What an exciting finish to the game last night, the Patriots down by a dozen points and not moving the ball. The announcers were making it clear that the Cinderella team was going to leave the field empty-handed when the Patriots began playing football.
It was awe-inspiring to watch the team regain dominance of the game, to score, to pull off a 16th consecutive win, a feat no other football team has accomplished. The celebration on the field, however, was tarnished by the commentators who warned that sure, this is a big milestone, but "it means nothing" if they don't win the play-offs!
Ah, come on: the announcers are all former athletes whose teams did NOT accomplish this feat, so they have to take it away from the first team in NFL history that does?
Grow up and get gracious! Give credit where credit is due and allow both the team and the fans to revel in it for a day before you start hacking away at the glitter and the glory of the accomplishment.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Double Tap
Of course, if someone is going to tap your back bumper with their front bumper because they aren't paying attention to the traffic, it'll be at the busiest intersection possible. When you exit your vehicle to assess the damage, there are 5000 cars behind you, drivers honking their horns and/or swerving around you into the oncoming traffic lanes, creating a really dangerous situation.
It's just 2 holes and the outline of his license plate, but the holes are punched through the bumper. He looked, said, "oh, well, sorry," got back into his vehicle and drove off! I could have chased him onto the freeway and tried to stop him or get his license plate, but at that moment, it didn't seem worth it.
I guess I can either patch the holes with auto body putty--or just leave them and move on, which seems like a good idea.
It's just 2 holes and the outline of his license plate, but the holes are punched through the bumper. He looked, said, "oh, well, sorry," got back into his vehicle and drove off! I could have chased him onto the freeway and tried to stop him or get his license plate, but at that moment, it didn't seem worth it.
I guess I can either patch the holes with auto body putty--or just leave them and move on, which seems like a good idea.
It Sucks!
Lowe's opens at 6 am, so after eating b'fast by myself (I guess everyone else decided to sleep in), I shopped vacuum cleaners. I was particularly interested in the Shark brand as I have a cordless/bagless rechargeable that does a great quick job, especially on flat carpet and/or tile floors. I have been using it daily to keep up with the dog hair deposits, and usually have to empty the little dirt cup 4-6 times per use.
I compared the Shark models with the other display models and went with the Eureka as almost all of the features were the same except for amps; the Shark had 9.5 and the Eureka 12.0, so I went with the more powerful motor.
It was easy to assemble, and is lightweight and powerful: I revacuumed the carpet throughout the house, a chore I had just done Wednesday morning, and had to empty the dirt container twice! It clogged with the dog hair, and the air filter clogged with dirt, but it was pretty easy to empty and reattach to the machine. I still don't know why/how the desert has so much dirt when it's allegedly all sand out here, but it does, and that dirt comes in through the smallest openings and spreads throughout the entire house.
The extension wand works well for removing Mia hair from the furniture, as well as dusting the overhead fans, leaving the surfaces nice and clean for a change. The handle telescopes, so I can adjust the height to my personal preference. There are 3 adjustments for sucking power: bare floors, which just need vacuum; carpet, which needs the beater brush; and an extra setting for using the hose and nozzle features.
But the greatest feature of all is the price: $60. I will have paid for this new vac in 3 months just in saving the cost of replacement bags for my old vac. In addition, the new vac actually sucks, so the carpet is cleaner than it's been in months, which makes me very happy indeed.
I compared the Shark models with the other display models and went with the Eureka as almost all of the features were the same except for amps; the Shark had 9.5 and the Eureka 12.0, so I went with the more powerful motor.
It was easy to assemble, and is lightweight and powerful: I revacuumed the carpet throughout the house, a chore I had just done Wednesday morning, and had to empty the dirt container twice! It clogged with the dog hair, and the air filter clogged with dirt, but it was pretty easy to empty and reattach to the machine. I still don't know why/how the desert has so much dirt when it's allegedly all sand out here, but it does, and that dirt comes in through the smallest openings and spreads throughout the entire house.
The extension wand works well for removing Mia hair from the furniture, as well as dusting the overhead fans, leaving the surfaces nice and clean for a change. The handle telescopes, so I can adjust the height to my personal preference. There are 3 adjustments for sucking power: bare floors, which just need vacuum; carpet, which needs the beater brush; and an extra setting for using the hose and nozzle features.
But the greatest feature of all is the price: $60. I will have paid for this new vac in 3 months just in saving the cost of replacement bags for my old vac. In addition, the new vac actually sucks, so the carpet is cleaner than it's been in months, which makes me very happy indeed.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Holiday Update
A good time was had by all. My decorations passed inspection, as well as my separate serving areas for entrees, beverages, condiments, and desserts. My cookie table was a wow, and everyone loved having a small cookie tin to fill and take home, allegedly for the spouses :) We know how that goes.
The hit of the party were the Ritz chocolate marshmallow cookies! I had to type up the recipe and send it out as everyone wanted to make their own batch after the party. Hurrah.
My friend, whom I dropped at the airport Thursday for a flight back east--and then took back Friday to see if she could depart--finally arrived at her destination at 4 AM Saturday morning. She was given a list of excuses, including mechanical delay, traffic stacked up, weather, and rescheduled flights, which resulted in her spending over 10 hours at the Chicago airport. I guess she was actually lucky to have departed Chicago at all, judging by the canceled flights to other destinations.
However, because of the changes to her flights, her parents called a car service to drive the 90 miles to pick her up and then drive the 90 miles back to her final destination because there was no connecting final flight. The driver was supposed to pick her up at midnight, but the plane didn't land until 2 AM, so it was a long trip for everyone involved. The last time she returned from the east, the flights were rerouted and she and her family ended up at an airport 3 hours from her home in the desert--with no way to get here, her final destination. That time they rented a car and drove the rest of the way home--and sent a blistering letter to the airlines, which made them feel better but earned the same result my letters had: too bad, so sad, let's move on.
My daughter-in-law is on her way to the west coast from Canada, and the morning news warns that storms are continuing to cause hundreds of canceled/delayed/rescheduled flights.
In spite of what travelers are told by the airlines, no one cares and no accommodations are made for delays, inconvenience, stress. Once you buy a ticket, it's a crap shoot whether you will--or will not--make it to your destination, and arrival date/time are simply anyone's best guess.
My best travel advice: take a tin of home-baked cookies so when the going gets tough, the tough can enjoy a hot cup of coffee with the delicious cookies!
The hit of the party were the Ritz chocolate marshmallow cookies! I had to type up the recipe and send it out as everyone wanted to make their own batch after the party. Hurrah.
My friend, whom I dropped at the airport Thursday for a flight back east--and then took back Friday to see if she could depart--finally arrived at her destination at 4 AM Saturday morning. She was given a list of excuses, including mechanical delay, traffic stacked up, weather, and rescheduled flights, which resulted in her spending over 10 hours at the Chicago airport. I guess she was actually lucky to have departed Chicago at all, judging by the canceled flights to other destinations.
However, because of the changes to her flights, her parents called a car service to drive the 90 miles to pick her up and then drive the 90 miles back to her final destination because there was no connecting final flight. The driver was supposed to pick her up at midnight, but the plane didn't land until 2 AM, so it was a long trip for everyone involved. The last time she returned from the east, the flights were rerouted and she and her family ended up at an airport 3 hours from her home in the desert--with no way to get here, her final destination. That time they rented a car and drove the rest of the way home--and sent a blistering letter to the airlines, which made them feel better but earned the same result my letters had: too bad, so sad, let's move on.
My daughter-in-law is on her way to the west coast from Canada, and the morning news warns that storms are continuing to cause hundreds of canceled/delayed/rescheduled flights.
In spite of what travelers are told by the airlines, no one cares and no accommodations are made for delays, inconvenience, stress. Once you buy a ticket, it's a crap shoot whether you will--or will not--make it to your destination, and arrival date/time are simply anyone's best guess.
My best travel advice: take a tin of home-baked cookies so when the going gets tough, the tough can enjoy a hot cup of coffee with the delicious cookies!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Making Martha Better
Yesterday, Martha and a guest made a simple holiday treat: Ritz crackers dipped in chocolate. At first, I thought ... yuk, but then I thought hmmm, so, on the way home from Friday b'fast, I stopped and bought groceries, including the box of Ritz ($2) and the big hunk 'o melting chocolate (milk chocolate, my favorite, at $2.64).
When I got home, emptied the grocery bags, and set up for making the choco crackers, I glanced at the 1/2 empty jar of marshmallow creme ($1.29), left over from a batch of fudge. I thought why not? So, while the milk choco was slowly melting in the microwave set on power level 1, I globbed some marshmallow creme on the top of a dozen crackers.
My motto is "dare to do the recipe differently."
I dipped the marshmallow side first, then flipped the cracker and finished covering it with the melted chocolate, then set the crackers on the Sil-pat to dry. I did another 2 dozen crackers without the marshmallow creme, but broke one cracker in half to make a tester.
I shoulda covered ALL the crackers with marshmallow before dipping because they are delicious! My choco layer is a bit thick (duh!), but boy, is this a good treat. I got 3 dozen treats for about $6.00, a bargain in anyone's kitchen.
This is so easy to do that a child literally could do it without any parental interference. Next time you think marshmallow treats, think chocolate marshmallow Ritz crackers instead. Really.
When I got home, emptied the grocery bags, and set up for making the choco crackers, I glanced at the 1/2 empty jar of marshmallow creme ($1.29), left over from a batch of fudge. I thought why not? So, while the milk choco was slowly melting in the microwave set on power level 1, I globbed some marshmallow creme on the top of a dozen crackers.
My motto is "dare to do the recipe differently."
I dipped the marshmallow side first, then flipped the cracker and finished covering it with the melted chocolate, then set the crackers on the Sil-pat to dry. I did another 2 dozen crackers without the marshmallow creme, but broke one cracker in half to make a tester.
I shoulda covered ALL the crackers with marshmallow before dipping because they are delicious! My choco layer is a bit thick (duh!), but boy, is this a good treat. I got 3 dozen treats for about $6.00, a bargain in anyone's kitchen.
This is so easy to do that a child literally could do it without any parental interference. Next time you think marshmallow treats, think chocolate marshmallow Ritz crackers instead. Really.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Quick Note
For the lovely people who believe that sugar-free chocolate tastes great and will help a diabetic through the holiday season, I have one word: NOT!
My Top 10 Rants
10. Paying $150 to replace the red plastic cover for the tail light I used to find the latch on my friend’s driveway gate. No longer can one simply remove 4 screws, replace the broken plastic cover, and go on with life: it’s a modular component and the whole darned (fully-functional) tail light assembly had to be replaced to fix the (broken) plastic cover. What a rip-off.
9. Replacing the plastic lever for flushing the toilet with a metal one, only to find that it slips off the plastic aperture the lever raises to flush the toilet.
8. Setting out a huge trash barrel for “clean up” day, along with a flimsy pseudo table base—and the trash truck driver only picks up the flimsy pseudo table base, NOT the huge trash barrel.
7. Putting up with the faulty engine light on the Camry, which comes on when the gas tank goes below 1/4 tank, but doesn’t go off until at least 5 future tanks of gas have been burned.
6. Cutting open gift packaging to qualify for a purchase rebate, part of the reason for buying the gift in the first place, rather than something else, and then realizing that the gift now looks like a regifted whatever.
5. Regarding the latest Speer’s pregnancy, it’s not that a 16-year-old child is pregnant with an 18-year-old’s baby: that’s biology. It’s that a 13-year-old child was allowed to date a 16-year-old 3 years ago: that’s irresponsible parenting.
4. Watching the homage paid to "Miss Patti" on Clash of the Choirs based, as best I can tell, on her age (63), her relationship to Beyonce, her family's battle with cancer, and her own long singing career. I though it was about the CHOIRS: silly me.
3. Listening to the hullabaloo about Huckabee’s Christmas ad prominently featuring a "cross,” which is actually part of the bookcase in the background. There is also a Christmas tree AND a Christmas sweater in the same shot because … it’s Christmas!
2. Pulling into a gas station advertising gas 5¢ a gallon less than the competition across the street to find that there’s an additional 50¢ fee to use an ATM card—which is, actually, an additional 5¢ a gallon increase in a 10-gallon tank of gas!
1. Believing the claim on the Super Saver skein of Red Heart Knitting Worsted: No Dye Lot. The color from one skein to the next is supposed to match, but even though I bought all 10 skeins at the same time, the shades are different from one skein to the next, which is quite apparent in the all-one-color afghan I’m crocheting!
9. Replacing the plastic lever for flushing the toilet with a metal one, only to find that it slips off the plastic aperture the lever raises to flush the toilet.
8. Setting out a huge trash barrel for “clean up” day, along with a flimsy pseudo table base—and the trash truck driver only picks up the flimsy pseudo table base, NOT the huge trash barrel.
7. Putting up with the faulty engine light on the Camry, which comes on when the gas tank goes below 1/4 tank, but doesn’t go off until at least 5 future tanks of gas have been burned.
6. Cutting open gift packaging to qualify for a purchase rebate, part of the reason for buying the gift in the first place, rather than something else, and then realizing that the gift now looks like a regifted whatever.
5. Regarding the latest Speer’s pregnancy, it’s not that a 16-year-old child is pregnant with an 18-year-old’s baby: that’s biology. It’s that a 13-year-old child was allowed to date a 16-year-old 3 years ago: that’s irresponsible parenting.
4. Watching the homage paid to "Miss Patti" on Clash of the Choirs based, as best I can tell, on her age (63), her relationship to Beyonce, her family's battle with cancer, and her own long singing career. I though it was about the CHOIRS: silly me.
3. Listening to the hullabaloo about Huckabee’s Christmas ad prominently featuring a "cross,” which is actually part of the bookcase in the background. There is also a Christmas tree AND a Christmas sweater in the same shot because … it’s Christmas!
2. Pulling into a gas station advertising gas 5¢ a gallon less than the competition across the street to find that there’s an additional 50¢ fee to use an ATM card—which is, actually, an additional 5¢ a gallon increase in a 10-gallon tank of gas!
1. Believing the claim on the Super Saver skein of Red Heart Knitting Worsted: No Dye Lot. The color from one skein to the next is supposed to match, but even though I bought all 10 skeins at the same time, the shades are different from one skein to the next, which is quite apparent in the all-one-color afghan I’m crocheting!
Friday, December 14, 2007
Housekeeping
It seemed like a good idea earlier today to start cleaning the house before the party next weekend. I routinely put off dusting because it's like ironing: if I iron a shirt, that's the one that'll be worn the next day, so why waste the time ironing it? With dusting, I no sooner dust than the wind blows and fills the house with dirt, so I have to dust all over again.
Learning to balance between dusting too often and not dusting at all takes years of observation, field tests, and patience.
I vacuum more often than I dust, however, because of the dog hair. I really don't like having animals in the house, and Mia doesn't just share the house--she occupies it. There are no boundaries to where she plops, so there is dog hair everywhere, all the time. Hence, the vacuum gets quite a workout.
And I hate my vacuum! I paid a fortune for the darned thing and every time (yes, really, EVERY time) I use it, the belt slips off the smoothe peg hidden deep inside the belly of the beast. I have to manhandle the machine, take it apart, force the too-small belt back onto the peg, put the pieces back together--and then finish vacuuming. Of course, the machine belches dirt and dog hair back onto the floor during this process, which means I have to revacuum what I've already done!
And the expensive little dirt bag fills up every other week, so I'm constantly changing the bag, as well as cleaning out the flexible hoses, which pack with dog hair and then nothing works.
Anyway, I started the process today and have left the implements in the hallway so I'll trip over them in the morning, reminding myself that I have another several hours of cleaning to do because I'm finished for tonight.
Putting this all into perspective, I've realized that I need to invite people over more often so it isn't such a big deal! For crying out loud, this is 7 people for 2 hours a week from now --- I need to get a grip!
Learning to balance between dusting too often and not dusting at all takes years of observation, field tests, and patience.
I vacuum more often than I dust, however, because of the dog hair. I really don't like having animals in the house, and Mia doesn't just share the house--she occupies it. There are no boundaries to where she plops, so there is dog hair everywhere, all the time. Hence, the vacuum gets quite a workout.
And I hate my vacuum! I paid a fortune for the darned thing and every time (yes, really, EVERY time) I use it, the belt slips off the smoothe peg hidden deep inside the belly of the beast. I have to manhandle the machine, take it apart, force the too-small belt back onto the peg, put the pieces back together--and then finish vacuuming. Of course, the machine belches dirt and dog hair back onto the floor during this process, which means I have to revacuum what I've already done!
And the expensive little dirt bag fills up every other week, so I'm constantly changing the bag, as well as cleaning out the flexible hoses, which pack with dog hair and then nothing works.
Anyway, I started the process today and have left the implements in the hallway so I'll trip over them in the morning, reminding myself that I have another several hours of cleaning to do because I'm finished for tonight.
Putting this all into perspective, I've realized that I need to invite people over more often so it isn't such a big deal! For crying out loud, this is 7 people for 2 hours a week from now --- I need to get a grip!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
I KNOW BETTER!
MSN is the worst: they offer all kinds of incentives for "free" products and suck you into trying other products vis a vis a "survey" that is actually a marketing tool.
However, in a moment of weakness, there was an offer for the new Oreo snack cakes, and I thought I'd take advantage of the offer as I often take snack cakes to night classes with me for the students who come straight from work.
AARRGGHH! It was another darned marketing strategy. Even though I exited quickly, it was not quickly enough to avoid the deluge of spam that has followed! I am now receiving about 15 messages a day, all including my name (I thought the Oreo offer was sincere, so I actually provided my name so I could get the goodies) to personalize the message and, hopefully, convince me that I have solicited the spam.
I've run AdAware and Norton/McAfee, and now I'm going into the program files on the hard drive to be sure all the temp internet files are deleted, although I know in my mind that there is no way to keep them from taking over my computer.
Damn MSN!
This is the ONLY site where I encounter these issues, but it's the address I use for business mail, so don't want to delete the account and start over.
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me repeatedly--shame on me for falling for it again!
However, in a moment of weakness, there was an offer for the new Oreo snack cakes, and I thought I'd take advantage of the offer as I often take snack cakes to night classes with me for the students who come straight from work.
AARRGGHH! It was another darned marketing strategy. Even though I exited quickly, it was not quickly enough to avoid the deluge of spam that has followed! I am now receiving about 15 messages a day, all including my name (I thought the Oreo offer was sincere, so I actually provided my name so I could get the goodies) to personalize the message and, hopefully, convince me that I have solicited the spam.
I've run AdAware and Norton/McAfee, and now I'm going into the program files on the hard drive to be sure all the temp internet files are deleted, although I know in my mind that there is no way to keep them from taking over my computer.
Damn MSN!
This is the ONLY site where I encounter these issues, but it's the address I use for business mail, so don't want to delete the account and start over.
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me repeatedly--shame on me for falling for it again!
Monday, December 10, 2007
Good Yule
The mountains are covered with snow, the level down far enough that the lowest foothills had a sprinkling that is melting as the sun comes back to the valley. We've had more rain in the past 10 days than we had all last year, so it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas ... wait, that'd be a great title for a song!I'm actually into it this year, decorating because my daughter-in-law, who loves Christmas, is going to visit--and I volunteered to hostess the b'fast club holiday party. I've actually bought and sent gifts, as well as placed wrapped packages around the tree already. I've made a couple of decorations and have stocked the cookie tins with sweets. For the highly motivated holiday devotee this seems commonplace, but I often put off Christmas until the weekend before just because I'm not a fan of "have to" anything.
Yesterday afforded a special time to wander through the memories of a time long past when I accepted an invitation to a holiday social function, the Lucia Festival, sponsored by the local VASA chapter. I was tickled to meet many Scandinavians and to hear brief snatches of my mother's heritage languages: Swedish and Norwegian.
The Lucia bride walked through the seated guests, along with her court, candles glowing on her crown of holly leaves. Her white robe was sashed with gold, and she carried a candle, instead of the traditional coffee bread for the family on Christmas morning. Her court sang caroles as they walked with her, and one woman and her daughter, both with beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes, sang Swedish holiday songs.
This was the 40th festival for this group, and as I enjoyed the pageant, my mind wandered back to my freshman year in college, when my roommate was the first Lucia bride at our Lutheran college.
Familiar family holiday songs were sung in Swedish by a trio of entertainers. Two Swedes seated at my table, who came to the country about 40 years ago, joined in, smiles lighting their faces. My mother reverted to her heritage language a few years before her death, and she laughed when I told her I no longer knew what she was saying --except for the common expressions that were used almost daily.
Yesterday, I didn't know the words either, but I remembered so many times being the one at the piano playing the songs, with my Scandinavian family members singing loudly and proudly. When I segued from the non-holiday music into the folk songs, they rocked the room with laughter and dancing! None of my family on my mother's side were tiny, so when they danced, the whole house vibrated. My father, who spent the time downstairs sneaking liquor with the other men, usually came up the stairs and announced that the house was going to fall down around our heads. Everyone laughed, danced more, and sang louder.
Dinner was (what else?) Swedish meatballs (yes, made with pork), dilled potatoes, veggies, Swedish rye with lingonberry jam, pickled herring, and rice pudding dessert (pictured). Although 9 almonds were added to the pudding to see who would clean up the kitchen, no one admitted to finding one. My mom used raisins after my dad bit into the almond one year and broke his tooth! With the age of the guests yesterday, I was worried we'd have to replace an entire bridge.
The only disappointment was the craft table: I thought it would be a craft event in a separate room, but it was just a few little items on a card table. I remember from my childhood that when Scandinavians had a chance to show off their handcrafts, they NEEDED an extra room for the displays! There were some baked goods, but I took a pass because I've been baking at home for the party I'm hostessing, as well as the family visit. So far, I'm being pretty good about staying away from the sweets, but it's tough this year!
It was fun, and I'm glad I said yes.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Cookie Tins
I volunteered to have the b'fast club Christmas function at my house this year. They all know I don't decorate, but I did find 6 Christmas music CDs, so it must be my destiny to entertain this year. I have candles and can find some garland, and if I twine my houseplants with twinkle lights, it may do as decoration. However, if guests are going to cross my threshold, I need holiday goodies to go with the music, so that means tins filled with an assortment of whatevers.
A quick trip to the market yesterday walked me past a display of small tins, each with its own variety of cookie to bake: pumpkin spice, apple pie, banana walnut, caramel macchiato, peppermint mocha, and dark chocolate expresso. The baking kit was marked $2.99 and required 1 egg and 5 tablespoons of butter and baking. Half the flavors came with frosting packets, and the only thing better than a plain cookie is a frosted cookie.
What a deal.
I've seldom met a cookie I didn't like, and I've recently discovered the bags of Betty Crocker cookie mix at 4 for $7, which, when the butter and egg are added, make some mighty delicious cookies! If the tins of cookie mix bake up half as well, I'm ready for the ho-ho-holidays!
An hour and a half later, I now have a delightful assortment of one dozen each of six different kinds of cookies--along with many dozens each of choco chip and oatmeal with craisins. An added benefit is a heated home without turning on the furnace and air freshener the likes of none that come in a can!
The success of the holiday season begins with a single step, and since I've taken that, it's off to the local variety store to check into twinkle lights!
A quick trip to the market yesterday walked me past a display of small tins, each with its own variety of cookie to bake: pumpkin spice, apple pie, banana walnut, caramel macchiato, peppermint mocha, and dark chocolate expresso. The baking kit was marked $2.99 and required 1 egg and 5 tablespoons of butter and baking. Half the flavors came with frosting packets, and the only thing better than a plain cookie is a frosted cookie.
What a deal.
I've seldom met a cookie I didn't like, and I've recently discovered the bags of Betty Crocker cookie mix at 4 for $7, which, when the butter and egg are added, make some mighty delicious cookies! If the tins of cookie mix bake up half as well, I'm ready for the ho-ho-holidays!
An hour and a half later, I now have a delightful assortment of one dozen each of six different kinds of cookies--along with many dozens each of choco chip and oatmeal with craisins. An added benefit is a heated home without turning on the furnace and air freshener the likes of none that come in a can!
The success of the holiday season begins with a single step, and since I've taken that, it's off to the local variety store to check into twinkle lights!
Friday, November 30, 2007
You Are Entering the Holiday Season
Whoopie and I are sisters! Soul sisters! Recently, when a friend asked me why I don’t like the Christmas holiday season, I could not articulate a response. I just know that I don’t care for this time of year. If I had my way, I’d hunker down in my comfy bed with a pile of books and endless cups of hot coffee and surface in January.
Today, on The View, Whoopie made similar comments, prefacing her remarks, however, with the question: Do you ever go into a sex slump? Well, yeah, I’ve been in one for decades, but let’s move on. Whoopie explained that she doesn’t like Christmas, that she doesn’t feel pretty, she doesn’t feel happy, she doesn’t feel special this time of year: she just doesn’t feel.
I identified with her. Not only do I know that feeling, but I live that feeling every year.
Once Whoopie opened the topic, it got pretty spicy, but it was interesting to see that Whoopie and I are kinda out there all by our lonesomes. If other people share the total blah to Christmas feeling, they aren’t willing to make it publicly known! And if other people share that “sex slump,” they definitely aren’t going to publicly admit it. Perhaps the two most important things in life are to love Christmas and have an active, happy sex life!
Score: them +2; me zip.
I’m turned off by the shopping; the endless stream of “have-to’s” that permeate the mindset; the parties that are either social payback or business function; the competition to be the Queen of Christmas. I do enjoy driving around at night and looking at all the lights, and I love cooking a big dinner, especially if a pie is part of that process, but the tree? the decorations? the forced togetherness? the fakery? the commercialized music?
Gift me with a season pass.
Today, on The View, Whoopie made similar comments, prefacing her remarks, however, with the question: Do you ever go into a sex slump? Well, yeah, I’ve been in one for decades, but let’s move on. Whoopie explained that she doesn’t like Christmas, that she doesn’t feel pretty, she doesn’t feel happy, she doesn’t feel special this time of year: she just doesn’t feel.
I identified with her. Not only do I know that feeling, but I live that feeling every year.
Once Whoopie opened the topic, it got pretty spicy, but it was interesting to see that Whoopie and I are kinda out there all by our lonesomes. If other people share the total blah to Christmas feeling, they aren’t willing to make it publicly known! And if other people share that “sex slump,” they definitely aren’t going to publicly admit it. Perhaps the two most important things in life are to love Christmas and have an active, happy sex life!
Score: them +2; me zip.
I’m turned off by the shopping; the endless stream of “have-to’s” that permeate the mindset; the parties that are either social payback or business function; the competition to be the Queen of Christmas. I do enjoy driving around at night and looking at all the lights, and I love cooking a big dinner, especially if a pie is part of that process, but the tree? the decorations? the forced togetherness? the fakery? the commercialized music?
Gift me with a season pass.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Dreaming
A Langston Hughes’ poem has been rattling around in my mind these past few days as a kind of retirement ennui overtakes my life.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Or does it explode?
I have dreams, some of which have been deferred, and other dreams that I cannot realize by myself, such as sharing my life with someone who wants to share his life with me. It’s tricky to find someone you want to be with and who also wants to be with you! I’m not going to spend my days/weeks/months/ years with someone who would rather be somewhere else and with someone else. All that makes is us both miserable. It’s tough to accept that reality and move on, but sometimes, that’s what life offers, regardless of the dream.
I have some dreams that dried up like raisins in the sun, but I like raisins, especially in oatmeal cookies and Eggless, Milkless, Butterless Cake (also called War Cake). Raisins plump nicely when they soak in hot liquid, so drying up like raisins isn’t all bad. The dream is still there; sometimes, it just takes a different form. How you handle that new form is the difference between a dream deferred and a dream realized.
I’ve had dreams that have festered, become damn sore, and then burst open so the pus could cleanse the wound and allow it to heal. Those dreams have knocked me off my feet and left me unable to stand temporarily, but I learned to pick myself up and put my life back together several times over. The next time I felt the festering begin, I knew that I was in for some pain before the injury could heal. I learned that some things have to just work themselves out, but eventually they will, one way or another.
Some dreams give the appearance of being solid, substantial, real—but if they are not cared for properly, they can sour like a piece of meat left out to thaw that stinks up the kitchen. Oh, sure, you can go ahead and prepare it, and even take a bite if you’re a glutton for punishment, but once the meat turns, you might just as well as wrap it in plastic and take it outside because it’s going to stink up the whole house, not just the kitchen, if you leave it on the counter.
Some dreams stay just close enough to be tempting, just close enough that you think there is still going to be a chance for dreams to come true. But if you don’t act on them when the window of opportunity presents itself, not opening the lid on the jam jar because you want to save it for when the time is right, all the sugar comes to the top and ruins the jam. Toss the jam, keep the jar, and next time—enjoy the jam when you get it. There is no better “right time” than right now!
There are dreams that sag, that weigh us down and don’t allow us to move in the direction we need to move. I always wanted happily ever after, but that wasn’t written into my life plan. I’ve watched other people meet their mates, marry, and live reasonably happily ever after, but that option hasn’t been presented to me. When I divorced, I imagined that I would find someone else to share life with, and I waited for it to happen, but I haven’t really even come close! I guess there is a part of me that would rather be reasonably happy single than miserably unhappy married, but I’ve always thought that there could be a between.
Does a dream deferred explode? Does it blow up in our own faces or make us so angry and vengeful that we explode in other people’s faces? Yeah. It’s hard living with disappointment, with having to endure that which we don’t want to endure. It’s awful to have to accept that what we thought our life was going to be isn’t going to be, and no matter how hard we try, no matter what we do (or don’t do), our dream goes up in smoke, but that happens.
It’s no one’s fault; it’s just life.
It’s what we do in response to not getting what we want that makes us the people we are. If we stand up and accept what is, rather than howling about what is not, we can get through this life. It might not be our dream, but sometimes we have to live our reality, rather than continue to wait for our dreams to come true. It could be a really long wait.
It’s about each of us having dreams that disappoint us, dreams that sometimes just fade away, and other times dreams that provide the direction and meaning to our lives. It’s about who we are and who we are to become, and the journey between.
Dream Deferred:
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
I have dreams, some of which have been deferred, and other dreams that I cannot realize by myself, such as sharing my life with someone who wants to share his life with me. It’s tricky to find someone you want to be with and who also wants to be with you! I’m not going to spend my days/weeks/months/ years with someone who would rather be somewhere else and with someone else. All that makes is us both miserable. It’s tough to accept that reality and move on, but sometimes, that’s what life offers, regardless of the dream.
I have some dreams that dried up like raisins in the sun, but I like raisins, especially in oatmeal cookies and Eggless, Milkless, Butterless Cake (also called War Cake). Raisins plump nicely when they soak in hot liquid, so drying up like raisins isn’t all bad. The dream is still there; sometimes, it just takes a different form. How you handle that new form is the difference between a dream deferred and a dream realized.
I’ve had dreams that have festered, become damn sore, and then burst open so the pus could cleanse the wound and allow it to heal. Those dreams have knocked me off my feet and left me unable to stand temporarily, but I learned to pick myself up and put my life back together several times over. The next time I felt the festering begin, I knew that I was in for some pain before the injury could heal. I learned that some things have to just work themselves out, but eventually they will, one way or another.
Some dreams give the appearance of being solid, substantial, real—but if they are not cared for properly, they can sour like a piece of meat left out to thaw that stinks up the kitchen. Oh, sure, you can go ahead and prepare it, and even take a bite if you’re a glutton for punishment, but once the meat turns, you might just as well as wrap it in plastic and take it outside because it’s going to stink up the whole house, not just the kitchen, if you leave it on the counter.
Some dreams stay just close enough to be tempting, just close enough that you think there is still going to be a chance for dreams to come true. But if you don’t act on them when the window of opportunity presents itself, not opening the lid on the jam jar because you want to save it for when the time is right, all the sugar comes to the top and ruins the jam. Toss the jam, keep the jar, and next time—enjoy the jam when you get it. There is no better “right time” than right now!
There are dreams that sag, that weigh us down and don’t allow us to move in the direction we need to move. I always wanted happily ever after, but that wasn’t written into my life plan. I’ve watched other people meet their mates, marry, and live reasonably happily ever after, but that option hasn’t been presented to me. When I divorced, I imagined that I would find someone else to share life with, and I waited for it to happen, but I haven’t really even come close! I guess there is a part of me that would rather be reasonably happy single than miserably unhappy married, but I’ve always thought that there could be a between.
Does a dream deferred explode? Does it blow up in our own faces or make us so angry and vengeful that we explode in other people’s faces? Yeah. It’s hard living with disappointment, with having to endure that which we don’t want to endure. It’s awful to have to accept that what we thought our life was going to be isn’t going to be, and no matter how hard we try, no matter what we do (or don’t do), our dream goes up in smoke, but that happens.
It’s no one’s fault; it’s just life.
It’s what we do in response to not getting what we want that makes us the people we are. If we stand up and accept what is, rather than howling about what is not, we can get through this life. It might not be our dream, but sometimes we have to live our reality, rather than continue to wait for our dreams to come true. It could be a really long wait.
It’s about each of us having dreams that disappoint us, dreams that sometimes just fade away, and other times dreams that provide the direction and meaning to our lives. It’s about who we are and who we are to become, and the journey between.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
No Coincidence
Okay, I’ll admit that I’ve been reading—a lot—since I retired. I enjoy reading crime dramas written by men whose sense of humor interjects itself into the most gruesome crime. Women writers also do an excellent job, especially true crime author Ann Rule, who reverse engineers actual crimes to show how they began, many times years before the actual criminal event/ murder. When it comes to female fiction, no one beats Nora Roberts (writing as J.D. Robb), whose fictional female lieutenant Eve kicks butt and solves crimes, usually with the aid of her uber-cyber savvy hubby, Roarke.
So, this morning, I’m reading about the death of Sean Taylor, a professional football player, who was shot in the groin by an intruder and died early this morning. He leaves behind a girlfriend, 1-year-old daughter, and a history of suspicious behavior that often involved law enforcement.
Hmm, thinks I, as I continue reading the article.
Additionally, his father is a police chief in Florida (explains the rebellion against authority figures). A University of Miami football player was killed one year ago this month; shot, as a matter of fact and lived a couple of miles from today's victim (too coincidental). Eight days ago, an intruder broke into Taylor’s home and left a kitchen knife on the bed (a warning, perhaps). Last night, the intruder came back and finished the job (crime anniversary?).
Now that sounds a whole lot like cause and effect, rather than an unbelievable chain of criminal coincidence.
Yeah, I’d start looking for the links because the investigators in the crime dramas never believe in coincidence. I’m thinking that this murder is simply the next in a chain of events that originated in Florida, in the past, and may be linked to the father, not just to the son, in the present.
And if I’m a football player with those same ties, I’d be upgrading the home security system and asking for personal protection until the shooter is caught.
So, this morning, I’m reading about the death of Sean Taylor, a professional football player, who was shot in the groin by an intruder and died early this morning. He leaves behind a girlfriend, 1-year-old daughter, and a history of suspicious behavior that often involved law enforcement.
Hmm, thinks I, as I continue reading the article.
Additionally, his father is a police chief in Florida (explains the rebellion against authority figures). A University of Miami football player was killed one year ago this month; shot, as a matter of fact and lived a couple of miles from today's victim (too coincidental). Eight days ago, an intruder broke into Taylor’s home and left a kitchen knife on the bed (a warning, perhaps). Last night, the intruder came back and finished the job (crime anniversary?).
Now that sounds a whole lot like cause and effect, rather than an unbelievable chain of criminal coincidence.
Yeah, I’d start looking for the links because the investigators in the crime dramas never believe in coincidence. I’m thinking that this murder is simply the next in a chain of events that originated in Florida, in the past, and may be linked to the father, not just to the son, in the present.
And if I’m a football player with those same ties, I’d be upgrading the home security system and asking for personal protection until the shooter is caught.
Friday, November 23, 2007
'Til Death Do Us Part
The truth of life is more challenging than the illusions. In a video game, the same villains can be obliterated endlessly; in life, once you’re dead, you’re dead. Game over.
Recently, I’ve seen 3 movies on the big screen that provide a graphic experience with the finality of death: In the Valley of Elah, 3:10 to Yuma, and No Country for Old Men. What these three powerful films have in common is a massive dose of reality that is ugly, harsh, hard to watch, and difficult to forget.
War is reality: as long as we have neighbors, we will fight with them; when the school bully picks on a kid, someone will fight for the kid who cannot fight for himself; when someone wants to take from me that which is mine, I will fight to prevent it. Often, the fight ends in death. Real death. No do-over. No second chance. Just instant, final death.
Life is not a video game.
Elah is about the after-effects of war, the desensitization of the warriors who learn to kill or be killed, an instinct that is not easily shut off once it’s engaged. If you want to stay alive in combat, you don’t play nice! You shoot first; you shoot to kill. When you come back from combat, you deal with the morality of your actions. Sometimes, the simplest home-town confrontations escalate into internal mental wars that result in the enemy, even when it’s a drinking buddy out for a night on the town, eliminated.
In 3:10 to Yuma, a battle of wits ensues when a man, a struggling rancher, gives his word to escort a prisoner to the train that will take him back to jail. The accused tells his escort that he’s already broken out of the same prison once, so the viewer acknowledges that the man’s struggle to return the criminal to prison is a fool’s errand. The criminal shoots first, shoots often, and kills what he aims to kill. If the rancher is in his way, he will die, and both of the men know that is truth. However, once the rancher gives his word, it is his bond. Even if it costs him his life.
In No Country, a man takes $2 million that does not belong to him, but which can forever change his life from what it is to what he imagines it to be. Although he is a Viet vet, he is no match for a psychopath who wants the money back simply because it is his. Shoot first; shoot to kill; do not let anything or anyone stand in the way. Few of us are capable of living that truth.
Life is a lesson that continues long after the individuals are gone. Sometimes we get it the first time, but often we have to be retaught—that is, retaught when there is a “next time.” If the lesson fails, often we pay the price with our lives. Filmmakers send that message in a variety of ways, and in these three films the message is graphic, and it is harsh.
The mostly male casts, sparse dialog, and bleak settings impose substance in subtle, but powerful ways that all too often is artifically created in commercial films. It's not just "a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," but more that mankind has to do whatever it takes to get it right, and it's not the same right for every man in every situation. Each of us has to learn when to stand up, when to put our lives on the line for what we know within ourselves is right, even if it costs us our lives, as well as when to walk away.
These characters aren't superheroes--or even heroes--they are just men going through life one day at a time. And then they die.
In each of the films one person asks the question “why,” but there is no why. Life just is; it’s ugly and it’s messy, but whether you do it right or make a mess, you leave behind a lesson that others remember long after you have left.
Unfortunately, that lesson is just as often violent as it is peaceful. More people know Jeffrey Dahmer’s name than know Mother Theresa’s name; Ted Bundy ruined more lives than the local pastor of a small congregation saves.
People live, people die, and the filmmaker tells the story.
Recently, I’ve seen 3 movies on the big screen that provide a graphic experience with the finality of death: In the Valley of Elah, 3:10 to Yuma, and No Country for Old Men. What these three powerful films have in common is a massive dose of reality that is ugly, harsh, hard to watch, and difficult to forget.
War is reality: as long as we have neighbors, we will fight with them; when the school bully picks on a kid, someone will fight for the kid who cannot fight for himself; when someone wants to take from me that which is mine, I will fight to prevent it. Often, the fight ends in death. Real death. No do-over. No second chance. Just instant, final death.
Life is not a video game.
Elah is about the after-effects of war, the desensitization of the warriors who learn to kill or be killed, an instinct that is not easily shut off once it’s engaged. If you want to stay alive in combat, you don’t play nice! You shoot first; you shoot to kill. When you come back from combat, you deal with the morality of your actions. Sometimes, the simplest home-town confrontations escalate into internal mental wars that result in the enemy, even when it’s a drinking buddy out for a night on the town, eliminated.
In 3:10 to Yuma, a battle of wits ensues when a man, a struggling rancher, gives his word to escort a prisoner to the train that will take him back to jail. The accused tells his escort that he’s already broken out of the same prison once, so the viewer acknowledges that the man’s struggle to return the criminal to prison is a fool’s errand. The criminal shoots first, shoots often, and kills what he aims to kill. If the rancher is in his way, he will die, and both of the men know that is truth. However, once the rancher gives his word, it is his bond. Even if it costs him his life.
In No Country, a man takes $2 million that does not belong to him, but which can forever change his life from what it is to what he imagines it to be. Although he is a Viet vet, he is no match for a psychopath who wants the money back simply because it is his. Shoot first; shoot to kill; do not let anything or anyone stand in the way. Few of us are capable of living that truth.
Life is a lesson that continues long after the individuals are gone. Sometimes we get it the first time, but often we have to be retaught—that is, retaught when there is a “next time.” If the lesson fails, often we pay the price with our lives. Filmmakers send that message in a variety of ways, and in these three films the message is graphic, and it is harsh.
The mostly male casts, sparse dialog, and bleak settings impose substance in subtle, but powerful ways that all too often is artifically created in commercial films. It's not just "a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," but more that mankind has to do whatever it takes to get it right, and it's not the same right for every man in every situation. Each of us has to learn when to stand up, when to put our lives on the line for what we know within ourselves is right, even if it costs us our lives, as well as when to walk away.
These characters aren't superheroes--or even heroes--they are just men going through life one day at a time. And then they die.
In each of the films one person asks the question “why,” but there is no why. Life just is; it’s ugly and it’s messy, but whether you do it right or make a mess, you leave behind a lesson that others remember long after you have left.
Unfortunately, that lesson is just as often violent as it is peaceful. More people know Jeffrey Dahmer’s name than know Mother Theresa’s name; Ted Bundy ruined more lives than the local pastor of a small congregation saves.
People live, people die, and the filmmaker tells the story.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Giving Thanks
A couple of days ago, a friend from college, a former roomie, came out and we went to lunch. It amazed me how quickly we were back in the 1960s, reliving so many moments of our shared history. We don't spend as much time together as we should, especially in the autumn of our lives, but when we are together, we remember why we are still friends.
I traveled up the hill last week to deliver some goodies to a social event another friend was hostessing. She didn't ask, she wouldn't, but I offered. We've traveled many roads together in the time we've shared, some of them filled with joy and laughter, but some of them a trail of tears. I'm happy for her because she's found new joy in a marriage that was a long time coming and richly deserved.
I stopped by another friend's home to see her new swim spa in place within the brick foundation that will become her pool room. She loves to swim and makes a point of driving to visit the only local public pool--an outdoor pool at a nearby high school, which is only open during the summer. Once her swim spa is operating, she'll be able to swim 24/7, if that's what she wants ... and I can't wait to see her in the water, stroking away the stress of the day.
I drove another friend, a newer friend, to her summer home in the mountains, hauling some furniture she was moving in the back of my truck. After we off-loaded that, we spent time together, relaxed time, over a cup of coffee and then some mindless meandering through the village before we headed back to the desert. It was quiet, it was peaceful, it was friendship.
Today, I shared Thanksgiving dinner with another friend, another journey of laughter and tears that has endured so many years. Once, we were young together, and now we're not so young. Our minds are as much friends as our souls, and it's always a special time when we are together. Sometimes, she just lets me come and sit on her seashore because she knows how much I need that to be part of my life. Other times, we run errands--and we often take in a movie and lunch. And she always prays for me, whether I ask her to or not. I usually ask her to--just in case.
Some friends have gone on before me, and I miss them most at the holidays. I lost 3 friends within a year, and it's taken me time to come to grips with that. I don't handle death well, but I really don't handle it well when someone I love dies.
I don't have a long list of friends, but the ones I have are embedded deeply in my soul.
Thank you, my friends.
I traveled up the hill last week to deliver some goodies to a social event another friend was hostessing. She didn't ask, she wouldn't, but I offered. We've traveled many roads together in the time we've shared, some of them filled with joy and laughter, but some of them a trail of tears. I'm happy for her because she's found new joy in a marriage that was a long time coming and richly deserved.
I stopped by another friend's home to see her new swim spa in place within the brick foundation that will become her pool room. She loves to swim and makes a point of driving to visit the only local public pool--an outdoor pool at a nearby high school, which is only open during the summer. Once her swim spa is operating, she'll be able to swim 24/7, if that's what she wants ... and I can't wait to see her in the water, stroking away the stress of the day.
I drove another friend, a newer friend, to her summer home in the mountains, hauling some furniture she was moving in the back of my truck. After we off-loaded that, we spent time together, relaxed time, over a cup of coffee and then some mindless meandering through the village before we headed back to the desert. It was quiet, it was peaceful, it was friendship.
Today, I shared Thanksgiving dinner with another friend, another journey of laughter and tears that has endured so many years. Once, we were young together, and now we're not so young. Our minds are as much friends as our souls, and it's always a special time when we are together. Sometimes, she just lets me come and sit on her seashore because she knows how much I need that to be part of my life. Other times, we run errands--and we often take in a movie and lunch. And she always prays for me, whether I ask her to or not. I usually ask her to--just in case.
Some friends have gone on before me, and I miss them most at the holidays. I lost 3 friends within a year, and it's taken me time to come to grips with that. I don't handle death well, but I really don't handle it well when someone I love dies.
I don't have a long list of friends, but the ones I have are embedded deeply in my soul.
Thank you, my friends.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Death's Doorway
Last night’s class was somber; of the 8 students in the class, 3 worked with a young man who was killed in a horrific accident Sunday morning. He survived Iraq, but couldn’t survive driving on a local highway long known for its high death toll.
Evidently, he left work Saturday and headed down the hill. No one knows where he was or what he was doing, but he headed back up the hill Sunday morning. Suddenly, he swerved across the median, hit another vehicle head-on, and then both of those cars collided with a semi. The two smaller cars burst into flames and, trapped in their vehicles, both drivers were burned beyond recognition. The driver of the semi was able to get out of his truck, but neither he nor the passengers in other vehicles on the road at the time were able to help the victims trapped in their burning cars.
The roadway was closed to all traffic for several hours as the cars burned; when the fires were out, the investigation began, but it wasn’t until many hours later that the cremated remains were removed from what was left of the vehicles. Then began the task of identifying first, the vehicles, and then the remains, and then notifying next of kin, and, slowly, others who may have known the victims learned of their deaths.
The remains of the military man were identified yesterday, and his death sent shockwaves throughout the military hospital where he worked alongside the students in my class.
The expected comments were made:
“I worked with him Saturday, but he didn’t show up Monday. Everyone wondered where he was.”
“I saw his car in the hospital parking lot Saturday, but didn’t talk to him because we were so busy.”
“Yeah, I worked with him; we were in the same department.”
We all try to understand and accept that a person can be here one moment and gone the next, but when you are turning 21 this week and on your way to Las Vegas to celebrate, you expect to return home after the party ends. When you drive down the hill to shop, eat out at a nice restaurant, or go clubbing, you expect to return home. When you are preparing to head out for the holiday, you expect to share special time with family and friends and come back home filled with memories.
When you are driving anywhere, you don’t expect another driver to suddenly swerve into your vehicle, hit you head-on, and burn to death.
This tregdy was a somber reminder to all of us as we begin the holiday season in earnest that it may well be my time next.
Evidently, he left work Saturday and headed down the hill. No one knows where he was or what he was doing, but he headed back up the hill Sunday morning. Suddenly, he swerved across the median, hit another vehicle head-on, and then both of those cars collided with a semi. The two smaller cars burst into flames and, trapped in their vehicles, both drivers were burned beyond recognition. The driver of the semi was able to get out of his truck, but neither he nor the passengers in other vehicles on the road at the time were able to help the victims trapped in their burning cars.
The roadway was closed to all traffic for several hours as the cars burned; when the fires were out, the investigation began, but it wasn’t until many hours later that the cremated remains were removed from what was left of the vehicles. Then began the task of identifying first, the vehicles, and then the remains, and then notifying next of kin, and, slowly, others who may have known the victims learned of their deaths.
The remains of the military man were identified yesterday, and his death sent shockwaves throughout the military hospital where he worked alongside the students in my class.
The expected comments were made:
“I worked with him Saturday, but he didn’t show up Monday. Everyone wondered where he was.”
“I saw his car in the hospital parking lot Saturday, but didn’t talk to him because we were so busy.”
“Yeah, I worked with him; we were in the same department.”
We all try to understand and accept that a person can be here one moment and gone the next, but when you are turning 21 this week and on your way to Las Vegas to celebrate, you expect to return home after the party ends. When you drive down the hill to shop, eat out at a nice restaurant, or go clubbing, you expect to return home. When you are preparing to head out for the holiday, you expect to share special time with family and friends and come back home filled with memories.
When you are driving anywhere, you don’t expect another driver to suddenly swerve into your vehicle, hit you head-on, and burn to death.
This tregdy was a somber reminder to all of us as we begin the holiday season in earnest that it may well be my time next.
Monday, November 19, 2007
An Immovable Object
My garage door won't open--at all. My car is inside, and it's going to stay inside until someone can open the garage door. I'm glad I have alternate transportation parked outside because I think this is a major repair job.
Nope, it's not the electrical system, which works fine; it's the garage door itself. I've investigated all the possibilities, engaged and disengaged the electronics, and the door won't budge, but the garage door opener does its thing just fine.
I'm expecting the repair person any moment. I carefully made sure I explained that it's the actual door that won't move, that I've tried releasing the mechanism, yada yada yada, so it'll be fun to see what the repair person says when (s)he arrives.
Above the door is a metal cylinder which, as I looked more closely at it, seems to be some sort of spring, and it's broken. I suspect that may be the problem, but the person on the phone assures me it's the cable.
No, I checked that and the cable seems to be fine--but the metal cylinder is broken, so that is probably the problem.
Well, we'll check the cable.
Okay, but please tell the person who is coming to my home to be prepared to deal with the broken cylinder above the garage door as well!
It's $95 to show up, with the repair work and parts added on. I'm seeing a bunch of bucks being wasted if the repair centers on the cable or the garage door opener, rather than on the pully mechanism that actually raises and lowers the door.
_________________
For a total cost of $285, both of the springs were replaced and the garage door now opens and closes! Hurrah! Not only was I correct in my assessment of the problem, but the servicemen were friendly, efficient, and instructional (they told me to clean the tracks and call them for service annually).
Problem solved.
Nope, it's not the electrical system, which works fine; it's the garage door itself. I've investigated all the possibilities, engaged and disengaged the electronics, and the door won't budge, but the garage door opener does its thing just fine.
I'm expecting the repair person any moment. I carefully made sure I explained that it's the actual door that won't move, that I've tried releasing the mechanism, yada yada yada, so it'll be fun to see what the repair person says when (s)he arrives.
Above the door is a metal cylinder which, as I looked more closely at it, seems to be some sort of spring, and it's broken. I suspect that may be the problem, but the person on the phone assures me it's the cable.
No, I checked that and the cable seems to be fine--but the metal cylinder is broken, so that is probably the problem.
Well, we'll check the cable.
Okay, but please tell the person who is coming to my home to be prepared to deal with the broken cylinder above the garage door as well!
It's $95 to show up, with the repair work and parts added on. I'm seeing a bunch of bucks being wasted if the repair centers on the cable or the garage door opener, rather than on the pully mechanism that actually raises and lowers the door.
_________________
For a total cost of $285, both of the springs were replaced and the garage door now opens and closes! Hurrah! Not only was I correct in my assessment of the problem, but the servicemen were friendly, efficient, and instructional (they told me to clean the tracks and call them for service annually).
Problem solved.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Stop, Look, and Listen
This week, in the space of just over 12 hours, 3 female pedestrians were killed: 2 locally and one at the other end of the valley. Prior to these latest fatalities, within the past year an elderly man was killed crossing a highway between a mall and a restaurant, another elderly man was killed jaywalking across a busy main street in a local dowtown business district, two teens who were arguing were killed on another nearby highway, and another teen was killed crossing a major thoroughfare between two housing areas on Halloween night.
When an accident occurs, the investigators seek the cause(s); the public assesses the blame.
A teen girl was killed Halloween night when she—and a group of friends—made a bad decision to cross a poorly-lit, highly-traveled street in the middle of the block while wearing dark costumes. The driver swerved and avoided most of the group of trick-or-treaters, but not the last one. The hue and cry arose about the posted 50 mph speed limit, the nearby construction that “forced” the teens to cross the street in the middle of the block, the lack of street lights. The blame was thrown at the driver and the roadway, but not at the bad decision-making of the teens who chose not to walk an extra hundred feet to a corner traffic light before trying to cross the street to continue their festivities.
An elderly woman also crossed in the middle of the block and was killed by a passing motorist. The woman was carrying groceries, so she probably wanted the shortest route to her apartment door, but she too was on a highly-traveled street with a posted speed limit of 50 mph at night and crossing in the middle of the block. Concerned citizens are calling for lowering the speed limit, adding more street lights, making the area safer for pedestrians.
A 20-something darted across a busy street, taking her chances against the traffic, and she also lost the gamble that she could make it safely to the other side of the street.
It is tragic whenever anyone is killed, but we have forgotten that many victims of pedestrian traffic accidents cause their own injury/death. We cannot, as so many have asserted, change all the speed limits to keep jaywalkers safer while darting across the street. We cannot, as more demand, add an endless string of street lights to illuminate areas that are inherently not safe for pedestrians. We cannot assume that adding gutters and sidewalks in rural areas will protect pedestrians from speeding drivers, inattentive drivers, bad drivers, drivers under the influence.
Or protect drivers from unsafe pedestrians who make bad decisions.
We cannot legislate that pedestrians understand that the human body cannot withstand a collision with a 2000-pound automobile traveling 50-60 miles per hour. We have to put some of the responsibility onto the shoulders of the pedestrians who should have known better, who should have realized that they could not be seen in the darkness as they crossed in the middle of the street, who should have realized that they could not cross the street faster than the oncoming traffic would approach them.
It used to be that all children were taught to stop, look, listen—and then look again—before crossing any street. That is no longer the case as far too many people assume that wherever they choose to cross the street, the vehicles will stop for them. Drivers just aren’t going to do that if they are talking on the phone, dashboard dining, disciplining children, running late, inexperienced, under the influence, or speeding. Drivers assume that the middle of the block is for their use, not for pedestrians who want to take a short-cut, rather than find a corner, a traffic light, or a marked sidewalk.
In the most recent fatality, however, another young teen was walking on the shoulder of the major route in and out of the community that would also take her to school. Because she lived within a mile of her school, she was a walker; the major route she walked has no gutters, no sidewalks, just an uneven shoulder and then desert dirt. A driver hit her, threw her body and her backpack about 50 feet off the roadway, and then sped off. No one saw the young girl for about an hour after the impact, and she was pronounced dead at the local hospital about the same time classes were starting at her school.
She was the one of the most recent pedestrian fatalities who was doing everything right that morning—and the driver who hit her did everything wrong. We cannot, as some have suggested, blame the local school district for not providing bus service, the lack of gutters and sidewalks, or the speed limit, because a person is responsible for the accident that killed this young girl. A driver caused this accident, and a driver has to be held accountable for it.
When an accident is a crime, such as the collision that killed a young girl on her way to school, law enforcement needs to use all the resources within their power to bring the driver to justice; however, when it’s a matter of bad decision-making that results in a pedestrian death, the public has to accept that there are no laws that can protect a pedestrian who makes the bad decision.
When an accident occurs, the investigators seek the cause(s); the public assesses the blame.
A teen girl was killed Halloween night when she—and a group of friends—made a bad decision to cross a poorly-lit, highly-traveled street in the middle of the block while wearing dark costumes. The driver swerved and avoided most of the group of trick-or-treaters, but not the last one. The hue and cry arose about the posted 50 mph speed limit, the nearby construction that “forced” the teens to cross the street in the middle of the block, the lack of street lights. The blame was thrown at the driver and the roadway, but not at the bad decision-making of the teens who chose not to walk an extra hundred feet to a corner traffic light before trying to cross the street to continue their festivities.
An elderly woman also crossed in the middle of the block and was killed by a passing motorist. The woman was carrying groceries, so she probably wanted the shortest route to her apartment door, but she too was on a highly-traveled street with a posted speed limit of 50 mph at night and crossing in the middle of the block. Concerned citizens are calling for lowering the speed limit, adding more street lights, making the area safer for pedestrians.
A 20-something darted across a busy street, taking her chances against the traffic, and she also lost the gamble that she could make it safely to the other side of the street.
It is tragic whenever anyone is killed, but we have forgotten that many victims of pedestrian traffic accidents cause their own injury/death. We cannot, as so many have asserted, change all the speed limits to keep jaywalkers safer while darting across the street. We cannot, as more demand, add an endless string of street lights to illuminate areas that are inherently not safe for pedestrians. We cannot assume that adding gutters and sidewalks in rural areas will protect pedestrians from speeding drivers, inattentive drivers, bad drivers, drivers under the influence.
Or protect drivers from unsafe pedestrians who make bad decisions.
We cannot legislate that pedestrians understand that the human body cannot withstand a collision with a 2000-pound automobile traveling 50-60 miles per hour. We have to put some of the responsibility onto the shoulders of the pedestrians who should have known better, who should have realized that they could not be seen in the darkness as they crossed in the middle of the street, who should have realized that they could not cross the street faster than the oncoming traffic would approach them.
It used to be that all children were taught to stop, look, listen—and then look again—before crossing any street. That is no longer the case as far too many people assume that wherever they choose to cross the street, the vehicles will stop for them. Drivers just aren’t going to do that if they are talking on the phone, dashboard dining, disciplining children, running late, inexperienced, under the influence, or speeding. Drivers assume that the middle of the block is for their use, not for pedestrians who want to take a short-cut, rather than find a corner, a traffic light, or a marked sidewalk.
In the most recent fatality, however, another young teen was walking on the shoulder of the major route in and out of the community that would also take her to school. Because she lived within a mile of her school, she was a walker; the major route she walked has no gutters, no sidewalks, just an uneven shoulder and then desert dirt. A driver hit her, threw her body and her backpack about 50 feet off the roadway, and then sped off. No one saw the young girl for about an hour after the impact, and she was pronounced dead at the local hospital about the same time classes were starting at her school.
She was the one of the most recent pedestrian fatalities who was doing everything right that morning—and the driver who hit her did everything wrong. We cannot, as some have suggested, blame the local school district for not providing bus service, the lack of gutters and sidewalks, or the speed limit, because a person is responsible for the accident that killed this young girl. A driver caused this accident, and a driver has to be held accountable for it.
When an accident is a crime, such as the collision that killed a young girl on her way to school, law enforcement needs to use all the resources within their power to bring the driver to justice; however, when it’s a matter of bad decision-making that results in a pedestrian death, the public has to accept that there are no laws that can protect a pedestrian who makes the bad decision.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Phone-y
It's been exactly a year since the last cell phone switch. You have a phone for a year, the battery dies, you get the phony sales pitch re: it's cheaper to get a new phone than a new battery--and you chomp on the bait only to realize it actually costs you a 2-year extension of your current plan!
The battery is dead, so I stopped into the "Cingular" store, which is now AT&T, to buy a new battery.
Nope, don't want a new phone: I want a new battery and the same phone.
Well, this phone is obsolete! We don't carry replacement parts for phones "this old."
Hey, it's one year old--one year, not a decade!
Well, you might be able to find a battery on the website, but it's gonna cost you $40-50 for the battery, so it's actually cheaper to upgrade to a more modern phone.
Thanks, but no thanks. No battery? I'm outta here.
I googled "LG 3.7 volt battery" and found dozens of sites selling the replacement battery, ranging in price from $9.99 (au extension) to $10.99 (uk extension) to USA ($12.99). My battery should be here the first of next week and I get to keep the phone I like without having to extend my service again.
Win-win!
_______________
The new battery arrived, is installed, and works beautifully! $9.99, no extension of the service contract, and I keep the phone I want.
The battery is dead, so I stopped into the "Cingular" store, which is now AT&T, to buy a new battery.
Nope, don't want a new phone: I want a new battery and the same phone.
Well, this phone is obsolete! We don't carry replacement parts for phones "this old."
Hey, it's one year old--one year, not a decade!
Well, you might be able to find a battery on the website, but it's gonna cost you $40-50 for the battery, so it's actually cheaper to upgrade to a more modern phone.
Thanks, but no thanks. No battery? I'm outta here.
I googled "LG 3.7 volt battery" and found dozens of sites selling the replacement battery, ranging in price from $9.99 (au extension) to $10.99 (uk extension) to USA ($12.99). My battery should be here the first of next week and I get to keep the phone I like without having to extend my service again.
Win-win!
_______________
The new battery arrived, is installed, and works beautifully! $9.99, no extension of the service contract, and I keep the phone I want.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Flash Point
When my electric bill was the highest it's been in the 8 years I've lived in this house, I saw instant red. Come to find out, it doesn't matter if the utility company makes a billing error: you pay the amount due or they turn off the utility.
IF they've made a mistake and you can prove it, they credit your account. There are no refunds, no apologies, no other recourse.
Well, I turned off the air conditioning October 15, the day I paid the $229.12 bill. I had already looked up previous bills, the average of which Jan through May was $47.24; the summer months (J-J-Aug) averaged $130.62, so I knew the Oct $229.12 was an error--but knowing it and getting So Cal Edison Co to acknowledge it are two different things.
My new bill is $49.99, which is about right. The increased rate I'll chalk up to higher utility costs as that warning came in a correspondence included with the last bill, perhaps to justify the staggering increase.
As warm as it's been, I probably won't turn on the heat until January. It really ticks me off that do everything in my power to keep my utility costs at a minimum and pay my bills on time and still get gouged by an outrageous bill that is obviously in error.
* * * * * * * * * *
Along with the Edison bill came the determination from the insurance company that they don't have to pay for the last day of my hospitalization in July because "the patient had stable vital signs, was tolerating a diet, was able to walk and was not requiring intravenous (IV) medications."
All that's true.
But what's also true is that the cardiac catheterization scheduled for 10 AM was not performed until 6 PM, which added the "extra" day to my stay as I could not be released until 6 hours after the catheterization (it is inserted into the femoral artery, so they want to be sure it seals before they send a patient home to bleed to death), and patients aren't often released at midnight!
My admitting doctor made rounds the next morning at 8 AM, told me to get dressed and ready to go -- but it took until 11 AM to process me out. I don't know why: that's just what happened. Believe me, as soon as they said I could leave, I left!
Now, I am penalized by the system. I can't sign myself out and leave the hospital, but if I stay, I have to pay out of pocket because I theoretically "could have" gone home.
Of course, there is no refusal to pay because all those papers signed at admittance affirm that what isn't covered by insurance will be covered by the patient, and I'm the patient.
I've called my doctor's office and the office staff representative said she'll look into it, assuring me that this happens all the time. Well, maybe it does and maybe it doesn't--but if I were indigent, I wouldn't have to worry because if you don't have insurance, you don't have to pay.
* * * * * * * * * *
Finally, I sent back an 18-pack of pens I bought for grading papers. Packaged in a colorful array, the Pilot G7 assorted pens seemed like a great solution for keeping track of which essay I was responding to and separating the points in the hard copy of the grade book prior to inputting them into the electronic grade book.
However, the pens didn't work. I'd begin writing with one and have to switch to another as it dried up, but when I put it down to use the second pen, when that one dried up I could use the first one again. Irritating, to say the least.
So I wrote a letter of complaint, to which I received a nice reply: return the pens and we'll send you a product substitution. I paid $4.60 to send the pens back (remember it's an 18-pack) and today received 12 replacement pens, plus 2 "free samples" of other Pilot products.
Hm, let's see. I paid $4.60 to send you 18 pens and you sent me 12 back, plus 2 "free" pens. Unless I'm wrong, I not only am short 6 of the original pens, but the 2 "free" pens cost me $2.30 each because I did not receive credit for the postage I spent. Even if I subtract their $1.98 postage, I end up paying $2.62 for this deal, which is $1.31 per "free" pen.
* * * * * * * * * *
Today, life is difficult--perhaps because I'm making it so, rather than because it is. So, I'm going outside, light some candles, pour a glass of wine, and just enjoy the beautiful weather and my lovely garden.
IF they've made a mistake and you can prove it, they credit your account. There are no refunds, no apologies, no other recourse.
Well, I turned off the air conditioning October 15, the day I paid the $229.12 bill. I had already looked up previous bills, the average of which Jan through May was $47.24; the summer months (J-J-Aug) averaged $130.62, so I knew the Oct $229.12 was an error--but knowing it and getting So Cal Edison Co to acknowledge it are two different things.
My new bill is $49.99, which is about right. The increased rate I'll chalk up to higher utility costs as that warning came in a correspondence included with the last bill, perhaps to justify the staggering increase.
As warm as it's been, I probably won't turn on the heat until January. It really ticks me off that do everything in my power to keep my utility costs at a minimum and pay my bills on time and still get gouged by an outrageous bill that is obviously in error.
* * * * * * * * * *
Along with the Edison bill came the determination from the insurance company that they don't have to pay for the last day of my hospitalization in July because "the patient had stable vital signs, was tolerating a diet, was able to walk and was not requiring intravenous (IV) medications."
All that's true.
But what's also true is that the cardiac catheterization scheduled for 10 AM was not performed until 6 PM, which added the "extra" day to my stay as I could not be released until 6 hours after the catheterization (it is inserted into the femoral artery, so they want to be sure it seals before they send a patient home to bleed to death), and patients aren't often released at midnight!
My admitting doctor made rounds the next morning at 8 AM, told me to get dressed and ready to go -- but it took until 11 AM to process me out. I don't know why: that's just what happened. Believe me, as soon as they said I could leave, I left!
Now, I am penalized by the system. I can't sign myself out and leave the hospital, but if I stay, I have to pay out of pocket because I theoretically "could have" gone home.
Of course, there is no refusal to pay because all those papers signed at admittance affirm that what isn't covered by insurance will be covered by the patient, and I'm the patient.
I've called my doctor's office and the office staff representative said she'll look into it, assuring me that this happens all the time. Well, maybe it does and maybe it doesn't--but if I were indigent, I wouldn't have to worry because if you don't have insurance, you don't have to pay.
* * * * * * * * * *
Finally, I sent back an 18-pack of pens I bought for grading papers. Packaged in a colorful array, the Pilot G7 assorted pens seemed like a great solution for keeping track of which essay I was responding to and separating the points in the hard copy of the grade book prior to inputting them into the electronic grade book.
However, the pens didn't work. I'd begin writing with one and have to switch to another as it dried up, but when I put it down to use the second pen, when that one dried up I could use the first one again. Irritating, to say the least.
So I wrote a letter of complaint, to which I received a nice reply: return the pens and we'll send you a product substitution. I paid $4.60 to send the pens back (remember it's an 18-pack) and today received 12 replacement pens, plus 2 "free samples" of other Pilot products.
Hm, let's see. I paid $4.60 to send you 18 pens and you sent me 12 back, plus 2 "free" pens. Unless I'm wrong, I not only am short 6 of the original pens, but the 2 "free" pens cost me $2.30 each because I did not receive credit for the postage I spent. Even if I subtract their $1.98 postage, I end up paying $2.62 for this deal, which is $1.31 per "free" pen.
* * * * * * * * * *
Today, life is difficult--perhaps because I'm making it so, rather than because it is. So, I'm going outside, light some candles, pour a glass of wine, and just enjoy the beautiful weather and my lovely garden.
Crawling
My gmail account has been crawling toward opening, taking a couple of minutes to bring up my email account when it used to take seconds. Often when there is a computer problem, I assume I've done 'something' to cause it, even though I know that I have done nothing. My son and I have argued about this far too often as he's convinced I screw up computers just so I can argue with him, while I am convinced that he accuses me of causing the problems when he doesn't know what's wrong and won't admit it.
Whatever.
However, knowing that I cannot discuss it with my resident expert without another argument, I went into the settings box to see if I inadvertently changed something (yeah, I know, that cannot happen--but it does), but everything was the way I wanted it. I tried changing the settings to see what options are available, but it was just the way I wanted it ... so I left it alone.
For a couple of weeks I've been unhappy with the account and frustrated trying to figure out why it doesn't work as well as it used to work. I'll admit I'm not the most patient person in some areas, which includes computer operation, but it's not an area where I have either knowledge or skill (which I find intimidating). However, if it once popped open, it should continue to pop open, and not popping open was simply not acceptable.
I've gone to the service page; I've read all the messages; I've tried to find anything that conforms to my issue and fix it myself; I usually give in, give up, and learn to live with whatever happens because it's easier than the argument it takes to explain it and fix whatever is wrong.
This morning, however, I saw a box at the top of the window that said "old version." Hm, I didn't know there was a "new" version, so I clicked on it. Zippidy doo dah! Up popped my mail in a new window fast as greased lightning. I went to my other gmail account and changed it to "old version," happily with the same results. I closed the site and reopened it several times, and it works as it used to work: fast!
I did not change this site to the newer version, so I'm not sure why that change was made. I tried the newer, faster version of my MSN hotmail account and found that it bogged down my computer to the point of being unusable; however, the minute I changed back to the older version, my computer was back to its former, faster operating speed.
Thus, I had already learned the lesson that "newer" doesn't always mean "better," and I usually leave well enough alone. But I didn't change my gmail account ... so why was it changed?
The questions remain: if I didn't upgrade to the newer version, was it just foisted on all gmail users? Are there other users out there who cannot figure out what has screwed up their gmail accounts? Was there a message I didn't get that said unless I opt out, my account is automatically upgraded?
And why would anyone change what was working well for something that doesn't work at all?
Whatever.
However, knowing that I cannot discuss it with my resident expert without another argument, I went into the settings box to see if I inadvertently changed something (yeah, I know, that cannot happen--but it does), but everything was the way I wanted it. I tried changing the settings to see what options are available, but it was just the way I wanted it ... so I left it alone.
For a couple of weeks I've been unhappy with the account and frustrated trying to figure out why it doesn't work as well as it used to work. I'll admit I'm not the most patient person in some areas, which includes computer operation, but it's not an area where I have either knowledge or skill (which I find intimidating). However, if it once popped open, it should continue to pop open, and not popping open was simply not acceptable.
I've gone to the service page; I've read all the messages; I've tried to find anything that conforms to my issue and fix it myself; I usually give in, give up, and learn to live with whatever happens because it's easier than the argument it takes to explain it and fix whatever is wrong.
This morning, however, I saw a box at the top of the window that said "old version." Hm, I didn't know there was a "new" version, so I clicked on it. Zippidy doo dah! Up popped my mail in a new window fast as greased lightning. I went to my other gmail account and changed it to "old version," happily with the same results. I closed the site and reopened it several times, and it works as it used to work: fast!
I did not change this site to the newer version, so I'm not sure why that change was made. I tried the newer, faster version of my MSN hotmail account and found that it bogged down my computer to the point of being unusable; however, the minute I changed back to the older version, my computer was back to its former, faster operating speed.
Thus, I had already learned the lesson that "newer" doesn't always mean "better," and I usually leave well enough alone. But I didn't change my gmail account ... so why was it changed?
The questions remain: if I didn't upgrade to the newer version, was it just foisted on all gmail users? Are there other users out there who cannot figure out what has screwed up their gmail accounts? Was there a message I didn't get that said unless I opt out, my account is automatically upgraded?
And why would anyone change what was working well for something that doesn't work at all?
Friday, November 9, 2007
This Little Light of Mine
The first time the compact flourescent bulb burned out and I could not buy a replacement, I bought a new fixture. In an attempt to avoid a future fixture for which there is no replacement bulb, I bought the new fixture at Lowe's, the big box building supply store with inventory to fit my every need.
Sort of.
The bulb in the new fixture burned out.
Lowe's light = Lowe's bulb.
Not exactly.
Although there are, indeed, many replacement CFLs in the lighting department, there is NOT a replacement bulb for this fixture. It doesn't happen often, explains the courteous service representative, but it now has happened to me: twice.
You see, these specialty CFLs are unique, so you can't just walk into the store and buy one that fits your fixture. Of course, I can always buy another outdoor light fixture, one that takes regular, old-fashioned light bulbs--but aren't they being phased out due to the popularity of and demand for the green qualities of the CFLs?
I asked to speak to the manager, explained that if Lowe's carries the fixture, Lowe's should carry replacement bulbs for the fixture.
"I'll look into it."
Perhaps. Then again, I could see that he was really busy with other pressing matters, so I'm not going to hold my breath. It is, after all, just a replacement light bulb.
Sort of.
The bulb in the new fixture burned out.
Lowe's light = Lowe's bulb.
Not exactly.
Although there are, indeed, many replacement CFLs in the lighting department, there is NOT a replacement bulb for this fixture. It doesn't happen often, explains the courteous service representative, but it now has happened to me: twice.
You see, these specialty CFLs are unique, so you can't just walk into the store and buy one that fits your fixture. Of course, I can always buy another outdoor light fixture, one that takes regular, old-fashioned light bulbs--but aren't they being phased out due to the popularity of and demand for the green qualities of the CFLs?
I asked to speak to the manager, explained that if Lowe's carries the fixture, Lowe's should carry replacement bulbs for the fixture.
"I'll look into it."
Perhaps. Then again, I could see that he was really busy with other pressing matters, so I'm not going to hold my breath. It is, after all, just a replacement light bulb.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
When the Going Gets Tough--Quit!
Part of who we are comes from within, from the deepest places in our being that is formed one instant at a time by the people, the places, and the events of our lives. We make decisions about who we are without realizing we are doing so, and we become what we become as a result of those decisions. If the decisions are based on faulty information, we become faulty people and probably don’t even realize it until “someday” comes.
You know, the “someday you’re going to regret this” moment that we all have, sooner or later. For many young people, that “someday” moment happens when they leave high school for the real world, woefully unprepared for what’s waiting for them as they apply for jobs or attend their first college class. Self-confident based on social skills, not academic preparation, far too many post-high school citizens find themselves with limited options for their future, and even more limited skills for coping with the reality of the situation they helped create.
The past couple of weeks have been insightful because I'm dealing with young adults who don't know the difference between intrinsic, living one's life from the inside out, and extrinsic, living on the outside and not knowing to look within. The manifestation of this situation is a steady parade of people on my path filled with self-doubt, with fear about the future, with no internal support system to sustain them when life doesn't go the way they have been told it should go. They all plan to be successful, but don’t have the tools or the attitude to be successful: they want it now, they want it easy, and they want it to come with a big paycheck.
When it doesn't work that way, they freeze in place. They don't know that it's on their shoulders, it's their decision, it's their responsibility to take the next step. When the going gets tough, you either get tough too or you get run over by those who don't quit.
The countless "I can't do this" commentary taxes my patience: how does anyone know what can--or cannot--be done unless (s)he first tries? “I can’t do this” is all too often “I won’t do this.” I respect a person who tries, and then has to try again, because that’s learning! I don’t hold the person who refuses to try in very high esteem because that person has already determined what they are and are not willing to do to become more. They think that they have already arrived, and don’t want to know that their journey lasts a lifetime.
"I don't know" more often than not means "I'm not willing to risk not being right, so I won't answer." If you don't know, how are you going to find out if you are unwilling to risk being wrong? We often know far more than we are willing to risk knowing, so why not think about it, say something, and find out you know more than you give yourself credit for knowing? And if you truly don’t know, after sharing the conversation you will know and be able to use that knowledge in a similar situation next time.
"This is too hard" translates to I'm not willing to sacrifice my personal time to work on something that is going to require me to dig deep to do it. It’s faster, easier, and more fun to replicate endlessly what I already know, and it’s less threatening than working harder to learn something I don’t know. Far too often “this is too hard” is followed by “you are so unfair,” as if blaming the responsible adult absolves them of any personal responsibility for not only their situation, but finding a solution.
Dropping a course because the teacher is too hard pushes my buttons. A teacher who is not too hard may not be doing the job for which (s)he has been hired: teaching students what they don’t know, not endlessly reinforcing what they already have learned. Our job is to push people past their comfort zone, to force them to confront their areas of deficiency so they can conquer them and move to a higher educational plane. If they already know it, why are we endlessly reteaching it?
The student who complains to me that (s)he earned all As in high school but cannot write a coherent sentence confirms to me the sad state of our educational system, where teachers are afraid to be “too hard” because they won’t be popular with students, colleagues, or parents. Sure, I can accept that some teachers are more comfortable with happy horseshit than they are with strict standards and high expectations, but where are these popular folks 5 years down the road, when the student confronts the ah-ha moment and realizes that they may have felt good in that classroom, but they didn’t learn anything new? They may have all As and Bs on a report card, but they didn’t walk away from high school with an education they can use in college or on the job or in their lives.
New knowledge is scary because it often takes us out of our comfort zone and puts us at risk in a place we’ve never been. Until the new becomes the old, we have to exist in that uncomfortable place between. What I’m learning is that not many of today’s younger generations are willing to do that because we’ve made the familiar too comfortable and the unknown too risky.
I left the high school classroom for many reasons, one of which is the complete collapse of high expectations and rigorous classroom challenges. The educational system is geared, thanks to No Child Left Behind, to teach to the lowest common denominator, and that’s a formula for failure. The educational process has inflated the achieving student to “gifted” status and rewards what once would have been a strong B student with academic excellence through effort grades that reflect how grateful we are that some students can read and some students actually complete homework assignments.
I cringe when I see project-based activity substituting for knowledge-based competency. A group becomes veneer for the unmotivated, as well as the unable, student who earns a group grade without engaging in the process of creating the project—or learning the information contained in the completed project. “Let’s make the students feel good about themselves” is the hue and cry of those who don’t know that the students have to make themselves feel good honestly, by engaging in and mastering solid educational concepts and building their personal knowledge base.
We aren't educating, we're enabling, constructing a house of cards that tumbles with the least breath of moving air. Standards-based education is based on lowering the standards so ALL children can walk across the stage on graduation day, clutching that high school diploma and waving to friends and family. It’s a social event, not an educational high-water mark. I’m beginning to think that society doesn’t care to know the difference because that would mean changing what we are doing and going back to real basics, the rote memorization of information that forms the foundation for everything else that comes after it.
But if all we expect from them is that what we provide makes them feel good about themselves now, that becomes all they expect from themselves. When it no longer feels good and they don’t know what to do about it, we all fail.
You know, the “someday you’re going to regret this” moment that we all have, sooner or later. For many young people, that “someday” moment happens when they leave high school for the real world, woefully unprepared for what’s waiting for them as they apply for jobs or attend their first college class. Self-confident based on social skills, not academic preparation, far too many post-high school citizens find themselves with limited options for their future, and even more limited skills for coping with the reality of the situation they helped create.
The past couple of weeks have been insightful because I'm dealing with young adults who don't know the difference between intrinsic, living one's life from the inside out, and extrinsic, living on the outside and not knowing to look within. The manifestation of this situation is a steady parade of people on my path filled with self-doubt, with fear about the future, with no internal support system to sustain them when life doesn't go the way they have been told it should go. They all plan to be successful, but don’t have the tools or the attitude to be successful: they want it now, they want it easy, and they want it to come with a big paycheck.
When it doesn't work that way, they freeze in place. They don't know that it's on their shoulders, it's their decision, it's their responsibility to take the next step. When the going gets tough, you either get tough too or you get run over by those who don't quit.
The countless "I can't do this" commentary taxes my patience: how does anyone know what can--or cannot--be done unless (s)he first tries? “I can’t do this” is all too often “I won’t do this.” I respect a person who tries, and then has to try again, because that’s learning! I don’t hold the person who refuses to try in very high esteem because that person has already determined what they are and are not willing to do to become more. They think that they have already arrived, and don’t want to know that their journey lasts a lifetime.
"I don't know" more often than not means "I'm not willing to risk not being right, so I won't answer." If you don't know, how are you going to find out if you are unwilling to risk being wrong? We often know far more than we are willing to risk knowing, so why not think about it, say something, and find out you know more than you give yourself credit for knowing? And if you truly don’t know, after sharing the conversation you will know and be able to use that knowledge in a similar situation next time.
"This is too hard" translates to I'm not willing to sacrifice my personal time to work on something that is going to require me to dig deep to do it. It’s faster, easier, and more fun to replicate endlessly what I already know, and it’s less threatening than working harder to learn something I don’t know. Far too often “this is too hard” is followed by “you are so unfair,” as if blaming the responsible adult absolves them of any personal responsibility for not only their situation, but finding a solution.
Dropping a course because the teacher is too hard pushes my buttons. A teacher who is not too hard may not be doing the job for which (s)he has been hired: teaching students what they don’t know, not endlessly reinforcing what they already have learned. Our job is to push people past their comfort zone, to force them to confront their areas of deficiency so they can conquer them and move to a higher educational plane. If they already know it, why are we endlessly reteaching it?
The student who complains to me that (s)he earned all As in high school but cannot write a coherent sentence confirms to me the sad state of our educational system, where teachers are afraid to be “too hard” because they won’t be popular with students, colleagues, or parents. Sure, I can accept that some teachers are more comfortable with happy horseshit than they are with strict standards and high expectations, but where are these popular folks 5 years down the road, when the student confronts the ah-ha moment and realizes that they may have felt good in that classroom, but they didn’t learn anything new? They may have all As and Bs on a report card, but they didn’t walk away from high school with an education they can use in college or on the job or in their lives.
New knowledge is scary because it often takes us out of our comfort zone and puts us at risk in a place we’ve never been. Until the new becomes the old, we have to exist in that uncomfortable place between. What I’m learning is that not many of today’s younger generations are willing to do that because we’ve made the familiar too comfortable and the unknown too risky.
I left the high school classroom for many reasons, one of which is the complete collapse of high expectations and rigorous classroom challenges. The educational system is geared, thanks to No Child Left Behind, to teach to the lowest common denominator, and that’s a formula for failure. The educational process has inflated the achieving student to “gifted” status and rewards what once would have been a strong B student with academic excellence through effort grades that reflect how grateful we are that some students can read and some students actually complete homework assignments.
I cringe when I see project-based activity substituting for knowledge-based competency. A group becomes veneer for the unmotivated, as well as the unable, student who earns a group grade without engaging in the process of creating the project—or learning the information contained in the completed project. “Let’s make the students feel good about themselves” is the hue and cry of those who don’t know that the students have to make themselves feel good honestly, by engaging in and mastering solid educational concepts and building their personal knowledge base.
We aren't educating, we're enabling, constructing a house of cards that tumbles with the least breath of moving air. Standards-based education is based on lowering the standards so ALL children can walk across the stage on graduation day, clutching that high school diploma and waving to friends and family. It’s a social event, not an educational high-water mark. I’m beginning to think that society doesn’t care to know the difference because that would mean changing what we are doing and going back to real basics, the rote memorization of information that forms the foundation for everything else that comes after it.
But if all we expect from them is that what we provide makes them feel good about themselves now, that becomes all they expect from themselves. When it no longer feels good and they don’t know what to do about it, we all fail.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Dangerous Darkness
Last night, a local girl, aged 13, became a national statistic: children who are killed/injured on Halloween night. It was a tragic accident that occurred when the girl and two friends made a mad dash across a wide, busy road at 8:30 pm.
It was dark last night, and it gets really dark in the desert; by 6 pm, I could not see the street in front of my home. Streetlights are few and far between in my community, so I understand the darkness, but where the accident happened, there are more streetlights. However, streetlights occur in the housing areas, not in the broad expanses of open road that connect the populated areas.
The girls wanted to cross in the middle of the block, not at a corner, not in a crosswalk, not where there was a streetlight. An unsuspecting driver hit one of them, causing massive trauma to the little girl's body. Hysterical, the driver called 9-1-1 and begged for help. The paramedics who arrived on-scene used CPR and every other intervention they could to save her life, but it's doubtful that she'll survive, although she was alive when she arrived at the hospital.
When I read the article, my mind flashed back to a couple of weeks ago, about a mile from my home. I was in the last leg of my journey back down the hill from teaching a night class, and when I return it's dark, deep dark, the kind of dark that requires driving all the time with the brights turned on. The last stretch of open road before my housing area has, perhaps, 2 lights to cover a full mile, but it's an industrial area, so there aren't many people out at 9:45 pm.
Suddenly, just at the leading edge of my headlights, I saw a man walking toward me in the middle of my lane. I swerved the car and avoided him, but was almost frozen in shock: had I not been driving with my brights on, I would not have seen him in time to avoid hitting him.
He was an older man, dressed like older men dress, in trousers, a button-up shirt, and a cardigan sweater, wearing glasses and a dazed expression. I don't know how he was where he was or why he was walking toward the oncoming traffic, but the cars behind me also missed him, so he was a lucky man that night.
I called the local police department and explained the situation, expressing concern that perhaps he had walked away from a nearby home and his family could be looking for him. I was told that they'd check it out and left it to the police to do their duty.
I didn't hit him, but I had nightmares during the night as I kept seeing his face so close in front of my car. I jarred awake, imagining how I would live with hitting another human being. Even though I knew it would not have been my fault, it would have been my burden to bear for the rest of my life. I can imagine what the driver of the car last night must feel as so suddenly and so unexpectedly there was a child in front of that bumper--and no way to avoid hitting her.
The police report can vindicate the driver of a tragic accident, but the human report never allows the guilt to go away.
When the conservation people call for a "Lights Out" night, I shudder because I know how much well-lit streets and neighborhoods can deter crime--and prevent tragic accidents that are caused by poor visibility and bad choices, a deadly combination on any night.
It was dark last night, and it gets really dark in the desert; by 6 pm, I could not see the street in front of my home. Streetlights are few and far between in my community, so I understand the darkness, but where the accident happened, there are more streetlights. However, streetlights occur in the housing areas, not in the broad expanses of open road that connect the populated areas.
The girls wanted to cross in the middle of the block, not at a corner, not in a crosswalk, not where there was a streetlight. An unsuspecting driver hit one of them, causing massive trauma to the little girl's body. Hysterical, the driver called 9-1-1 and begged for help. The paramedics who arrived on-scene used CPR and every other intervention they could to save her life, but it's doubtful that she'll survive, although she was alive when she arrived at the hospital.
When I read the article, my mind flashed back to a couple of weeks ago, about a mile from my home. I was in the last leg of my journey back down the hill from teaching a night class, and when I return it's dark, deep dark, the kind of dark that requires driving all the time with the brights turned on. The last stretch of open road before my housing area has, perhaps, 2 lights to cover a full mile, but it's an industrial area, so there aren't many people out at 9:45 pm.
Suddenly, just at the leading edge of my headlights, I saw a man walking toward me in the middle of my lane. I swerved the car and avoided him, but was almost frozen in shock: had I not been driving with my brights on, I would not have seen him in time to avoid hitting him.
He was an older man, dressed like older men dress, in trousers, a button-up shirt, and a cardigan sweater, wearing glasses and a dazed expression. I don't know how he was where he was or why he was walking toward the oncoming traffic, but the cars behind me also missed him, so he was a lucky man that night.
I called the local police department and explained the situation, expressing concern that perhaps he had walked away from a nearby home and his family could be looking for him. I was told that they'd check it out and left it to the police to do their duty.
I didn't hit him, but I had nightmares during the night as I kept seeing his face so close in front of my car. I jarred awake, imagining how I would live with hitting another human being. Even though I knew it would not have been my fault, it would have been my burden to bear for the rest of my life. I can imagine what the driver of the car last night must feel as so suddenly and so unexpectedly there was a child in front of that bumper--and no way to avoid hitting her.
The police report can vindicate the driver of a tragic accident, but the human report never allows the guilt to go away.
When the conservation people call for a "Lights Out" night, I shudder because I know how much well-lit streets and neighborhoods can deter crime--and prevent tragic accidents that are caused by poor visibility and bad choices, a deadly combination on any night.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
People in My Path
One of my key beliefs is that God puts people in our paths when we need them to be there. We may think we know why, but often the reason has more to do with others than it has to do with ourselves.
Age is a great leveler of personal worth because it does not matter what is inside: today, it’s all about packaging, not product. Today’s society is a veneer, a thin coating of what passes for the real thing, but which leaves nothing of substance when it is peeled away and the truth that lies beneath is exposed to critical examination. And while some people actually value antiques, far too many more purchase them simply as possessions that demonstrate their fiscal assets, not treasures with intrinsic value in the workmanship that allows the piece to exist sometimes for centuries, an authenticity that cannot be replicated by the “faux antiques” market.
Yesterday, my antique value was validated when God put people in my path not once, not twice, but three separate times. One encounter was with a family member; the second with a student with whom I’ve tussled; and the third was with a complete stranger, a person who wandered into the building last night seeking a chaplain, but who then asked me if I would talk to him as he was having a tough time.
I took time right then to listen, invited him to share the classroom until class was finished, and then took him for tacos at a local fast-food restaurant. He needed people in his path as he was feeling isolated, alone, and not sure what he would do next. He talked, and I listened; and when I talked, he listened. When it was time for me to leave, I invited him to come back next week, to bring a book and sit in the class while we do our thing. He needs people; he needs something to look forward to; he needs to know within himself that he’s going through a rough patch, but this, too, will pass. He agreed, but not before requesting that we talk again next week, after class.
I reminded him that it’s one day at a time, and sometimes, just one step at a time. He doesn’t need to solve all of his issues right now because tomorrow, they may look different to him or they may be replaced with other issues that need his attention. I told him I’ll look forward to seeing him again next week—and I hope that he will, too.
Each of the people yesterday thanked me for sharing my wisdom, complimenting my age, rather than denegrating it as old-fashioned and worthless. You know, the "that's so yesterday" comment that young people glibly toss off when they don't want to hear what you have to say to them.
My mother always said that "You can't put an old head on young shoulders," but I hope that yesterday, the young shoulders were helped by my old head.
Age is a great leveler of personal worth because it does not matter what is inside: today, it’s all about packaging, not product. Today’s society is a veneer, a thin coating of what passes for the real thing, but which leaves nothing of substance when it is peeled away and the truth that lies beneath is exposed to critical examination. And while some people actually value antiques, far too many more purchase them simply as possessions that demonstrate their fiscal assets, not treasures with intrinsic value in the workmanship that allows the piece to exist sometimes for centuries, an authenticity that cannot be replicated by the “faux antiques” market.
Yesterday, my antique value was validated when God put people in my path not once, not twice, but three separate times. One encounter was with a family member; the second with a student with whom I’ve tussled; and the third was with a complete stranger, a person who wandered into the building last night seeking a chaplain, but who then asked me if I would talk to him as he was having a tough time.
I took time right then to listen, invited him to share the classroom until class was finished, and then took him for tacos at a local fast-food restaurant. He needed people in his path as he was feeling isolated, alone, and not sure what he would do next. He talked, and I listened; and when I talked, he listened. When it was time for me to leave, I invited him to come back next week, to bring a book and sit in the class while we do our thing. He needs people; he needs something to look forward to; he needs to know within himself that he’s going through a rough patch, but this, too, will pass. He agreed, but not before requesting that we talk again next week, after class.
I reminded him that it’s one day at a time, and sometimes, just one step at a time. He doesn’t need to solve all of his issues right now because tomorrow, they may look different to him or they may be replaced with other issues that need his attention. I told him I’ll look forward to seeing him again next week—and I hope that he will, too.
Each of the people yesterday thanked me for sharing my wisdom, complimenting my age, rather than denegrating it as old-fashioned and worthless. You know, the "that's so yesterday" comment that young people glibly toss off when they don't want to hear what you have to say to them.
My mother always said that "You can't put an old head on young shoulders," but I hope that yesterday, the young shoulders were helped by my old head.
Vocabulary 101
Many of the tidbits forwarded to my in-box land in the delete pile: I'm not really into astounding information that has the potential to rock someone's world -- but not mine. Same with cute: that's a subjective decision and I'm an objective kind of person.But, once in a while, along comes the one email that makes the endless stream of FWD MSGs worthwhile:
A worker calls the boss one morning and tells him, "I'm staying home because I'm not feeling well."
"What's the matter?" asks the concerned boss
"I have a case of anal glaucoma," comes the reply, delivered in a convincingly weak voice.
"What the hell is anal glaucoma ?" demands the boss, worried that this may be a new disease requiring yet another visit to his proctologist.
"I can't see my ass coming into work today! "
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Brain Bifurcation
If anyone knows where my spare pair of glasses is hiding, or the case for my cell phone, or the grade record for the comp class, please let me know ASAP!
As I was working on the computer this morning, I felt something lightly brush my face. Reaching up to flick it away, I felt it fall onto my chest, so reaching down, I picked up … the earpiece for the glasses. Normally, this would not be a big issue (replace the screw yadayadayada), but these are rimless glasses, so the earpiece is embedded in the lens. Because I cannot wear my glasses and see what caused the earpiece to fall off the frames, I had to have professional assistance to assess the situation and let me know how/when/how much to have them fixed.
Now, we have a new issue. I did not opt for continuing eye care insurance as it would have added an additional $480 annually to my already high COBRA payment plan. Rather than returning to the shop from which the now useless glasses were purchased, I went to the nearby optical shop. For $225, I can purchase a new pair of glasses, titanium rims, bifocals, transitions lenses—and they’ll be ready Thursday (or Friday). Hurrah. They may not be the most au courant frames I’ve ever owned, but I have to teach a class tonight while balancing the broken frames on my nose, which should add an element of suspense to the proceedings and an additional layer of stress to my already high maintenance life.
I had the cell phone in the case last Thursday (for sure), and think I remember having it at b’fast Friday, but haven’t been able to find it since then. I’ve check both vehicles (under, over, around and through), as well as lifted couch cushions, looked under furniture, and stormed my way through every nook and cranny I can think to check. No cell phone case—and no spare glasses. Perhaps they ran off together? I tried the “this isn’t funny, guys” approach, but got no response from the missing items nor the dog, who tried her best to look sympathetically at me while I ransacked the house.
I’ve also been grading papers, lots of papers, using the couch as a workstation, so I figured the grade sheet would be in that general vicinity, too. Not so, nor is it on the official desk in the office, where the other two grade sheets are located. With all the paper still overwhelming my life, it could be mixed in with any one of several piles of papers, but I have to keep looking … and hope that I find it before the end of the semester. I have been shredding, but I think I would be tuned in to THIS IS A GRADE SHEET and not shred it while on autopilot, wouldn’t I?
This is nuts! I am usually so well-organized and can put my hands on anything at any time without stopping to think about it. However, I’ve been cleaning, reorganizing, shredding and discarding, which means I’ve moved things from one spot to another, usually with great logic involved in the relocation, and the end result is who knows where anything is? I certainly can’t find anything—unless you are looking for 2 vintage negligees in a size 10 that haven’t been worn since the 60s. Those I stubbornly refuse to donate to someone who may wear them in this lifetime. If anyone’s going to get lucky and need those negligees, it’s going to be an overweight, over-the-hill, graying senior citizen: me!
I caved into the “retirement” peer pressure, that expectation that now that I’m retired, I have lots of time to clean my house and (finally) get organized. However, I ran out of places to put things long before I ran out of things, so now the back of my truck is filled with boxes of teaching materials with which I don’t know what to do! I can throw out life materials, but teaching materials? Give me a break: I MAY NEED THEM SOMEDAY!
On the good news front, however, is that the student who wrote “tiddlers” in her essay about the importance of early educational intervention, changed it to “tettlers” after I noted a “sp” correction was needed in her quest for a recognized way to identify those little tykes who advance from rug rats to “toddlers.” With such cute nomenclature, she’ll be such a terrific highly qualified elementary school teacher!
As I was working on the computer this morning, I felt something lightly brush my face. Reaching up to flick it away, I felt it fall onto my chest, so reaching down, I picked up … the earpiece for the glasses. Normally, this would not be a big issue (replace the screw yadayadayada), but these are rimless glasses, so the earpiece is embedded in the lens. Because I cannot wear my glasses and see what caused the earpiece to fall off the frames, I had to have professional assistance to assess the situation and let me know how/when/how much to have them fixed.
Now, we have a new issue. I did not opt for continuing eye care insurance as it would have added an additional $480 annually to my already high COBRA payment plan. Rather than returning to the shop from which the now useless glasses were purchased, I went to the nearby optical shop. For $225, I can purchase a new pair of glasses, titanium rims, bifocals, transitions lenses—and they’ll be ready Thursday (or Friday). Hurrah. They may not be the most au courant frames I’ve ever owned, but I have to teach a class tonight while balancing the broken frames on my nose, which should add an element of suspense to the proceedings and an additional layer of stress to my already high maintenance life.
I had the cell phone in the case last Thursday (for sure), and think I remember having it at b’fast Friday, but haven’t been able to find it since then. I’ve check both vehicles (under, over, around and through), as well as lifted couch cushions, looked under furniture, and stormed my way through every nook and cranny I can think to check. No cell phone case—and no spare glasses. Perhaps they ran off together? I tried the “this isn’t funny, guys” approach, but got no response from the missing items nor the dog, who tried her best to look sympathetically at me while I ransacked the house.
I’ve also been grading papers, lots of papers, using the couch as a workstation, so I figured the grade sheet would be in that general vicinity, too. Not so, nor is it on the official desk in the office, where the other two grade sheets are located. With all the paper still overwhelming my life, it could be mixed in with any one of several piles of papers, but I have to keep looking … and hope that I find it before the end of the semester. I have been shredding, but I think I would be tuned in to THIS IS A GRADE SHEET and not shred it while on autopilot, wouldn’t I?
This is nuts! I am usually so well-organized and can put my hands on anything at any time without stopping to think about it. However, I’ve been cleaning, reorganizing, shredding and discarding, which means I’ve moved things from one spot to another, usually with great logic involved in the relocation, and the end result is who knows where anything is? I certainly can’t find anything—unless you are looking for 2 vintage negligees in a size 10 that haven’t been worn since the 60s. Those I stubbornly refuse to donate to someone who may wear them in this lifetime. If anyone’s going to get lucky and need those negligees, it’s going to be an overweight, over-the-hill, graying senior citizen: me!
I caved into the “retirement” peer pressure, that expectation that now that I’m retired, I have lots of time to clean my house and (finally) get organized. However, I ran out of places to put things long before I ran out of things, so now the back of my truck is filled with boxes of teaching materials with which I don’t know what to do! I can throw out life materials, but teaching materials? Give me a break: I MAY NEED THEM SOMEDAY!
On the good news front, however, is that the student who wrote “tiddlers” in her essay about the importance of early educational intervention, changed it to “tettlers” after I noted a “sp” correction was needed in her quest for a recognized way to identify those little tykes who advance from rug rats to “toddlers.” With such cute nomenclature, she’ll be such a terrific highly qualified elementary school teacher!
Monday, October 29, 2007
Desert Delicious
Today is a gorgeous day. The lingering residue from the nearby fires has dissipated and the sky is a clear, pure blue. It's been quite warm the past couple of days, but without humidity, it just adds to the sparkle. This is what the desert is known for, this is what brings in the tourists and their dollars. This is what keeps our economy rolling right along.
This is desert delicious.
It's hard to imagine that there are still fires raging through the nearby landscapes to the west and to the southwest. There are evacuees still waiting to return to their homes, still waiting to learn whether they have a home or rubble waiting for them. There are still evacuees wearing the clothes they had on when they fled for their lives ...
It's amazing how quickly the media moved on. I guess the attention span for fires burning in SoCal is shorter than the scope of the fire. It's not a perky, upbeat story or salacious gossip, so fires still threatening thousands of homes puts too much pall on the national news to continue to report on them. It's sad, but all the top politicos have been here, done that, and moved on--so let's go find something more upbeat!
Think of the ratings, people.
This is desert delicious.
It's hard to imagine that there are still fires raging through the nearby landscapes to the west and to the southwest. There are evacuees still waiting to return to their homes, still waiting to learn whether they have a home or rubble waiting for them. There are still evacuees wearing the clothes they had on when they fled for their lives ...
It's amazing how quickly the media moved on. I guess the attention span for fires burning in SoCal is shorter than the scope of the fire. It's not a perky, upbeat story or salacious gossip, so fires still threatening thousands of homes puts too much pall on the national news to continue to report on them. It's sad, but all the top politicos have been here, done that, and moved on--so let's go find something more upbeat!
Think of the ratings, people.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Definitive Diagnosis
Today, I made up my rescheduled dr. appt. for a check-up on the situation that put me into the hospital for 3 days in July. It’s really hard to get an appt with my dr, but every time I’ve been in the office, I’ve been one of perhaps a total of three patients in the waiting room. The soonest I could be seen after canceling the Sept 5 appt was Oct 25, although I indicated that the dr wanted a more timely follow-up. Busy, busy, busy.
Whatever.
So, how’s it going today?
Today, I’m just fine, thank you.
Well, how have you been since the last time I saw you?
Oh, well, that’s a bit different as I’m still having symptoms, such as a weird heartbeat, sudden shortness of breath, and a swimming dizziness in my head.
Did the Prilosec help?
Help what? I don’t have acid reflux and I’m not sure what else it was supposed to do, so I’m not sure I can answer that question.
Hm. We’ve pretty much ruled out a heart problem, so it can be either the diabetes (faintness) or the asthma (shortness of breath), so we’re going to continue to monitor the diabetes, although you have done a good job with controlling it through diet and exercise, and I’ll up the inhaler while all the smoke is in the air. You probably should use the Advair daily, rather than just during the difficult times, such as when the grass is being scaled, the pollens are in the air, or it’s smoky.
Okay.
By the way, I’m going to burn that skin cancer off your chest. Only about 10% of them are ever malignant, so we’ll do this today, check it in 4-6 weeks, and then see how it looks. See you then!
Uh, what?
Whatever.
So, how’s it going today?
Today, I’m just fine, thank you.
Well, how have you been since the last time I saw you?
Oh, well, that’s a bit different as I’m still having symptoms, such as a weird heartbeat, sudden shortness of breath, and a swimming dizziness in my head.
Did the Prilosec help?
Help what? I don’t have acid reflux and I’m not sure what else it was supposed to do, so I’m not sure I can answer that question.
Hm. We’ve pretty much ruled out a heart problem, so it can be either the diabetes (faintness) or the asthma (shortness of breath), so we’re going to continue to monitor the diabetes, although you have done a good job with controlling it through diet and exercise, and I’ll up the inhaler while all the smoke is in the air. You probably should use the Advair daily, rather than just during the difficult times, such as when the grass is being scaled, the pollens are in the air, or it’s smoky.
Okay.
By the way, I’m going to burn that skin cancer off your chest. Only about 10% of them are ever malignant, so we’ll do this today, check it in 4-6 weeks, and then see how it looks. See you then!
Uh, what?
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Mental Meanderings
Is SoCal going to be littered with FEMA trailers? The local media touted FEMA’s donation of 1,000 cots for the QualCom stadium in San Diego; however, there are more than 10,000 people on the premises, so perhaps a rotation for sleeping will be designed so the people who don’t have a cot can share with those who do?
It’s a nice gesture, and I’m sure FEMA will continue to provide more and more amenities for the displaced San Diego residents, but, at this point in time, thank God for the thousands of San Diegans who are taking care of their neighbors, bringing literally tons of donations to the people who are out of their homes and waiting to learn whether they have a home to return to when the fires are out.
The military base up the hill is taking in people from Camp Pendleton, Fallbrook, and surrounding desert communities, including the Big Bear area. They are being temporarily housed throughout the base facilities. When you have no place to call home, even a tent doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. They are being provided with food and sanitation facilities, so what more could anyone want?
What happens as the dominos begin to fall? Is the economy able to absorb this kind of disaster, or is SoCal going to be another Louisiana?
Where does all the debris go? Is there a designated place to discard the charred remnants of thousands of homes and businesses safely? Who pays to pick it up, cart it off, and dump it in an environmentally safe manner?
The utility companies suffer when thousands of accounts are closed simultaneously: gas, water, electric, cable TV, telephone, trash collection. The thousands of gardeners are suddenly unemployed, as well as the housekeepers and the shop owners who find themselves without customers to buy their goods.
Retail trades suffer as people who were spending money on clothing, recreation, electronics and other non-essentials now have to hold onto every dollar they have because not only do they have a home to rebuild, but they have to repurchase their lives. Restaurants should have a steady stream of customers: those displaced from their homes and those with no homes left.
Think of all the outstanding credit card bills for items in ashes. Think of all the mortgages, the balances due on loans for automobiles that are no longer, home equity loans on a property that is no more.
The economy will boom soon as the homes are rebuilt, the residents begin to refurnish their lives, and new cars are purchased, but for some of the victims of this disaster, it’s not just what they’ve lost, but what they have to pay for that no longer exists. Those loans and credit card bills don’t go away just because what they were used to buy no longer exists. The debt was incurred, and the person who signed the credit card receipt is going to have to pay off the debt, as well as the new debt incurred to rebuild their lives.
If everyone not affected by the fire donated $5 to a common fund, and everyone who loses a home in the fires signed up for an equal share of the pot, I wonder how much cash could be given to the victims to help them with part of the process?
The people who stood there and watched their homes go up in flames may not know it yet, but their lives were just destroyed, too.
It’s a nice gesture, and I’m sure FEMA will continue to provide more and more amenities for the displaced San Diego residents, but, at this point in time, thank God for the thousands of San Diegans who are taking care of their neighbors, bringing literally tons of donations to the people who are out of their homes and waiting to learn whether they have a home to return to when the fires are out.
The military base up the hill is taking in people from Camp Pendleton, Fallbrook, and surrounding desert communities, including the Big Bear area. They are being temporarily housed throughout the base facilities. When you have no place to call home, even a tent doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. They are being provided with food and sanitation facilities, so what more could anyone want?
What happens as the dominos begin to fall? Is the economy able to absorb this kind of disaster, or is SoCal going to be another Louisiana?
Where does all the debris go? Is there a designated place to discard the charred remnants of thousands of homes and businesses safely? Who pays to pick it up, cart it off, and dump it in an environmentally safe manner?
The utility companies suffer when thousands of accounts are closed simultaneously: gas, water, electric, cable TV, telephone, trash collection. The thousands of gardeners are suddenly unemployed, as well as the housekeepers and the shop owners who find themselves without customers to buy their goods.
Retail trades suffer as people who were spending money on clothing, recreation, electronics and other non-essentials now have to hold onto every dollar they have because not only do they have a home to rebuild, but they have to repurchase their lives. Restaurants should have a steady stream of customers: those displaced from their homes and those with no homes left.
Think of all the outstanding credit card bills for items in ashes. Think of all the mortgages, the balances due on loans for automobiles that are no longer, home equity loans on a property that is no more.
The economy will boom soon as the homes are rebuilt, the residents begin to refurnish their lives, and new cars are purchased, but for some of the victims of this disaster, it’s not just what they’ve lost, but what they have to pay for that no longer exists. Those loans and credit card bills don’t go away just because what they were used to buy no longer exists. The debt was incurred, and the person who signed the credit card receipt is going to have to pay off the debt, as well as the new debt incurred to rebuild their lives.
If everyone not affected by the fire donated $5 to a common fund, and everyone who loses a home in the fires signed up for an equal share of the pot, I wonder how much cash could be given to the victims to help them with part of the process?
The people who stood there and watched their homes go up in flames may not know it yet, but their lives were just destroyed, too.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Where There's Smoke ...
Tonight, on my way up the hill to teach a class, I was astounded at the amount of traffic heading up the hill with me. At the stoplight at the bottom of the first grade, the traffic was backed up for perhaps a half mile, and much of the traffic was 18-wheelers, which is unusual.
As I continued toward my destination, I came to a "major" intersection that turns off the highway I was on and becomes another "major" route across the desert to the base of the mountain where "Big Bear" is located. At the intersection of these two "major" arteries, the traffic was backed up another good half mile, again totally unusual, especially since the bulk of the traffic was turning onto OWS Road and heading across the desert.
Finally, an "ah ha" moment as the news cast began: the access from the other side of the "Big Bear" mountain was closed due to fires, so traffic was rerouting the L-O-N-G way around the mountain so people who lived on "this side" of the mountain could get home! The traffic was heavy, and I can just imagine all those cars and 18-wheelers forming a parade across the desert, which is one lane in each direction, creating a course for collisions from tired, impatient, and worried drivers trying to get home before the fire gets there.
At 8 pm, just as I was launching into the grand finale of the night's class, I smelled smoke: lots of strong-smelling smoke. Because we've already been through a major fire incident not too long ago, I sent a student to sniff out the source of the smoke to be sure that we wouldn't find ourselves in a difficult situation by the time class let out.
He returned and told the class that someone had left a burning cigarette on the ground and it had started a small fire at the end of the building. Several people were there handling the situation, but that's all it takes for another out-of-control fire to challenge the Santa Ana wind conditions and wipe out acreage, homes, and ecosystems.
I'm glad that people were right there to deal with the situation because it takes just a moment for one person's carelessness to become another person's catastrophe.
As I continued toward my destination, I came to a "major" intersection that turns off the highway I was on and becomes another "major" route across the desert to the base of the mountain where "Big Bear" is located. At the intersection of these two "major" arteries, the traffic was backed up another good half mile, again totally unusual, especially since the bulk of the traffic was turning onto OWS Road and heading across the desert.
Finally, an "ah ha" moment as the news cast began: the access from the other side of the "Big Bear" mountain was closed due to fires, so traffic was rerouting the L-O-N-G way around the mountain so people who lived on "this side" of the mountain could get home! The traffic was heavy, and I can just imagine all those cars and 18-wheelers forming a parade across the desert, which is one lane in each direction, creating a course for collisions from tired, impatient, and worried drivers trying to get home before the fire gets there.
At 8 pm, just as I was launching into the grand finale of the night's class, I smelled smoke: lots of strong-smelling smoke. Because we've already been through a major fire incident not too long ago, I sent a student to sniff out the source of the smoke to be sure that we wouldn't find ourselves in a difficult situation by the time class let out.
He returned and told the class that someone had left a burning cigarette on the ground and it had started a small fire at the end of the building. Several people were there handling the situation, but that's all it takes for another out-of-control fire to challenge the Santa Ana wind conditions and wipe out acreage, homes, and ecosystems.
I'm glad that people were right there to deal with the situation because it takes just a moment for one person's carelessness to become another person's catastrophe.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
The Hostess with the Mostest (Noise)
Last night, a friend joined me to christen the completion of the new garden. I, ever the good hostess, brought Aunt Clara, my favorite wine, to the event, and surrounded her with peanuts and cheese sticks: do not let it be said that I don’t know how to stick to a high-protein, carb-balanced meal plan!
We sat on a (newly-linseeded) bench and talked about the landscaping, savoring the peaceful serenity of the design, accompanied by a live band playing Mexican music at a party on the block behind me. Had we been at the party, the volume would have been unbearable, but a block away? It was merely too loud. We shared the same bench, so we were able to continue to visit, highlighting recent personal experiences, as well as swapping life stories that seem appropriate half-way through a bottle of Aunt Clara.
About an hour into our little celebration, the new neighbors across the street came home, bringing along several friends. The party was all-male, featured a strobe-light show, a siren, lots of male posturing, and, evidently, alcohol. About an hour into their party, they briefly left for the nearby convenience store, and came back even more ramped up, not waiting to get back inside to continue the festivities.
Their music clashed with the live band’s Mexican renditions, and the stereo combination effectively cut off the conversation I was sharing with my friend. It didn’t take me too long to give up and go inside, where my own stereo was playing the kind of music I like to hear—but could not hear, even with my door open and the volume turned up a bit.
I haven’t seen adults at the house across the street, but maybe the males who live there are old enough to rent a house and live independently. However, I’m not sure about their maturity when it comes to partying, drinking, and driving. And, when young males get liquored up, they often turn to mischief in the name of fun—with my new landscaping a handy target. I’m hoping that they stay put, drink ‘til they pass out, and leave me alone, but somewhere inside, I don’t see that happening. It is just as likely than one of the quick trips to buy more booze will result in a car embedding its front end into my new wall, judging by the speed of the departure last night and the screeching, two-wheel return to the driveway a short time later!
There well may be a season when my neighbors stay inside on the weekends, but I haven’t experienced it yet. My goal, to be able to enjoy my home and use my property for my benefit, may be thwarted by my consideration for others: I would find it almost impossible to infringe on my neighbors’ lifestyles by imposing mine on them vis a vis the live band; loud, alcohol-fueled male bonding; drunk, out-of-control guests; illegal fireworks; and dangerous driving.
Sure, I can go to the house and ask that the music be turned down, but why would I put myself into jeopardy? Sure, I can call the police, but what’s the advantage to that strategy? I don’t want to be any larger as a target than I already am, so I stay inside, shut the door, and wait for the calm, quiet morning, when I can go outside, drink my coffee, and enjoy the serenity of my new garden.
Half a loaf is better than none.
We sat on a (newly-linseeded) bench and talked about the landscaping, savoring the peaceful serenity of the design, accompanied by a live band playing Mexican music at a party on the block behind me. Had we been at the party, the volume would have been unbearable, but a block away? It was merely too loud. We shared the same bench, so we were able to continue to visit, highlighting recent personal experiences, as well as swapping life stories that seem appropriate half-way through a bottle of Aunt Clara.
About an hour into our little celebration, the new neighbors across the street came home, bringing along several friends. The party was all-male, featured a strobe-light show, a siren, lots of male posturing, and, evidently, alcohol. About an hour into their party, they briefly left for the nearby convenience store, and came back even more ramped up, not waiting to get back inside to continue the festivities.
Their music clashed with the live band’s Mexican renditions, and the stereo combination effectively cut off the conversation I was sharing with my friend. It didn’t take me too long to give up and go inside, where my own stereo was playing the kind of music I like to hear—but could not hear, even with my door open and the volume turned up a bit.
I haven’t seen adults at the house across the street, but maybe the males who live there are old enough to rent a house and live independently. However, I’m not sure about their maturity when it comes to partying, drinking, and driving. And, when young males get liquored up, they often turn to mischief in the name of fun—with my new landscaping a handy target. I’m hoping that they stay put, drink ‘til they pass out, and leave me alone, but somewhere inside, I don’t see that happening. It is just as likely than one of the quick trips to buy more booze will result in a car embedding its front end into my new wall, judging by the speed of the departure last night and the screeching, two-wheel return to the driveway a short time later!
There well may be a season when my neighbors stay inside on the weekends, but I haven’t experienced it yet. My goal, to be able to enjoy my home and use my property for my benefit, may be thwarted by my consideration for others: I would find it almost impossible to infringe on my neighbors’ lifestyles by imposing mine on them vis a vis the live band; loud, alcohol-fueled male bonding; drunk, out-of-control guests; illegal fireworks; and dangerous driving.
Sure, I can go to the house and ask that the music be turned down, but why would I put myself into jeopardy? Sure, I can call the police, but what’s the advantage to that strategy? I don’t want to be any larger as a target than I already am, so I stay inside, shut the door, and wait for the calm, quiet morning, when I can go outside, drink my coffee, and enjoy the serenity of my new garden.
Half a loaf is better than none.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Public Speaking
Today, while waiting for the machinery that operates the electric window in the driver's door to be replaced, a man came into the waiting area and opened conversation. Generally, he was griping about his (very) expensive Chevy truck that is covered with a 3-year, 30,000 mile warranty, which he exceeded 2 years into ownership of the vehicle. This visit, it's 2 dead batteries, which work in tandem to operate the diesel engine system.
As he (I'll admit, I joined in) went on and on and on, into my mind popped a word I must have learned 2 lifetimes ago: bloviate. At first, I thought, "Is that right?", but as my mind mulled the meaning and the man continued to fill the air with personal pontification, I began to think that yeah, my brain had stored that word for this occasion!
When I returned home, I did a quick search to verify that yep, I had it right: excessive, pompous speaking.
Of course, it helped that he was the right age to educate the "little lady" about diesel engines and double batteries--another characteristic of an older male bloviate!
As he (I'll admit, I joined in) went on and on and on, into my mind popped a word I must have learned 2 lifetimes ago: bloviate. At first, I thought, "Is that right?", but as my mind mulled the meaning and the man continued to fill the air with personal pontification, I began to think that yeah, my brain had stored that word for this occasion!
When I returned home, I did a quick search to verify that yep, I had it right: excessive, pompous speaking.
Of course, it helped that he was the right age to educate the "little lady" about diesel engines and double batteries--another characteristic of an older male bloviate!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Cue the Music
A memorable scene in the film Pretty Woman occurs when Julia Roberts’ character goes to Rodeo Drive to purchase a party frock so she can accompany her employer, Richard Gere’s character, to a social event. Because her appearance screams “hooker” to the sales staff, they refuse to wait on her. When Julia returns with a fistful of dollars and a platinum credit card, she asks the saleslady who snubbed her if she remembers her. When the woman finally admits that she does, Julia tells her she made a “big mistake” when she refused to sell her clothing from her pricey boutique.
“Big mistake” applies with the same fervor to the pretentious woman co-owner of the business that allowed Ellen to adopt a dog, pay $3k to neuter it and train it, and then took it back when the dog adoption didn’t work and Ellen found the animal another home. The children to whom she gave the dog aren’t old enough to fit the criteria the business owners have determined for loving a dog.
“Big mistake.” Their business survives on public support; Ellen’s business is influencing the public. Not one word has to be spoken to deliver the message: you don’t mess around with kids, dogs, or major TV celebrities.
The business owner says she won’t be “bullied by the Ellens of the world.” Okay, you go, girl, but may I repeat: BIG MISTAKE.
Jennifer Seinfeld was on Oprah’s show last week, touting her new cookbook. This week it’s sold out and well into its huge second printing: the free publicity sells more books than any costly ad campaign.
The business owner won’t back down and return the dog to the adoptive family Ellen personally selected to take the dog which she bought. The free publicity the business is receiving cannot be countered with all the paid publicity in the world. They are screwed, but too egocentric to realize it. Yet.
Jim Croce sang you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, but this business owner has probably never heard the song. Too bad. Big mistake.
“Big mistake” applies with the same fervor to the pretentious woman co-owner of the business that allowed Ellen to adopt a dog, pay $3k to neuter it and train it, and then took it back when the dog adoption didn’t work and Ellen found the animal another home. The children to whom she gave the dog aren’t old enough to fit the criteria the business owners have determined for loving a dog.
“Big mistake.” Their business survives on public support; Ellen’s business is influencing the public. Not one word has to be spoken to deliver the message: you don’t mess around with kids, dogs, or major TV celebrities.
The business owner says she won’t be “bullied by the Ellens of the world.” Okay, you go, girl, but may I repeat: BIG MISTAKE.
Jennifer Seinfeld was on Oprah’s show last week, touting her new cookbook. This week it’s sold out and well into its huge second printing: the free publicity sells more books than any costly ad campaign.
The business owner won’t back down and return the dog to the adoptive family Ellen personally selected to take the dog which she bought. The free publicity the business is receiving cannot be countered with all the paid publicity in the world. They are screwed, but too egocentric to realize it. Yet.
Jim Croce sang you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, but this business owner has probably never heard the song. Too bad. Big mistake.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Erosion
“But that’s not the way I do my essays” was the chorus from the class last night. I had already given a specific assignment, revision of opening paragraphs, following a full hour of using their opening paragraphs to point out the weaknesses in their own writing, using the computer as an interactive tool to make changes on the overhead screen as we discussed each of the writing samples. When the demonstration was completed, I directed the students to apply the instruction and revise those same opening paragraphs on the annotated draft I returned to them: to change the content of their opening paragraphs to improve the quality of both the writing and the communication with the reader.
“REVISE THE PARAGRAPHS YOU’VE ALREADY WRITTEN; DO NOT REWRITE THE ESSAYS” were my instructions.
As I began making my way around the class, checking for understanding and offering help, student after student had picked up a new sheet of paper and was rewriting the essay. I stopped the class, explained again that the assignment was to revise the existing draft, and told them to continue. Unfortunately, they continued with the new sheet of paper.
“NO!” I shouted. “Which part of this process do you NOT understand?”
Again, using their opening paragraphs and the extensive demonstration I had just finished using the LCD projector, the computer, and my flash drive, I showed them that I took their opening paragraphs and revised what was already written. That is the assignment; that is what you are to do; do NOT start yet another draft that includes all the problems of the current draft! You must change what you have already written, not merely rewrite it!
I started around the class again, and the students were furiously continuing to write an entirely new draft on a pristine piece of paper. I stopped them again, told them again what the assignment was, and then went one-by-one to the students, stopping them and telling them specifically: I am NOT going to read a new draft; the assignment is to revise an existing draft! I picked up their drafts, the ones covered in my ink, and demonstrated one-on-one revision of what was there; I rattled the papers, pounded on the papers, took away the lined sheets with the new drafts. I wracked my brains for a way to trigger a break-through moment, but it did not seem to matter.
No matter what I said, the students went about doing it their way. Finally, both totally frustrated and thoroughly pissed, I again directed them to stop and told them: you will NOT earn any credit for what you are doing because you are NOT DOING WHAT I HAVE ASSIGNED YOU TO DO.
That’s when one brave soul proudly informed me “that’s not the way I do my essays,” as if that explanation would earn him a medal for world peace.
Okay, I told the class, you continue to do it your way and you fail the class. I’ve taken several hours to make the point that what you are doing IS NOT WORKING, but if you cannot understand that at the college level it’s the professor’s way or the highway, literally, I give up. I have repeated the instructions, directed you to read the textbook, provided examples of your own work to demonstrate the error of your ways, individually demonstrated how to complete this assignment, but it seems that you know better than I how to accomplish this task—so have at it.
Repeating the word “fail” seemed to do the trick; one guy had a light-bulb moment, picked up the draft I had returned to them for this assignment, and said, “You want us to write on this???”
Ta-da! He got it; he really got it. Once I smiled at him, acknowledged his stunning break-through, and offered personal praise for his mental acuity, others jumped on the train and left the station: they picked up their drafts and started revising them.
The chorus of “Oh, I get it” was music to my ears. Of course, I know that they only “get it” for the time it took for me to write “okay” on that piece of paper so they could leave the classroom—which took some of them a full half-hour past the end of class to accomplish. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that what I receive next week is brand-new rough drafts with nary a revision on them … and the same content, the same errors, and the same issues that were present in the first draft!
It’s the erosion theory of education that students live with, the theory that they will wear me down by acting dumb and not doing what they are directed to do. If they do not follow a basic instruction for long enough, I give up and move on, marking an “I tried to teach them” grade in the book, the infamous “effort grade” that allows so many students to graduate from high school ill-prepared for the college classroom and/or the workplace.
For thirty years, I had to accept that reality; however, at the college level, no can do. A student who cannot or will not do the work does not move past me. Sure, (s)he can take the class again with an easier, nicer teacher and, perhaps, pass the class, but (s)he won’t move past me! It’s easier for both the students and the teachers to take the path of least resistance, to give up, give in, and move on, but I want the nurse in charge of my treatment to know what (s)he is doing, not barely earn a nursing degree. Ditto with every other facet of my dependency on skilled individuals who are a vital part of my life, such as electricians, plumbers, accountants, airplane and automobile mechanics, x-ray techs, bank tellers, customer service reps who total my bill: the list is endless.
I don’t want their positions to be a result of erosion; I want their positions to be earned by knowing how to do the job thoroughly and correctly in every single phase of it. When a supervisor/instructor provides a specific process/procedure to be followed, that’s my expectation: not a courtesy pass because the individual tries really hard!
Don’t try: do. If you cannot do, find something else that you can do! A college education may be a right for every individual, but that does not mean that a college education is right for every individual.
“REVISE THE PARAGRAPHS YOU’VE ALREADY WRITTEN; DO NOT REWRITE THE ESSAYS” were my instructions.
As I began making my way around the class, checking for understanding and offering help, student after student had picked up a new sheet of paper and was rewriting the essay. I stopped the class, explained again that the assignment was to revise the existing draft, and told them to continue. Unfortunately, they continued with the new sheet of paper.
“NO!” I shouted. “Which part of this process do you NOT understand?”
Again, using their opening paragraphs and the extensive demonstration I had just finished using the LCD projector, the computer, and my flash drive, I showed them that I took their opening paragraphs and revised what was already written. That is the assignment; that is what you are to do; do NOT start yet another draft that includes all the problems of the current draft! You must change what you have already written, not merely rewrite it!
I started around the class again, and the students were furiously continuing to write an entirely new draft on a pristine piece of paper. I stopped them again, told them again what the assignment was, and then went one-by-one to the students, stopping them and telling them specifically: I am NOT going to read a new draft; the assignment is to revise an existing draft! I picked up their drafts, the ones covered in my ink, and demonstrated one-on-one revision of what was there; I rattled the papers, pounded on the papers, took away the lined sheets with the new drafts. I wracked my brains for a way to trigger a break-through moment, but it did not seem to matter.
No matter what I said, the students went about doing it their way. Finally, both totally frustrated and thoroughly pissed, I again directed them to stop and told them: you will NOT earn any credit for what you are doing because you are NOT DOING WHAT I HAVE ASSIGNED YOU TO DO.
That’s when one brave soul proudly informed me “that’s not the way I do my essays,” as if that explanation would earn him a medal for world peace.
Okay, I told the class, you continue to do it your way and you fail the class. I’ve taken several hours to make the point that what you are doing IS NOT WORKING, but if you cannot understand that at the college level it’s the professor’s way or the highway, literally, I give up. I have repeated the instructions, directed you to read the textbook, provided examples of your own work to demonstrate the error of your ways, individually demonstrated how to complete this assignment, but it seems that you know better than I how to accomplish this task—so have at it.
Repeating the word “fail” seemed to do the trick; one guy had a light-bulb moment, picked up the draft I had returned to them for this assignment, and said, “You want us to write on this???”
Ta-da! He got it; he really got it. Once I smiled at him, acknowledged his stunning break-through, and offered personal praise for his mental acuity, others jumped on the train and left the station: they picked up their drafts and started revising them.
The chorus of “Oh, I get it” was music to my ears. Of course, I know that they only “get it” for the time it took for me to write “okay” on that piece of paper so they could leave the classroom—which took some of them a full half-hour past the end of class to accomplish. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that what I receive next week is brand-new rough drafts with nary a revision on them … and the same content, the same errors, and the same issues that were present in the first draft!
It’s the erosion theory of education that students live with, the theory that they will wear me down by acting dumb and not doing what they are directed to do. If they do not follow a basic instruction for long enough, I give up and move on, marking an “I tried to teach them” grade in the book, the infamous “effort grade” that allows so many students to graduate from high school ill-prepared for the college classroom and/or the workplace.
For thirty years, I had to accept that reality; however, at the college level, no can do. A student who cannot or will not do the work does not move past me. Sure, (s)he can take the class again with an easier, nicer teacher and, perhaps, pass the class, but (s)he won’t move past me! It’s easier for both the students and the teachers to take the path of least resistance, to give up, give in, and move on, but I want the nurse in charge of my treatment to know what (s)he is doing, not barely earn a nursing degree. Ditto with every other facet of my dependency on skilled individuals who are a vital part of my life, such as electricians, plumbers, accountants, airplane and automobile mechanics, x-ray techs, bank tellers, customer service reps who total my bill: the list is endless.
I don’t want their positions to be a result of erosion; I want their positions to be earned by knowing how to do the job thoroughly and correctly in every single phase of it. When a supervisor/instructor provides a specific process/procedure to be followed, that’s my expectation: not a courtesy pass because the individual tries really hard!
Don’t try: do. If you cannot do, find something else that you can do! A college education may be a right for every individual, but that does not mean that a college education is right for every individual.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Finishing Touches
Perhaps this will be the last photo of the yard as I finished it today! Yep, the landscaping helpers were supposed to be here, but they didn't show and I wanted this project off the to-do list, so I did it myself.Yesterday, I was scheduled to take the car in and have the driver side window fixed: if I put it down, it does not come back up. When the mechanic opened the parts box, he found a used motor, instead of the new one that was ordered for the job. If I wanted to have a used motor, I'd keep the one I have ... so I said reschedule for Monday and get the new part before I bring the card back for service.
On the way home, I stopped at the local home project store and picked up a few items, such as a new hoe (my old trusty hoe no longer hangs from its peg in the garage, but I'm not sure how/when it disappeared), the linseed oil for the benches, and the black paint to redo the window frame that faces the garden. Before checking out, however, I decided to look at edging again, this time stopping at the bricks.
Bottom line: for the same cost as the crappy stuff I didn't want, I could buy bricks and do it myself. I bought one each of the two sizes, brought them home just to be sure they were perfect, measured how much distance I could cover with each set of two, measured the perimeter, figured out how many bricks I needed and how much it would cost--the same as the crappy artificial edging I didn't like--and went back to the store.
It took me a couple of hours to install the edging, but it's perfect. It fit exactly to the brick, is a nice random shape, blends in with the colors in the garden and the perimeter wall, and is the perfect finish to the project.
This morning, the guys were supposed to be here to remove the little, round, river rocks from the serpentine garden and replace it with desert gold ground cover, but when they weren't here, I just kept working without them and finished up at 11:30 am. I am good and tired, but pleased with how good it all looks! I cannot do the watering system myself, so have that left to finish, but everything else is done, done, and done.
And I ain't paying no mo money for people who don't show up to work!
Now, it's time to finish the office redo, which is mostly shredding old records, then finish the dresser refinishing project I began last summer! I have everything I need to finish that project, I just haven't done so, probably because once that stage is completed, I have to purchase wall-hung cabinets to finish the project.
And, one of these days, I'm going to have to deal with the boxes in the garage, aren't I.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
The Fat Lady is Singing
The big yard and the Friendship Cactus Garden
One of my favorite hymns is "In the Garden," which says, "I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses, And the sound I hear falling on my ear The Son of God discloses." This hymn was sung at my father's funeral, and I sang it in his honor the spring I directed the church choir. Whenever my mother came to stay with me, I played this hymn and sang it for her, which I also did the Sunday before she died. Although there are no roses in my new garden, perhaps, some day, someone will sing this hymn in my honor--maybe while standing in my new garden!Although it may not be completely finished, the landscape is close enough to call it. Although it may not be professionally landscaped, it’s just what I had in mind and I’m satisfied with the end product. Although it may not look like the pictures in the landscaping books, it looks like my yard—not someone else’s yard replicated a thousand times, but my yard.
The Friendship Cactus Garden is totally hands-off as far as upkeep goes. There are little drippers throughout the garden where they need to be, set on a timer that takes care of the right amount of water at the right rate and at the right time. Using the big pots to anchor the concept and keeping it simple adds to the effectiveness of the environment. I’m considering some mild night lighting, such as solar lights, in key places, but am going to continue to think about that before doing it.
The Friendship Cactus Garden is totally hands-off as far as upkeep goes. There are little drippers throughout the garden where they need to be, set on a timer that takes care of the right amount of water at the right rate and at the right time. Using the big pots to anchor the concept and keeping it simple adds to the effectiveness of the environment. I’m considering some mild night lighting, such as solar lights, in key places, but am going to continue to think about that before doing it.
The big yard is peaceful. At each of the viewing spots, the landscape looks different, but it’s quiet, simple, and more natural than artificial. The birdbath adds a touch of water, but not too much, which is what the desert is all about. Big Rock rests in a hole just a bit too deep to be a bench, but it’s perfect for children to either climb or sprawl across. The benches are going to be coated with linseed oil and then left natural as they look just right as they are. With the fairy lights on in the entry area, the whole yard takes on a special glow at night. Again, one solar light by the birdbath may be the one accent that’s missing.
The only change I would make to the garden areas is a few larger rocks. My design featured one large rock in each garden, and that’s not there. We tried to get the big rock for the big yard, but 3 large, strong men could not get it into the truck, so we went to Plan B. We left room to add the big rock to the Cactus Garden, if and when I can make that happen. I may add a few other rocks here and there as it occurs to me, but the design needs to stay simple and uncluttered to work.
The only change I would make to the garden areas is a few larger rocks. My design featured one large rock in each garden, and that’s not there. We tried to get the big rock for the big yard, but 3 large, strong men could not get it into the truck, so we went to Plan B. We left room to add the big rock to the Cactus Garden, if and when I can make that happen. I may add a few other rocks here and there as it occurs to me, but the design needs to stay simple and uncluttered to work.
Because we chose young plants, the total concept will continue to develop as the plants mature and grow into their spaces. It looks a bit bare now, but by next year, the plants will have established and filled their space and look perfect. There are touches of color, but nothing that will jump out and grab the attention away from the total garden areas.
We began the project at 7 AM and the guys left at 7 PM, so there was a lot of work completed in 12 hours of steady, intense labor. We need to add more of the rock coating to the big yard, fix a bug with the watering system, and slightly redo the first area I created to match the rest of the environment we’ve created. If the city would do its part and add curbs and sidewalks, my home would look finished, but that won’t come for another couple of years. Now, there is bare sand between the wall and the asphalt: ugly, at best.
The fat lady is sitting on her bench and singing!
We began the project at 7 AM and the guys left at 7 PM, so there was a lot of work completed in 12 hours of steady, intense labor. We need to add more of the rock coating to the big yard, fix a bug with the watering system, and slightly redo the first area I created to match the rest of the environment we’ve created. If the city would do its part and add curbs and sidewalks, my home would look finished, but that won’t come for another couple of years. Now, there is bare sand between the wall and the asphalt: ugly, at best.
The fat lady is sitting on her bench and singing!
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