Hygiene

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Digital Diva

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Am What I Wear

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

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

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

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

Faces of the Dead

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

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

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

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

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

The I's Have It

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

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

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

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

Students Fear Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Common Contract

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

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

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

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

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

The Time of the Season

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

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

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

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

I'm A Leavin'....

...on a jet plane...

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

The Bride of Television

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Butt Hurts

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Quick Passing Thought

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

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

The First Day of Spring

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

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

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

The Ills of Ill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, and Disneyland….

Twinkle Twinkle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ok, and I got a poinsettia – sue me.

The Value of Education

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













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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green Card for Prozac Nation

A few months ago, I was diagnosed with SAD. Seasonal Affective Disorder. Not the "winter blues" that is a major complaint during the winter months, but the true physiological disorder. It has to do with serotonin and the brain. The brain makes it, the body uses it. My brain, however, is the possessive type. As soon as the serotonin was produced and released, my brain was grabbing it back. It could simply not bear for its precious serotonin to leave the nest, especially to that base, animalistic body. So, serotonin was not having its normal effect on my form - keeping my form normal. Serotonin balances, moderates, keeps things on even keel. What was happening was that I started swinging. Not in the Laugh-In use of the term, but rather in mood and emotion. I would be happy and content in bright sunny weather and an anxious, irritable, depressive mess during dark periods. Serotonin production is related to light level and short photoperiods normally see diminished serotonin levels. Hence the more noticable effects in winter. But, overcast days can do the same for people with serious cases and I am an example of this unfortunate type.

I can tell upon waking in the pitch black, wee hours of the morning, what will be the weather for the day. My body can gauge pressure in the atmosphere with great precision. So, from the beginning of my day, I would know if I was going to have a "good" day or a "bad" day. Was the the forecast sunny and clear or dark and rainy. So, from its beginning, the road of my day was laid out. And, my predictions were never wrong. Bad days were dreaded and made me want to stay in bed with the blankets pulled snugly over my head. I knew that any small perturbation in the day would push me over the emotional edge. I would be snippy and irritated with everyone and I would be overwrought if extra chores or responsibilities manifested during the day. I would not be truly in control of myself. It was time to seek medical assistance.

Actually, I first visited my doctor for other health complaints and brought up these symptoms during the discussion. She quickly summed the ideas in my description into a picture of SAD and promptly prescribed Prozac. This did not make me happy. Prozac was for people with clinical depression. Prozac was for crazy people. Prozac made "normal" people crazy. Prozac made you hear voices, become suicidal or murderous. Prozac was not your friend. Not being one to keep my opinions to myself, I voice my concerns to my doctor and she whacked me on the head for evaluating without evidence. Did I have any facts or information to really back up my claims. Ummm...no. She knows that I am a scientist and attacked me with the one argument that I could not discount - I was reaching a conclusion based on anecdotal evidence. Drat. Foiled again.

So, I took my cursed prescription to the pharmacy and found myself becoming self-conscious as I stood in the Drop-Off line. I noticed that I was holding my slip so that no one could see the medication. I made sure not to use the drug name when I spoke with the pharmacist. I realized that I didn't want anyone to know I was on Prozac. I was "ashamed." I was truly worried about how people would view me if it became known that I was on Prozac. This is atypical of me. I generally don't give a fig about what people think about me, or thought I didn't. I went home, clutching my pills and perplexity.

Why was I feeling this way? I look like a train wreck. I am not a fashion follower. I am outspoken, annoyingly liberal and unflinchingly honest. I follow the lead of my own heart and head. I am compassionate and respectful to others, but will always give greater weight to my own beliefs and act accordingly. Why in the heck did I care if the world knew I was on Prozac? I dance and have always danced to my own musical score. It was bewildering. I knew people who were on Prozac or similar and did not think anything about it. I didn’t look down on them; in fact, I never gave a second thought to the idea once they told me this drug had been prescribed to them. They might just as well have told me the doctor prescribed Advil. But, on a general level, there was something about the medication…I could divorce my biases when it was being taken by friends and peers, but the Prozac aura still existed in my mind for the general public. Further, the aura was intensified when applied to me. I was baffled, confused, but still quite ashamed.

I took my hated medicine faithfully and found that its benefits were legion. I was able to face the world again. Regardless of time of year or time of day, through rain, sleet, snow or sunshine, I was balanced. My normal emotions were not blunted, but I was not swinging like a monkey in a tree. Things were as they should be. A success! It worked! The way it should. Privately, I reveled in my freedom from emotional slavery to the weather. I rejoiced in the knowledge that I could expect each day to be manageable. Not that every day would be a “happy” day, Prozac doesn’t have that magical property. Every day, though, would not have the extra burden of an emotional roller-coaster added upon the normal trials and tribulations. That was great blessing. But, my personal joy did not lead to shared information. I could not slough off the feeling that this was wonderful, but wrong. I was actually more insecure now than ever Why?

Well, the why is obvious. It means I am not perfect. Surprise! Scigirl is not saintly. The armor has a chink. Of course, this is no surprise. Of course, this is normal. Of course, this is natural. For other people. Not for me. I do not accept imperfection. I am the consummate overachiever, never satisfied with good enough. Failure is a sign of weakness in myself, of wrongness, of “shame.” I am not so universal as to project my judgement onto others, though. I fully understand that people have imperfections, make mistakes, experience failures and I am always there to lend a willing hand. I believe it is the responsibility of the individual in civilized society to give aid where and when it is needed. Freely and willingly. I just don’t apply this to myself. Failure slashes through me like a razor blade. It flays the skin from frame. It utterly macerates my self-esteem, self-image, leaves me in a blaze of anger at my own ineptitude. I rage at failure, at imperfection and I will go to extreme lengths to avoid this situation. I do whatever it takes to succeed. I drive myself to exhaustion to produce product and project that is unmatched among my peers. I race hard and fast to master topics – not learn, “master.” I never stop at beginning level – I go as far as I can with the resources I can muster (and I obtain every resource available to me regardless of the time or monetary burden). I am obsessive with my drive to leave no doubt in my mind that I have utterly, completely, totally succeeded.

The Prozac is a sign that the one thing I hold most dear, my brain, is not perfect. I accept that my body is not. It has failed me more times than a dead-beat parent. It is riddled with problems, traumas, impediments and curtailments. But, my brain…it is the one thing that has worked steadily and strongly all my life. It is the organ around which my entire life has been built. It is the only thing that has kept me alive and in motion through the hardships I have endured. If in trouble, it will find a way out. If I want to expand, grow…it will facilitate my efforts. My stalwart brain has let me down. There is no greater failure to me than that.

Except for one. The need for help. I don’t ask for help. Again, it is a sign of personal weakness on my part. For others, I will go to the ends of the earth to be of assistance. To make their times and lives easier and more comfortable. For myself – I do it alone. And, I always have. I have, since childhood, had to make my own way in life. I was an only child to a couple who, by all accounts, should likely never have had children. My mother was a woman impatient with young children – I would often get punished or whipped for no reason other than her own frustration with life and its events. Her temperament was more suited to older youths and our relationship improved greatly by the time I was in high school. My father was 51 years old when I was born and died of Alzheimer’s Disease when I was 19. He was in decline most of my formative years and, obviously, did not play much of a fatherly role in my upbringing. I learned to rely on one person for my living – myself. Then, it was the need to help my mother take care of my father. While she was caring for him, she was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. She lived another 3 years and I took care of her during this time. Then, I was with a self-absorbed husband who neither cared nor paid any attention to me. Everything I did, I did with and for myself. Upon divorce, I was left destitute and had to scratch and claw for base survival. Never once did I receive help. From anyone. At any time. It has become the norm for me. It is who I “am.”

So the Prozac hit me in the worst possible place. It punched the most sensitive button. You are weak and need help. Could things be worse? No. Not in any way. The funny thing is I know need help on many levels, as do we all. I often wish I had a hand with daily tasks. I want the immediate shoulder to cry on when the frustrations of life become too much to bear. But, I don’t ask for it. Further, I tend to politely refuse it when it is offered. I have wonderful friends who witness my various trials and offer their hands to me willingly and gladly. And, I always respond, “I’ll definitely let you know when I need help. I promise.” Lie, lie, lie…Oh, I’ll take a lift to the airport or someone grabbing me a bottle of soda on the way over to visit, but for something of importance. I just can’t break away from my solo mode. I need help with my head and the Prozac is a major beginning. But it is a beginning that, ironically, depresses me. I really should see a counselor about this issue, but that would be seeking help and admitting weakness. Catch 22. Damn that Joseph Heller…

The Ghosts in My House

I bought my first piece of property on July 28 of this year, at the age of 38. I never thought I would come to this place in my life. I had somewhat resigned myself to a life of renting. But, due to the house in which I had lodging being sold, I was forced to find other accommodations. Whereas I do not believe in the hand of the Universe, the deux ex machina coming down to rememdy problems with a wave of the hand, some mystical force was at work in my favor for this venture. I found the perfect residence for myself, at a price that was laughable for the town in which I live. Its not a palace, or a poorhouse (thank you Eddie Cantor), but it is the perfect size for a single person and has all the amenities that I could want.

An old dwelling. Built over 100 years ago with a foundation and skeleton as solid as a grandfather's attitudes. The building was converted into two half-house condominiums in the 1980's, but a good job was done with the conversion. The surgery was careful and performed with skill. No scars remain. Of course, in the years between the original construction and my acquisition, renovations had been performed. Ceilings, walls, flooring, appliances...updates had to occur. But, this is like the makeup with which I adorn myself each morning. A touch-up layer over a strong, but aging frame. And, some areas have yet to feel the hand of the contractor. The house is still mostly "old." And in the old, lie ghosts.

Not Amityville-esque spectres, but the crystallized spirit of the years ingrained in the wood and stone. The ghosts of laughter, tears, health, illness, anger, contentment...for every emotion there is energy. And energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only change form. From its manifestation, the energy of emotion makes its way into the surroundings and transfers its power into the molecules and atoms of the structure in which it is housed. Houses capture, store and eventually (when the quantity is sufficient) give that energy form. Ghosts.

I have many ghosts in my house. I feel them often. I live alone and, therefore, have not the distraction of others to block the signals. And, I am sensitive to energies. I was born on the last day of the last sign of the Zodiac cycle. All things psychic and mystical flow through the signs and land squarely on my shoulders. I feel the ghosts, but I do not fear them. What is there to fear? They speak to me of the realities of life; the normal and expected trials, tribulations, victories and wonders of lives lived in this place. Men, women, children...all have contributed to my ghosts and I actually welcome the company. I am part of a line, a family. This house has been passed on, one family or individual to the next; each transfer passing with it the energy of the lives of the residents who have come before. Now they have been passed to me. I find that peaceful.

In some places, I can see the ghosts. Now, a botanist would argue the simple structural reasons for my ghosts, but I have no truck with plant-lovers. In the path between my bedroom and bathroom, I have made some friends. They say hello in the morning and "sleep well" at night. This one




gives me a robust "MORNIN' DARLIN'" every day. A perky start to the day. I am sure it is a "he." The voice is loud and strong, filled with confidence. When I exit my bedroom, he is there to greet me. Some days, he is quiet and I take this as a bad omen. Being energy, ghosts are connected to ALL energy and this includes the energy of nature. They are also connected to forces, as forces and energy (and matter for that matter) are three sides of the same pyramid. He is my yardstick for the day. By his greeting do I measure what the day holds in the ready. He is mature and has the experience and wisdom that ensures he listens to and acknowledges the subtle, yet signficant signals from the surroundings. I trust his judgement.

A few steps along the route to the bathroom, I bid hello to this one




Another male, I believe (my ladies are closer to the loo, as would be expected). Younger and less experienced. Eager to chat and deflated when I cannot linger to converse. He is an exuberant inquisitor - how are you today, what are you doing today, who will you see today, when shall you be home, what are you cooking for dinner, what are you going to do about this and that issue...some days, I find this helpful. It organizes my thoughts and assists me in setting up the schedule for the day. Other times, I feel as if my brain will burst from the torrent of questions, images, enumerated obligations and responsibilities. On those days, I hurry past. That makes him sad and confused, I think, and that discordance ripples through the energy that ties me to the ghosts. My day will be set into a spiral downward. When I have the presence of mind, I return to him and linger a bit. I listen to his questions and provide the answers. When he is happy, my day is happy.

Right at the entrance to my bathroom is this pretty lassie




She was a beauty in her time, I suspect. She comments and critiques my ready-making in the morning and her words are honest. You look tired this morning, how will you cover those circles under your eyes, you skin is more sallow than usual, have your cheeks fallen in more, what is the issue with your hair, your nose is quite red today, so are your eyes...many days, I look in the mirror and ask the question "why bother?" My physical appearance is not appealing. On good days, I resemble a heroin addict. On bad days, I resemble a tapeworm-ridden heroin addict after a few rounds with the Angel of Death. Regardless, it is sometimes very hard to muster the motivation to apply makeup and fix my hair. No matter the effort, I still make strangers nervous. Men do not demonstrate an interest. For what reason should I take the time to primp and preen? Turning to leave the mirror, I spy my little ghost. She wags her finger, clucks her tongue in the manner of the impertinent young. You make the effort for you, she says. Self-pride is all. I turn around and begin to apply my cosmetic camoflauge.

This one I hear from rarely




and I find that saddening. She is old, very old. And, I think, she is also very wise. But she lives in a room that I have set aside for visitors. And, I have no visitors. The room is bright, decorated in blues and appointed with colorful floral images. It contrasts markedly with my own bedroom, which is darker and rich in shades of the Earth. The guestroom is a very happy room and I think she likes it there. But, I don't enter it much. I don't really have a reason to do so. Sometimes, I do go in and we exchange a few words. But she doesn't know me well, yet, so the conversations are brief. I am hopeful that we will have more occasion to talk in the future.

My house has many ghosts. These are but a few, but the few I see most often. One day, I shall leave my ghost for the next resident. That poor, poor bastard...

Water Beats Water

Remember the old game "Rock, Paper, Scissors?" Today is nature's version of this game. To date, we have experienced more snow than the last Ice Age and the mountains that have surrounded my property actually demonstrate clinal variations in vegetation from the base to the apex.

Snow insulates. The theory behind igloos and snow houses. And, the more you have, the slower it will melt. We have had warmish temperatures lately, but the effects of this baking has done little to break down the mighty mounds. Today, that has changed. We are having rain. Real rain - not the freezing variety or a misty dibble-dabble, but good solid rain. Today is the last day in the life of the snow...

Water has beaten water. What the sun could not accomplish, a different form of the same substance has done in a trice. The power of liquid water is profound, of course. Anyone gazing upon the glory of the Grand Canyon is witnessing the power of water in its flowing form. If it can carve rock, it can wreak havoc on snow. But, there is something cannabilistic about the process. Snow and water are both, well, water. There is nothing chemically different about them. Two atoms of hydrogen bonded to an atom of oxygen, forming a bipolar molecule of water. Steam is the same as well. The forms of water represent phases of matter - chemically identical, but with varying physical properties due to differences in energy and molecular motion. Vastly different - steam gives us a nice salmon dinner. Ice provides the sorbet for dessert. Water does the dishes.

But, it is said that every snowflake is different. And, I don't doubt that is true. Given the complexity of the structure, the number of permutations of form are staggering. I also think the same is true, though, for raindrops. No one says much about that. Consider that raindrops are actually accumulations of water molecules. Right away, there is variation in the number of molecules in the drop, the mass of the drop, the volume, surface area, diameter, circumference, shape, etc. Each unique, each discreet. Not as showy as their wintry cousins, but just as provided with independent identities. This will also affect the way in which each reflects and refracts light, so they would look "different" to the eye based on luster, color, radiance, etc.

But we think of water as the plain sister to snow. Snow is applauded for its beauty, portrayed in art and on countless holiday cards. It is embroidered on clothing and shaped in to pencil erasers and notepads. One does not see this attention paid to rain. We speak of its cleansing power and its life-giving properties, but not its beauty. We do not view rain as pretty. It is not cute. But to weigh the quality of beauty against those of life and rebirth demonstrates the value of rain over snow. We overlook rain with the eye, but we see rain with the soul.

I am reminded of John Ruskin's quote:

Remember that the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless; peacocks and lilies, for example.

Besides winter-sports enthusiasts and snowball warriors, few find "use" in snow. But, if asked, most people could ennumerate the uses of rain. But, we do not glorify rain. We don't create art around the drizzle. We acknowledge its importance, its worth. We cry when it is lacking and die when the lack is prolonged. But we do not romance the rain.

What was my point again?

Cavewoman Revisited

Despite a purely academic upbringing and a lifelong commitment to vegetarianism, I can somewhat proudly state that I am a formidable predator. Or, I could be if I so chose. For some odd reason, I am blessed with the skills that make for the most successful examples of a predatory species. Evolution and genetics tag-teamed to give me the ability to thrive in the Paleolithic world, yet placed me in our modern tar pit.

I am cunning, intelligent, manipulative, relentless…I analyze, visualize, try and learn from both mistakes and successes, investigate, take risks…My brain works with the rapidity of an electron screaming through an wire. From sight to action, my response time is blisteringly short. And pity the person or object that finds itself between me and my objective. A pile of smoldering ash…

Mentally, my brain is hard-wired for predation mode. I am not passive; I have not the qualities of prey. I do not manifest the persona of a victim and cannot even fall back on the time-honored female tradition of crying on demand. I am aggressive in action, determined in deed. I stalk, I pursue, I track down, I take down, I feed on my success.

My cranial computer also has the ability to hard-code search images. I can flip quickly through a 20 page document and find single words in the tens of thousands of characters with which I am presented. I often catch myself looking back at some piece of text, at first without knowing why, until I then consciously spy a word that has been of interest or importance for me that day. The same is true for objects. I can find anything. I don’t mean lost relatives or some such nonsense, but ask me to find an individual in a crowd and it shall be done. Driving in my car can be a nuisance in that I am always spotting objects of interest lying camouflaged in fields and woodlands. The smallest turtle sunning on a log will not escape my notice. This was the source of much annoyance to my ex-husband. He was (and likely still is) a member of the upper echelon in the birding community. The type to travel at a moment’s notice to any part of the country when a rare bird sighting was reported. And, to give him credit, his ornithological skills were strong. One of the people whose word on a bird identification was taken as gospel.

But he couldn’t find birds as well as I could. I am, by education, an ichthyologist. But, I do enjoy nature and, being the dutiful young wife, did my best to share my husband’s interests. I took up birdwatching and found that it was something for which I had an uncanny talent. I couldn’t always identify what I found, but I could do a few things. First – I had the ability to spot birds. The “bird” form was branded into my visual cortex and anything that fit that profile was immediately spotted and processed. Everyone else saw a tree; I saw the Brown Creeper motionless on the trunk. No bush, field, beach, fence line, etc. was ever empty to me. I would often remain in the car or under a tree reading a book while a band of premier birders investigated an area. The simmering anger was tangible as I meandered over to them, sandwich crumbs falling from my jacket, to ask – hey, what’s that in the bush? Something they missed was the unspoken answer.

Beyond this, though, I have luck, and a predator needs luck. I don’t actually believe in luck; I believe that some people have brains that more successfully process environmental cues at the subconscious level. The actions one takes are based partly on this analysis. My brain “sees” a myriad of minute, subliminal, seemingly-unconnected things and puts me in the right place at the right time with the right tools…Since it was not planned or intentional, it gets termed “luck.” Really, it is the extreme manifestation of the predatory mind. After the birding community hurdled their urge to hide my body in a flooded rice field, they began to realize my worth. My suspicious mind was always awhirl when phone calls to our home to announce a bird report were always ended with “don’t forget to bring your wife along.” So, along I would go, as I enjoy a promenade in the wild. And, I would toodle around a bit with the group until I bored of their single-subject conversations. I would then go off on my own to photograph wildflowers, explore streams or break out a book and take a welcome read.

And that’s when it would happen. No matter the wrong turn on the way to the car, the direction to the refuge center’s loo, the amount of time spent hanging upside down from a tree limb – I would find “it.” “It” was the bird around which the whole trip was centered. The rarity that had the birding community combing field and forest like the FBI hunting an escaped convict. The creature that had sparked a Level 1 Anxiety Alert throughout the Audubon Society. Birders carefully report and document the location of sightings and, logically, concentrate search efforts in areas where a bird had been previously seen. Especially, when the sightings were in the same location repeatedly. I would find myself staring at the object of their fondest desire half a mile away from the spot where it had been consistently reported, in a stand of vegetation uncharacteristic of its normal habitat. I wouldn’t even know that it was “it.” I would just know it was something that I had not yet seen and I had seen a lot. So, I would chat with it for awhile, trying to persuade it to flutter back to its normal zone so that the others could discover it on their own. I begged it to spare me having to walk back and announce that I had found “it” yet again. I was unaware, though, that this was the hope of the birding community. They were counting on my aimless wanderings producing results and my pleas to the bird to go unheeded. They got a bit lazy, half-heartedly looking for their rarity, biding time until I brought them to the exact spot where the tweeter frolicked. I think they were more devastated by my divorce than was my ex-husband…

I am also loved/hated by my friends who fish. I don’t fish. I have no moral objection to fishing; I just find fishing boring and I abhor boredom. But, I have often found myself in situations where the “when in Rome” philosophy was appropriate. I have no pole and so would be loaned the most simple and pitiful of the available models. Ultimately, the loaners disintegrated in quality to pool cues with paper clips. This is because they realized the tool was irrelevant. No matter what the size, design or complexity of the pole, I caught fish. Not trash fish, either. Prize winners. Beautiful keepers. I would be the only one during the day to land fish that were above the legal size limit to take home. Meaning, I was the only one to be counted upon to provide dinner. And I didn’t try. Actually, I would try not to catch fish. I didn’t read the water for signs of schools or analyze the habitat for likely hot spots to drop my lure. I would just toss my line anywhere and let it do its thing. Its thing was to entice and hook a fat, glistening trout or flounder the size of a football-party pizza. I would put my line in areas where I was sure nothing existed. That would get me a redfish. I couldn’t win. Thousands of dollars of high-tech fishing gear wielded by experienced individuals would produce 3 withered, puny catfish for a day’s efforts. I could feed a family of 6 and their Aunt Agnes. My predatory genes in full action.

I rather feel sorry for my predatory genes. They get little use most days. Stalking and killing the wild soybean does not interest them much. They long for some technology that would transport me magically to the Paleolithic world, where they could be manifest full force. They long to be relied upon for survival. They wish me a Cavewoman. Some days, that doesn’t sound half bad…

More Money Than Sense

Rocello by Munktiki. #128 of 150

An apt description of me. And, since I have little money, one gets a good idea of my quantity of sense. I successfully procured the above Tiki last night on Ebay. Munktiki is a company that produces new Tiki mugs. Not pool party plastic nonsense, but quality Tiki. Their designs reflect new twists on old themes. Tiki Farm is another major producer, with more traditional designs from interesting Tiki artists. From a period of where it lay forgotten by the public, Tiki has made a resurgence and one can find new Tiki items, bars and themed-restaurants springing up like daffodils in springtime. Most is trash, as is the norm with a trend. But, some is true to the spirit and heart of the old Tiki glory and I will procure exemplar items of this category without guilt.

I prefer vintage or original Tiki, though. Items designed for use in active Tiki restaurants and bars. Those touched by human hands and used for their original purpose - serving drinks. Not ordinary drinks, though. Drinks of the most exotic nature. Wild and carefree. Swaying palms and balmy breezes. Bongo drums and the call of tropical birds. A hammock, a Mai Tai and a contented smile. A vintage mug grasped in your hand magically transports you to a sunny island where there are neither cares nor worries. A gentle adventure for the body and spirit. Slow and easy, friendly and welcoming, fruity and fun...there is nothing serious or stern about Tiki.

I prowl the Salvation Army, flea markets, yard sales and second-hand stores for examples of vintage Tiki. From these efforts, I have found reward in fine examples of old Tiki craft. Otagiri, Orchids of Hawaii, Stephen Crane...Some pieces proudly announcing the establishment for which they were produced - The Islander, Bali Hai, Kowloon, Mai Kai. Others, mysteriously anonymous. And I can feel the draw of the old Tiki the moment I enter a shop. Like Lovejoy, I am a divvy, though not for all antiques. Tiki calls, I listen. And it takes but a fleeting glance to determine for certain the authenticity of a piece. Even in pristine condition, the years lay on them like a fine patina. The spirit of the original American Tiki movement was fired in the glaze and remains there still.

Therein lies the distinction between Tiki pieces of modern production. Companies like Tiki Farm and Munktiki were founded by people who understand Tiki. They enjoy it, use their Tiki mugs for their intended purposes. The put their love of Tiki into their products and this elevates them wildly above the common trash that abounds in dollar stores and WalMart. They are Real Tiki, but for modern times.

I currently have a bid on a very limited edition of Bosko's homage to the classic Tiki Bob.


Space Age Bob by Bosko. #23 of 25

Only 25 are being made. Will I win this auction? Only the Tiki knows for sure. I hope that I am deemed worthy...