’re not happy, you’re just resigned to it, right? Have you tried eHarmony?”  Arggh! I’m 47 years old, and I’m fully content with my life. And when I think of my future, it is one of solitude, and that’s good! Really. I promise you, I’m good with that. It’s my plan.  If I didn’t like the idea, I would be on the prowl constantly for someone to pair off with. I just don’t want to. How else can I state that? Perhaps a list of reasons as to why I am fulfilled would be helpful.  Here’s why I like being, and will continue to be, single:

Freedom to do what I want, when I want, and not having to make sure it’s cool with someone else

Not having to deal with another person's drama

Not having to deal with another person's hangups

Not having to deal with another person's pouting

Not having to deal with another person's body odor or icky laundry

Not worrying about someone else putting up with my drama, hangups, pouting, body odor, and icky laundry

Spending my hard-earned money on myself, rather than things another person wants or needs

Being able to make decisions based solely on how the outcome will affect me, and just me

Making plans to do what I’m interested in doing

Being able to break those plans if I change my mind without ruining someone else’s plans

Sleeping in without being disturbed

Staying up late without disturbing someone else

Taking a nap

Watching what I want on my TV

Turning off the TV and being able to read in silence

Listening to what music I want to

Not being disappointed by someone

Not disappointing someone

Not having to assure someone that nothing is wrong, when all I want is silence

Being able to go for a walk or a drive, and not having to explain to someone that I just want to be by myself

Eating what I want, when I want. If I want to eat spaghetti four days in a row, well then, that’s what’s for dinner four days in a row

Letting the dishes sit overnight if I don’t feel like doing them

Not having to pretend I care about someone's sports team or job

Cluttering up my home with things that I find aesthetically pleasing, and not having to bargain for space to do so

Did I mention doing what I want, when I want? It bears repeating, because it is the central point of my life paradigm.  Simply put: I want to do what I want to do.

I could go on and on. Facebook will just have to keep bugging me to pick an answer, because what they want is too hard to explain.  I am who I am, and the most important word there is “I”.

Commuter Stories

I drive to work at about the same time along the same route every day and as a result, I see the same cars. We hit the same traffic lights and pick the same lanes like clockwork. It’s kind of dehumanizing in a way, but such is the commuter life. To pass the time and keep myself from crashing into a street light out of sheer boredom, I make up stories about the cars and their drivers.

Here are those stories:

The Prius driven by the man in a business shirt and tie. You’d think he’d be a kind, ecofriendly soul, but he drives like a complete jackass. He cuts people off and tailgates.  So much rage.  He used to be a hippie, maybe a drummer or poet. Now he sells insurance and hates his life. His car is his last clinging concession to his wild youth.

The pickup truck driven by the man who has his high school tassel dangling from the rear view window. He’s in his mid-30s, and graduating from high school has been his greatest accomplishment so far.  He still lives with his parents, and when they die, he’ll have the place to himself and he won’t have to turn down his stereo. Maybe he can have girls over, too. He just won't know how to cook or do laundry, since his mom does it for him, and always has.

The sports van driven by a woman who’s got a license plate frame saying “HAPPINESS IS BEING THE MOM OF TWINS” and a few “My child was student of the month at Blah-Blah School for the Overly-Entitled.” Her vanity plate also implies something as much.  She is the kind of parent who works her twin stories into every single conversation, regardless of the subject, whether it be with friends, coworkers, or the person behind her in line. Her entire existence is defined by her children's lives and her parent smugness oozes from her car like exhaust.

Some jacked-up economy car driven by a teenage white boy who plays gangsta rap so loud that it rattles my windshield. He’s eighty credits behind in high school, and every time an adult asks him what he plans to do after graduation, he said he’s going to be a rap star, bigger than Eminem. He’s never once been on stage, but he will be someday. I hate idling at a light by him, and I pass him as quickly as I can, not only to get away from that noise he blasts but also as some warped old lady vindication. “Suck on that, Snoop-Dog,” I say as I blaze past him.

The work truck full of Hispanic men with sun-weathered faces and cowboy hats. The back of the truck is full of landscaping tools and bags of dirt. Even though they work outside together all day, they’re still laughing and talking, even at this early hour.

The ancient Jeep Wagoneer driven by an obese man with a red face and scraggly beard. He eats a donut quickly, slurping coffee in between big bites. It is a miracle that both car and driver are still mobile.  Both their demises will be cataclysmic and sudden. The only question is which one will go first.

The red Hyundai driven by a young woman who jams to her tunes with such verve that she’s almost rear ended me a few times.  Her hair is stylish, and she wears fashionable sunglasses and perfect manicure, but she does not have car insurance. When she eventually DOES rear end me, her daddy will pay me off to keep me from contacting the police or the DMV.

The shiny black foreign sports car driven by an older blonde woman.  She doesn’t fit the neighborhood, which is stubbornly middle class. She works in Calabasas or Los Angeles, at a job where the kind of car you drive matters. Her car payments are more than her mortgage.

I’m sure some of them have made up stories about me too. I’ve got a Subaru with bumper stickers that reflect a childish fixation on pop culture and my dogs.  Yet, storytelling passes the time until we can all reach the freeway onramp and disperse on our various ways.  When summer passes, and the new school year starts, I’ll have new commuters to observe and wonder about.

Casually Quaker

"Casually Quaker, with occasional whiffs of Catholic" is how I describe my religious views on my Facebook page, and I feel like that sums up my theological leanings pretty well. Religion is such a personal thing, and has become such a hot-button political issue of late. I rarely discuss it, and yet it's an important part of my life.
I was raised Catholic, but even as a kid, I was always distracted by anything and everything. I could never concentrate on the Mass.  The stained glass windows, the sniffles of the lady in front of me, the crying baby. The droning lectors and priests lulled me into a catatonic state, and I was never sure what I was supposed to be doing.  And the readings bothered me. (Really, God? You got mad at humans, so you wiped out everyone, babies and old ladies included, and just saved Noah and his sanctimonious clan?  And what did all the animals do to deserve a watery death?) There was never any silence, when I could focus on praying.  I wanted to pray, to thank God for his blessings and ask for more, but there was always someone talking or music playing.  I would get muddled and forget how many Hail Marys I'd said, but then it didn't really matter because I didn't listen to the words anyway.  I wondered if Mary got tired of hearing the same prayer repeated to her robotically, a billion times a day.  I went to a Catholic high school, so nearly all of my friends were Catholics.  Catholicism was the religion of my family, and I didn't encounter any other religions that were any better, so I stuck with it.
Until the sex abuse cases started coming to light.  Then, I lost nearly all respect for the Church, not only because of the pedophile priests, but because of the indifference of the church leaders over the suffering until the lawsuits and arrests began to make for bad press. I tried to look past the human crimes and think of only the dogma and purity of the Church, but I couldn't. Part of the Catholic belief was accepting papal infallibility, and I felt that all of the modern popes who had turned a blind eye to the abuse were deeply fallible. It became almost impossible for me to sit through Mass and not squirm every time the priest came within five feet of an alter server.  I started skipping weeks, and eventually stopped going altogether.
But I still believe in God, and wanted to be part of a community that shared my beliefs.  I tried other religions, but found that each service held the same pitfalls as the Catholic mass.  Too much talking, singing, fidgeting, and empty words from an ancient book about how we were all supposed to live our lives.  One thing that formal religions have in common is that they all have a LOT of rules, more than I can remember. So I prayed every day on my own, and slept in on Sundays.
I first encountered the Friends Society (or more commonly known as the Quakers) in Philadelphia, and again in London. The silent stillness of the meetings fit my introverted nature, and the lack of dogma and ritual helped me to focus on a sense of spirituality without distraction. It seemed like a good match, but life got hectic and I didn't pursue it.
Over the last year or so, I've been feeling like I wanted to be a part of a religious community again, and I started doing some research and reflecting.  I spent a weekend at the New Camaldoli Hermitage, trying to become enlightened about what I wanted as a spiritual life, and the Quakers kept coming to the foreground as the religion that made the most sense for my beliefs and personality.
I'm not going to preach the word about the Quaker faith.  If you're interested, there are many good sites and books about it.  I read two books by J. Brent Bill, Holy Silence: the Gift of Quaker Spirituality and Sacred Compass, both of which were insightful and helpful. The belief systems vary among different Friends groups (or meetings, as they're called) and are not easily summarized.  What appeals to me is the idea that God wants to talk to us, not through a book, or ministers, or prophets, or songs, but just one-on-one. All we have to do was be still and quiet, and listen.
I started attending Sunday (or First Day) meetings at a meetinghouse about 25 miles from where I live. The silence is hard to adjust to, at first.  I'm conscious of the noise I make when I walk, or shift in my seat. During the first thirty minutes of meeting, my mind races and bounces around.  I try to focus, but grocery lists and outside drama seep in. I use visualization to quiet my mind. I recall a time when I was sitting in a London park, on the grass, and I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun, and I felt a lovely sense of serenity. I had no thoughts or mental images beyond the feeling of warmth on my face.  I try to recall that feeling in meeting. If someone's image works their way into my mind, I imagine helping them into a rowboat, and sending them off gently downstream, out of sight.  I wish no harm for them, but I don't want them in my head.  That takes awhile, but then there's always a moment when all the imagery falls away, and my mind and heart feel open and peaceful, almost like floating.  I understand the concept of expectant waiting, a feeling of contemplation. That's when God and I talk. And so I sit until one of the elders stirs, wishes everyone good morning, and starts to shake hands, which is the signal that meeting is over.  Then there are announcements and general chatting. I never get smacked over the head with some great epiphany, but I always feel tranquil and purposeful afterwards.
Quakers believe, as most religions do, that one's religious striving doesn't end at noon on Sunday.  I try to practice the Quaker testimonies of peace, equality, community, integrity, and simplicity. When a student, colleague, or rude driver enrages me, I try to "hold them in the light," to wish them peace and grace.  It doesn't always work. but taking a breath and trying to lessen my anger or frustration does give me perspective and diffuses the rage a bit, even if I do still want to wring someone's neck.
I do attend Catholic Mass occasionally, when I'm visiting my parents. I still pray to Mary for her intercession when I'm scared, and I pray to St. Anthony when I can't find my car keys.  There's much to the religion that I like, so I don't think I'll ever denounce it forever.  And I don't know if I'll ever be a good Quaker, because as with other religions, it is only a part of who I am, and I haven't committed fully to it.  I will keep the epithet "Casually Quaker, with occasional whiffs of Catholic" and face the consequences of being a dilettante in religion, as with everything else.

It's Alive!

I haven't written anything here for months. It's gotten to the point where I think about deleting this blog altogether, because it vexes me that it sits idle. It's my Frankenstein's monster, a being I created, then abandoned. The reason I don't delete it is because I fear it will chase me around the globe and wreak revenge on me.  (Sorry. Lit nerd joke.)  In actuality, I don't delete it for the same reason people keep their dust-and-laundry-covered StairMaster in the living room. If it sits there long enough, surely I'll use it eventually out of shame, if for no other reason. But I wonder why I haven't been compelled to write for so long, and I've come up with a few theories.

Reason #1 - I have nothing to say.  I really don't. I don't have an angle, or voice, or obsession to draw on as a starting point. I'm not a mom or a wife or even a militant single. I have opinions about society and politics, but not well-developed enough to build a pundit platform. I don't stand out particularly as a teacher, and I refuse to devote a blog to the foibles and follies of my students (a petty thing to do, plus EXTREMELY detrimental to one's career.) I don't have any interests that burn within me so fiercely that I must, or can, write about them. I'm a self-centered, quirkyalone slacker/dilettante, but I'm not SO self-centered that I think people would be interested in reading my thoughts about me. So I stare at the blinking cursor, then give up.

Reason #2 - My job. As a teacher, I feel like if I have any downtime, I should be grading papers, and if I don't have any papers to grade, I need to think up some assignments to give out, so I'll have some papers to grade.  When I do have a window of legitimate free time, I devote it to reading or watching TV.  I have stacks of books I want to read and a DVR full of shows and specials to watch.  And then there's evil Netflix, which offers me even more time-wasting opportunities, right here on my laptop. It's a delicious luxury to be able to sit and turn off the teacher brain. Writing is active, and I need my passive time.

Reason #3 - Social media. Facebook has taken away my urge to write.  BFB (Before Facebook), if I had an observation or insight, I'd write about it and post it on my blog.  Now, I can jot it onto my status update and forget about it, rather than expanding on it. This is unfortunate, because there are some things I post on Facebook that have a story behind them, but there's not enough time or space to explain.
But I do often feel a burning need to be creative, and as I'm not artistic or crafty, writing is the most enjoyable option for me. So maybe Facebook can be my idea notebook.  The thought process that makes me want to share my garbled view of a fellow shopper or a cheesy story about my dogs may be parlayed into a spurt of creative writing beyond a few sentences, and will feed the blog beast and scratch my creative itch. I need to not worry about boring any readers I might have, and think of this as more of an intellectual exercise for myself.  I'll try to make a habit out of it, and set aside some time each week to string some sentences together in a cohesive form and post them here with more regularity.
But only after I watch eleven archived episodes of Doctor Who and read my September Harpers Magazine.

Breakfast

Today, I had loads of errands I needed to run, plus I wanted to take a walk around the community park. Before I got on the road to accomplish all this, I needed a hearty breakfast. I was in the mood for pancakes, so I went to a little diner off of the freeway.  It's a hole-in-the-wall place, with simple but delicious food, friendly waitresses who call everyone "Honey", vintage fruit crate labels on the wall, and a toy train the runs the perimeter of the dining room.  My favorite part is the weekday clientele.  It's a group of old men who totter in and greet each other warmly, probably every day of the week.  I'm not trying to be funny when I say that they seem deeply pleased that they've all woken up to see another day.
This morning, they were being interviewed by a freelance writer who appeared to be doing research for a book on World War II veterans.  I was stifling giggles, listening to the exchange.  The writer was trying to engage the men by complimenting them on their service to the country, and the men weren't having any of it.  Maybe they've heard it all before, or it's too painful to reminisce about, or they've jettisoned their past stories for more immediate concerns.  The writer kept addressing each one, like, "Bill, I know you were shot down over France, and Jack, I know you survived D-Day, and Joe, you were at Pearl Harbor, right?" and the old men just nodded and said, "Yeah, yeah" or started talking about something else.  At one point, the writer said "Lou, can you tell me about your recollections of the invasion of Italy?" and all Lou was interested in was the bill and who ordered cream cheese, because they owed 50 cents more.  I felt sorry for the writer. It's going to take a lot more breakfasts with these guys to get the stories he wants.  I hope he does, though.  It's a fascinating cross-section of history sitting at that diner table.

Sports (Yawn..)

I went to the beach this morning with my dogs.  While I was watching them frolic in the waves, I started chatting with a guy who was surf fishing. He was nice looking, friendly, complimented my dogs. A pleasant guy, all around.  I think he was flirting a little.  I can't be sure because it happens so rarely and I've always been embarrassingly dim in recognizing anyone's interest in me.  I didn't stay long enough to discover more, because I was hungry and my initial scan of him indicated that we had little in common, anyway. He had a Dodgers baseball cap, San Francisco 49ers t-shirt, and a Lakers duffle bag. He was a sports fan.  Deal-breaker.
I couldn't possibly care less about sports.  When people start talking about anything related to athletics, my eyes glaze over and a pleasant song starts playing in my head. I used to PRETEND I liked sports to make myself more desirable to men. It seemed important to them, and I was trying to adapt. I came to realize that I wasn't adapting, I was posturing, and it made me tired and resentful.  Why, oh why, I would wonder, couldn't he read my mind and know that even though I SAID I loved his sports team and would like nothing more than to spend a Sunday watching his favorite sports team play another sports team, what I REALLY wanted to be doing was walking through a museum, or eating lunch on a bistro patio.  It was a lovely, liberating moment when I decided that I would never again feign interest in a topic or activity, in order to be more romantically appealing. I'm too old and cranky.
I don't mind going to live sporting events, because it's a nice time with friends and there's always a great energy and sense of civic pride. Plus there's stadium food and beer in big cups.  I watch the sport being played, and I cheer for the home team, but I could take it or leave it as a regular activity.
The only sport I genuinely enjoy is bobsledding, and obviously, I don't get to see much of it, except during the Winter Olympics. I can't say why I like it, except that it's fast and exciting. But I don't have a favorite bobsledder, and it's not like I follow bobsledding on ESPN. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't care for luge, because (to paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld) it looks like the luger is participating against his will, that he was just strapped to a sled and sent screaming down an icy track. It also bothers me that they have to keep their head up like they do, in order to steer. It hurts my neck to watch the luge.
Don't even get me STARTED on NASCAR.
I also enjoy the World Cup, again not for the sport, but for the sense of global unity.  I'm an Anglophile, and I think it's adorable how worked up the Brits get over their game.  A nice thing about soccer is that I can turn on a match on TV, take a nap, wake up an hour later, and not have missed anything except sixty minutes of guys running around. I'm shocked to see if there's any kind of score. It's comforting in a way.
So, I chose not to waste any more of the fisherman's time today.  Let him move on a girl who will look cute in his oversize football jersey and who will coo and croon over bowls and balls and those stick-things that jocks use to hit stuff with.  I'm happy to be on my couch, watching Cary Grant movies.

Snail Tale

With the time change, it is now dark when I walk my dogs in the morning. Darkness makes me inordinately lethargic, and I tend to fixate on one thing to wake my brain up, until coffee takes over. This morning, I walked my dogs along our usual path, and they sniffed their usual spots. At one stop, as I stared down at the sidewalk, I noticed a snail slime path coming from the left. The snail had evidently slimed its way across the sidewalk until it was almost an inch from the right side, then did a U-turn, and returned to the grass on the left. It's a wide sidewalk, so the creature's round trip was about six feet. It must have taken all night. Why did it turn around? What goes on in a snail's brain? How far can they see? Maybe it got frustrated or nervous, and turned around. 

I know nothing about snails, except that I find them rather charming, in a Beatrix Potter, idealized sort of way. I find slugs repulsive, but slap a cute curly little shell on it, and I want to name it and keep it as a pet.

I probably wouldn't have even noticed this snail trail today except for the fact that yesterday, I noticed about six or seven snails in the same spot, all moving in the same direction, left to right. A herd of snails. A flock of snails. A stampede of snails, all headed doggedly (as if a snail can be any other way) towards the same place. It was actually kind of a funny sight, as if they were in a race. So this morning, I wondered if there was a connection between the two molluscan events? Maybe they were a pride of snails who migrated to the other side of the sidewalk, for reasons known only to them. Maybe the snail from today was a pariah, and was left behind on purpose. As it approached the new settlement, the other snails sent out a wave-off, or a warning shot over the bow.

Or maybe it was a devoted parent, who was unwilling to leave a snaillette? Maybe it forgot something, and had to return to retrieve it? Perhaps it suddenly and capriciously chose the life of a snail hermit? I'll never know.
These are the kind of things that skitter through my mind in the morning. I may need to up my caffeine intake.

Goodbye to Books

I cleaned off a bookshelf today. This is a big deal, because I don’t like to clean anything, but the shelves had a coat of dust that was depressing.  I have close to 3000 books, all told, shoved onto bookshelves, piled up on the floor.  There’s not a flat surface anywhere in my home outside of the kitchen and bathroom that doesn’t hold books.

It took me most of the day just to clean off this one bookcase, because as I dusted the books, I looked through each one. I’ve been thinking of purging my collection of books that hold no value, either sentimental, financial, or intellectual, but I find it hard to part with even a bad book. They seem so precious now. As I looked through each one, I became sad. I never thought it was possible that I would live in an age where bookstores are dying off, like haberdasheries or typewriter stores. But it’s a fact.  Independents and chain stores alike are closing shop. It’s a combination of people becoming more stupid and people becoming more techno-savvy.
 
The first question my students ask when we start a novel is, “Is there a movie of this?” They don’t even look at the cover and they whine when I start to tell them about the author and the historical context. They complain about having to read so much, even though we only read five to six books a year. They express genuine puzzlement when asked any question that can’t be answered with a direct quote in front of them.  It seems every year, I have fewer and fewer students who can envision beyond the page, who can analyze a character like Nick Carraway or Huck Finn or Scout Finch by their words, rather than being hit over the head with an explanation from me or the author. It’s not just my students; there’s evidence of this phenomena everywhere. As a race, we seem to be losing our inner eye. We’re becoming at once less imaginative and more demanding and jaded about visual wizardry. Look at the movies that are massive hits now.  Huge, over-the-top, 3-D effects with minimal stories and tepid characters. Lovely language doesn’t matter anymore.

I don’t know if this slide in intelligence is connected to the rise in our technological prowess.  Everything is available to us at our fingertips. If I admit in a class discussion that I don’t know a fact, a dozen students will reach for their phones to look it up. A few days ago, I asked my sophomores to look up ten words in the dictionary. In each class, at least three or four students admitted that they didn’t know how to find a word in a traditional book dictionary.  They rely on spell check and online dictionaries in which they type in the word, and the definition appears. But finding something in alphabetical order flummoxed them. It was so strange and unexpected, but then I remembered that these kids have never lived without computers around them everywhere.  They have never known a time when there weren’t cellphones and the internet in every household. I wonder if there’s even any point in explaining how to use a library to find information for a research paper, because libraries as brick and mortar entities are also dying out.  Through our smart phones, we can hold a library, museum, or instruction manual in our hand, 

Let me make one thing clear: I’m not casting the first stone, because I am certainly deeply entrenched in the grid. I’d lose a tooth before I’d give up my iPhone, and I switch on my laptop automatically when I get home from school. I’m sure I’ll cave one day and buy an e-reader, but I’m going to hold out as long as possible. Libraries and bookstores are dying and I don’t want to be a party to their demise until I have no choice. Nothing makes me happier than walking into a bookstore, and looking at each section, picking up books and skimming the first few pages, chatting with the store owner or clerk. Book people are like any group of fanatics: we have our own vernacular, our snobberies, our causes. We’ll champion long dead authors and wrestle to the floor over the meaning of a Shakespearean line. 

I used have a circuit of new and used bookstores that I would frequent on a Saturday. Acres of Books in Long Beach, Duttons in Brentwood, Borders in Sherman Oaks, Book Soup on Sunset, Iliad in North Hollywood. I’m sure the first three are closed now, and the other two are struggling. I worked at a bookstore during the summers, and would spend most of my paycheck taking advantage of my employee discount. When I visit a city or place I’ve never been before, the first thing I look for is a bookstore. The first section of a mall or thrift shop I go to is where the books are.  It was my dream for years to own a little bookstore, but I know that is a lost cause.  Yet, I will always have books around me, and I’ll continue to buy them, as long as I have money. It’s an illness and a compulsion, but I’m okay with it. As books become less important in society, I’ll make it my private mission to keep and care for them, like some little fairy tale troll under a bridge, mumbling over the shiny rocks she’s collected. It’s a worrying obsession, but it’s cheaper than Faberge eggs, and saner than teddy bears or pet cats.

My Hermit Weekend

A while back, I read this quote by Mark Twain: “Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."  This struck a chord with me, and my first instinct was to hurl myself into insurmountable credit card debt by booking trips and enrolling in classes.  I talked myself out of it, because in twenty years, I’ll regret that I didn’t show more financial prudence and restraint. Mark Twain probably didn’t have car payments to make when he wrote that. But it did make me think about doing smaller things that I usually hesitate to try due to some rationalization, valid or not.
One thing I’ve thought about doing was a silent retreat. I liked the idea of being completely alone in silence, but I has afraid that I’d be instantly bored or go crazy and develop alternate personalities, just for the company. As a three-day weekend approached, I decided to sail away from the safe harbor and give the retreat a try.  I found the New Camaldoli Hermitage online, after having read a little blurb about it in Sunset magazine.  The hermitage is in Big Sur (one of the most beautiful areas I’ve ever seen,) and the price was right: $80 a night for my own little silent cell, with a view of the ocean and three meals a day. Sounded heavenly. I live alone, so I could do a silent retreat here, but there are my dogs to tend to, and my MacBook, and WiFi, and a thousand distractions.  I wanted to be completely cut off from everything. I’m also a total freak about silence, especially at night. I’ve moved out of perfectly good apartments because of noisy nocturnal neighbors.  It’s one big reason I won’t buy a house, because I’m afraid I’ll move in and find out that I have clog dancers living upstairs or heavy metal enthusiasts next door, and I’ll have to put the house back on the market before I’ve unpacked.
The route to the monastery is up Highway 1, which runs along the coastline. Several times, I pulled over to admire and photograph a view.  I stopped for about an hour at the San Simeon Elephant Seal sanctuary and watched elephant seals sleep, swim, and sun themselves.  They went on their elephant seal way, completely oblivious to the line of people behind them taking photos and videos.
The Pacific Coast Highway through Monterey is a white knuckle ride.  Its windy, blind turns and distracting views are at once relaxing and nerve-wracking. I would be nervous about driving it at night or after a rainstorm.  Still, there’s nothing like California coastline to remind me why I love this state.
The hermitage is in Lucia, up a windy, narrow driveway which is two way, although there are long stretches where my car took up the entire lane. I prayed that there were no oncoming cars, and immediately started to stress about leaving on Sunday because of the drop offs and soft shoulders. I put it out of mind, and went into the bookshop to check in. I was greeted warmly by a friendly monk who told me about meals and nice walks around the site. I try to access my Catholic school etiquette to recall if he was to be addressed as Father or Brother. I couldn’t recall, so just resorted to repeating “Great. Sounds good.” He told me I’d be staying in a “cozy” hermitage called Kairos.
No kidding. Kairos was a small trailer with a kitchen and bathroom and single bed. I was wary as I pulled up to it, but as soon as I settled in, I did appreciate its coziness. It was surrounded by trees and bushes, with a view of the ocean from the porch. 
There was no cell phone service, which had seemed appealing to me when I made the reservation, but now made me edgy.  I’m always a little nervous when I’m off the grid. I always assume someone is trying to reach me for some catastrophic reason.
The silence was very profound.  I kept whispering to myself in a distracted way, and wondered if that was the first sign of schizophrenia. I became keenly aware of how I always have some kind of noise on in my house, whether it’s music, the TV, or just a fan.  The only sound I heard as I sat on my porch was chirping birds and slight rustling in the foliage.
I walked around the grounds and took some photos.  I headed down the long drive towards the PCH.  There are some beautiful vistas, so I kept walking, almost to the end. I then realized that I now had to walk over a mile back uphill. Curses. I huffed and puffed my way up, stopping frequently to catch my breath under the guise of taking more photos.  Maybe one thing God wants me to learn from this is that I need to exercise more.
Other retreatants walked by, and it was very difficult not to smile and say hello. I had to clamp my lips together. Some people ignored me completely, others smiled and nodded. 
At 5:30, I went up to the kitchen with my dinner pails to get dinner. It’s left out in the retreat house kitchen, for the retreatants to come pick up at their leisure.   Bread, soup, and breakfast items are available 24 hours a day. Lunch, the main meal, is served between 12:30 and 1:00, and all meals taken back to your hermitage, to be eaten in solitude. As I walked in to get dinner, a man was there, getting his meal, and again I struggled with not making chit-chat to fill the silence. I looked at the books on the shelf of the small lending library as he finished up.  He left, and I dished out my own salad and soup. I almost spilled the tureen of soup as I pulled it out of the fridge. I stood in frozen horror for a moment, wondering how I could rectify that if I had actually done it. Could I go find a monk and offer to make more? Could I just leave it and run? Luckily, I wrangled it back into the fridge, and headed back to my hermitage. I left my meal there, grabbed my camera, and ran up to the main drive again to watch the sunset. It was spectacular.  The colors against the wide expanse of water were sublime and constantly changing.
In the dusk, I headed back and ate dinner on my porch, slurping my soup because no one was around, and I like doing it. After dinner, I washed all of my dishes and made my bed up. It was 7:15 and I wonder if it’s too early to go to bed, despite the fact that I wasn’t the tiniest bit sleepy.  I fought the urge to clean out my purse or play Angry Birds on my iPhone. I thought about eating all of the snacks I brought, despite being full from the delicious soup and salad. Recalling that I have iTunes on my computer, I started to cue it up when I stop myself. I came here to revel in silence, and at least for the first night, I was going to try.
I went outside on my little patio to look at the stars. The night was clear and there was almost no light pollution, yet it was unnerving how dark and quiet it was. I heard rustling in the bushes nearby, and instantly my Woody Allen instincts kicked in. I was sure it’s a machete-wielding lunatic.  I grabbed a flashlight and shone it towards what I’m sure was my oncoming violent end. It’s a squirrel, scared out of its little wits by my beam of light.
I went back inside. I wondered how my dogs are doing. I broke down and watch a clip from “The Ricky Gervais Show” that I have stored on iTunes, and that made me less lonely.
I read until I got sleepy and I was proud that I lasted until 9:30.  Once I turned off my light, it was pitch black.  It’s discombobulating to sleep in utter darkness and silence.  I slept well, but my dreams were very vivid and it was hard to shake them when I woke up. The dreams weren’t particularly insightful. In one dream, I showed Leonardo DiCaprio my new purse. Without a word, he took it and walked around with it for a few minutes, then threw it in a trash can and walked away.  I don’t think there was any kind of message in that, and I laid awake, thinking about my new purse. I drifted off, but was woken up suddenly by an owl hooting outside of my door.  The sound was sad, then comforting, then annoying, then comforting again. When I was on the verge of throwing a shoe at the door, the owl flew off.
In the morning, I woke up right before dawn, and looked out my window. The ocean is beautiful, lavender and azure, and dead still.  I thought about getting up and taking pictures, but my bed was warm and comfy.  I decided to shoot for the next morning.
I got up a couple hours later, took a quick walk, snapped some pictures of some birds, and then went to grab a yogurt and some sugar from the retreat house kitchen. I brought my own tea and some zucchini bread, so I headed back to my hermitage and made breakfast.  On the way back, I ran smack into a herd of deer, grazing by my door.  I watched them and waited for them to amble on, but they were in no hurry. Clearly they’re used to humans, but I was hungry, so I walked straight up between them.  I made breakfast and ate it on my patio.  I washed the dishes and made my bed. It was 8:15.
I tried to go on the internet. My AirPort picked up WiFi signals called MonksEast and Monks South, but they were password protected. Those rascals. Just as well. I reminded myself again that I came here for the cloister experience.
I decided to take another walk. The room instructions request that retreatants don’t walk along dirt roads, because of poison oak and “to maintain the cloister of the monks”. But I had already explored all of the approved routes, so I pledged to avert my eyes from any monks I encounter and watch where I step, and I set off down the dirt road that ran past my place. I was rewarded with another spectacular view of the ocean and the Monterey coast.  I found a bench and sat for a long time, soaking in the sun and silence.
I came back, read for a little bit, then decided to go up to the gift shop and look around. The cloistered monks spend their day in prayer and reflection, but clearly they have some free time as well, because the gift shop stocks some of their art, along with books, jewelry, and religious knic-knacs.  The only people in the shop were a monk and a woman who must have been their secretary. She was prattling on about a coworker, and it was such a sharp contrast to the silence of the past day. The monk was listening intently, occasionally trying to interject but was ignored by the woman. It reminded me of the Seinfeld episode, when Kramer takes a vow of silence until Kathy Griffin’s character makes him cave.  “You got to shut up!” he bursts out. “You talk too much.” I wonder if the monk was thinking the same thing, or if he enjoyed hearing conversation, no matter what the subject.
I bought a St. Francis of Assisi statue and a coffee mug. I wanted to look through the books, but I couldn’t listen to the woman any longer. As I get older, I have less and less patience with idle chatter. It bores me and grates on my nerves.  The monk seemed a little relieved to come ring me up and escape the barrage of nattering.
The lunch bell rang at 12:30. I grabbed my dinner pail and walked up to the kitchen.  Lunch is all vegetarian and served buffet style. There were two men in the kitchen when I walk in, whispering to each other. They look guilty when they spotted me, like they’d broken the silence rule and I was there to bust them.  I smiled, said nothing, and started to load up my plates. Lunch was delicious; rice and veggies, artichokes in a cream sauce, roasted potatoes, vegetable lasagna. I took a little of everything, and headed back to Kairos.
I looked up the word Kairos and learned that it’s a Greek word that means an opportunity, a propitious moment for decision or action. It would be a perfect place to do some serious thinking. I don’t know if I’m here seeking any insight. I’m open to God nudging me in the right direction, if I’m messing up. I don’t think I am, though. Is that supreme arrogance? Maybe. I sometimes wonder if I should be a teacher. It tires me. But I think work tires me in general, because I’m lazy. Well, not lazy, just unindustrious. When I have a day off, I do get out and do leisure things, but they’re things that I enjoy doing, not that I have to do. If I could get paid for going out to lunch, going to museums, reading, napping, playing on the internet, and sitting in the park with my dogs, I’d be delighted to go to work every day. I feel like I’ve made the right life choices. If God disagrees, I’m open for discussion. But it’s going to take more than some psalms to get me into the negotiations.
After lunch, I slipped into the church to look around. It’s beautiful and simple. It reminds me of a Quaker meetinghouse, with rows of chairs facing each other and no decoration. There’s a simple altar and a small crucifix suspended from the ceiling.  I like that. I get squeamish about churches with a huge, bleeding Jesus staring tragically down at the churchgoers.  I get what He went through and I’m sorry He had to do it; I don’t need to be distracted by a bloody, torn corpse. I sat for a few minutes, but as what always happens when I’m in a church, I get antsy to get outside. I said a quick prayer and left.
I got my evening meal, more artfully this time. No near spills, and I don’t forget anything. After stowing my meal in my kitchen, I went to watch the sunset.  Again, beautiful.  I began to stress about the ride home the next day. Windy roads; Sunday traffic. There’s no way around going home, so I put it out of mind and went back to eat dinner. The meal was carrot and rice soup, and salad. I really, really LIKE soup and salad, and I wondered why I don’t eat more like this at home.
Decided to give looking at the stars another try.  Once more, it was awe-inspiring, then that freakin’ owl started up again, and suddenly I felt very sad. I started thinking about physicist Brian Greene on the Colbert Report, explaining how our universe might just be one of many, and Stephen bellowing, “This has to stop! I can’t feel any more insignificant than I already do!” I get that. It’s times like these that I understand that I’m a tiny person on a tiny planet in a tiny galaxy of what might be a tiny universe. I crawled into bed and read until I got sleepy.
I’m jarred awake in the middle of the night by something walking on the roof. It sounded big. I mean, human big.  How could someone get up there, and more importantly, why? My heart pounded and I fished my pepper spray out of my purse,  Whatever it was leapt off (or FLEW off, maybe? My mind filled with swirling, supernatural images) and I drifted back into an uneasy sleep. That blasted curvy driveway wheedled into my thoughts again.  Let it go, let it go. What will be, will be.
Woke up to another beautiful dawn.  Packed up, cleaned up the hermitage (per the request of the monks. I didn’t mind. They kept me, fed me and left me alone for 48 hours. It was the least I could do.)
Packed up the car, and headed down the drive, praying and watching with one eye for any oncoming vehicles and the other on where I could pull off if need be.  I met no one, and heaved a sigh of relief until I remembered the 20 plus miles of twisting highway that I still had in front of me. I’m not a nervous driver unless I let my imagination run wild. I squelched it and plowed on. 
It was an uneventful ride home, with the scenery that I love best in the world.  I enjoyed my time at the hermitage very much, and I can see the allure of such a simple life. On the drive, I thought that I could live a cloistered life very easily. If I had my dogs.  And my books. And my computer and digital cable and my camera and my car, because you HAVE to have a car, right? Ok, so maybe the monastic life isn’t for me, except the occasional weekend.  But I may be able to inject a more simple aesthetics into my everyday life, and be my own brand of monk.

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!

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.

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.

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.

New Camera

Ventura Harbor in the morning
Originally uploaded by WhizzoChocs

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.    

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!!!

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.