Oh how I hate them. I have never in my entire life enjoyed having boobs. One of the nicest benefits about dwindling to a stick figure for some years was that I didn't have to worry about boobs. I swear that I would swallow a tapeworm, if I could find an sterilized one, to shrivel me once more so as to lose my boobs.
I have never been a very feminine femme. Unlike others of the Double-X Sisterhood, I do not rejoice in makeup, new shoes, frilly accessories or sultry underwear. I guess I'm just too pragmatic to worry about such things. I wear cheap makeup (the only reason I wear any at all is that it keeps me from looking dead) and buy my shoes, accessories and underpants at Walmart. I don't really work to coordinate outfits and have never, ever, considered matching undergarments with each other, let alone with my outerwear. It appears to me that women who love these sorts of things enjoy their mammary tissue. They shop for underwear that highlights their curves and makes their boobs look as spectacular as possible. They buy clothes that suit their boobs. An outfit that is not sufficiently boobalicious does not make it out of the dressing room.
I buy cheap bras. As long as they keep my boobs from flopping around, any brand or style is acceptable. Well,that's not true - I hate underwire. The damn things just seem to pinch no matter what. But, I never choose a bra for its boob-enhancing qualities. Even with small boobs, I never worried about push-ups or push-togethers or any of that nonsense. I was content to wear NO bra and a joy it was. Boobs that just stayed put and didn't get in the way of anything. That's the ticket. But since I again have boobs with which to deal, the cheapest bra in the world is more than enough.
Boobs flop and plop and move and groove in ways that I do not find appealing. I don't like part of me jigging left when I'm jagging right. I don't like that I want to nip into the bathroom on a warm day to give the underside of my boobs a wipedown. I don't like that they're squishy to poke at and painful if you poke too hard. A well-planted poodle foot can give a boob a right painful prod. I just don't like the way they feel. They seem to detract from "clean" movement.
I doubt that I will ever become fast friends with my boobs. They just don't fit well with my mindset and lifestyle. I wish they offered liposuction for boobs. I'd be first in line as soon as the clinic opened...
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
The Fire Alarm
A kid threw a match in the wastebasket in the boy's bathroom today, forcing us out of the building. At least the idiot picked a decent day to go pyro on us. Mid-40's and partly sunny. I'll take that.
The funny thing about fire alarms is that the kids all yell "Yeah" in unison with the first flash of the light and whoop of the bell. Teachers groan and beging to fumble around for our keys and a blank notecard and pen. We are supposed to exit the building, keeping our class together, and record the attendance. Did everyone make it out alive? Yes or no. Of course, this is theory. In practice, once the kids hit the door, they scatter in all directions like hairspray out of an aerosol can. Some race up the hill behind the school, hoping for a quick smoke. Some play hide and seek among the cars. Most just flow together in one big mass of smelly humanity. I was lucky in that the class in which the alarm sounded was my honors class. Good kids who actually clotted together long enough for me to account for all heads before going off to find their friends.
Luckily this was a minor event. We've only had one serious evacuation of the building during my tenure, and that was in response to a vaguely threatening note found on the floor at the height of the Columbine paranoia. That was a nuisance. It was cold, rainy and we were outside for several hours before the students were sent home. They were totally off-kilter in that they had to leave everything behind in the school. No one was allowed back in to get personal items. We teachers decided the policy of building exclusion did not apply to us and we snuck back into our classrooms for purses, keys and laptops.
I had to laugh, though, at the new student that I got for my honors class today. He's a foreign exchange student from Sweden and this was his first day. He had originally been slated to be placed in another biology section that is filled with monkeys. Behavior problems and non-motivated kids. Not really a good environment for a kid away from home in a different country. So, I volunteered to put him in my honors section, since those kids are very sweet and happy. So, poor kid walks right into a class filled with bubbly kids and then we flee the building under an umbrella of flashes and sirens. Welcome to America.
So, the administration will now spend time trying to find the culprit. I'm sure, by now, every kid in the building knows who did it, but management will likely never solve the case. Basically, same ol' story for almost every occurrence in school. I'm just happy it didn't cut into my prep time this afternoon. I needed my nap and Diet Coke...
The funny thing about fire alarms is that the kids all yell "Yeah" in unison with the first flash of the light and whoop of the bell. Teachers groan and beging to fumble around for our keys and a blank notecard and pen. We are supposed to exit the building, keeping our class together, and record the attendance. Did everyone make it out alive? Yes or no. Of course, this is theory. In practice, once the kids hit the door, they scatter in all directions like hairspray out of an aerosol can. Some race up the hill behind the school, hoping for a quick smoke. Some play hide and seek among the cars. Most just flow together in one big mass of smelly humanity. I was lucky in that the class in which the alarm sounded was my honors class. Good kids who actually clotted together long enough for me to account for all heads before going off to find their friends.
Luckily this was a minor event. We've only had one serious evacuation of the building during my tenure, and that was in response to a vaguely threatening note found on the floor at the height of the Columbine paranoia. That was a nuisance. It was cold, rainy and we were outside for several hours before the students were sent home. They were totally off-kilter in that they had to leave everything behind in the school. No one was allowed back in to get personal items. We teachers decided the policy of building exclusion did not apply to us and we snuck back into our classrooms for purses, keys and laptops.
I had to laugh, though, at the new student that I got for my honors class today. He's a foreign exchange student from Sweden and this was his first day. He had originally been slated to be placed in another biology section that is filled with monkeys. Behavior problems and non-motivated kids. Not really a good environment for a kid away from home in a different country. So, I volunteered to put him in my honors section, since those kids are very sweet and happy. So, poor kid walks right into a class filled with bubbly kids and then we flee the building under an umbrella of flashes and sirens. Welcome to America.
So, the administration will now spend time trying to find the culprit. I'm sure, by now, every kid in the building knows who did it, but management will likely never solve the case. Basically, same ol' story for almost every occurrence in school. I'm just happy it didn't cut into my prep time this afternoon. I needed my nap and Diet Coke...
Monday, January 30, 2006
Homeowning Elitism
I love my condo. It is spacious, has a very useful basement, has beautiful hardwood floors...it is wonderful in all appects. But one. It is a condo. It is 1/2 of a house. It is not detached. And that bugs me to no end.
Growing up, there was one end of my street that had duplexes. That was considered the low-class end of the street. Anyone living in a duplex, or worse an apartment, was looked down upon. "Regular" folks lived in single-family homes. Even when the condominium craze hit, they were considered lodgings for those in-between permanent houses. Good for famililes starting out, but not for anyone that was established in life. Now, the home in which I grew up was no palace, but it met all the criteria for acceptable social status.
I lived in a condo when I was in graduate school, with my future husband, That was ok. We were young and transient. Moving up to Massachusetts, we inhabited another condo, before I pushed to move into a house. We didn't buy - he was too cheap. We rented a nice house and I was far more comfortable mentally. My flight from my crappy marraige necessitated low-quality, low-cost housing. A run-down apartment in a squalid area of town. But, that was ok. I was definitely not settled and very much in a transition phase in life. The holes in the walls didn't bother me. They were a temporary situation; I could handle that.
From that hovel came a move to another apartment, albeit one that was gorgeous. Situated in a Federalist mansion in a beautiful, historic town, it was large, had an amazing airy living room with floor to ceiling shelves, 3 functioning fireplaces...I always felt I had one foot out the door. It was an apartment - not designed for lifelong living. I had just started a new job, moved across the state...just starting to rebuild my life. Being lazy, I stayed in that one spot for 8 years. The space and location were great, but I always felt a twinge of anxiety about the place. It was not a house. Period. I had not yet "made it."
My situation was changed by disharmony in the landlord side of the building. They decided to get a divorce and the house was to be sold. There was a great deal of uncertainty about how the apartments would be handled, so I decided it was time for a move. This time, I knew I had to bite the bullet. I had to buy something. I was 38 years old, damn time to get away from the rental lifestyle.
For the first time, I had to take a good, hard look at the housing market in this area. It dawned on me that most of the houses ewre multi-family dwellings. Large, old houses broken into pieces. Even then, the pieces were worth a king's ransom. I looked around at other towns. Any town of size presented the same picture. My town was not an abberation - it was the norm. Pricewise, a single-family dwelling was ridiculous. But, I did not let that deter me. I wanted my own house and would move man or mountaian to get it.
Well, my resolve lasted as long as it usually does. The second place I looked at is the one I bought. Yes, it was a condo, but at least there were only 2 units in the house. The street was wonderful. I loved it immediately. My house-hunting stopped the minute I found the place. In terms of cash, she was a steal for the area. 3 bedrooms, full basement for under $300,000 in my town is considered dirt cheap. Everyone told me how lucky I was and how wonderful was my new place. I've been there two years now...and I actually tried to flee the other day.
A house came available on my street awhile back and ever since I saw the For Sale sign I had a pull in its direction. It was single-family. It was still on my street. The move would be a piece of cake. It even had a deck on the 2nd floor and the kitchen looked gorgeous on the website. I finally decided to check it out. It was far smaller than my current place and the basement was abysmal. But, the rooms were nice, the ceilings didn't need repair (like mine) and, most important, it was detached. I made a offer on the place and went home to await the news.
I left the realtor's office around 4:30 and was told I would hear word by 8:00. My nerves were firing bullets into my brain. I was experiencing a roller coaster ride of anticipation and buyer's remorse. I wanted the new place, but I loved my current residence. Pins and needles, pins and needles....until I got the call. The buyer had accepted an offer that was made that morning. No new place for me. And, I didn't really care. I didn't feel any loss, I wasn't upset. It was very odd. I thought that I would have been somewhat down, but I actually felt fine.
I thought about this for a few days. Was I not upset because I'm over my disdain of attached dwellings or was I not upset because I was not really that happy with the house for sale. I'm still not sure. If another little house comes available, I might take a look, but I'm certainly not going on a house-hunting crusade. I guess I'm somewhat more comfortable with the idea of condo living. Plus the dogs have claimed the place as theirs and I'd rather not upset them. They'd take revenge...
Growing up, there was one end of my street that had duplexes. That was considered the low-class end of the street. Anyone living in a duplex, or worse an apartment, was looked down upon. "Regular" folks lived in single-family homes. Even when the condominium craze hit, they were considered lodgings for those in-between permanent houses. Good for famililes starting out, but not for anyone that was established in life. Now, the home in which I grew up was no palace, but it met all the criteria for acceptable social status.
I lived in a condo when I was in graduate school, with my future husband, That was ok. We were young and transient. Moving up to Massachusetts, we inhabited another condo, before I pushed to move into a house. We didn't buy - he was too cheap. We rented a nice house and I was far more comfortable mentally. My flight from my crappy marraige necessitated low-quality, low-cost housing. A run-down apartment in a squalid area of town. But, that was ok. I was definitely not settled and very much in a transition phase in life. The holes in the walls didn't bother me. They were a temporary situation; I could handle that.
From that hovel came a move to another apartment, albeit one that was gorgeous. Situated in a Federalist mansion in a beautiful, historic town, it was large, had an amazing airy living room with floor to ceiling shelves, 3 functioning fireplaces...I always felt I had one foot out the door. It was an apartment - not designed for lifelong living. I had just started a new job, moved across the state...just starting to rebuild my life. Being lazy, I stayed in that one spot for 8 years. The space and location were great, but I always felt a twinge of anxiety about the place. It was not a house. Period. I had not yet "made it."
My situation was changed by disharmony in the landlord side of the building. They decided to get a divorce and the house was to be sold. There was a great deal of uncertainty about how the apartments would be handled, so I decided it was time for a move. This time, I knew I had to bite the bullet. I had to buy something. I was 38 years old, damn time to get away from the rental lifestyle.
For the first time, I had to take a good, hard look at the housing market in this area. It dawned on me that most of the houses ewre multi-family dwellings. Large, old houses broken into pieces. Even then, the pieces were worth a king's ransom. I looked around at other towns. Any town of size presented the same picture. My town was not an abberation - it was the norm. Pricewise, a single-family dwelling was ridiculous. But, I did not let that deter me. I wanted my own house and would move man or mountaian to get it.
Well, my resolve lasted as long as it usually does. The second place I looked at is the one I bought. Yes, it was a condo, but at least there were only 2 units in the house. The street was wonderful. I loved it immediately. My house-hunting stopped the minute I found the place. In terms of cash, she was a steal for the area. 3 bedrooms, full basement for under $300,000 in my town is considered dirt cheap. Everyone told me how lucky I was and how wonderful was my new place. I've been there two years now...and I actually tried to flee the other day.
A house came available on my street awhile back and ever since I saw the For Sale sign I had a pull in its direction. It was single-family. It was still on my street. The move would be a piece of cake. It even had a deck on the 2nd floor and the kitchen looked gorgeous on the website. I finally decided to check it out. It was far smaller than my current place and the basement was abysmal. But, the rooms were nice, the ceilings didn't need repair (like mine) and, most important, it was detached. I made a offer on the place and went home to await the news.
I left the realtor's office around 4:30 and was told I would hear word by 8:00. My nerves were firing bullets into my brain. I was experiencing a roller coaster ride of anticipation and buyer's remorse. I wanted the new place, but I loved my current residence. Pins and needles, pins and needles....until I got the call. The buyer had accepted an offer that was made that morning. No new place for me. And, I didn't really care. I didn't feel any loss, I wasn't upset. It was very odd. I thought that I would have been somewhat down, but I actually felt fine.
I thought about this for a few days. Was I not upset because I'm over my disdain of attached dwellings or was I not upset because I was not really that happy with the house for sale. I'm still not sure. If another little house comes available, I might take a look, but I'm certainly not going on a house-hunting crusade. I guess I'm somewhat more comfortable with the idea of condo living. Plus the dogs have claimed the place as theirs and I'd rather not upset them. They'd take revenge...
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
MP3 and Me
I never thought I would own an MP3 player. I have never had an urge to join the digital music masses. Through experience, I knew that music-playing devices died quick deaths in my possession. Every Walkman and cd-player I have owned was used briefly and then neglected once the initial round of batteries bit the dust. I was never too upset about their passing from my life - their sound quality was marginal, I didn't enjoy carrying piles of tapes or discs, they were bulky and unattractive, they skipped or stopped at the most inappropriate times...Good riddance.
For a while, now, I have been observing my students using their MP3 players. They are far easier to hide and use clandestinely than other music devices. The students also seemed to enjoy the sound more than with other devices. My noodle began to wonder if such a plaything was do-able for me. I was not convinced, however, that I would use such a purchase and delayed furthering my purchase research for a long time.
Puppies, snow and midterm exam week diminished my reluctance. Walking dogs, shoveling snow and having to sit through 2-hour blocks giving/grading exams made me reconsider the usefulness of having music on my person. The great grind of the research machine began. Most of my students have ipods and I researched them first. Quickly I realized that I would not take a bite of the Apple. A number of reviewers questioned the sound quality and, worst, there were limitations on locations from which you could download your music. I find that rather odd for a company who vilifies Microsoft for its monopoly tactics and it cheesed me to no end. Most likely, my growing dislike stemmed from an abhorrance of going with the flow. I consider the average American to be more or less intellectually bankrupt, so I don't feel following their lead to be a wise move. Out with ipod.
I then prowled the specs of the Creative Labs products and found them to be more to my liking. They got better reviews for sound and were compatible with far more download sites. Not as eye-catching as the ipods, but that doesn't really count for much in my world. I settled on the Micro Zen Photo, grey front. 8 gigabytes of storage holds plenty of tunes and some nice photos to boot. I can now show people the latest pics of my pups as easily as if I kept snapshots in my wallet. The sound is killer and its still nice and small for easy portability and concealment.
But, as with any digitech product, hardware is only part of the puzzle. The next issue was software and tunes. The player came with its own software package, but I had a feeling that I could work around that and use something else. Enter Rhapsody. The Real Player people put this together and its not a bad site. Lots of good music and comedy albums and the software interface works great with my player. It might not be the cheapest, $14.95/month for unlimited downloads and transfers to my Micro Zen, but it is easy to use and that carries a lot of weight with me. With my broadband connection, I've been downloading muy albums from my tempestuous youth and new stuff that I've been wanting to give a listen. Hey, might as well get my flat-fee worth...
It has been a joy, let me tell you. This last snowstorm (Monday) was made far more pleasant by shoveling to the sounds of Queen, Jethro Tull, Heart, and Ozzy. Puppy promenades fly by while lost in Les Mis. I listened to part of an Eddie Izzard album during my prep block and was glad the kids weren't there to hear me bust out laughing. I am having tres fun with it and, of course, wondering what took me so long to get on the bandwagon. I anticipate that since I finally broke down and bought an MP3 player, this ensures that they will soon become defunct as a new technology rises to take their place. That's ok, I guess there's always room for one more new toy...
For a while, now, I have been observing my students using their MP3 players. They are far easier to hide and use clandestinely than other music devices. The students also seemed to enjoy the sound more than with other devices. My noodle began to wonder if such a plaything was do-able for me. I was not convinced, however, that I would use such a purchase and delayed furthering my purchase research for a long time.
Puppies, snow and midterm exam week diminished my reluctance. Walking dogs, shoveling snow and having to sit through 2-hour blocks giving/grading exams made me reconsider the usefulness of having music on my person. The great grind of the research machine began. Most of my students have ipods and I researched them first. Quickly I realized that I would not take a bite of the Apple. A number of reviewers questioned the sound quality and, worst, there were limitations on locations from which you could download your music. I find that rather odd for a company who vilifies Microsoft for its monopoly tactics and it cheesed me to no end. Most likely, my growing dislike stemmed from an abhorrance of going with the flow. I consider the average American to be more or less intellectually bankrupt, so I don't feel following their lead to be a wise move. Out with ipod.
I then prowled the specs of the Creative Labs products and found them to be more to my liking. They got better reviews for sound and were compatible with far more download sites. Not as eye-catching as the ipods, but that doesn't really count for much in my world. I settled on the Micro Zen Photo, grey front. 8 gigabytes of storage holds plenty of tunes and some nice photos to boot. I can now show people the latest pics of my pups as easily as if I kept snapshots in my wallet. The sound is killer and its still nice and small for easy portability and concealment.
But, as with any digitech product, hardware is only part of the puzzle. The next issue was software and tunes. The player came with its own software package, but I had a feeling that I could work around that and use something else. Enter Rhapsody. The Real Player people put this together and its not a bad site. Lots of good music and comedy albums and the software interface works great with my player. It might not be the cheapest, $14.95/month for unlimited downloads and transfers to my Micro Zen, but it is easy to use and that carries a lot of weight with me. With my broadband connection, I've been downloading muy albums from my tempestuous youth and new stuff that I've been wanting to give a listen. Hey, might as well get my flat-fee worth...
It has been a joy, let me tell you. This last snowstorm (Monday) was made far more pleasant by shoveling to the sounds of Queen, Jethro Tull, Heart, and Ozzy. Puppy promenades fly by while lost in Les Mis. I listened to part of an Eddie Izzard album during my prep block and was glad the kids weren't there to hear me bust out laughing. I am having tres fun with it and, of course, wondering what took me so long to get on the bandwagon. I anticipate that since I finally broke down and bought an MP3 player, this ensures that they will soon become defunct as a new technology rises to take their place. That's ok, I guess there's always room for one more new toy...
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Ancestral Technology
When the term "technology" is used today, it is normally in reference to electronic technology. Computers is the most common example cited when technology is discussed in the context of education or other professions and fields. However, this is a very narrow use of the word. Technology just means using tools. A fork is a piece of technology. A stick used to extract ants from a log is technology. So is a hammer and snips. And they are not my friends...
When I spent a king's ransom to fence my patio, I thought ahead to the coming months of snow and decided to leave a space of several inches between the ground and the bottom of the fence. This would allow me to more easily open and close the doors without having to shovel for 1/2 hour prior to moving my car or trashcans. That was Life Pre-Puppies. It was quick to see that the dogs could easily, even as adults, escape through the provided gap. If I am out there, I can verbally correct their behavior, but who wants to be outside all the time? Those hounds like to play in the snow and rain and I like to be warm and dry.
This situation made potty trips for the dogs a matter of walks and that, in New England winter, is a time-consuming process. So, when my desire for a quiet, indoor afternoon finally reached maximum, I bit the bullet and went to the hardware store. Our local hardware hut is one of those places that has a little of everything under the sun. A quick perusal turned up fencing material. The question, of course, was what type to use. Chicken wire? Too flimsy. Chain link? How to cut that stuff? I settled on "Rabbit Guard." Then, snips were required. Find a suitable pair. Finally, something with which to affix the Rabbit Guard to the wood fence. That meant a big honking stapler. I gathered my $41.00 worth of poodle protection and trundled back to the car. The boys were standing on the passenger seat watching me. Their hopeful eyes made me happy that I was taking the step to give them a backyard in which to play and pee.
Boy, those looks didn't last me long. Quickly I descended into frustrated muttering as I worked to install my fencing addition. First, I had to work with the Rabbit Guard. It had to be laid flat to unroll, but I couldn't easily gauge how much I neecded unless I had it upright along the fence. I didn't want to add another tool, a tape measure, to my arsenal for fear of being overwhelmed with gadgets. Stand the roll of Rabbit Guard on end. Try to unroll it upright. Flip, flop, fall. Lay it down. Roll some out. Try to stand rolled-out fencing and remainder of roll. Watch it curl and fall. Repeat several times. Argh.
Then, staple RG to wood fence. Have staples miss RG wire. Have staples nearly bind finger to wood. Swear. Yell at dogs who are laughing at me from the steps. Roll out more fence, endure more staple chaos, snip fence in wrong place...oh the humanity...
Finally, a sufficient barricade was put in place to pen the most persistent poodle. I let them explore their new backyard and they seemed happy. Of course, it was also rather dark, so they did not get to enjoy the experience as much as they could. The next day was a monsoon. Hard, driving rain. Needless to say, no outdoors play. Just quick trips to the ivy at the edge of the yard for the doin' of the business.
Today. The day. In the 40's and sunshine. I had planned to do some errands before coming home, but set them aside to race back and let the dogs enjoy the outdoors. Do they like their territory? Yes. But, Rodney will only stay outside right now if the back door is fully open. I can't close the storm door or he whines and cries to come back in. This does not bode well for my fuel bills this month. But, he has at least started to staunchly claim one corner for himself and has been merrily marking his area with puppy pride. I am so thrilled.
I was thinking about how to shade the pups from the sun, provide some structural amusement, etc. I then remembered that any more alteration of my environment will require more tools and work on my part. This will not do. They will have to rough it. Hey, I did more "home improvement" for them than I have done for myself since I moved in. I think I deservce a medal...
When I spent a king's ransom to fence my patio, I thought ahead to the coming months of snow and decided to leave a space of several inches between the ground and the bottom of the fence. This would allow me to more easily open and close the doors without having to shovel for 1/2 hour prior to moving my car or trashcans. That was Life Pre-Puppies. It was quick to see that the dogs could easily, even as adults, escape through the provided gap. If I am out there, I can verbally correct their behavior, but who wants to be outside all the time? Those hounds like to play in the snow and rain and I like to be warm and dry.
This situation made potty trips for the dogs a matter of walks and that, in New England winter, is a time-consuming process. So, when my desire for a quiet, indoor afternoon finally reached maximum, I bit the bullet and went to the hardware store. Our local hardware hut is one of those places that has a little of everything under the sun. A quick perusal turned up fencing material. The question, of course, was what type to use. Chicken wire? Too flimsy. Chain link? How to cut that stuff? I settled on "Rabbit Guard." Then, snips were required. Find a suitable pair. Finally, something with which to affix the Rabbit Guard to the wood fence. That meant a big honking stapler. I gathered my $41.00 worth of poodle protection and trundled back to the car. The boys were standing on the passenger seat watching me. Their hopeful eyes made me happy that I was taking the step to give them a backyard in which to play and pee.
Boy, those looks didn't last me long. Quickly I descended into frustrated muttering as I worked to install my fencing addition. First, I had to work with the Rabbit Guard. It had to be laid flat to unroll, but I couldn't easily gauge how much I neecded unless I had it upright along the fence. I didn't want to add another tool, a tape measure, to my arsenal for fear of being overwhelmed with gadgets. Stand the roll of Rabbit Guard on end. Try to unroll it upright. Flip, flop, fall. Lay it down. Roll some out. Try to stand rolled-out fencing and remainder of roll. Watch it curl and fall. Repeat several times. Argh.
Then, staple RG to wood fence. Have staples miss RG wire. Have staples nearly bind finger to wood. Swear. Yell at dogs who are laughing at me from the steps. Roll out more fence, endure more staple chaos, snip fence in wrong place...oh the humanity...
Finally, a sufficient barricade was put in place to pen the most persistent poodle. I let them explore their new backyard and they seemed happy. Of course, it was also rather dark, so they did not get to enjoy the experience as much as they could. The next day was a monsoon. Hard, driving rain. Needless to say, no outdoors play. Just quick trips to the ivy at the edge of the yard for the doin' of the business.
Today. The day. In the 40's and sunshine. I had planned to do some errands before coming home, but set them aside to race back and let the dogs enjoy the outdoors. Do they like their territory? Yes. But, Rodney will only stay outside right now if the back door is fully open. I can't close the storm door or he whines and cries to come back in. This does not bode well for my fuel bills this month. But, he has at least started to staunchly claim one corner for himself and has been merrily marking his area with puppy pride. I am so thrilled.
I was thinking about how to shade the pups from the sun, provide some structural amusement, etc. I then remembered that any more alteration of my environment will require more tools and work on my part. This will not do. They will have to rough it. Hey, I did more "home improvement" for them than I have done for myself since I moved in. I think I deservce a medal...
Friday, January 13, 2006
Pong Culture
In British slang, "pong" means stink. However, I do not use the term with this definition. Rather, I refer to the mother of all video games - Pong.
I remember back to the time where calculators, home computers and cable television were nonexistent in our culture. Digital watches had yet to make a real appearance and, when they did, were the clunky black-banded red LED variety. Same with calculators, for that matter. In other words, basic subsistence technology was not in place during my tender youth. Technology for fun was not a top priority.
Then came Pong. The simple yellow console. The arcane cabling and boxes required to hook the magic to the television. A black and white TV was fine - Pong was black and white. You could play singles or doubles, fast or slow. Back and forth hitting a square white ball with flat white paddles. A video game for the television. A completely novel idea for a generation just getting an inkling of what the new electronic era would provide them.
I thought I was quite privliged to have my Pong game. I caged a discarded black and white TV to put in my bedroom and watched my father have a cerebral vascular event while trying to successfully hook up the device. But, once set up and ready to go, I barricaded myself in my room with 32-oz glass bottles of Coke or Tab and didn't exit for days. The fun thing about Pong was that the simplicity of the game allowed the imagination to rule the show. The ball and paddles could be anything. My mission knew no bounds. My opponent, whether real or imaginary, could be anyone. We created our own fantastic scenarios, dangerous missions, heroic characters to fit our mood. My mother, if I had company, would leave us alone, except to deposit paper trash bags filled with freshly-popped popcorn and more soda just inside my bedroom door.
Pong lasted me a good while. My parents weren't Rockefellers, so as technology progressed, I had to wait patiently for anything new to make it into our house. The next salvo in the video game war was Atari 2600. I begged and pleaded with my parents for an Atari system. My friends and I would spend our free time at the mall or in bowling alleys playing the arcade games - Pac Man, Centipede, Space Invaders, Asteroids...Atari offered these and, it seemed at the time, so much more. Finally, I was rewarded with a gleaming new Atari 2600 system and fell into worship almost immediately. I had, by that time, obtained small color television set. The screen size was such that I and any companions had to huddle close to the set in order to adequately visualize the action. That was ok, we were used to forming a clot of humanity around the arcade games at the mall.
The color, graphics and performance of the Atari system was, by today's standards, laughable. But, it was a major departure from the minimalist Pong environment. We could now see our spaceships blasting our foes, our heroes vanquishing the villains...life was good. Then came The Grand Disruption.
Pong had been the only game in town. With the realized potential of the video game industry, a variety of units hit the market. My friends got a Texas Instrument system. Their games were different than mine and our games could not be played on opposing systems. The Nintendo revolution hit, bringing improved functionality and quality of graphics. Every time, the cost of console and game increased. Quickly, the kids in my neighborhood saw the writing on the wall - we weren't going to be vanguards in the new video revolution. Our parents didn't have the money to keep up with the ever changing technology. I went no further than my early Atari system. One friend got an early Nintendo, but couldn't afford more than a couple of games.
Gaming culture took off with a blast, but we were left in the dust. It was not until I could afford my own computer, as an adult, that I began to play again. Being both poor and cheap, I downloaded demo versions of games onto my machine and made do for a long time. Duke Nukem, Doom, Castle Wolfenstein...I never bought any game software, but had a good time with the free offerings. Even today, if I get the urge to play, I find a free site online and make use of their bandwidth.
My generation built the video universe. Many of us dropped off early on and let others push the developers for new and better programs and hardware. We stragglers were content to play what we had, old and sad as it was, and use our imaginations to fill in the gaps. One day I may jump back into the matrix and rejoin my Pong culture brethren. One day, when I win the lottery....
I remember back to the time where calculators, home computers and cable television were nonexistent in our culture. Digital watches had yet to make a real appearance and, when they did, were the clunky black-banded red LED variety. Same with calculators, for that matter. In other words, basic subsistence technology was not in place during my tender youth. Technology for fun was not a top priority.
Then came Pong. The simple yellow console. The arcane cabling and boxes required to hook the magic to the television. A black and white TV was fine - Pong was black and white. You could play singles or doubles, fast or slow. Back and forth hitting a square white ball with flat white paddles. A video game for the television. A completely novel idea for a generation just getting an inkling of what the new electronic era would provide them.
I thought I was quite privliged to have my Pong game. I caged a discarded black and white TV to put in my bedroom and watched my father have a cerebral vascular event while trying to successfully hook up the device. But, once set up and ready to go, I barricaded myself in my room with 32-oz glass bottles of Coke or Tab and didn't exit for days. The fun thing about Pong was that the simplicity of the game allowed the imagination to rule the show. The ball and paddles could be anything. My mission knew no bounds. My opponent, whether real or imaginary, could be anyone. We created our own fantastic scenarios, dangerous missions, heroic characters to fit our mood. My mother, if I had company, would leave us alone, except to deposit paper trash bags filled with freshly-popped popcorn and more soda just inside my bedroom door.
Pong lasted me a good while. My parents weren't Rockefellers, so as technology progressed, I had to wait patiently for anything new to make it into our house. The next salvo in the video game war was Atari 2600. I begged and pleaded with my parents for an Atari system. My friends and I would spend our free time at the mall or in bowling alleys playing the arcade games - Pac Man, Centipede, Space Invaders, Asteroids...Atari offered these and, it seemed at the time, so much more. Finally, I was rewarded with a gleaming new Atari 2600 system and fell into worship almost immediately. I had, by that time, obtained small color television set. The screen size was such that I and any companions had to huddle close to the set in order to adequately visualize the action. That was ok, we were used to forming a clot of humanity around the arcade games at the mall.
The color, graphics and performance of the Atari system was, by today's standards, laughable. But, it was a major departure from the minimalist Pong environment. We could now see our spaceships blasting our foes, our heroes vanquishing the villains...life was good. Then came The Grand Disruption.
Pong had been the only game in town. With the realized potential of the video game industry, a variety of units hit the market. My friends got a Texas Instrument system. Their games were different than mine and our games could not be played on opposing systems. The Nintendo revolution hit, bringing improved functionality and quality of graphics. Every time, the cost of console and game increased. Quickly, the kids in my neighborhood saw the writing on the wall - we weren't going to be vanguards in the new video revolution. Our parents didn't have the money to keep up with the ever changing technology. I went no further than my early Atari system. One friend got an early Nintendo, but couldn't afford more than a couple of games.
Gaming culture took off with a blast, but we were left in the dust. It was not until I could afford my own computer, as an adult, that I began to play again. Being both poor and cheap, I downloaded demo versions of games onto my machine and made do for a long time. Duke Nukem, Doom, Castle Wolfenstein...I never bought any game software, but had a good time with the free offerings. Even today, if I get the urge to play, I find a free site online and make use of their bandwidth.
My generation built the video universe. Many of us dropped off early on and let others push the developers for new and better programs and hardware. We stragglers were content to play what we had, old and sad as it was, and use our imaginations to fill in the gaps. One day I may jump back into the matrix and rejoin my Pong culture brethren. One day, when I win the lottery....
Monday, January 02, 2006
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Christmas Vacation
Every year I wonder how my Christmas vacation will be played out. As a religious holiday, Christmas means little to me; however, I treasure the Christmas season for the pure spectacle and the honest improvement in condition of man for the duration.
As a child, Christmas was simply marvelous. We would put up our small, artificial tree and festoon said tree with a hodge-podge of ornaments collected from a variety of sources over the years. Christmas Eve was set aside for the opening of one gift and could be marked by a visit with my aunt and her family or a visit by some of the Davis clan who were superb carolers. Christmas Day started early with the opening of the gifts and then a drive to my grandparents or another aunt's house for the Christmas revelry with the family.
Of course, as a child, vacations are never considered an opportunity for rest. They are not occasions for catching up with life or embarking upon new projects. As an adult, vacations seem, more and more, time for just those things. As such, some of the bloom is off the Christmas rose, but I find that I don't mind much. I don't tend to travel during the school year, as I need the time to recharge the batteries and try and reorganize the life that has progressed into chaos since the previous vacation.
For the past several years, I have spent Christmas Day in blissful isolation. Curled up on the couch with a hot cup of coffee while watching movie after movie...the following days devoted to household projects, a bit of shopping the after-Christmas sales and more treasured rest. This year, Christmas Day was a bit different. First, it was warm and sunny. For New England, a Christmas Day in the 50's is an event of note. Couch and coffee are less appealing under those conditions. Instead, I grabbed the dog and headed for the beach. Along with many other dogs and their parents, we romped and played in the sand and surf. Poor pup was a complete mess of sand and dried salt when we returned home, but his tail was still wagging furiously. An odd Christmas Day, but a most enjoyable one.
The subsequent days went mostly as anticipated. A bit of shopping for much-needed clothes, a few books to consume before the return to the salt mine...However, my hoped-for relaxation was not manifesting as hoped. Perkunas is a very active dog. He loves people and dogs and would be happy spending all day playing, running, romping, etc. Like a rambunctious child, he has an inexhaustable supply of energy. Every time I took to the computer, he wanted to play. Pick up a book and he wanted to go for a walk. I began to look ahead to winter vacation and spring break and the momma of them all - Summer. That was enough to prompt me to pet store. Yes, I got him a playmate. A 2 1/2 month old, cream-colored schnoodle. I named him Rodney.
Perkunas is a good big brother and Rodney is an adoring little brother. Both have already begun conspiring to outsmart me and are succeeding nicely. A few snarly scraps are the worst they have done to themselves; they get along nicely. Right now, of course, I have even less peace than before. But that is temporary. Currently is the regimen of house-training and that means taking Rodney outside every 1-2 hours and getting up once at night. But, he is progressing very well and I suspect he will be in fine shape by next week. So, I am forfeiting a quiet Christmas vacation for more relaxing vacations to come. A small sacrifice...of course, I have always wanted a ferret...
As a child, Christmas was simply marvelous. We would put up our small, artificial tree and festoon said tree with a hodge-podge of ornaments collected from a variety of sources over the years. Christmas Eve was set aside for the opening of one gift and could be marked by a visit with my aunt and her family or a visit by some of the Davis clan who were superb carolers. Christmas Day started early with the opening of the gifts and then a drive to my grandparents or another aunt's house for the Christmas revelry with the family.
Of course, as a child, vacations are never considered an opportunity for rest. They are not occasions for catching up with life or embarking upon new projects. As an adult, vacations seem, more and more, time for just those things. As such, some of the bloom is off the Christmas rose, but I find that I don't mind much. I don't tend to travel during the school year, as I need the time to recharge the batteries and try and reorganize the life that has progressed into chaos since the previous vacation.
For the past several years, I have spent Christmas Day in blissful isolation. Curled up on the couch with a hot cup of coffee while watching movie after movie...the following days devoted to household projects, a bit of shopping the after-Christmas sales and more treasured rest. This year, Christmas Day was a bit different. First, it was warm and sunny. For New England, a Christmas Day in the 50's is an event of note. Couch and coffee are less appealing under those conditions. Instead, I grabbed the dog and headed for the beach. Along with many other dogs and their parents, we romped and played in the sand and surf. Poor pup was a complete mess of sand and dried salt when we returned home, but his tail was still wagging furiously. An odd Christmas Day, but a most enjoyable one.
The subsequent days went mostly as anticipated. A bit of shopping for much-needed clothes, a few books to consume before the return to the salt mine...However, my hoped-for relaxation was not manifesting as hoped. Perkunas is a very active dog. He loves people and dogs and would be happy spending all day playing, running, romping, etc. Like a rambunctious child, he has an inexhaustable supply of energy. Every time I took to the computer, he wanted to play. Pick up a book and he wanted to go for a walk. I began to look ahead to winter vacation and spring break and the momma of them all - Summer. That was enough to prompt me to pet store. Yes, I got him a playmate. A 2 1/2 month old, cream-colored schnoodle. I named him Rodney.
Perkunas is a good big brother and Rodney is an adoring little brother. Both have already begun conspiring to outsmart me and are succeeding nicely. A few snarly scraps are the worst they have done to themselves; they get along nicely. Right now, of course, I have even less peace than before. But that is temporary. Currently is the regimen of house-training and that means taking Rodney outside every 1-2 hours and getting up once at night. But, he is progressing very well and I suspect he will be in fine shape by next week. So, I am forfeiting a quiet Christmas vacation for more relaxing vacations to come. A small sacrifice...of course, I have always wanted a ferret...
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
My Rant on Education
The current philosophy powering American education is the most dangerous farce portrayed in our country in modern history. We are sending into the world legions of pampered, enabled, ill-prepared beings who will demonstrate lackluster adult performance and contribute only marginally to the future of this country.
The entire "No Child Left Behind" construct is preposterous. Not all people can learn all things to the same level. Some students are plainly and simply limited. Not only are they truly not up to the task of an academic environment, they obtain little benefit from their tenure of incarceration. We teach them nothing that they can really use to cobble together a productive life. Across the board, vo-tech programs are being slashed by budget cuts. The reality is that schools have to cover their ample butts in light of standardized testing and must channel funds towards core academic courses. Ridiculous. These kids need alternative programs that will teach them skills to find jobs, manage money and raise families. They don't need many of the courses that we mandate they take. They do not becomre more well-rounded by the experience, nor do they build futher critical-thinking skills. They don't have the intellectual capital - and there is no sin in that.
However, modern education theory dictates that all students be tossed into a common barrel and the teacher has to somehow find a way to deliver the curriculum to every mind. This is not possible. One person cannot deliver enough modified versions of a curriculum to meet the needs of every type of student now found in the regular education classroom. Into regular classrooms are tossed students with severe learning disabilities, behavioral problems, emotional problems and widely varying levels of intellect. Once this situation did not exist. Once, the truly problematic students had their own program, where they were given a curriculum more suited to their needs and they were not causing continuous disruption of other students' learning. Now, they are thrown (usually without support) into the regular education classroom and the result is not pretty. The behavioral problems demand a high degree of teacher attention and can bring the learning process to a near standstill. The learning disabled and intellectually-challenged students are frustrated and, too, demand tremendous amounts of individual attention. In a small, structured setting, this is possible. In a classroom of 30 diverse students, this is a pipe dream.
At the other end of the spectrum are the advanced students, who have to try and learn despite the obstacles of their classmates. When homogeneously grouped, these kids thrive. When heterogeneously blended with the remainder of the student population, they cannot receive the curriculum that the deserve and cannot perform up to the standard that they are capable. It is a tragedy that students who want to learn are prevented from doing so by a flawed educational philosophy.
Schools are chided when they implement levels in their system. Honors, regular and low-level courses are becoming a thing of the past. Honors is still holding on, but the low-level course is slowly becoming a thing of the past. These students are being thrust into regular-level courses and the prevailing attitude is that if these students fail, it is the fault of the teacher not providing a sufficiently modified program for them. When you have a number of these students in the classroom, that level of modification is simply not possible. So, teachers often give the students a passing grade to keep the administration and parents satisfied. That is a travesty of education and completely lacking in integrity, but it is becoming the norm.
No one wants to admit that some people are not cut out for an academic life. Academic intelligence has taken on almost a moral quality, so people are afraid of the stigma of having a "normal" or "average" child. To have a child with lower-ability is unthinkable. Some of these parents work through their subconsious shame by morphing into demons plaguing the school system. The demand unrealistic modifications and set ridiculous standards for their child and the teachers. They work like madmen to set up a system that ensures their child's failure appear to be, in no way, the fault of the child (or them). They are miserable, vain, petty people who think their child's success in school reflects upon their societal status. I'd pity them, if they didn't cause so much disruption to the academic community.
I love my job, but I see a bleak future for America. Comapnies and businesses will have to turn more and more to other sources of skilled labor, as we are not producing the necessary individuals for the jobs. We have to unload this unhealthy attitude that all of our youth are "too good" for vo-tech education and rebuild these programs. Everyone should have a basic liberal arts education, but not everyone will or should take jobs requiring college educations. Let students receive training and education in areas tailored to their abiliies and wants, not our view of what makes a fine Young American.
Rant Over.
The entire "No Child Left Behind" construct is preposterous. Not all people can learn all things to the same level. Some students are plainly and simply limited. Not only are they truly not up to the task of an academic environment, they obtain little benefit from their tenure of incarceration. We teach them nothing that they can really use to cobble together a productive life. Across the board, vo-tech programs are being slashed by budget cuts. The reality is that schools have to cover their ample butts in light of standardized testing and must channel funds towards core academic courses. Ridiculous. These kids need alternative programs that will teach them skills to find jobs, manage money and raise families. They don't need many of the courses that we mandate they take. They do not becomre more well-rounded by the experience, nor do they build futher critical-thinking skills. They don't have the intellectual capital - and there is no sin in that.
However, modern education theory dictates that all students be tossed into a common barrel and the teacher has to somehow find a way to deliver the curriculum to every mind. This is not possible. One person cannot deliver enough modified versions of a curriculum to meet the needs of every type of student now found in the regular education classroom. Into regular classrooms are tossed students with severe learning disabilities, behavioral problems, emotional problems and widely varying levels of intellect. Once this situation did not exist. Once, the truly problematic students had their own program, where they were given a curriculum more suited to their needs and they were not causing continuous disruption of other students' learning. Now, they are thrown (usually without support) into the regular education classroom and the result is not pretty. The behavioral problems demand a high degree of teacher attention and can bring the learning process to a near standstill. The learning disabled and intellectually-challenged students are frustrated and, too, demand tremendous amounts of individual attention. In a small, structured setting, this is possible. In a classroom of 30 diverse students, this is a pipe dream.
At the other end of the spectrum are the advanced students, who have to try and learn despite the obstacles of their classmates. When homogeneously grouped, these kids thrive. When heterogeneously blended with the remainder of the student population, they cannot receive the curriculum that the deserve and cannot perform up to the standard that they are capable. It is a tragedy that students who want to learn are prevented from doing so by a flawed educational philosophy.
Schools are chided when they implement levels in their system. Honors, regular and low-level courses are becoming a thing of the past. Honors is still holding on, but the low-level course is slowly becoming a thing of the past. These students are being thrust into regular-level courses and the prevailing attitude is that if these students fail, it is the fault of the teacher not providing a sufficiently modified program for them. When you have a number of these students in the classroom, that level of modification is simply not possible. So, teachers often give the students a passing grade to keep the administration and parents satisfied. That is a travesty of education and completely lacking in integrity, but it is becoming the norm.
No one wants to admit that some people are not cut out for an academic life. Academic intelligence has taken on almost a moral quality, so people are afraid of the stigma of having a "normal" or "average" child. To have a child with lower-ability is unthinkable. Some of these parents work through their subconsious shame by morphing into demons plaguing the school system. The demand unrealistic modifications and set ridiculous standards for their child and the teachers. They work like madmen to set up a system that ensures their child's failure appear to be, in no way, the fault of the child (or them). They are miserable, vain, petty people who think their child's success in school reflects upon their societal status. I'd pity them, if they didn't cause so much disruption to the academic community.
I love my job, but I see a bleak future for America. Comapnies and businesses will have to turn more and more to other sources of skilled labor, as we are not producing the necessary individuals for the jobs. We have to unload this unhealthy attitude that all of our youth are "too good" for vo-tech education and rebuild these programs. Everyone should have a basic liberal arts education, but not everyone will or should take jobs requiring college educations. Let students receive training and education in areas tailored to their abiliies and wants, not our view of what makes a fine Young American.
Rant Over.
Monday, December 19, 2005
The Taste of the Past
I have indulged in coffee since I was a child. It was as much a part of my daily routine as brushing my teeth. Each morning before school, I would be treated to a cup of strong coffee heavily laced with milk and sugar. Cafe au lait for the knee-pants crowd...but only that morning cup. After the breakfast mug, I would take my caffeine in soda form. That post-dawn serving, though, was a carved-in-stone necessity to start my day off on the right foot.
The bean of choice was the Louisiana classic - Community Dark Roast. Most people associate Louisiana with coffee and chicory, but that was not as widespread a brew as cliche indicates. We drank straight dark roast - rich, strong, hair-tingling...no weak-sister-sissy-pants beverage. The bag itself gave indication of the potency of the potion - red, with black and a touch of gold. Bold, eye-opening, rich with old-world style. Aahhh....a big steaming mug, saccharin sweet with swirls of milk from happy southern cows.
When I moved to Massachusetts, I was deprived of my cafe au choice. At that time, ironically, was the dawn of the coffee revolution. The roasted wonder bean had moved from subsistence status to gourmet level and the varieties and flavors exploded in number. Coffee could be had from all points of the globe and in as many flavors as one could dream. Grocery store shelves bulged with bags and cans...most offered whole-bean dispensers so that customers could grind to their own specifications. Nowhere, though, was Community to be found. It was easier to find beans from Zimbabwe than Louisiana. Nothing I tried compared to the full flavor of Community and I was continually disappointed in my search for an appealing substitute.
Then, Community began to look to a larger market. Not geographically, necessarily, but they entered the coffee house club. CC's began to open around Louisiana, operating much like the average Staryucks. With this move came the establishment of a website with online ordering. Praise the Force...Community could now be procured by those removed from Dixieland. I regularly order Community Dark Roast and, yes, their blend with chicory. What a welcome delight is that morning cup. I organize the coffee pot at night and set the timer to have it brewed and waiting when I wake. Facing the New England winter is much easier when fortified with a hot cup of memory. Yummmmmmm.....and I have to admit to sneaking the occasional afternoon mug on especially cold day. Leftovers make the most spendicious iced coffee. This is a pleasant surprise as iced coffee is nothing one ever considered during my youth.
Once again, online shopping has brought joy to my life. It has delivered to me a staple of my younger days, one that has a very special place in my heart. Let others pay the sun and the moon for some wanko variety or flavor. I'll take my plain perfection anyday....
The bean of choice was the Louisiana classic - Community Dark Roast. Most people associate Louisiana with coffee and chicory, but that was not as widespread a brew as cliche indicates. We drank straight dark roast - rich, strong, hair-tingling...no weak-sister-sissy-pants beverage. The bag itself gave indication of the potency of the potion - red, with black and a touch of gold. Bold, eye-opening, rich with old-world style. Aahhh....a big steaming mug, saccharin sweet with swirls of milk from happy southern cows.
When I moved to Massachusetts, I was deprived of my cafe au choice. At that time, ironically, was the dawn of the coffee revolution. The roasted wonder bean had moved from subsistence status to gourmet level and the varieties and flavors exploded in number. Coffee could be had from all points of the globe and in as many flavors as one could dream. Grocery store shelves bulged with bags and cans...most offered whole-bean dispensers so that customers could grind to their own specifications. Nowhere, though, was Community to be found. It was easier to find beans from Zimbabwe than Louisiana. Nothing I tried compared to the full flavor of Community and I was continually disappointed in my search for an appealing substitute.
Then, Community began to look to a larger market. Not geographically, necessarily, but they entered the coffee house club. CC's began to open around Louisiana, operating much like the average Staryucks. With this move came the establishment of a website with online ordering. Praise the Force...Community could now be procured by those removed from Dixieland. I regularly order Community Dark Roast and, yes, their blend with chicory. What a welcome delight is that morning cup. I organize the coffee pot at night and set the timer to have it brewed and waiting when I wake. Facing the New England winter is much easier when fortified with a hot cup of memory. Yummmmmmm.....and I have to admit to sneaking the occasional afternoon mug on especially cold day. Leftovers make the most spendicious iced coffee. This is a pleasant surprise as iced coffee is nothing one ever considered during my youth.
Once again, online shopping has brought joy to my life. It has delivered to me a staple of my younger days, one that has a very special place in my heart. Let others pay the sun and the moon for some wanko variety or flavor. I'll take my plain perfection anyday....
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Sunny Day with Dog
Not that we spent much of our time outdoors, but the sunshine added that "special something" do the day's going's on.
I always feel sorry for Perkunas on weekends. During the week, he is in daycare and gets to romp and play with many dogs of all shapes and sizes. Each day, I pick up a tired, but very happy, poodle. On weekends, however, he is home with me. What a boring experience. I do not roll in the dirt, sniff butts, fight for rawhide bones or any of the things that canines consider the height of hilarity. So, I can understand why he gives me those "pity me" stares starting on Saturday morning.
During warmer times, I walk him all over town. We go to the park and walk along the river. He gets to socialize with the children playing in the park while I chat with their parents. We go downtown, where everyone oohs and aahs over him. With the onset of the cold, I have not been able to walk him nearly as much. This is not really due to the cold, but rather to the lack of effort on the part of the citizenry to clear the ice from their sidewalks. So far, I have made two spectacular slips onto the ice while giving Perkunas a walk and would be happy if that were the winter total. He has also taken a few headers, but he is shorter and lighter than me, so the damage is rather negligible.
So, I have had to find other activities for the pup on weekends. We have settled in to a nice pattern of car rides and visits to the pet stores that allow dogs to visit. He gets to visit with other dogs while I check out the newest toys and attire for the well-dressed pooch. Today, one of the stores was having Pictures with Santa to benefit a local animal shelter. Needless to say, I succumbed and now have a photo of Perkunas giving Santa a big kiss on the nose.
He was also a big help today in that he taste tasted some homemade yogurt for me. I was trying out a technique that seemed easy enough for my students to perform as a lab activity and he was the first one to taste the experimental batch. It passed puppy muster and gave me confidence to try it myself. He was right, it was good. Of course, I have had to contend with a cloud of gaseous ferment issuing from his tiny bottom all evening, but that is a small price to pay.
Tomorrow, he is back in daycare and will again be a content little man. But, the next week is a vacation week...now I know why parents hate summer...
I always feel sorry for Perkunas on weekends. During the week, he is in daycare and gets to romp and play with many dogs of all shapes and sizes. Each day, I pick up a tired, but very happy, poodle. On weekends, however, he is home with me. What a boring experience. I do not roll in the dirt, sniff butts, fight for rawhide bones or any of the things that canines consider the height of hilarity. So, I can understand why he gives me those "pity me" stares starting on Saturday morning.
During warmer times, I walk him all over town. We go to the park and walk along the river. He gets to socialize with the children playing in the park while I chat with their parents. We go downtown, where everyone oohs and aahs over him. With the onset of the cold, I have not been able to walk him nearly as much. This is not really due to the cold, but rather to the lack of effort on the part of the citizenry to clear the ice from their sidewalks. So far, I have made two spectacular slips onto the ice while giving Perkunas a walk and would be happy if that were the winter total. He has also taken a few headers, but he is shorter and lighter than me, so the damage is rather negligible.
So, I have had to find other activities for the pup on weekends. We have settled in to a nice pattern of car rides and visits to the pet stores that allow dogs to visit. He gets to visit with other dogs while I check out the newest toys and attire for the well-dressed pooch. Today, one of the stores was having Pictures with Santa to benefit a local animal shelter. Needless to say, I succumbed and now have a photo of Perkunas giving Santa a big kiss on the nose.
He was also a big help today in that he taste tasted some homemade yogurt for me. I was trying out a technique that seemed easy enough for my students to perform as a lab activity and he was the first one to taste the experimental batch. It passed puppy muster and gave me confidence to try it myself. He was right, it was good. Of course, I have had to contend with a cloud of gaseous ferment issuing from his tiny bottom all evening, but that is a small price to pay.
Tomorrow, he is back in daycare and will again be a content little man. But, the next week is a vacation week...now I know why parents hate summer...
Friday, December 16, 2005
Substitute Teachers
You could not pay me enough money to become a substitute teacher. They have the a terrible job. The pay is lousy, the kids give them no respect and they often have little to actually do during the day - they act as babysitters in most cases.
That being said, they also cheese me off something fierce. I took the day off yesterday and, as usual, crafted specific plans for my students. It is generally accepted in the teaching profession that a day off is more work than a day at work. You have to provide students with work that is curricularly appropriate, provides individual accountability for student progress and keeps them busy for the entire period. This way, even your being absent does not significantly impact student progress. Also, students with a free period are students who lose all self control, and that is a heinous crime to commit against an innocent substitute.
So, I spent time putting together quality plans and duly faxed them to the school yesterday morning. Now, my plans did not require much effort on the part of the substitute and did provide students with sufficient responsibility to fill the period.
Imagine my annoyance when I returned this morning to find that my plans had not been delivered, as written, to the students. Now, at first thought, this would not seem much of a problem...after all, it was just substitute work. Well, teachers actually rely on subs to deliver the lessons as planned and use this confidence to reschedule the remainder of the week's lessons. I arrived today to find that students had not done the reading that I had assigned and were therefore incapable of engaging in the activity that I had planned that used the reading. Then, the substitute decided to continue with a movie I was showing 2 classes. I had planned on continuing the movie today and found myself scrambling to pull together the curriculum I had crafted for the post-film classperiod. Basically, my day was one large balll of stress.
Sometimes the situation is even more aggravating. I have come back from sick days to find my desk rearranged, my various piles of papers "reorganized," soda bottles and snack food wrappers littering the lab area... I generally can't find one thing in its correct location and have to take a prep period to recreate my usual level of structured chaos.
More gripes:
Substitutes sometimes have god complexes and and are utterly dismayed when teenagers do not listen to their every word with reverence. This leads to power struggles betweeen sub and students and that never ends well...
They don't know individual kids (which is to be expected), but try to implicate specific students in the notes that they leave you about the day's events. They are inevitably wrong, but I have to at least follow up on their reports and may wind up embarrassing the falsely-named kid.
Substitutes can be far too wishy-washy and let the kids run wild. This produces building-wide impacts with which I have to deal the next day.
End Gripes
Of course, there are no perfect substitute teachers, just as there are no perfect full-time teachers. And, ultimately, the price is small to pay for the knowledge that your classes are at least being monitored while you are gone. But, just once I would like to return to a classroom that appears as it normally does and students who are actually prepared for the new day's lessons.
Hey, a gal can dream, can't she?
That being said, they also cheese me off something fierce. I took the day off yesterday and, as usual, crafted specific plans for my students. It is generally accepted in the teaching profession that a day off is more work than a day at work. You have to provide students with work that is curricularly appropriate, provides individual accountability for student progress and keeps them busy for the entire period. This way, even your being absent does not significantly impact student progress. Also, students with a free period are students who lose all self control, and that is a heinous crime to commit against an innocent substitute.
So, I spent time putting together quality plans and duly faxed them to the school yesterday morning. Now, my plans did not require much effort on the part of the substitute and did provide students with sufficient responsibility to fill the period.
Imagine my annoyance when I returned this morning to find that my plans had not been delivered, as written, to the students. Now, at first thought, this would not seem much of a problem...after all, it was just substitute work. Well, teachers actually rely on subs to deliver the lessons as planned and use this confidence to reschedule the remainder of the week's lessons. I arrived today to find that students had not done the reading that I had assigned and were therefore incapable of engaging in the activity that I had planned that used the reading. Then, the substitute decided to continue with a movie I was showing 2 classes. I had planned on continuing the movie today and found myself scrambling to pull together the curriculum I had crafted for the post-film classperiod. Basically, my day was one large balll of stress.
Sometimes the situation is even more aggravating. I have come back from sick days to find my desk rearranged, my various piles of papers "reorganized," soda bottles and snack food wrappers littering the lab area... I generally can't find one thing in its correct location and have to take a prep period to recreate my usual level of structured chaos.
More gripes:
Substitutes sometimes have god complexes and and are utterly dismayed when teenagers do not listen to their every word with reverence. This leads to power struggles betweeen sub and students and that never ends well...
They don't know individual kids (which is to be expected), but try to implicate specific students in the notes that they leave you about the day's events. They are inevitably wrong, but I have to at least follow up on their reports and may wind up embarrassing the falsely-named kid.
Substitutes can be far too wishy-washy and let the kids run wild. This produces building-wide impacts with which I have to deal the next day.
End Gripes
Of course, there are no perfect substitute teachers, just as there are no perfect full-time teachers. And, ultimately, the price is small to pay for the knowledge that your classes are at least being monitored while you are gone. But, just once I would like to return to a classroom that appears as it normally does and students who are actually prepared for the new day's lessons.
Hey, a gal can dream, can't she?
The Worst Combination
Weather is an odd thing. It can inspire joy, pain, anger, fear...Generaly, like most folks, I am a fan of nice weather - mild temperatures, sunny skies, dry air...However, I am also a fan of truly inclement weather. The horrible, nasty snowstorm, miserable downpour of rain, galeforce winds - those situations are also enjoyable, but only when one can stay indoors and observe the goings on from the comfort of one's own living room. I cherish crappy days where I can sit on the couch, watch movies and quaff hot beverages. Unfortunately, today is that worst possible combination of weather events.
This morning is an unholy trinity of snow, sleet and freezing rain. And, I still had to go to work. No sitting at home and snuggling in the comforting warmth of fleece blankets. Normally, I could at least look forward to indulging once I got home this afternoon. Today, not the case. Today, the storm is supposed to rapidly move through the area and bring sunshine by afternoon. Rats. With sunshine, I'll want to be out and about, but out and about will be a slushy, pant-spattering mess. So, I'll either sit inside and be antsy to get out or get out and swear constantly about the awful conditions. And there is the puppy factor. Inside he'll be dry, but anxious to get out. Outside he'll be jubiliant and completely sodden with freezing slop. Now, here is where being Alpha comes in handy. I have final say as to his fate. Do I prize my own comfort over his happiness? Do I sacrifice warmth for a living Slushie? Already my head hurts....
This morning is an unholy trinity of snow, sleet and freezing rain. And, I still had to go to work. No sitting at home and snuggling in the comforting warmth of fleece blankets. Normally, I could at least look forward to indulging once I got home this afternoon. Today, not the case. Today, the storm is supposed to rapidly move through the area and bring sunshine by afternoon. Rats. With sunshine, I'll want to be out and about, but out and about will be a slushy, pant-spattering mess. So, I'll either sit inside and be antsy to get out or get out and swear constantly about the awful conditions. And there is the puppy factor. Inside he'll be dry, but anxious to get out. Outside he'll be jubiliant and completely sodden with freezing slop. Now, here is where being Alpha comes in handy. I have final say as to his fate. Do I prize my own comfort over his happiness? Do I sacrifice warmth for a living Slushie? Already my head hurts....
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Plump as a Partridge
Whoa Boy! Is that me! Plump is actually a euphamism for totally fat. This damn fluid retention and metabolic slowdown has packed 60 pounds onto my frame and I feel every ounce. Ugh! Funny, though, the actual impact to my day in terms of stamina, comfort, etc. is really the only thing that concerns me. Odd, but I don't care that I look fat. Anymore than I cared that I looked thin. I just go about my day, as usual, and don't budget any mental time to thoughts about appearance. When I get a "looks" bug, it is usually about my hair or wardrobe, both which need professional assistance in the worst way.
I guess I really place much stock in personal appearance. I do have concern about "proper" appearance and believe that it is a mark of character that one at least does the best with what one has. Nothing irks me more than seeing people put forth no effort towards putting their best face forward. The basics should always be covered - hair washed and brushed, teeth cleaned, body and face scrubbed, clothes washed, etc. Nothing has to be fancy, but there should be some standard of appearance that signals a person has a sense of self-worth. Perhaps that is a flawed attitude. Perhaps self-worth can be expressed in a myriad of ways other than personal hygiene. I grant that other factors come into play, but there does seem to be a strong connection between basic grooming and how you view your inner self.
So, despite the fact that I am a tubby blubby, I cobble together a clean outfit for work each day, my body and hair are clean and I apply a moderate amount of makeup. Takes me all of 10 minutes in the morning to make myself "presentable," and that is quite acceptable for my morning minutes allowance. There are many teachers (and students) who look far better than me, but I at least make the effort to demonstrate a degree of care about my appearance.
Funny, too, is the lack of blatant staring that I receive since I've packed on the pounds. People don't bother to give me a second glance and that is positively refreshing. I now blend in with obese America. Pity, really, but I'll take that bit of easement of daily turmoil and rejoice. Compounded with the benefit that I am warm and toasty this winter, owing to the extra insulation, and my days seem a bit ligher (pun intended) than before.
Of course, I know, for health reasons, that this weight has to come off. The daily diuretics help somewhat (at least my lungs stay dry), but I have to wait for some breakthrough in my diagnosis to start to slide back down the scale. A dream for another day...
I guess I really place much stock in personal appearance. I do have concern about "proper" appearance and believe that it is a mark of character that one at least does the best with what one has. Nothing irks me more than seeing people put forth no effort towards putting their best face forward. The basics should always be covered - hair washed and brushed, teeth cleaned, body and face scrubbed, clothes washed, etc. Nothing has to be fancy, but there should be some standard of appearance that signals a person has a sense of self-worth. Perhaps that is a flawed attitude. Perhaps self-worth can be expressed in a myriad of ways other than personal hygiene. I grant that other factors come into play, but there does seem to be a strong connection between basic grooming and how you view your inner self.
So, despite the fact that I am a tubby blubby, I cobble together a clean outfit for work each day, my body and hair are clean and I apply a moderate amount of makeup. Takes me all of 10 minutes in the morning to make myself "presentable," and that is quite acceptable for my morning minutes allowance. There are many teachers (and students) who look far better than me, but I at least make the effort to demonstrate a degree of care about my appearance.
Funny, too, is the lack of blatant staring that I receive since I've packed on the pounds. People don't bother to give me a second glance and that is positively refreshing. I now blend in with obese America. Pity, really, but I'll take that bit of easement of daily turmoil and rejoice. Compounded with the benefit that I am warm and toasty this winter, owing to the extra insulation, and my days seem a bit ligher (pun intended) than before.
Of course, I know, for health reasons, that this weight has to come off. The daily diuretics help somewhat (at least my lungs stay dry), but I have to wait for some breakthrough in my diagnosis to start to slide back down the scale. A dream for another day...
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Cobwebs like Steel Cable
Oh how my brain hurts! It has been a somewhat tortuous start to the school year and I am now, after many months, beginning to think with anything resembling clarity. Not that there has been any substantial trouble on the job front, but I returned to one of the universe's most bustling jobs after months of virtual inactivity. The energy requirements for making it successfully through the day are enormous for me and I have met the end of each day with a good nap and then bedtime.
As a general rule, my days have had demonstrated little above the level of basic survival behavior. Eat, sleep and work. The only distraction has been my little man - Perkunas! Snow Dog Supreme! He has decided that the greatest thing in the world is snow and would live in an igloo if I offered him the option. We were hit with over 16 inches of snow on Friday and the dog was as happy as any creature on Earth to jump through the snow piles and pretend to be a diminutive snowman.
Beyond that, my brain works dilligently to craft a succession of thoughts that allow me to effectively communicate wiht the living world. It is not easy, but I do my best. I am so ready for the holiday break.....
As a general rule, my days have had demonstrated little above the level of basic survival behavior. Eat, sleep and work. The only distraction has been my little man - Perkunas! Snow Dog Supreme! He has decided that the greatest thing in the world is snow and would live in an igloo if I offered him the option. We were hit with over 16 inches of snow on Friday and the dog was as happy as any creature on Earth to jump through the snow piles and pretend to be a diminutive snowman.
Beyond that, my brain works dilligently to craft a succession of thoughts that allow me to effectively communicate wiht the living world. It is not easy, but I do my best. I am so ready for the holiday break.....
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Tornado Lands in Oz
Like the Wicked Witch of the East, I have been feeling like a house has fallen on my head. Not in a bad way, really, just loads of various occurrences forming an event horizon with ground zero in my living room.
1. Cruise - GREAT! Loved every minute of it and am already considering another trip next summer. Perhaps the Scandanavian region.... Only downside was that I got a cold on the trip and it lasted the entire voyage.
2. Cold - The cold that wracked me on the cruise exploded when I got home. This was likely facilitated by the 38 hours without sleep that I endured during the homeward travel. I felt like an exploding water balloon and found myself returning to couch confinement for a few days while I emptied my head and chest of mucous and engaged in Olympic-level power napping.
3. Preparing for work - school starts next week and I am woefully behind in my preparations. Normally, I get a jump-start on the next schoolyear as the old year ends. This past year found me missing the terminal 1 1/2 months of work, so I accomplished nada. So, I now have to make sure that I have sufficient curriculum ready for the first week....
4. Continuing with the medical train ride - Back to that particular grindstone. Further meetings with my hematologist/oncologist and treks to Mass General Hospital have found continued enlarged liver, chronic anemia and, a new wrinkle, depressed antibody levels. The cause? They still don't know, but they're still working on it with gusto!
But, the biggest event is that I have a new man in my life. Dark and handsome. Silent type, too. Very smart, fun, active. Not the biggest guy around - tops the scales at 3 lbs right now. Already, we are the star couple in town and EVERYONE loves him. His name - Perkunas. The best little puppy in the world...
Went shopping for shoes one day at the mall and passed the pet store window. There he was - an all-black toy poodle puppy. Energetic, with a gleam in his little black eyes. I had no choice - the energies of the universe simply overtook my body and moved me through the procedure of purchase. Of course, I also had to get all of the items that one needs to own a dog, and also some luxuries such as a car seat and a very stylish carry bag. We go shopping and run errands all the time and he is the perfect dog to tote around department stores as he really doesn't bark unless he is very excited, so he goes quite unnoticed by store personnel. His first vet trip provided him with a glowing health certificate, which made me very proud...
He is smart and loves people and other animals. Independent, yet enjoys down-time on the couch with me. I have already enrolled him in day care for when I start school again. We stopped by for him to visit the other dogs in the program and he had the best time playing with them, although they are all larger than is he. The only negative aspect is that his romping will make for a daily dirty doggie...fortunately, he likes his bathtime.
So, I have had little free time to do anything but reconnect with the medical community, prepare for work and create my new family routine. I am actually looking forward to the start of the school year. Forced structure of time - not always a bad thing...
1. Cruise - GREAT! Loved every minute of it and am already considering another trip next summer. Perhaps the Scandanavian region.... Only downside was that I got a cold on the trip and it lasted the entire voyage.
2. Cold - The cold that wracked me on the cruise exploded when I got home. This was likely facilitated by the 38 hours without sleep that I endured during the homeward travel. I felt like an exploding water balloon and found myself returning to couch confinement for a few days while I emptied my head and chest of mucous and engaged in Olympic-level power napping.
3. Preparing for work - school starts next week and I am woefully behind in my preparations. Normally, I get a jump-start on the next schoolyear as the old year ends. This past year found me missing the terminal 1 1/2 months of work, so I accomplished nada. So, I now have to make sure that I have sufficient curriculum ready for the first week....
4. Continuing with the medical train ride - Back to that particular grindstone. Further meetings with my hematologist/oncologist and treks to Mass General Hospital have found continued enlarged liver, chronic anemia and, a new wrinkle, depressed antibody levels. The cause? They still don't know, but they're still working on it with gusto!
But, the biggest event is that I have a new man in my life. Dark and handsome. Silent type, too. Very smart, fun, active. Not the biggest guy around - tops the scales at 3 lbs right now. Already, we are the star couple in town and EVERYONE loves him. His name - Perkunas. The best little puppy in the world...
Went shopping for shoes one day at the mall and passed the pet store window. There he was - an all-black toy poodle puppy. Energetic, with a gleam in his little black eyes. I had no choice - the energies of the universe simply overtook my body and moved me through the procedure of purchase. Of course, I also had to get all of the items that one needs to own a dog, and also some luxuries such as a car seat and a very stylish carry bag. We go shopping and run errands all the time and he is the perfect dog to tote around department stores as he really doesn't bark unless he is very excited, so he goes quite unnoticed by store personnel. His first vet trip provided him with a glowing health certificate, which made me very proud...
He is smart and loves people and other animals. Independent, yet enjoys down-time on the couch with me. I have already enrolled him in day care for when I start school again. We stopped by for him to visit the other dogs in the program and he had the best time playing with them, although they are all larger than is he. The only negative aspect is that his romping will make for a daily dirty doggie...fortunately, he likes his bathtime.
So, I have had little free time to do anything but reconnect with the medical community, prepare for work and create my new family routine. I am actually looking forward to the start of the school year. Forced structure of time - not always a bad thing...
Thursday, August 04, 2005
The Empty Suitcase
Is there anything in the world more mocking than the open, empty suitcase? You stand before it clutching your carefully prepared packing list like a sword of power and are promptly reduced to a quivering mass of insecurity and indecision. All the time spent researching weather patterns, details of shore excursions, professionally-prepared packing guidelines amount to nothing when staring into the Great Nothingness.
You roust the suitcase from its slumber and, with great (perhaps over-) confidence, you fling it open. The energy of empowerment that you have built over the preceding few days fills you to the point where you practically glow with capability. Every eventuality predicted, evaluated and managed. All necessary items carefully inventoried. Outfits have been planned to masterfully match the weather and planned occasions. Multitasking is the name of the game and with efficiency that would be envied by the most stereotypical Swiss, a complete cruise vacation has been designed to fit into a single rolling carryon and a shoulder pack.
Yeah, right.
Suddenly the dark power of the empty suitcase sends its soul-draining tendrils through your skin and into your spine. You become convinced that you have coincidentally forgotten everything and overplanned. All of your carefully-coordinated outfits are inappropriate and unflattering, to boot. You won't be sufficiently warm; you are going to be too hot. Nothing is fashionable. It is all too casual. It is all too dressy. Is that bra torn? What if this happens? What if that happens? It's Alaska - it could snow. Its southern Alaska - it will rain. The crowd will be old. The boat will be filled with youthful energy.
I have nothing to wear.
You roust the suitcase from its slumber and, with great (perhaps over-) confidence, you fling it open. The energy of empowerment that you have built over the preceding few days fills you to the point where you practically glow with capability. Every eventuality predicted, evaluated and managed. All necessary items carefully inventoried. Outfits have been planned to masterfully match the weather and planned occasions. Multitasking is the name of the game and with efficiency that would be envied by the most stereotypical Swiss, a complete cruise vacation has been designed to fit into a single rolling carryon and a shoulder pack.
Yeah, right.
Suddenly the dark power of the empty suitcase sends its soul-draining tendrils through your skin and into your spine. You become convinced that you have coincidentally forgotten everything and overplanned. All of your carefully-coordinated outfits are inappropriate and unflattering, to boot. You won't be sufficiently warm; you are going to be too hot. Nothing is fashionable. It is all too casual. It is all too dressy. Is that bra torn? What if this happens? What if that happens? It's Alaska - it could snow. Its southern Alaska - it will rain. The crowd will be old. The boat will be filled with youthful energy.
I have nothing to wear.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Handbag Hell
In defiance of the accepted feminine stereotype, I must declare that I have no interest in either shoes or handbags. I view both with a strongly utilitarian eye. Today, however, I had to undertake an unsettling journey into handbag hell. I was in need of an evening bag for my upcoming cruise and spent the day moving from store to store in search of an appropriate satchel.
A search of my house will generally produce only two handbags - one brown and one black shoulder plain shoulder bag. I prefer shoulder bags over handbags or clutches since I consider myself incapable of keeping a watchful eye on any item not attached to my person. Once a bag is set down for any reason, there is a rather significant chance that it will remain in that position until the janitorial staff finds in while closing for the evening. Further, I purchase bags that are as plain as an unsalted Saltine. I have neither the time nor the eye to coordinate bags with outfits. I refuse to devote sections of my closet to a handbag collection designed to complement each individual item of my wardrobe. So, plain and in solid black or brown.
An evening bag has never found sanctuary in my home. Formal occasions do not fill my social calendar, therefore, I have never found need for a bag designed solely for "dress up" events. I was not even sure where to begin. I knew that I didn't want to spend the world for the bag as its use was quite limited, but wanted something that was appropriate. For an unfeminine femme, this was a puzzle. So, off to the malls and associated shops.
There should be a book titled "The Myth of the Perfect Handbag." It is as nonexistent as Bigfoot. No two women are shaped or sized exactly the same, nor share exactly the same taste. Even with this trememdous diversity and the vast handbag universe, no one seems to be able to find the Holy Grail of handbags. I know this, because I engaged in sociological research while shopping. I keenly interrogated women who were also bag shopping. I asked the young and the old, every cultural and racial profile I could discern...the consensus was that gorgeous bags existed, functional bags were common, comfortable bags could be had, but no one bag fulfilled every criterion to meet the definition of "perfect." I watched the well-dressed and the tacky scurrying about from shelf to shelf, touching, holding, trying on...bag after bag after bag. The right color, but the wrong size. The perfect style, but won't hold a phone. On and on and on...Like a test set by the Fates to weed out the unworthy...
I had thought that my needs were sufficiently specific that finding something suitable would not pose too much of a challenge. A bother, certainly, but nothing to raise the blood pressure. Of course, I was totally wrong. I wanted a simple, elegant black bag with a thin shoulder strap. It doesn't exist. If it did, it was sucked into hell long ago, leaving behind a race memory that serves only to show us what could have been. If it had a strap, it was replete with garish decoration. If it was plain, it was a clutch. If it was the right material, it was too large and if it was reasonably priced, it was too small. I wandered through the forest of tassels, beads and sequins...winced at too many zeroes on price tags...I had to have a lie down half-way through the ordeal.
Did I buy anything? Yeah. Plain. Black. Wrist strap. Wallet-style, rather than pure purse. Where? Target. I am ashamed. I got so discumbobulated by hour 3 that I defaulted to Target and grabbed a cheapie bag that will do the job, but not much else. I feel like I have let down the team.
I'm afraid to even think about dress shoes....
A search of my house will generally produce only two handbags - one brown and one black shoulder plain shoulder bag. I prefer shoulder bags over handbags or clutches since I consider myself incapable of keeping a watchful eye on any item not attached to my person. Once a bag is set down for any reason, there is a rather significant chance that it will remain in that position until the janitorial staff finds in while closing for the evening. Further, I purchase bags that are as plain as an unsalted Saltine. I have neither the time nor the eye to coordinate bags with outfits. I refuse to devote sections of my closet to a handbag collection designed to complement each individual item of my wardrobe. So, plain and in solid black or brown.
An evening bag has never found sanctuary in my home. Formal occasions do not fill my social calendar, therefore, I have never found need for a bag designed solely for "dress up" events. I was not even sure where to begin. I knew that I didn't want to spend the world for the bag as its use was quite limited, but wanted something that was appropriate. For an unfeminine femme, this was a puzzle. So, off to the malls and associated shops.
There should be a book titled "The Myth of the Perfect Handbag." It is as nonexistent as Bigfoot. No two women are shaped or sized exactly the same, nor share exactly the same taste. Even with this trememdous diversity and the vast handbag universe, no one seems to be able to find the Holy Grail of handbags. I know this, because I engaged in sociological research while shopping. I keenly interrogated women who were also bag shopping. I asked the young and the old, every cultural and racial profile I could discern...the consensus was that gorgeous bags existed, functional bags were common, comfortable bags could be had, but no one bag fulfilled every criterion to meet the definition of "perfect." I watched the well-dressed and the tacky scurrying about from shelf to shelf, touching, holding, trying on...bag after bag after bag. The right color, but the wrong size. The perfect style, but won't hold a phone. On and on and on...Like a test set by the Fates to weed out the unworthy...
I had thought that my needs were sufficiently specific that finding something suitable would not pose too much of a challenge. A bother, certainly, but nothing to raise the blood pressure. Of course, I was totally wrong. I wanted a simple, elegant black bag with a thin shoulder strap. It doesn't exist. If it did, it was sucked into hell long ago, leaving behind a race memory that serves only to show us what could have been. If it had a strap, it was replete with garish decoration. If it was plain, it was a clutch. If it was the right material, it was too large and if it was reasonably priced, it was too small. I wandered through the forest of tassels, beads and sequins...winced at too many zeroes on price tags...I had to have a lie down half-way through the ordeal.
Did I buy anything? Yeah. Plain. Black. Wrist strap. Wallet-style, rather than pure purse. Where? Target. I am ashamed. I got so discumbobulated by hour 3 that I defaulted to Target and grabbed a cheapie bag that will do the job, but not much else. I feel like I have let down the team.
I'm afraid to even think about dress shoes....
Monday, August 01, 2005
Feelin' Evil
Some days the little red devil tap dances on your shoulder and prompts you to go jiggy yourself. Today is a mega-preggo day. I look and feel as if I'm 7 months along, but knew that I had to make more progress towards my trip and life. So, makeup, clothes, lots of caffeine and off I went. Already I was in a minor snitty mood, due to my size/shape and the fact that I am sporting my first sunburn of the year. Normally a little time in the sun wouldn't render me red, but I'd forgotten about that garish yellow label on the Lasix which cautions against both natural and artificial sunlight....stupid medication....
First, I had some blood to donate to the vampiritic medical community. The parking lot was packed to the gills and I was too darn lazy to walk very far. So, the "Clergy" placard goes flying onto my dashboard and the RAV 4 turns into the oh-so-sweet clergy parking space. Evil, but I wasn't going to be there all day...
Went to Filene's and actually found one style of pants that will serve for work. While browsing, I ran across a miserably boorish woman. One of those who thinks nothing of pushing you out of the way while she circles around the clothing carousel. I spied her doing the "try the jacket on over the clothes and look at yourself in the big pillar mirrors" thing. I further spied that she had hung her already-selected garments on a rack while she tried on her jacket. Was easy to remove said garments and scatter them around the department.
A final stop brought me to purchase some seed for my bird feeder. Now, being a townie, I am well aware of the traffic directions that should be followed and those that should be ignored (and are ignored by all locals). So, I happily backed my car out of my parking space and proceeded to head the wrong way up the one-way drive in the parking lot (as is the local custom). Ahead, I see an elderly woman driving a Lexus the correct way down said drive waving at me and looking anxious. Figuring she is a lost tourist, I roll down my window and am greeted with a contemptuous "You're going the wrong way." I considered all appropriate responses and finally inquired if she'd like to hear my proposal concerning old women and Soylent Green.
Fortunately, Monkey Baby had been an obedient, respectful branch-swinger during my absence, so my return home was quite pleasant and without incident. We took a book onto the porch and read a bit while waiting for the grocery delivery. Delivery - fine. No new opportunities to exercise my evil streak. Kind of a shame, actually. I do enjoy a good bit of malevolence now and then...
First, I had some blood to donate to the vampiritic medical community. The parking lot was packed to the gills and I was too darn lazy to walk very far. So, the "Clergy" placard goes flying onto my dashboard and the RAV 4 turns into the oh-so-sweet clergy parking space. Evil, but I wasn't going to be there all day...
Went to Filene's and actually found one style of pants that will serve for work. While browsing, I ran across a miserably boorish woman. One of those who thinks nothing of pushing you out of the way while she circles around the clothing carousel. I spied her doing the "try the jacket on over the clothes and look at yourself in the big pillar mirrors" thing. I further spied that she had hung her already-selected garments on a rack while she tried on her jacket. Was easy to remove said garments and scatter them around the department.
A final stop brought me to purchase some seed for my bird feeder. Now, being a townie, I am well aware of the traffic directions that should be followed and those that should be ignored (and are ignored by all locals). So, I happily backed my car out of my parking space and proceeded to head the wrong way up the one-way drive in the parking lot (as is the local custom). Ahead, I see an elderly woman driving a Lexus the correct way down said drive waving at me and looking anxious. Figuring she is a lost tourist, I roll down my window and am greeted with a contemptuous "You're going the wrong way." I considered all appropriate responses and finally inquired if she'd like to hear my proposal concerning old women and Soylent Green.
Fortunately, Monkey Baby had been an obedient, respectful branch-swinger during my absence, so my return home was quite pleasant and without incident. We took a book onto the porch and read a bit while waiting for the grocery delivery. Delivery - fine. No new opportunities to exercise my evil streak. Kind of a shame, actually. I do enjoy a good bit of malevolence now and then...
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