Useless Tests are Useless

But fun, though...





I am also a 70's Geek and 60% militant feminist. Isn't that comforting.

Why in the world do we derive such pleasure from this kind of diversion? For some reason, useless tests found online or in magazines or circulated through countless rounds of email capture our attention and call us to their black hole of wasted time. Do I really need to know what fruit I would be? Into which breed of dog I will be reincarnated? Whether or not I qualify as expert, adequate or novice for identifying scenes from Japanese horror movies? Yeah....

Always a Bridesmaid

My neighbor had a small gathering last night and I noticed the Noah's Ark arrangement right away. Everyone by two's. Paired with a signficant other. Looking through my window, I glimpsed smiles, discreet kisses, hands being held - a peaceful, happy time. Although I am well aware that not all days are as such for couples, the vision stayed with me throughout the night and prompted the question - Why am I not loved?

I don't mean by friends, I mean by men. I am probably one of the most-liked women that my male friends know. That has been the pattern of my life. I am viewed as a wonderful friend, valuable confidant, enjoyable conversation partner, tag-team mischief-maker...I am the person they can count on for a laugh, for an opportunity to tell an off-color joke without giving offense, for a true opportunity to be themselves. None of the posturing that they evince with male companions and none of the cautious posing they assume with potential dates or current significants. I fall into a grey zone that seems to be rare in their lives - the person with whom they can drop all pretense and truly indulge in their real identities.

Men seek me out when they are troubled. They feel comfortable talking to me about the crises in their lives and, surprisingly often, shed tears in my company. They seek me out when bubbling with excitement over a new purchase, a new female in their sights, a beneficial situation that has come before them...they come to me for advice about the opposite (for them) sex and for the female perspective on issues that manifest in their lives. They actively converse with me - they talk with me, not at me and honestly appear to enjoy the experience. They ask me knowledge-based questions - none of the machismo-based reluctance to admit a gap in their cranial computer files...

Men value me as a friend. And I understand why. I am not a feminine woman. Oh, I can pretty myself up for the occasion and do conduct myself in public in ladylike fashion. However, I detest the trappings of "woman." I do not play the games characteristic of many females - I am very open, plain, honest and unvarnished in my approach to life and those in my life. I do not hide my intelligence or areas of knowledge. Playing the dumb blonde is not a game that I find worthy of a self-respecting individual. I am honest - I do not ego-pamper for its own sake, nor belittle for amusement; my compliments are sincere and my criticism is as sincere. I don't mind getting dirty, wet, sweaty, greasy...I have never refused an opportunity for fun just because it involved mussing my hair. I am always anxious to try new things, even if they are not the "smartest" plan in the known universe. I am outspoken - my opinion does not have to be dragged from my lips. I do not like chick-flicks or Oprah-Club books. I have oddities to my personality, such as my Tiki collection and major caffeine addiction. My sense of humor ranges from dry to bizzare to flammably offensive. I know technology and am not afraid to use it. I own a big TV. A really big TV.

Yet I go home alone. When attending a gathering, I often find myself conversing with groups of men for extended periods. We laugh, chat and have a wonderful time. But, at evening's end, I go home alone. They leave with their wifes/girlfriends or some other female that has captured their attention during the evening. There is something about me that does not inspire that attraction that prompts men to jump the fencepost from friend to "friendly." In fact, I am often the one sought out to help plan the strategy for working into the good graces of a desired date. Men do not look at me and see a potential girlfriend or wife. My profile simply does not match the image in their minds of the woman that should be at their side. I have been told time and time again "I wish my girlfriend/wife/all women were more like you." But that is laughable. If they were more like me, they wouldn't be in your life at all...

I have pondered this for many years. Not to say that I have been without male companionship since birth, but my relationships have not been successful. Never ending with a firestorm, more of a drizzle. And, but for one instance, at the instigation of the man, not me. I am left. That becomes hard to take. When you are repeatedly left behind, it is hard not to internalize the concept that you are flawed in this area. That there is something wrong with you in the zone of womanliness. The funny thing is that the males that leave often strive to remain friends! They want me out of their romantic lives, but not out of their personal lives altogether. It is rather like they are picking me up and placing me in a different position on their chessboard. No longer the Queen, now a Bishop. I wonder, now, if I have ever been looked at by a man with love in his eyes...

I would like to be loved. I would like to inspire that feeling in someone, to share something special with another person. To have part of a person set aside just for me. Is that selfish? Perhaps it is. Perhaps I should be content with my lot in life. I actually have more convivial contact with men than do most of their wives and girlfriends. I am valued, well-liked, and, importantly, well-respected. Few women can claim this. But I am not loved. Guess you can't have it all...

Color My World

Color preference is such a matter of personal taste that you really can never compare or judge color choices made by others. What I find garish, others find gorgeous…my color tendencies would bring tears to the eyes of some (some in delight, others in disgust). Color has been on my mind lately as I look around my abode and consider the oncoming warmer days…

During winter, I have no interest in either decorating or wearing clothes with any flair. My only concerns revolve around staying warm. I care not the state of my wardrobe, as long as it covers me head to toe in multiple, insulating layers. My home’s appearance interests me none, save the aspects that impact heat retention. Decoration and modification are not activities of winter. The wearing of expressive garments is not my cold-weather habit. These aspects of my life spring forth only when the temperatures climb and the days lengthen. We are finally there.

Color has returned to my attention. I look around my home and begin to notice objects in shops, online or on the sides of the road that would coordinate nicely with my décor. I think about minor adjustments to my current decorating scheme to accommodate new objets d’artes So, I turn my thoughts and reflections to the arena of color, for this seems to be the driving factor in my decoration purchases.

Although I find form and texture to be very important, color is generally the deciding criterion for a new home décor purchase. Artists hate this attitude, but color is the feature of a painting to which I am first attracted, it is the visual blast of shades in a photograph or image draw my eye. Secondarily will I examine the subject of the piece. No, I am not an art snob. Does the color pallette please me? Yes? – here’s my credit card. Right now, I am waiting a return email from a gallery concerning a piece that I viewed on their website. What drew my eye – the colors of the piece. Orange-red, green, lavender and clear glass formed into a Totem. Yes, I like the lines – clean and simple. Yes, I appreciate the texture of the glass and stone. But, the color is what caused my fingers to email the gallery inquiring about price and availability. If the piece were in shades of blues, say, I would never have given it a second look…

But, I cannot set in stone a pallette of colors that I universally love beyond all others. I do have favorites, but I am known to pass over these in favor of others in certain circumstances. There is, I guess, certain unconscious criteria that I use to assign acceptable color to a given object or form. Only those colors matching my acceptable list will be tolerated on the object if I am to add it to my home. And, that pallette is dynamic. For some things, a wash of colors from the deep are the right fit. Rich and vibrant navy, violet, kelp green…the colors of the ocean depths. For other things, the brights of a summer’s day are what are required – sunny yellow, fiery orange, plump pinks and bright blues. Some objects seem to beg for the comforting shades of autumn…robust golds, princely browns and radiant reds…

As a rule, my home is plentiful in Earth tones. Those are the ones to which I normally gravitate. I wear these colors, although they do not flatter my skin and I tend towards these in the jewelry that I buy. Citrines, spinels, peridot…however, some objects and rooms have called for different shades. My guest room is festooned with blue, yellow, white, and splashes of pink and orange in the various flower prints adorning the walls. A sharp contrast to my bedroom, which is rich in deep orange, green, black and brown. The bathroom is lighter tones of the Earth and the kitchen is bright shades of the world. The living room is a pleasing combination. The colors are primarily dark, but the rainbow is represented – burgundy, blue, green, gold, brown, orange…silhouetted against walls of pure cream. Actually contrast dominates the walls in that room – I have in that room no “pictures.” My wall decoration is a body of dark forms chosen first for the color contrast with the walls and secondarily for their forms.

My one room without color character is my third-floor bedroom. Actually that room has no personality at this point in time. I made sure that the rooms in which I would spend my time and my guests would see were decorated. I have not yet decided what will be the function of that room. It will house guests, if I have more than my “guest room” will sleep, but it should multitask. A craft room? A room devoted to Tiki? A library? An office? Until I know its form, I cannot know its color. It is a devilment. I have no incentive to buy one thing for that room; to provide any decoration…until it has a personality, I cannot dress it.

Color is on my mind today. The sun is shining and the colors of nature are more noticeable than they have been in recent days. The grey lenses have been lifted and the alien sunshine is again exerting its mind control, outdoing the Crayola company for presenting us with tantalizing color. Today, I think about my walls, my curtains, my clothing, my dinnerware, my silk plants, my knicks and knacks and reflect on their colors. Is it time to shake up the bag? Rotate palettes between rooms. Add a splash of bright yellow to my bedroom…anchor the guest room colors with some grounding black…a small bit of sparkling silver set upon the mantle…Color is on my mind today. Perhaps it is time to flash some green and refresh the tattoos of my living space.

Rocks

I love rocks. It is a love I have kept and nurtured from childhood. Big ones, small ones, all colors and forms. I love them and find them to be beautiful. The strange thing is that I can’t name a single one to type and hated my college geology courses. I have no scientific interest in rocks. The love is purely personal.

From early in my development I could be found wandering away on my hands and knees following a stony path. Rocks carefully examined and sorted into “keepers” and “non-keepers.” If my parents lost sight of me, following a stony trail would inevitably lead to my recapture. I had little interest in swimming when we visited a crystal clear creek near my grandmother’s home in Oklahoma. I would sit motionless examining the rocky bottom, systematically picking up one rock after another for inspection. My movements so fluid and deliberate that I would soon be surrounded by populations of fish, no longer startled by the intruder in their realm.

One of the few gifts for which I ever begged was a rock polisher. I never asked for a doll or a “toy.” I usually wanted books and the like, but never with the overwhelming urgency common to children. My rock polisher was an exception. I wanted it passionately. My parents were used to my unusual ways, but were still not thrilled by my request. Rock polishers are noisy, require replenishment of consumables (grit), can be messy to empty and manage, etc. I didn’t care – I lobbied continuously and quite persuasively for my heart’s desire and was finally rewarded on glorious birthday. And, unlike most children’s passionate desires, mine did not get forgotten and neglected within 3 days. My rock polisher was in continuous use until the motor finally died of old age.

It was only in this last move that I did not cart with me bags and boxes of rocks. It is one of my regular souvenirs of any travel. Even a walk in the park will likely find me with pockets bulging with rocks by day’s end. Each one carefully chosen to remind me of my day’s adventures. A longer trip nearly necessitates the packing of an extra tote for my geological remembrances. My trip to Ireland netted me so many pieces of the Old Sod that I could have started my own Irish Island on my side of the Atlantic.

What is it about rocks that draws me so tightly? Why do I cherish them so dearly? It is not always the “prettiest” that call to me, either. An unusual form, a unique texture, a pleasing pattern, a luster or translucency, an amagam of several types into one harmonious union…I cannot say. But, I am selective. Not all rocks meet my standards. This means, of course, that I must take time to analyze, study, feel, probe, imagine, dream a bit over the candidates before I decide which will pass muster. Only some will receive passage into my pack or pocket. The worst trick played on me by my father involved bags of rocks. It was a rare occasion that my father was required to watch me without my mother. When this would happen, he would stop by a hardware store or pet shop and get a bag of rocks. This would ensure many hours of uninterrupted peace for him, while I celebrated my lithospheric love affair.

I think this is one of the reasons that I love the Southwest. There are so many darn nice rocks. They are big and bold and colorful. It is overwhelming to me when I am out that way. And, pictures just never give full justice to the beauty of the formations. I don’t care what quality of camera one owns, there is something about rocks that defies the lens. Perhaps it is the lack of feel. A picture does not lie in your hand so that you can gauge its temperature, indulge in its heft or delight in its lightness, feel its ridges, caress the smooth surfaces…Perhaps it is the lack of sound. No photograph can convey the sound of the wind along a rocky cliff, the notes produced when you tap a rock against its brethren, the sound of the grass rushing around a lone stone…Images cannot be used for an impromptu Moh’s test, to build a castle, to stand in for space aliens and their craft – Images are poor playthings.

Rocks are a joy to me. I love them and will manifest my love for them at every opportunity. Ahh…to lay again in a field with a cold smooth stone balanced on the tip of my nose…to use shiny stones to secretly communicate with co-conspirators…to create magical jewelry from rocks of power and mystery…too long have I been away from my precious rocks. Time again for an expedition. Perhaps time, also, for a new rock polisher.

Bliggle!

I believe that using foul language in many situations to be utterly inappropriate. In a classroon, at a public-service job, in a family-friendly website...such situations are simply not places for swearing. That being said - I curse like a sailor. Not in these specific situations, but with friends, by myself - I have the mouth of a stevedore. Name it, I've said it, likely in several languages. And, used descriptive gestures as appropriate. Most would not guess this about me. I do not write this way, and with people with whom I do not have a "friend" relationship, I do not speak this way. But put me around and in the familiar - watch out.

I do not know why this is the case. I did not grow up in a house where foul language was used. My school friends were not potty-mouths. At some point, though, during college, I started to evince a greater tendency to use profanity than before. Not that it is a gratuitous thing - it is not part of my normal discourse (as it has become with many of the modern generation), but I do not censor myself when a vulgarity could emphasize my point in a conversation. I do not stop to think of a kinder word, something gentler on the listener's ears. The expletive blurts forth with unabashed glee. I find that I cannot write that way, however. When I write, these words do not even enter my brain. My writing is like a simple transcription of my inner dialogue and I find it interesting that my brain does not even think these words during this period.

Actually, I don't think in swears at all. When my brain is having its personal scizophrenic conversations, swer words are not part of the vocabulary. It is only when my mouth is engaged that these words are manifest. And, I cannot claim peer influence. I swear like a drunken pirate when I speak aloud to myself (which is distressingly often). My internal conversation is papally clean; when my mouth opens it degenerates immediately. Some nervous stimulation generated by mouth movement causes the cussin' control center to kick in to action. Out comes the 4-letter fiends against which polite society rails.

As a schoolteacher, this of course, is a dangerous situation. My mouth is engaged continuously and this keeps the vulgarity-demon ready to destroy my repuration as a cultured woman. I find, though, that another control-center - the upright schoolmarm nerve nexus - is also functional while I am in the confines of my school building and it seems to exert negative feedback on the cussin' center. The more "schoolish" the situation, the more the schoolmarm nexus governs my actions and the less the effect of the cussin' center. The less "schoolish" the situation, such as in the teacher's room, the weaker the schoolmarm influence and the greater the profanity pathway effect. It is not a conscious effort, either. I can almost feel myself shifting gears automatically as I move between locations and sceanrios within my building.

In professtional situations or when convesing on the phone with people I do not know personally, my language is most pristine. I am very polite, very cheerful and utterly clean of tongue. Step outside the door to meet friends waiting in the car and the dam breaks. Again, uncouscious in act, but observal in its reality. I must admit, though, that I do not always self-censor in the presence of small children. First off, they often frustrate me to the point where all of my more polite controls go into overload. Secondly, I do not see small children in any professional venue. They are in my house, in my car, etc. They fall into that category of "friends." I do try not to use any of the true eye-watering expletive examples, but the minor offenders will often slip through my lips.

I have a robust vocabulary. I have a solid education in both the sciences and the arts. I am well-read. I have a keen mind. And I cuss like a truck-stop trollop. I suspect that every individual has a personality anomaly. Adds color to the character. Ain't life a #@$&*% wonderful thing!

Words for Life

S - Sangfroid
C - Coexistence
I - Integrity
G - Generosity
I - Itenerant
R - Realistic
L - Liberalism
S - Sanguine

H - Honesty
U - Unvarnished
M - Manful
A - Aspirations
N - Nobility

C - Compassion
R - Responsibility
E - Equality
D - Decisiveness
O - Outspoken

A Day of Fuzz

Today is a fuzzy day. I have slept most poorly the past few nights – restless, active sleep. The kind of sleep characterized by almost physical recreation of the vivid and energetic dreams plaguing the mind. That situation does not bring rest and rejuvenation. Today, I woke at 4:00 am to my alarm clock – a behavior quite abnormal for me. I normally beat the alarm by at least an hour…

I made it to work, forgetting some papers I needed, my Prozac and my brain (I think I may have left that in the car and will check during my lunch break). Fortunately, today is movie day for my classes, and I am not required to function beyond hitting the “Play” button on the DVD player.

I do not like this scattered, untethered feeling. I am a fiend for focus. Sharply seeing, hearing and experiencing my surroundings, efficiently processing the stimuli and rapidly forming a response. Currently, I am as sharp as a squishy booger someone has wiped on the underside of the bedframe. I am not “sick,” as I am many days. I am just “not here.” An odd, vaguely inexcusable state between ill and well. Nothing is going to shake this, either. I will move through this day like a Zombie (and not the tall tantalizing cocktail) until I finally lie again in my bed to try to sleep.

On days like this, or days of illness, I hide. I avoid contact with humanity and huddle away from society. I arrived at school and, as quickly as I was able, retrieved my mail from my office mailbox. Didn’t want to walk through crowded halls and into a crowded front office. My lunch period today is without my every-other-day duty of study hall. I can stay in my cozy classroom (actually it is cold and damp today, which is adding to my off-centeredness) and avoid the sights, sounds and energies of mankind. When the final bell rings, I will make my way quickly home to shut the doors, close the curtains, lay on the couch and pull a blanket over my head and listen to the Food Channel on television. I will not answer the phone, I will not answer the door, I would have to be convinced to move in the event of a fire or nuclear disaster. My only foray from my couch will be to the refrigerator and to the bathroom. If I had a camper’s Lady J and an empty soda bottle, I could reduce my future activity by ½.

Or so I say. In truth, I will move through my day as normal, though more lethargically. I often fantasize about truly hermiting myself for a day – shriveling the size of my cave to the space of my living room and living my day as motionless as possible. But, that never comes to pass. I cannot, in memory, recall a day like that. No matter the degree of illness, the level of lethargy, the weakness of will, I always keep going. I go and go and go and go. Part of it is from necessity. As a single person, I am the only one to perform the day to day tasks that keep house and home together. Part of it though is something else. Something rather undefinable. Some days, I think my inability to truly “rest” is physically-based. I suspect some degree of hyperactivity. I actually feel better upright and in motion than I do sitting or lying down. Maybe it is the fact that sitting hurts my bony bottom. Maybe it is the amount of caffeine I consume in a given day. But I will stand and move around until my ankles swell rather than lay around and watch a favorite film.

Could it be a mental aberration? Is there some factor in me that rebels against inactivity? I also suspect this is the case. The question is why? Why am I so adamantly opposed to relaxation? When others are around, I can sometimes muster a relaxed attitude. I can sit, eat, drink, socialize, play a card game…even then, though, I am often found standing by the table around which the other sit, I am fidgeting and seat-dancing while the others enjoy the relaxing social experience. I always tend to suggest active social activities – shopping, walking, exploring, etc. I less often suggest anything involving limited motion. WHY?

Do I abhor inactivity because I equal it to laziness and I cannot tolerate laziness? Lazy people offend me utterly and I have not a kind word for them. Do I see inactivity as a sign of laziness in myself? Even when very deserved after a very hard, productive and active day? Am I worried that I am morphing into the type of individual I despise?

Do I abhor inactivity because I feel unproductive? I believe that it is part of the human condition to be productive. To do and grow each and every day. No task left undone, no skill unpracticed, no goal unreached, no knowledge unlearned. I feel that each day should be a quest to learn new things, build and develop new skills, produce and create. This, added to the day-to-day necessities of chores, work, etc. There should be a library of entries in the What I Did Today book. Is there, in me, a feeling of failure if time goes unmaximized? In San Diego, mornings were the hardest times. Nothing to do, nothing to create, nothing to produce. It was, in part, due to this that I purchased my new computer. It is very lightweight with a highly efficient built-in wireless capability. I am now prepared to carry it with me wherever I travel and have access to work and leisure activities. A tool to further my productivity, to fill unused time. But Why?

Do I abhor inactivity because it gives my subconscious the quiet it needs to be heard? Do I stay in motion so that I do not have to hear the sound of my own inner voice? I have several (not Prozac-generated). One yammers incessantly in a stream-of-consciousness diatribe. It comments on and journals my day. One is the rational brain that talks back to this yammerer to debate issues when a judgment is required. One, though, is an evil bastard. It speaks of nothing but the undone, the fears, the failures…this one tends to be drowned out by the continuous blithering of the yammerer and the yammerer only blithers in running commentary to my actions or in response to constant stimulation. Likely why I also hate silence of any form. Do I stay in motion to avoid hearing the evil bastard. To hear the list of things I am putting off doing in favor of others, to hear the examples of my failures and failings, to be reminded of unsavory deeds done by and to myself…do I move to stay positive, to stay confident, to retain my vision of myself as a good and competent person?

Who the heck knows? I sure don’t. All I know is that my teacher’s chair has yet to feel my bottom in the 9 years of my tenure, there is developing a dent in the floor adjacent to the kitchen cart on which my computer sits when I’m home. I know that I get very anxious on days where my agenda is not filled – when I have “down time.” I cannot exactly dislike this condition as it has allowed me to achieve more things in my life than a less-frenzied person. But, I cannot like this condition as it robs from me the ability to simply enjoy a quiet, peaceful, relaxing evening at home or with friends. I must begin researching this…I shall draw up a flow-chart for my action plan and begin gathering resources, sending out email inquires……………….

Color

I have been told to always purchase sunglasses having grey lenses, as grey is the only lens shade that does not distort colors. To see the world as it should be, just darker and easier on the eyes, your sunglasses should have lenses of grey. What does it mean when, then, the entire day is grey?

Today is completely veiled by a grey shroud. The rising of the sun brought only a lightening of the grey. I look around and see the range of shades that the color "grey" can display. I see no others. No red, no blue, no green...yellow is in deep hiding and orange is but a memory.

If grey lenses show the world as it should be to your eyes, when it is sunny, perhaps a grey day shows the world as it truly is without the interference of the alien sun. Maybe this is the real state of the world that we are privliged to see only when the weather grants us an ashen day. Sunlight is a foreign object that has found its way to Earth. It is by cosmic accident that our planet lies in the path of the solar radiation as it is emitted from that boiling orb. We fear the influence of aliens on Earth - who is to say that our fears are not justified? Since sunlight is generated by an as yet mostly unfathomable celestial body, how can we truly understand its impact on our small rocky piece of the galaxy?

Do colors exist in the dark? If we were to push back the alien onslaught from Sol, how would our world appear. Left to her own devices, what makeup would Mother Nature apply? Would the cardinal be so red? Would the ocean be so blue? The green of the clover - is this a product of an alien mind-control perpetrated by the energies from beyond our atmosphere? What is the real appearance of a tangerine or perfect daffodil? Is it on days like this that we see the true form of these features of our galactic home? Is it on days like this that we see the actual face of our world, unadorned by external trappings and decorations? Is it on days like this that the whole of humanity wears grey lenses?

Hygiene

Modern humans spend a great deal of time and money on products and processes for personal hygiene. Every piece of our bodies has some custom product designed to make it smell, look and feel more appealing than it does before rising. And I find this to be a large botheration.

I hate hygiene. I hate the time investment and the monetary outlay. The mechanics of readying myself to be presentable according to societal standards are silly. Showering, moisturizing, makeup, hair care, deodarizing, dental polishing...day in and day out. It seems rather a lot of work to simply prepare a single body to meet and greet the day. But, this was not always the case...

Early man had no hygiene. Lucky them. They did not wash and braid the hair; apply lotions and potions to every nook and cranny...and it worked. First, it was democratic. Everyone was in the same boat. No one had extra dollars to spend on the finest soaps and perfumes. There was no store so exclusive that any caveman was barred from entry.

More importantly, though, it allowed humans to be the way that nature intended them to be. Modern humans might think this condition to be disgusting. Dirty, sweaty, buggy...but, it accomplished many goals. First, it kept the immune system strong. The immune system needs exercise to work at full efficiency. Without exposure to anitgens, the full complement of antibodies never develops. One theory behind why we are so sickly now, is that we over-use products designed to minimize our exposure to the things that make us sick! We need to get sick periodically to forestall further illness in the future. This is especially true for children.

Also, the smell likely camoflauged humans, to some degree, from prey animals. Not that humans and animals share the same intrinsic odors, but the various mishmash of other compounds layered on the skin may have provided some natural covering to the normal human smell. They would have to be closer to the prey for the odor to be detected and closer means higher probability of a successful hunt.

Further, human smell in its natural form contains compounds that our noses are evolved to notice. Yes, pheromones. It is not all industry bogus. They do exist, but our slavish devotion to washing, deoderants, perfumes and colognes mask them. We abhor, or so we think, the natural smell of humanity, but it is this natural smell that contains the true attractive compounds. Some very old tricks for attracting members of the opposite sex is to dab bits of body secretions from scandalous areas on the neck and wrists. That is because those naughty areas are the few left from which we can readily access our natural pheromones. By converting to the hygienic religion, we have actually hampered our abilities to attract mates! Also, some theorize that pheromonic compounds had other uses in broadcasting emotional signals, health signals, etc. All lost to us.

Modern humans would say this is rubbish. We stink and are ooky in natural form and that is not acceptable. Well, this may or may not be true. Who knows what was the smell of natural humans? Our diets are so different than theirs that our body odor would be different as well. Today, we exist on the brink of toxicity and there is truth in the "smell of death." We pollute our systems with chemicals, processed foods and other nasties that likely render us more stinky than our forebears. Also, we wear layers of garments. Silly as it sounds, evaporative cooling and the actions of the weather probably kept early man's bacterial action in check. We prevent a lot of our perspiration from being removed and shield our wrinkles and folds with protective clothing. This makes for great bacteria housing developments and it is these bacteria that are responsible for most of our sweaty stinkies.

As far as health concerns, this is again silly. General hygiene does not promote good health - public hygiene promotes good health. Our overdeveloped, overpopulated cities create the hygiene-related health concerns. Health problems due to poor personal care are rather limited and, in the big picture, minor. Did early man have a shorter lifespan than ours? Likely. But, this reduced lifespan was due to factors besides hygiene. Accidents - no doctors to heal broken bones or treat wounds/infections. Minor modern problems - poor vision meant poor chances for survival, etc. Having a dirty bum was not a major cause of death for Paleolithic man.

And, we truly don't know the overall lifespan of the species of that time. We have few fossils that even approach that age and that is a ridiculously small sample size on which to base a theory. We do know, that they demonstrated compassion and enabled individuals to prolong their lives in the face of adversity. A recently-discovered 2 million year old skull was found in the Republic of Georgia that was possessed of a jaw demonstrating only one tooth at age of death. The other teeth had been lost several years PRIOR to death. As there was little in the way of soft foods available at the time, someone must have taken the time and care to ensure this individual was fed.

I hate hygiene. It channels valuable time and dollars from my day in a ritual that I must repeat over and over. I feel enslaved. I think I shall revolt. No more hygiene for me! Well, starting tomorrow...I want to try a new moisturizing shampoo this morning...

Digital Diva

I am sitting, right at this very moment, in a Borders bookstore. Using my newly-purchased Sony Vaio widescreen laptop and a recently-acquired mobile wireless account. This specific computer was chosen because it was smallish, lightweight and had built-in wireless. Also, very high-quality LCD screen and other niceties with the hard drive, processor, ports, etc. The wireless account was to allow me to extend my computing ability to favorite locales such as Borders and Starbucks - I can work or play on the machine while interacting with the population at large.

The computer was provided today with a Targus neoprene case. Ultra-lightweight and water-resistant. Room for the AC adaptor and a variety of other goodies. Already ensconced is my 512 MB USB flashdrive that is my data-transfer salvation and my newest CSS book that is giving me some ideas for redesigning a couple of my copious library of websites.

In the pocket of my battered denim jacket is my high-tech cell phone, equipped with camera and fully enabled, albeit limited, Internet access. I could, if I so desired, use Bluetooth to transfer pictures from my camera to my laptop to document my presence at this Borders.

I am at the Borders today to browse about for some new tech-oriented books and a few cooking volumes. I have already a few titles in mind from a perusal of Amazon.com and can quickly check the Borders price against the Amazon ransom. With my Amazon Prime membership, I can get anything in 2 days for free or overnight for $3.99. Just a click of a button on my new computer.

My Tungsten T3 PDA decicded to sit home today, as I didn't have an agenda to watch or contacts to make. This evening will find me transferring the contact data from the PDA to my laptop and phone anyway, so I'll have that on hand no matter the situaton.

While sitting and sipping my dark roast with 2 shots of sugarfree DaVinci caramel syrup, I may take a moment to check the online travel companies for some flight and travel ideas for summer. The arrangement for my San Diego trip were made in under 10 minutes, with e-ticket immediately arriving in my email. American Airlines allows online check-in, so I had my boarding pass printed before I hit the airport. Allowed me to simply walk to the security gate, mosey through and relax until my departing flight.

I pay all of my bills online, had my taxes e-filed and the payments deducted electronically from my bank. Much of my curriculum work is conducted online and student assignments are posted and completed online. I have a state-of-the-art television and home theater, complete with a very interactive digital cable connection. Wireless broadband internet is installed in my house, so I can move my laptops (yes, I have two) to any room and outside to work. With temps in the 60's today, my afternoon might be on my patio doing a bit of online shopping for a relative's birthday gift.

I am a self-taught, self-styled digital diva. I embrace the unembracable - the ebb and flow of bits of data across the ethereal entity of energy that binds man to machine. Electronic tonic. Almost better than Diet Coke....almost...

I Am What I Wear

I have a lot of jewelry. A LOT of jewelry. I buy jewelry regularly. Pendants, earrings, bracelets, rings, necklaces, brooches, etc. I am very democratic in my collection. There are some common themes, though, and I thought about that this morning as I donned my costume to meet the day.

I don’t buy gold. Not that I can’t afford it, I can. I have sufficient resources as a single, childless person, to buy gold jewelry. I don’t buy it or wear it because I don’t like it. I don’t particulary like the way gold looks in jewelry. Despite its value, I find gold to be somewhat showy, tacky, artificial. It doesn’t match well with the stones I like or the styles that appeal to me. I find that it doesn’t allow diamonds to demonstrate their dazzle. It is the stuff on the cover of National Geographic magazines, but less often on the body of the living as part of the dowry of the dead.

Now silver…Aahhh…silver. The color of ice made metal. Crisp, clean, none of the earthy ties in color possessed by gold. It is above the Earth. It is clouds and stars and sky. With its reflection, diamonds reach their maximum brilliance. It does not compete with stones for attention. It willingly takes a supporting role. It showcases both simple and complex forms and is very well suited for the clean lines of modernistic styles.

Silver suits well my skin. I have pale skin with pink tones. Gold competes with me, it does not work for me. Gold makes me look more pale than my norm. It calls attention to my lack of color. It ridicules my cold features. It points an accusing finger at the slivers of ice entombed in my eyes. It is the flame working to melt the ice sculpture that is my body. Silver laughs with me, not at me. Silver allows my colors to bloom like a field of wildflowers. Silver makes my eyes dance like moonlight on a frozen pond. Silver contrasts with my hair, which, ironically, is golden. My one concession to the call of the Earth’s palette would drown a piece of gold; silver alone is visible. Silver makes me come alive, gold disparages my life. Sort of a no-brainer ain’t it…

Faces of the Dead

I carry with me a plain cardboard box. It measures 14” x 8” x 6” with its lid in place. Once it carried paper destined to print very important correspondence such as meeting agendas and school lunch menus. Now, it carries photographs.

I have plain cardboard box filled, like a sarcophagus, with faces of the dead. Individuals long passed from this world who share, in some way, a connection with me. They are relatives, friends, peers and colleagues. They are motivators, comforters, allayers and naysayers…they are the sum of the humanity that have shaped my life. Many, I have never met; their photographs of that unique sepia tone that signifies their antique status. They have given to me their genes; the fundamental nucleic acids and proteins that are the blueprint for my form and follies. For some, I can place a name, for it is written on the image. Others are nameless and will remain so for eternity. The ones who might know have passed beyond themselves.

Some of the photos are of faces familiar to me. Relatives with whom I shared happy and unhappy times. Grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles. Friends and acquaintances of their generation and, unfortunately, mine who were part of the circle of camaraderie. Vignettes of the human condition fading as the years pass.

And, the occasional small face of a beloved pet. Part of the house, part of the family. The sole confidant for a solitary child.

I carry with me a plain cardboard box. It sits in the dark to allow the residents a peaceful sleep. One day, I shall have to lift them gently and move them to a more permanent home, one that will preserve them everlasting. I’m not sure if they will be happy, though. To exchange their withering paper homes for a modern, shiny disc undistinguishable from a million others…perhaps it is better sometimes to fade away than burn out…

The I's Have It

I belong to a lowcarb discussion forum, which is populated by a large number of diverse people. For the most part, I am happy to exchange my stories, experiences and information with the denizens, but lately, I have been frustrated to the point of inactivity. Upon my return on Tuesday from San Diego, I found that not only did I not really wish to post details or pictures of the trip, but I didn’t want to post anything at all.

The reason is simple – I cannot stand the “I” attitude. It is unfortunate that there are some on this forum who are examples of what one might call “attention whores.” These people are so completely swimming in their own whirlpool that they evince no interest in other forum members. A token note is made here and there, but their thoughts and words center only on one person, themselves. These people respond poorly to the posts of others and do not really contribute to the positive atmosphere of the forum. Not that they are mean, intentionally rude, abusive or malicious in any way. They are simply not capable of extending their sphere of concern beyond their own noses. They write the details of their day, the dishes they cooked, meals they ate…they provide copious information about husbands, pets and the like. But, they do not demonstrate any true collegiality with other forum members.

Now, this would be fine if they stayed in their own little world and spared the remaining forum members the trappings of their self-centeredness. However, we are not so fortunate. These individuals not only have difficulty engaging positively with others, they are also black holes of energy. If they feel the spotlight has moved so that they are not graced by its glow, they begin to jump up and down yelling “ME ME ME ME.” They are hungry for attention and want it at all costs. They describe in detail the angst of their lives and want sympathy, advice, commiseration…but give little in return. If another individual experiences a success in their lives, they are envious both of the success and the attention this individual receives from the other forum members. Their discomfort with this situation is evident in the words they scribe. A few of us have occasionally thrown a “virtual party” when an individual has a special event – birthday, reaching a goal – and the attention whores have worked quite diligently to ruin the festivities. Not only do they half-heartedly participate, they have gone so far as to try and put a halt to the festivities using pointed phrases in the party threads. This is shabby treatment of the individual being feted and the people who so care about this individual that they host a time-consuming virtual party in their honor.

The question becomes, why? Why the I? What is inside of these individuals (or lacking inside these individuals) that they cannot believe the current astronomical model that the planets orbit the sun and not their skulls? What has happened in their pasts to shape this “I”solated view of life? That the joy, support, and camaraderie of others is unimportant to them? I am actually sad for these people in that their lives must be like a basketball. Solid on the outside and empty on the inside. But, the majority of the participants are wonderful, intelligent, fun and engaging and, therefore, I continue my membership. It is they who bolster, support, share. It is for them that I remain Scigirl...

Students Fear Me

Not for the reasons that one might initially assume. As a schoolteacher, there is a natural tendency for my charges to view me with trepidation. Further, I am one scary-looking broad. Lastly, I am a potently intimidating individual. At a whopping 5’3” and 100 lbs, I can reduce an All-State Tackle to a smoldering pile of hair, teeth and eyeballs with nothing but an uplifted eyebrow.

For none of the preceding reasons do my students quake in my presence. They do it because I am better with computers than are they. For some reason, that makes them very, very nervous. The reasons for this are many, I feel. Students like to believe that they are the masters of the modern. Technology falls under this umbrella. Therefore, they should possess all knowledge and I should be a plebe. But, if you closely examine the younger generation, you find that they really don’t know that much about computer systems. They can turn them on, work with Instant Messaging, download songs, but that is really about the extent of their expertise. They can perform the basic functions necessary to accomplish these tasks (mostly communicative in nature) and this creates the façade of mastery to those for whom the basic skills are lacking. Unfortunately, this does include many of the older generation, of which I stand up to be counted. However, they truly lack any advanced abilities for computer use. They do not know the strategies to effectively navigate the Internet or evaluate its information, they do not know the ins-and-outs of browsers or productivity software. They are not knowledgeable in integrating pictures or media effectively into web-based or print publications. They just don’t know how to do much…

And their teachers have not been there to help them. Teachers are notorious for stagnation when it comes to professional development. I cannot completely brindle from the accusations hurled at academic professionals over this issue. Many teachers of preceding cohorts have walked into their classrooms, closed the doors and never let anything in or out again. When their administrators pried open the orifice and inserted a computer – the teachers felt their shrines had been desecrated by a craven idol. They wanted not to lay hands upon it, let alone delve deeply into its secrets. In other words, it became a dust-gatherer. Skills not acquired cannot be taught. Skills de-emphasized will not encourage others. Student technology skills have faltered in our school systems, not only due to insufficient resources, but also from teacher reluctance to bring technology into their curriculum.

Also, I am a woman. If I asked you to create a visual picture of a techno-geek, the person would likely be male. He could be fat or thin, likely wearing glasses, have unwashed hair, shabby clothes or clothes of preppy style rendered shabby by overwearing without washing. The image would not be a tiny, blonde, blue-eyed femme. Sci-fi nerd, techno-geek, pick the label and apply it to my forehead. I read science fiction and science fact. I consume books on technology history and commentary. I subscribe to tech-based magazines. I own and actually use manuals for coding, web design, software application, etc. This completely unsettles my students. And, my subject fields are in the life sciences. This, they could accept, but my tight integration of technology into my curriculum planning mystifies their minds. They are unbalanced, I do not fit the mold. I go against the grain. I should be scared of and inept in technology, but I have forgotten more than they will never learn. And they know this.

And, I USE technology. I don’t just pontificate about its benefits, I use it. They see me carrying my laptop every day and working on it every day. They engage in online instructional projects that I design. They are tasked to learn and produce using technology from the beginning of the school year to the end. They use Power Point, Hyperstudio, Word, Excel, Front Page and other programs regularly. They maintain blogs in conjunction with the ones I have posted for the courses. I gave them email accounts from my own web host to facilitate communication between themselves, me and the outside world (great for collaborative projects with other schools). I maintain my grades in Microsoft Excel, so I have a ready average for inquiring students (much to their consternation) I present lectures designed with multimedia software and, with my TV-Internet connection, incorporate the WWW into the classroom. I use and mandate they use scientific equipment, scientific graphing and statistics packages and computer-based simulations, in addition to the traditional “biology” lab exercises. Students see that not only do I KNOW technology and technological issues, I am comfortable using them day to day.

My students fear me. I represent that which they most dread – someone they actually acknowledge is higher in a pecking order than are they. Someone who truly knows things they do not know. Someone who has an opinion based on fact and experience and speaks words which are worth hearing. They cannot abide this. They cannot maintain the “know it all” masquerade in my presence. Not for everything, of course, but for this one area in which they assume natural pre-eminence. Technology is a feature they use to define their generation and, with me, they find that definition challenged. A 5’3”, 100-lb David to their Goliath. And, not all of my rocks are in my head…

The Common Contract

I have an appointment this afternoon with my accountant to receive my tax preparation package. I owe this year, as I did last year. Monies for which I worked long hours vanished from my accounts with the scribbling of my name on a line on a check. A little piece of paper drew away from me many opportunities, delights, fantasies, luxuries and pamperings. This year, the pattern repeats.

I stalwartly pay my fair share, though, and do not attempt to dodge the scythe. I honestly report my earnings and take only those deductions to which I am validly entitled. I know that there are grey-area ways for my tax burden to be eased, also, but I turn away from these temptations. I pay what the government fixes as my contribution to the common contract. It is my payment for admission into the free and communal society that we enjoy in modern America.

Sound rather Conservative? Actually, it is a tremendously liberal viewpoint. It is a pinko-hippie filter laid over a photograph of the American flag. By paying my taxes honestly and dutifully, I make my contribution to the well-being, safety and security of my fellow people. People whom I cannot help physically, support emotionally, rescue financially…my taxes go, in some part, to ease their burdens. And their dollars go towards easing mine. What a Kum-Ba-Yah ideal. When I struggle, the common dollar is there to provide medical care, food, fuel assistance, counseling, job training and placement, educational assistance…I am supported by the currency of the community.

Through the common contract, that socialistic strategy under which we operate, I am provided with items unobtainable with my own meager savings. I could not buy and maintain a national park for my recreation? I could not preserve a natural wonder, historical building or architectural achievement on my pay alone. An artist I admire would not find great patronage from the depth of my coffers. My love for travel could not be realized if I had to pay for the paths to take me over the horizon. Medicines that I will require through my life – some do not yet, perhaps, exist in finished form. I could not completely fund their development, testing and approval. When my safety is threatened, I could neither rally nor stipend the police, fire, or medical workers to affect my rescue. When my home is under siege, I have not an army in my basement to mobilize into action.

By common contract, we join hands and wallets in mutual support. At various times, we each have needs specific and unique. We drink from the common fountain what we need, knowing that it is our right to do so. It is also our responsibility to ensure that the fountain is replenished, tended with care, never polluted or abused. We choose individuals to service the fountain’s needs and we must demonstrate great wisdom when making selections. Further, we must continually evaluate the pool – its breadth, its depth, its stewards – to ensure that it is maintaining and continuing to maintain the needs of society. Sometimes that means harsh actions. Paying more, taking less during lean times. Meting out penalty for abuse, neglect or mismanagement. We must be ever vigilant for the health of our fountain. We must observe, evaluate, recommend, suggest, take action, vote…We toil for the good of all, we pay for the good of all…For we are a part of the all. We are the Stone Soup Society. Conservative, I don’t think so. Sounds pretty long-haired to me…

The Time of the Season

Where the only consistency is inconsistency. The transition from winter can be likened to the transition from childhood. It brings joy, growth, new experiences...but also frustrations, tumult and confusion.

Last night we had snow. The temperature of air and ground were sufficient to prevent sticking, but the fall was hard and heavy. Today, it is sunny and warm. One can predict the swings of weather through wind. Winds precede and follow frontal systems. When the winds pick up, something is coming in or moving out. It is interesting that such a dynamic and energy-filled phenomenon such as wind is the hearald of change. Form mirroring function. And the winds have been prevalent of late.

Transition times are always those that test and try. One must let go of the familiar and comfortable, whether happily or regretfully. While one hand reaches for the new, one is still clinging to the old...hard to maintain balance that way. And the hand is not used to the feel of the new. It doesn't know how to grip, how hard to sqeeze, the ways to manipulate. It takes practice to be able to successfully hold the with confidence. If only one hand is at work, the time to mastery is long and arduous. If both hands work together, success comes more quickly. Only by releasing our grip on the old can a new time begin in earnest.

Mother Nature is following the first path this year. I hope to follow the second.

I'm A Leavin'....

...on a jet plane...

On Friday, I board a plane for San Diego. I put in a day's work, drive back to the town I call home and catch the commuter bus to the airport. $30/round trip and free parking - can't beat that deal. Although I am going to spend a fun and frolic weekend with a fun and frolicking person, I am travelling alone. I fly alone, I have a nice hotel room that I alone will occupy and I return alone. And it doesn't bother me one bit.

When I was married, I traveled with my husband and I found I had the taste for getting out and seeing the country/world. Upon our divorce, I had little time or resources for travel. I had to work long and hard to simply survive; there was nothing left for luxuries like a vacation trip. But, at this time in my life, I find that I have a few extra dollars and minutes to put towards seeing the world. This is now a goal.


I began my newfound independence with a walking vacation in Ireland. A walking vacation is a trip where you hike to see the sights and experience the culture of an area. You do get shuttled to hiking spots and certain points of interest, but you can count on 5-10 miles or so each day of walking. I chose this vacation as it provided me with much-desired activity, was in a beautiful part of the world (Ireland's west coast), English was the language of choice and the price (even with single supplement) was right. No, I did not choose to save a few hundred dollars and share a room with a stranger. I knew no one, but met wonderful people in the group that formed our tour. Sometimes I stayed with them. Other times, I set out on my own. It was such a wonderful experience that I immediately booked a trip with the same company to Switzerland for the following summmer. You can view some of my what my eyes saw by perusing a few images from my trip...

That trip was not to be. I can't complain, really, in that the reason for its cancellation was the purchase of this new residence. I realized that there was no possibility of conducting all of my moving out, moving in, closing on the condo, etc. and do a European vacation in the span of 2 weeks. C'est la vie. La vie also prompted me to cancel a second vacation that I had slated for August of that year - a Caribbean cruise.
I realized, again, that time was going to be an issue. I had to unpack boxes, provision my new home, decorate and still find time to just absorb the newness of my experience before the onset of the new school year. I knew that if my home was in utter chaos when the year began, it would never be "right." The issue, though, is that both of these trips were slated to be taken alone. Just me. My choice of destinations, my choice of luxury-level, my choice of dates, my choice of choices.

Did it bother me to go abroad alone? Actually, I never gave it a second thought. I have never been one to think twice about embarking on projects or undertaking experiences. If I want to do it - I will. If it involves education, I will learn. If it involves money, I will save. If it involves time, I will commit. It is never a question of "Will I?" but rather "How Will I?" Planning, researching, booking...actually enjoyable. Flying, driving, boating...exciting. Sightseeing, learning, experiencing...enriching. The sights I see are with my own eyes; the sounds I hear are with my own ears, the conversations I have engage my own brain, tongue and lungs; the growth I experience shapes only me. Therefore, any adventure can be considered one that is taken alone, even if one is paired or grouped with fellow humans.

Ultimately, why should I shortchange myself simply because I am a single woman? My life is MINE. I am the one to whom I must answer at the end of my days. Any experience that I do not have, I will not have. To shy away from things that I know I will enjoy is the height of lunacy. If I were to wait for others for my life's enjoyment, I would not have a very enjoyable life. I would not have seen the things I have seen, participated in the festivities in which I have reveled, created things that my hands have crafted. I wanted to learn stained glass - did it. Wanted to learn to scuba dive - did it. Wanted to learn HTML and CSS - did it. Wanted to travel to Europe - did it. Wanted to buy a house - did it. Did it...Did it...Did it...

That should be on my tombstone - She Did It. Let posterity wonder, though, just what "It" was...

The Bride of Television

When I am at home, the television is on. One can count on this without fail. I wake and turn it on. I return from work and turn it on. And it stays on until I go bed. However, I am rarely in the room to actually watch or follow a program. I do not turn on the televsion for the picture or story, but for the noise.

I grew up an only child of parents who left me to my own devices for amusement. My neighborhood was not provided with abundant packs of children, so I passed many days with only myself for company. I was, and am, a very avid reader and could contentedly while away the hours with a good book. I also maintained hobbies such as stamp collecting. I did not sit and brood over my solitary fate and did not use it as an excuse for such nonsensical activities as drug or alcohol use. But, this missive is supposed to concern television; where does the boob tube fit into the picture?

The television was my pal, my buddy, the crowd, the world. It was the voices that create the connections with society. It was company, a friend, a visitor. Someone to listen to and, occasionally, speak with. It was there when I was sick, when I had things on my mind. It was there when I was working on pasting stamps into an album or the kibbutzer when I was playing solitaire. Silence amplified the sound of my solitude, television muted it. The channel did not matter, as long as voices came forth from the box on the shelf, I was satisfied.

My parents often bought me records to play on my turntable. They thought that appropriate for a child and young woman. They made sure that I had a nice radio and tape player. Mostly, these gathered dust. Music was imaginary to me. The sound of voices raised in song was pleasant, but artificial. It was not a "normal" noise. It was an intentional cacophany. Voices in conversation are the sound of the day. They make up the continuous, thunderous buzz that surrounds human encampments. Whether whispery, coarse, shrill, sweet, sexy, languid, raspy, stern...conversational voice is the voice of people wearing their casual clothes. A songster is trying too hard. They are calling attention to themselves, without any real interaction with the listener. The person on the other side of the vinyl does not have the opportunity to respond, to interject, to rebut, to spar or parry...Music did not suit my needs. I needed the sound of television.

Television brings conversation into my house. No matter where I go, I can hear people talking, laughing, crying, shouting - I can hear the sounds of normal life. I have a house filled with people. I am included. I can follow their lives through their words and tone and find parallels with mine. I can talk back to them, laugh with them, share their difficulties and sympathize with their pains. I have brothers, sisters, even pets with television. I thrive on stimulation and television provides me with many interesting people with which to converse. I revel in revelry and television lets me interact with very sharp wits. I love to chat and I am included in the discourses provided by the faces on the screen. When the television is silent, I am disquiet, uneasy. My sense of isolation magnifies. I feel somewhat lost and turned in a circle. I have tried to listen to the radio and this satisfies for a few songs, but then the artifice of the medium becomes too apparent. I listen to music or cd's when I want to sing or dance or when corporeal visitors manifest at my door. But, all alone and on my own, I want television.

I am as closely tied to my television when homebound as a newlywed to her spouse. When out and about, I miss it not. I never hurry home to catch a program. I do not record shows for later viewing. I do not rearrange my schedule around a sitcom favorite. In fact, I can't tell you at day's end what I actually watched in the preceding hours. But, I know, for that day, my house was filled with people. I was not alone.

My Butt Hurts

I get so tired of being thin. I want to go back to the days when there was a comforting level of fat surrounding my bones. Today, nothing overlies my skeleton but skin, and skin was not designed by the universe to be a cushion.

When I work on the computer, I find myself in one of two locations - standing in my kitchen with my trusty machine on the kitchen island or sitting on the floor in the living room with my electronic companion perched on my coffee table. The former situation is butt-friendly. However, the second situation is not. I have hardwood floors. Hardwood is, through no incredible leap of intelligence, hard. It pushes against my butt with as much force as my butt pushes against it. There is no give, no flex or bend, no snuggling into the material - just solid, often cold wood. One might ask - why not a pillow? Masochism or laziness, I guess. I have pillows or blankets that I could use, but I never make the motions to obtain them or position them beneath my aching bottom. I do have a large rug in that room, but the edge of the rug actually falls right across my bottom, compounding the assault. That is one of the reasons I stand so much. My students are amazed that I don't sit down all day. I tell them it is because I can't whack them with a yardstick as easily if I'm sitting. In reality, the aches in my feet are far less than would be the aches in my butt.

The toilet seat, too, is hard. Hard as a rock, it seems some days. Bone, again, against wood. I could invest, I guess, in one of those soft toilet seats, but they are just too tacky for words. I cannot purge the image of the very elderly, white shoe-black sock folks from my mind on that issue. At least its not cold. My bathroom is actually well provided with heat and does not chill down too uncomfortably during winter months.

That's the other problem with being thin. No control of body heat. I have no insulation to regulate or moderate temperature changes. I am a lizard. Cold-blooded and subject to the whim of nature for my daily activity ability. Didn't Lisa Simpson proclaim (after drinking water from one of those water-escorted theme park rides - I AM THE LIZARD QUEEN!)? Hate to disappoint her, but that crown is MINE. When I have a cold beverage, I shiver miserably. When I have a hot beverage, I become uncomfortably hot. During an evening, I am alternately removing and replacing a jacket to try and keep my tempeature balanced. Cold days find me chilled to the point of immobility. To brave the outdoors requires an outfit suitable for an Arctic expedition. I am in wool until the temperatures are in the 60's. I spend very few of my hard-earned dollars on nice shoes, as they are not sufficiently warm for the prolonged cold of Northeast. Like a cactus - I thrive in the hottest of hot weather. That makes me very happy. But, those days are few in this area. Many is the year I've had a fire burning on an August evening. As a Louisiana native, I find that perverse.

Clothes do not flatter either. Right now, I have to shop in the boy's department for trousers. The last pair I bought was a boy's 12 from WalMart. That is ridiculous. I should at least be able to purchase garments designed for my gender. Dresses hang oddly and I cannot even consider wearing a sleeveless top. My arms, shoulders and chest are so alarming that I am even embarrased to look at them. I would not inflict that picture on the unsuspecting public. So, no cute spring or summer tops and definitely no swimsuits. The beach is not on my agenda right now, unless I go clad neck to toe.

So many people long to be thin. For me, it is a burden. I should hover around 120 lbs and that is where I used to find my form clinging. My fingers are crossed each day that the current medical machinations will jump-start my body to head back in that direction. It won't be easy or quick - I have no illusions. But, it is something for which I pray each day. Praying for poundage. Sounds like a book title...

A Quick Passing Thought

This morning I, as I do most weekend mornings, watched OnDemand programming. I watched several FoodTV shows while waiting for the regular FoodTV programming to begin. This made me think about the concept of OnDemand. Free programming is one thing, but the whole concept really began to offer first-run movies for a price to viewers too lazy to go to the video store. You sit on your couch, touch a button and you can watch a movie at leisure, the cost simply added to your monthly bill. This follows the increasing trend towards delivery for everything in life. Pizza delivery has now morphed into the delivery of any and all breakfast, lunch and dinner options. And, for some establishments, the telephone is no longer necessary. You can do it while surfing the web...a dubious benefit of multitasking. Groceries - you can have those delivered as well. Use the computer to send your list and a kind individual arrives at your door with your order. While, perhaps, a good idea for the elderly or house-ridden, it also begs the question of (1)the state of our society where the elderly and house-ridden have no real people in their lives to offer aid and (2)why the completely capable are flocking to these services in mass number.

Our lives are more busy. That is very true. However, when did they become so busy that we are unable to visit a video store or the supermarket to provide for our needs? To do all of our holiday shopping online to save trips to actual stores? When did we lose contact with the world? Decide to forego human contact and interaction? I find myself uneasy with this trend...

The First Day of Spring

Yes, for you nit-pickers, today is not the calendar-based vernal equinox. That fell on March 20 this year. But, it is my official first day of spring - the first day my windows are open. With highs in the 60's, I cautiously cracked selected windows to create a modest cross-draft. Cool, but not cold, fresh, energizing, invigorating, cleansing, rejuvenating. These are, to me, some of the attributes of spring, all manifest today. And this is the first day of 2005 in which this particular combination of sunshine, air pressure and celestial blessing have come into alignment to make for us a "spring." Spring is a season, a combination of elements, a state of mind, a range of time characterized by certain events such as the blooming of crocus and daffodils and twittering of the dawn chorus. It is marked by smiles on frustration-frozen faces, the tentative advances of males towards females in preliminary reproductive rituals, the hopeful packing away of snow shovels and sidewalk sand.

Spring is, most definitely, not a date on the calendar. Of course, you might argue that the year has divisions based on cycles of the moon, orbits and rotations of the Earth, etc., but that is still, frankly, arbitrary. We decided that these parameters would define our seasons. Nature was not invited to the vote. The accumulated consciousness of Nature decides when spring begins (or summer, fall and winter for that matter). It takes a deep breath and exhales the pent-up clouds of winter's toxicity. In rushes the clean, new start to life's year. Why life's year? Because spring signals the start of new life. The flowers are born from the soil, the waters run again liquid to provide the womb for tiny fish, the first twigs and branches are scouted for avian cradles.

And Nature is not negligent in regards to this responsibility. It does not look at the black and white grid that marks our divisions of the year, but rather relies on its own bottomless well of knowledge and experience. When is it spring? When Nature says it is spring... and it said "today."

The Ills of Ill

I had a doctor’s appointment yesterday. Not with my general practitioner, but with a specialist. An endocrinologist. Many years of education beyond the baseline to be licensed to lay hands on the general public for healing. I’ve seen her once before and left with a folder of lab slips and no answers. Yesterday was a conference to discuss those slips and lack of answers.

My appointment was for 3:15 pm. I used the time between returning from work and leaving for my fate-revealing to prepare bread for dinner and place it in the oven to cook while I was away. Not as dicey as it sounds, in that my “bread” is an unholy combination of fibers and ingredients known only to descendents of the lost continent of Atlantis. Usually, takes up to 1 ½ hours to bake, so I was in good shape.

I arrived on time to a waiting room papered with disgust and angst. People were awash in sweat stains and impatience. I knew my bread was a goner.

I was not seen by the doctor until nearly 5:00 pm. The waiting room had no air conditioning or ventilation of any form. Clad in a wool sweater and tights beneath my jeans, I quickly began a spiral into heat-promoted misery and ill-temper. The only saving grace was an over-priced soda machine outside the office. The soda was not cold, but it was wet and this satisfied my mouth. The carbon dioxide did not satisfy by intestines, though, nor did the liquid satisfy my bladder. The blow upon the bruise…

One by one, people were called behind the scenes by the ever-smiling receptionist. Clean and dry due to an administrative office provided with continuous cooling breezes, hatred flowed her way like water from the waiting room hostages. Finally, my time had come. I actually hoped for the instruction to strip down and put on the examination gown, but my hopes were dashed. Fully clad in winter wear, I sat and waited again. Finally, the doctor graced me and I was as unimpressed with her as I was on our first meeting.

I have discussed before that the only prize I will win for my beauty is Best in Show, but at least I make the effort. I am a professional and try to dress the part at my job and do prepare my face and hair accordingly. My endocrinologist is a slob. Her hair has not seen a brush since the Eisenhower administration and she manifests neither makeup nor jewelry. Normally, I do not hold this against a person. But, in combination with the Jackson Pollack-like splattering of condiments and crumbs on her clothing and doctor’s coat, I feel this lack of personal adornment is more a factor of slovenliness than a choice to buck society’s conventions for female appearance. She also coughs. I do not appreciate being sprayed with the germs of another individual, unless sexual contact is involved in some way. I was not awe-struck.

Again I waited as she flipped through the pages and pages of my medical records. With each flip, my anxiety growing by increments. Finally, she looked me in the eye and said “This is a complicated case.” What an awful thing to say. Awful in its true lack of information. Complicated. Complicated in that it will take many steps to affect solution or complicated in that the condition is very convoluted, but they KNOW the cause of the condition…The word “complicated” says nothing to me of use. I was not anticipating a successful outcome to this conference.

So, I waited for further exposition and was not rewarded. Again, she tested various physical parameters – blood pressure, pulse, weight, strength, joint mobility and asked me more questions than a police sergeant interrogating a murder suspect. All questions she asked me during our first meeting. But, in fairness, she did ask me about how things had changed since I had last seen her and did pose a few new items for me to address, but my head was beginning to spin from the heat, the lack of fluid (having been cut off from my soda supply), the lack of food and the knowledge that I was going to achieve nothing from this visit.

I was both wrong and right about that last statement. I did achieve a few things. I obtained more lab slips for innumerable blood tests. I obtained an order for a chest X-ray. I obtained an appointment for an abdominopelvic CAT scan. And I obtained a forewarning that an MRI was in my future. The CAT scan and MRI ordered to test for the presence of tumors. I obtained more waiting, more lack of answers, more worry, more sleepless nights, more anxiety, more inability to answer the questions of friends and colleagues.

What I did not achieve was what I wanted most of all – answers. Just something definitive. For good or bad – something tangible against which to fight. I am tired of flailing at specters. Punching the air. I want something real to battle. I want an enemy with form. As it stands, I am powerless because I know not where to land a blow. I cannot take action. The situation is completely out of my hands and I do not fare well under these circumstances. I need control of things, I have no illusions about this. I need to have my say. I need to feel like I am moving forward. I thrive on progress and wither with stagnation. I know that there is a factor devastating my physical form and the lack of its name is more frustrating than the physical woes. It plays with my brain in a terrible way. It leaves me with that most-hated helpless feeling with which I deal poorly. My anxiety emanates from me like rays of heat. I live in a constant state of worry and verge some days on despair. To fight your way to the grave is one thing, to meander around in circles in fall in at some point is another…

I am very tired. I woke at 2:30 am, as has been my habit of late, with a sense of heaviness. No rest. That is my pattern since my symptoms began to intensify and I started seeing doctors. I am not really sure if my sleep disturbances are related to my medical condition or its actions on my state of mind. I don’t really sleep. I close my eyes to bide time until I have to go to the bathroom or get hungry. I wake no more rested than when I laid down for the evening. My motivation for life is low. I have a business that I have completely neglected for weeks. I have not even checked to see if I have received any orders. I have isolated myself from people. I have cut off contact with people that I used to telephone and see regularly. Honestly, I just don’t want to bring people down. Also, it keeps me from having to cope with the offers of help that will manifest. Right now, my brain would not handle that well. I am coming to the point where I may have to ask for help and that upsets me. The only factor that might make it possible is that if I do the asking, I maintain my need for control. I made the decision and that might be an rationale my solitary spirit might accept.

But for now, I continue on. More visits to the hospital, more waiting rooms designed by the Hades Interiors firm, more worry, less sleep…my only bright spot is an upcoming trip to California to see a dear, dear person. Her blithe spirit will be just what I need to battle back the blues.

That, and Disneyland….

Twinkle Twinkle

My Christmas lights are still up.
Yep. It is April, you are not mistaken. Not exterior lights, mind you – I don’t festoon my dwelling with a National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation holiday display. But, indoors…where I can see them. And, I don’t know if they will ever come down.

I am atheistic. I don’t believe in the traditional vision of a “God.” A single, supreme being that in some form or fashion dictates our existence. I do believe that we humans have abilities that exceed our current knowledge. I also believe that we are most definitely not alone in the Universe. I believe that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…But not a true “God.” Accordingly, I do not believe that Jesus was the son of “God,” but I do not completely discount the idea that he walked this earth as a person and had profound impact on social and cultural development. When I celebrate Christmas, it is as a secular celebration. A winter holiday of glad tidings, peace and joy. At that time of year, it is a much needed opportunity to brighten the spirits of humanity. And, frankly, it is fun.

Colors, sparkles, stories, spangles , animated television specials, music, voices raised in song…there is much to enjoy at the Christmas season. But the lights are the best. As an environmentalist, I should shudder at the massive increase in electricity use during the holiday season, but I put aside my moral misgivings and enjoy the sight. Houses dressed with tiny pinpoints of pure energy. We humans seek light with as much drive as we seek water and the Christmas season allows us to drink deep. Whether a single candle in the window of a tiny cottage or a neighborhood engaged in a battle to recreate the illumination of the Sun itself, the lights of the season are the thing for which I look most forward.

I grew up in Louisiana during the 60’s and 70’s – a time and place not known for understated or subtle decoration. Martha Stewart’s magazine would have quickly met with bankruptcy if that was the target demographic. Accordingly, our light displays could graciously be described as tacky. My parents lacked the motivation or funding to create exterior displays, but we did have a tree each year that was brilliant with lights. Bloated, painted, colored atrocities that threatened to cripple our 3-ft artificial TG&Y tree. From an aesthetic standpoint, it was an abomination. The paint on the bulbs was scratched and the color used for the paint were the most unappealing shades of green, blue, orange, yellow and red. But, to me, it was beautiful. I would go so far as to crawl out of my little bed and toddle into the living room to watch the tree in the dark of the night. Perhaps it was influenced by the fact that the clarity of my vision was already in decline and detail was not as sharp as it could be, but I was mesmerized by the colorful, glowing bulbs. The rest of the tree interested me not one whit. This was fortunate in that our ornaments were of the bulk-package Sears variety. But, oh, the lights. I never figured out how my father was able to replace a terminal strand of lights with another aging, decrepit example every single year, but for my childhood I delighted in their flickering, sputtering splendor.

As I grew up, the Christmas tree became less and less important, as the importance of other concerns grew. We still had a tree, but I do not remember it shining as brightly. Perhaps it is just the cloud of old, hard memories blocking the glow. Upon the passing of both my parents and my journey into my new life in marriage, I pushed each year for a tree and lights. My husband was Jewish, but his family was of the Reform branch. Every year his mother threw a Christmas party for 200 or so people. Their house blared Christmas music from November to February and Santa Claus shared equal billing with dreidels on the sideboard. He was not unfamiliar with the holiday, but was not one to be enthused with its celebrations. So, each year was a Herculean effort to get a tree, provide it with decoration, string lights and take time each evening to dim the overhead illumination and just enjoy the glittering pinpricks with a cup of cocoa or a glass of wine. And pinpricks they were. My tastes had followed the 80’s downsizing trend and I forsook the bulbous bulbs of my childhood in favor of their smaller brethren. But, they were still colored. Those multi-colored strands that remind one of Mardi Beads worn too early in the season.

It was during this season that I made the decision to leave my husband. We had been in decline for a long time and our goals, ambitions, wants and needs were never going to positively mesh. It was time to move on. I packed my belongings and left our house for a run-down tiny apartment in a disreputable area of town. I moved in with my few pieces of faltering furniture one cold morning and by afternoon, found my new home invaded by my colleagues from the research laboratory at which I worked. They brought copious food, booze, housewarming materials (blessedly practical like blankets and household tools) and an artificial tree with packs of lights. I will never look on a party with more fondness than the one spurred spontaneously by the generosity of my friends.

My next apartment was hard won through the acquisition of my teaching certificate and the commensurate salary increase I enjoyed. Larger, brighter and safer. My first Christmas found me craving the sights and sounds of the holiday and I richly decorated my space with ornaments, filled the rooms with song and perfumed the air with candles. And I got a big tree. A really big tree. I had 12-ft ceilings and I used them to the fullest. After the installation of the naked fir in my living room, I marched to the store and returned with a lawn and leaf bag filled with lights. Strand upon strand I laid upon the tree. Then, reflective garland and Christmas balls. Nothing chipped, nothing scratched. In fact, all were brand new. Silver, gold, white and burgundy. I got shiny, wide ribbon from the fabric store and let it flow over and down the length of the tree. It was the one time in my life that I can truly state that I had a “beautiful” tree. It was like something out of a magazine. Visitors were in awe of this display of holiday cheer. And it was embracable. I wanted to hug it each evening as I dimmed the living room lights and gazed at the merry brilliance. Bright white lights reflected from the rich gold, sparkling silver and stately burgundy. And white lights they were. I had made the last leap. I had been evolving in my light life throughout my own life. I now wanted white. Small and white. Whether a few or a few hundred, I wanted tiny, pure emissions of crystallized radiance.

Now, I am in my own home. Truly my own “home.” It is mine, my name is on the deed, not the lease. In my old apartment, I had many things. I realized that even though I had the space for my possessions, I did not want them anymore. I looked at the ceiling-height shelving filled with books and selected only a few boxes to retain. I sorted carefully through my dining ware, clothes, decorative items and furnishings and kept only the tiniest fraction of my holdings. The rest met an unhappy fate. I hired a removal company to purge everything from my residence, save the few pieces I would take with me to my new life. Three dumpsters of my past were hauled away…And I started fresh. Clean. Unfettered. Uncluttered. Of course, I’ve added things, but with a new vision. As the holidays approached, I was often asked the question – when are you getting your tree? And, this gave me pause. I had not even considered the idea of a tree. My living room faces our little street. The street receives many walkers, cyclists, children at play…it is a true neighborhood street. A tree in a window would be seen by all, including myself. It would add to the holiday merriment in a way that could be shared by my new friends and neighbors.

But, I didn’t want a tree. I did not want to shop for ornaments. I did not want to shop for a tree. I did not want to rearrange my furniture to accommodate its bulk. And, I found it just had no real meaning for me anymore. The need for a large and mighty prince of the forest was just not with me anymore. I was really in the perfect place to have a tree, too. My own home in a neighborhood that pleased me more than I could have ever expected. A friendly, safe New England neighborhood in a friendly, safe New England town. But, I didn’t want a tree. I did, however want lights. The tradition of my youth that I have carried forward is that the Christmas tree is set up and decorated the afternoon of Thanksgiving.
On Thanksgiving day of this year, I was alone. As part of my solitary celebration I walked in the brisk autumn air to the drugstore a mile or so away and bought two strands of small white lights. No balls, no garland, no stars or snowflakes. I walked home and put a Christmas cd into my stereo. With a hot beverage in hand, I carefully wound one strand around each of the artificial ficus trees that inhabit each side of my living room. Just one strand on each. A few lights peeking out through the leaves. Every day, I plug them in when I return from work and each night extinguish one when I go to bed. The ficus that fills my front window stays lit. It was and remains my contribution of light to my neighborhood. Giving back to it a small portion of the light that it has given to me.

Ok, and I got a poinsettia – sue me.

The Value of Education

Not meaning what it can provide you, but how value is placed on the educational environment. Here are pictures of the floor of my classroom:













This is an going issue. Nine years ago, the building underwent a 21-million dollar renovation. It was met with much hoorahing and back-slapping in the community. This district is a very small one that the community fiercely protects. Many small school districts have been coalesced into regional groupings and town and neighborhood schools have vanished. Not here. The community maintains its own system despite pressures to regionalize. They take great pride in this and it is a selling point for attracting the slowly encroaching Bostonites into buying and building in town. However, this grand renovation was accomplished through the usual method of low-bid contracts. When you pay peanuts, you hire monkeys.

The renovation began with the building’s third floor, which houses the middle school. This did not surprise the high-school faculty in the least. Our middle school is populated with boot-licking tea-party ladies that kowtow to the administration. They take on a myriad of activities and responsibilities that violate our union contract because they feel it is a teacher’s “duty.” The high-school staff believes that we are professionals, just like lawyers and doctors and should be treated as such. A contract is in place – both we and the administration should adhere to the agreed-upon guidelines. But, of course, this brands us as renegades and disenfranchises us in issues such as grant-monies, facility upgrades and budgets. So the building’s third floor was refurbished splendidly. Copious storage space, computers, carpeting…name it – they got it. Aahhh…it was lovely. The icing on the cake was a very large and comfortable teacher’s room. Two restrooms, big kitchen area, an eating center separated from a production zone with a copier and completely stocked supply shelves, relaxing seating area, and so forth.

The second floor came next. This floor houses some high-school classes, but mainly the media center and the business department. The media center was also a source of much bally-hooing in the community as we were fitted with two 20-unit computer labs, as well as various other multimedia resources. Naturally, much care and attention was paid to its rehabilitation. The business department is another butt-bussing pack of femmes. They are well known for typing the paperwork of the superintendent on their off hours, free of charge and always vote pro-administration at union meetings. They were given suites of computers and equipment to run new courses and retool existing offerings. The remaining 2nd floor rooms house math, language arts and social studies. In these departments, one finds a scattering of warhorses mixed with new individuals hand-picked by the former principal and the current superintendent. The newbies most come from a local college with which we have partnered. Not to knock this institution or the religion that frames its curriculum, but the graduates are definitely fueled with the faith in their superiors. Meaning, they are toadies. This area was provided adequately, but not wealthily. They received somewhat more than was discarded from the old rooms, but by a slim margin.

The first floor is a mixed bag. The administrative offices, guidance department, SPED offices, auditorium, gymnasiums and cafeteria make up the front half. The half that is the first view a visitor receives when they enter our facility. These areas are nicely appointed. Well lit, well furnished, an HVAC system that functions perfectly all year, etc. The middle zone of the first floor houses the consumer arts (the old home economics) and the high school teacher’s room. The consumer arts department runs both middle and high school courses and is host to prominent clubs such as Peer Leaders and Student Council. Obviously, it was graced by the hands of the money-managers. Also blessed is are the arts rooms. Banks of state of the art computers, a complete darkroom for the photography classes, a very open, friendly and well-provided space for the media arts courses. These classes are darlings of the administration for two reasons. First, they are high-profile in the community. We have the frequent art shows, a much-lauded multimedia course selection and this department, too, is combined middle and high school. Further, the department chair knows well that our state is de-emphasizing the arts curricula and budgetary cuts could easily land on her shoulders. Meaning, the administration says – she does without hesitation.

The high-school teacher’s room is a dog pen. The soda machine is never filled, the tiny microwave and refrigerator are cramped into a tiny niche adjoining the SPED conference room (meaning you have to be quiet out of respect for ongoing meetings), the eating area doubles as the work area, so there is much jostling and jockeying for position during lunch periods, there is no partitioning between the general area and the one telephone (as there is in the middle school teacher’s room), which makes parent teleconferences or personal calls difficult. And, the room is often closed for our use due to the scheduling of conferences, workshops or meetings.

Then, we hit my zone. Lovingly called the Ghetto by its inhabitants – the science department, the industrial arts shop and the SPED self-contained room. By the time our turn was reached in the renovation process, there were no monies left to give (or that they were willing to give). Some rooms were not touched, save new tiles on the floors. Others, such as mine were painted, but only because they actually had to modify the room structurally to accommodate a science class. It had been a math classroom with the old school plan. To do this, they took two adjacent rooms and knocked out the connecting wall. Then, they built a hollow dividing wall between them with one room (mine) receiving a full class plus 1/3 of the other classroom. Into the squashed remaining room, they have placed the self-contained SPED students. Students who suffer most from a confining environment are put into a room with one window and barely enough room for 2 tables. Brilliant. The industrial arts, despite the great need by our student population for its services, is looked upon with distaste both by the administration and its department chair (they are in the Art department). The shop did not get new equipment or additional space. It is the same tired, but functional, shop room that has existed in high schools since the Industrial Revolution and likely to remain that way.

My science colleagues received squat diddly besides their floor tiles. I got paint and the cheapest possible lab furniture, only out of complete necessity. We received no new equipment or increased budget for any equipment or materials upgrades. In other words, we were ignored. From the photos, you see that our one grace, the tiles, are laughable. Since they were installed, they have been replaced 3 times due to buckling and cracking. I don’t know exactly why the tiles won’t stay down – the wrong adhesive, the wrong tiles, water seeping up under the floor, voodoo…my room is the worst. The tiles bulge, buckle crack and shatter. I have stumbled and so have the students. Only with the threat of OSHA and legal action have they been replaced, only to have the process repeat. This year, I was promised a different scenario. I was assured before last year ended that there would be a permanent solution put in place over the summer. I arrive for teacher opening day (the day before students arrive), to find my room in complete disarray while they laid pads down over the big holes in the flooring. Apparently, they started pulling up tiles, decided they didn’t know what was the problem and left for a 9-month coffee break. A broken window from a storm lingered for 3 months before the glass was replaced. I was given a piece of cardboard to block the winter winds as a temporary solution.

It is clear in our district where and how monies and favors are distributed. The high-school staff are vocal, pro-union educators. We go above and beyond in our classrooms, but we demand professional treatment and courtesy from our administration. Three of the most thorny (including myself) are in the science department. Others in the building graduated from the Laura Ingall’s Wilder School of Education. The superintendent is the Supreme Being and we must follow blindly. Balderdash. I did not go to school for 138 years to kiss anyone’s butt. Admittedly a peck on a cheek would earn me much-needed supplies and equipment for my students, but I’ll make do with what I have. I know that I can provide best service to my students if my pride is intact. Besides, the superintendent is a rather hairy guy…