Number, Please

It began when Verizon sent an offer that seemed too good to be true—and it ends that it was too good to be true, but I needed to take the journey to realize that.

The Freedom bundle put together my local, long distance, and DSL services in one attractive package at $69.99 a month, an offer I simply couldn’t refuse. Sign me up, I said, and they did. I called AT&T and canceled my previous service, thrilled to be saving money (finally) on monthly telephone service.

Ha: the laugh is on me.

The first V bill was $130.80, almost double what I was supposed to pay. I called V and questioned the bill, but it had to do with changing over my service yada yada yada. Okay, so I paid the extortion and waited, as was suggested, for the next bill to reflect the correct amount.

The bill came: $99.26, better, but still significantly over the promised $69.99 per month, so I started the calling process. It used to take one call, but now, it takes all day and a dozen different people and extensions to get no results!

Lauren at V, told me that the $69.99 is, indeed the correct price—for the Freedom bundle—but the DSL service is additional; hence, the $99.26, which is the correct amount.

No, I replied, that is NOT what I was told: $69.99 for the whole deal.

Well, repeated Lauren, the $99.26 is the correct price, and she was sorry I had been given incorrect information. Is there anything else she can help me with?

Yeah: I now was paying V a total of $230.06 to get phone service that was going to cost me $69.99 a month, or a total of $140, $90 less than I have already paid. Not acceptable.

When I asked Lauren for the BEST price V could give me on local and long distance calling, she said … the Freedom bundle, at $69.99 was it. I hung up and called back to AT&T, my former carrier.

That took a full hour and 4 different people: no one person could actually tell me how much it would cost to go back to the service I had with them previously—and add on DSL. At the end of the very long hour of getting nowhere, I was finally told that AT&T does not provide DSL in my area, effectively ending the discussion.

I did change back to the AT&T basic local and long distance service, but with the additional fee for “local” long distance and toll fees: 5¢ per minute, with no clear definition as to what “local” long distance is and how it differs from toll calls. However, at $26.95 per month, when added to the $31.99 for the V DSL, I was going to be ahead: $58. 94 total, but I'll have to pay 5¢ per minute for my TiVo to update each night, which may cost about $5 per month, so I’m still under the V Freedom basic phone service, and $35 under V + DSL service.

Great; time to call back V and tell them scrap the telephone service and just leave the DSL service intact.

Ah, said Pat, you have really been given misinformation. Surprise!

Seems that if the proper coupons/credits had been given, indeed the combined Freedom bundle + DSL would have been $69.99 per month, so would I like to correct that error and continue with my V service?

Why hadn’t Lauren told me that? I began 2 hours ago with V, with Lauren, and she indicated that $69.99 is the bottom rate for V telephone service.

Pat has no idea what my conversation was with Lauren, but … she wishes I had talked to her first because she could resolve this issue quickly and I would get the price I was quoted and live happily ever after.

Too late: I’ve already switched to AT&T and I’m paying a $65 “activation fee” for the switch, so I’m not going to pay that again and again.

There is no fee, says Pat, at least not from V.

But AT&T specifically told me that V charges $65 to switch the service to AT&T, but Davis offered me a discount of $25, so it’s only going to cost me a one-time fee of $40, quite a bargain, what?

Not true, responds Pat, and, if Pat disconnects my V service today—and AT&T takes until tomorrow to submit the request for the number switch, I’ll have to get a new phone number.

But, that’s not what AT&T told me: they made the switch TODAY, so there should be no disconnect and I would not have to be issued a new number, right?

Pat hesitated, and then told me that she wouldn’t risk it if she wants to keep the same number, so I said, hm, guess we didn’t have this conversation, right? I’ll call back next week and see if the stand alone DSL order for V has been shared with AT&T.

The lies blend together, the programs and costs and customer service providers begin to swim in a huge mass before our eyes, and it suddenly seems as if we have been wrong all along and should be grateful for whatever service is chosen for us and pay whatever price we are required to pay for whatever service the various companies want us to have.

Therefore, I’d like to thank Linda, Marianne, Netta, Debra, Lauren, Melissa, Pat, Lou, Allan, and Davis for making me finally see the light today, and allowing me to be back to square one, not quite certain what my current service is, who’s going to provide it, or how much it’s going to cost. Guess I’ll just wait for my next bill to arrive and see what I’ve agreed to this time.

Publicity for Paris

Last evening, a news reporter refused to lead with the Paris Hilton story. Several times she refused, and several times her male co-anchor tried to bring the focus back to PH, but the female was adamant: she’s NOT news, and she’s NOT a “lead story.”

She actually tried to burn the news copy, but the lighter wouldn’t light. Then, she tore it up, but again was given the copy to read. She got up from the news desk and put it through the shredder, but received yet another copy of the “lead” story to read. She warned the co-anchor that she was about to lose it, but he did the male thing and smiled that patronizing smirk that so many men do when women have the gumption to stand up for what they believe, rather than bowing in obeisance to the men in the power positions. I was rooting for her to smack his smug face and challenge him to cowboy up and do the right thing along with her: refuse to be sucked into the maelstrom of publicity for Paris.

It was one of those “I’m madder than hell and not going to take it anymore” moments that will probably cost her more than a rebuke and, possibly, her job. However, all it takes to start the momentum is one person standing up and refusing to back down. PH is a non-story, and all of the commentators are grousing about having to replace news with a blow-by-blow description of PH’s life as a “celebutant.” If more of them would refuse to read the copy, refuse to go along with the crowd, perhaps this whole PH thing would come to an end.

However, it’s being shoved down our throats as if anyone cares, and the price tag for the gagging is a cool mil. “The public wants to know” is wearing thin as a reason for the absolute crap that is clogging the media these days. What public wants to know? And does this public really want to hear the same crap over and over, regardless of what station a viewer turns to? I doubt it.

There are so many times that I wish I could “instant vote,” like we do for Dancing with the Stars or other reality shows: let ME tell YOU what I’d like to watch, rather than YOU telling ME what I must watch! It’s too easy to say turn off the TV set or change the channel if you don’t like what’s on. The demographics show that the public media is geared toward a much younger, ultra-liberal demographic, with few, if any choices, targeted toward a more mature public audience. I have money; I spend money; I also like to watch TV while I’m doing my handcrafts. Why don’t I count in the decision-making process?

I applaud the courage it took to stand up for what is not just right, but what the news reporter believes. It is rare to see ethics so fiercely defended, especially in the media. I wish more media people had the same commitment to doing what’s right and refusing to back down because they are afraid of what it’ll cost them. Being a news reader pays a lot of cash, but doing the right thing is priceless.

Scalping Tickets

When I expressed concern to my friends about booking a flight to Canada, they all chimed in, "You have triple A: they'll book the trip."

Hey, yeah, I forgot about that benefit of my membership, so drove to AAA and booked the flight, including "guaranteed" aisle seats on all legs of the round-trip ticket.

Today, my credit card bill arrived, and I noticed that there is a $35 agent fee for booking the flights! No one told me there was a charge for triple A to book my flight; if they had, I could have at least had a choice in whether to pay them or use the internet for free!

Believe me, it's the first and the last time I go to triple A to book flights.

However, I wasn't charged for the current freeway map of LA, so there are some travel services that are free.

Scrap the Caddie, Clyde

I drove all over the desert last Friday, running errands and actually doing a bit of shopping here and there. The truck drove like a dream, and I gleefully filled the back of it at Lowe’s so I could begin a few of the many projects waiting for my retirement. Unloaded at home, backed the truck into the space next to the house where I park, and la-la’d my way into the weekend.

This morning, I wanted to go out and return a couple of items I purchased, so climbed into the truck, turned the key, and got nothing. Nada. Zip. Not a sound. Not one easily discouraged, I made sure I pressed the clutch through the floorboard, checked that the left turn indicator was on, and cranked the key again, and again, and again. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

A quick call to the shop where my cars get their regular service assured me that it was probably the battery, a suspicious thought in a vehicle about 15 months on the road and under 10k miles, but what do I know? My thoughts about vehicle maintenance are that if "they" can fix "it," okay, but I'd rather just scrap the Caddie, Clyde, and go buy another one than deal with repairs.

A call to Triple A, and a nice young man came to give the truck a jump start so I could take it in for repair. However, he didn’t think it was the battery as it checked out okay, but since nothing happened when the key was turned, he was betting on the starter. Again, in a new vehicle? I don’t think so, but what do I know? To humor me, he plugged in the battery charger and told me to try it—and the truck leaped to life.

I quickly closed up the house and garage, and then made my way to the auto shop. Travis is a great guy, so he took the truck around back and did his thing. About 45 minutes later, he came to deliver the diagnosis.

The minute he shut off the engine, sure enough, it wouldn’t restart—and there was no response at all from the key, so the machines were hooked up and showed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the truck—anywhere. Travis tried and tried and tried to restart it, and nothing, nada, zip.

Frustrated, he opened the door and bent down to take a look at the clutch and brake pedals, having to pull back the floor mat a bit as it was pushed forward, up against the pedal mechanism. He checked high and low with a flashlight, reran the diagnostics, got back into the truck to try it again and BAM! It worked! Fired up every time for about a dozen tries.

Then it dawned on him: my truck has a “drunk” device that means you have to put the clutch all the way through the firewall before turning the key or it won’t start. Travis is convinced that the floor mat had moved just enough to keep the clutch from going all the way to the floor, hence, prohibiting the truck from starting (or even making a sound).

Since it’s been starting just fine since the ‘work’ Travis did on the problem, I guess I’ll have to agree: it was the floor mat causing the problem.

Travis laughed, didn’t charge me a cent, and assured me that he loves it when I show up with one of my little problems (yeah, I’ve had a few over the years) that defy description and/or diagnosis using the machines, but often turn out to be fixed with a little human contact. He says it keeps him from believing that he already knows it all.

A New Gated Community

Mia and I went for our walk early this morning, well before the sun could top the surrounding mountains and begin roasting the already parched earth. The moisture coming off the newly-watered lawns was the perfect complement to a beautiful morning in the neighborhood.

Beautiful that is until the two pit bulls came charging at us from behind! One of them leaped at Mia from the left, and she and I jumped away from the dog as one, right into the other dog, which was covering the attack from the right side. I always carry a rock and threw it as hard as I could at the attacking dogs, hitting one in the head. He yelped, turned, and ran away, followed by his buddy.

Earlier in the week, Mia and I had to deal with two dogs out for a walk with their owner, dogs that were not on leashes and came right at us as we walked on the sidewalk. Again, I threw my rock at the attacking dogs and when the man walking the dogs yelled at me, I forcefully told him his dogs need to be on leashes.

Suddenly, “no speak English.”

Really?

I’ll have to remember that: if I don’t want to follow the law, I can suddenly develop the inability to speak English and get a free pass? I don’t think so. It doesn’t take a command of the English language to understand that you don’t allow your dogs to run loose, especially when your dogs attack the other dogs, the ones on leashes being walked by their owners.

Every morning there are piles of dog poop on my lawn, some piles pretty small and others quite large, but all of which I have to clean up. My dog is kept in a fenced yard because that’s the law: dogs must be contained at all times. However, evidently the law only applies to people who speak English because all the Mexican families on my street—and in my neighborhood—allow their dogs to run wild. I spray them with water, I throw rocks at them, I tell my neighbors to keep their dogs in their yards—but I speak English, and the laws don’t apply to people who “no speak English.”

Posted pictographs have taken the place of written messages because so many people cannot read English, but it doesn’t take either a picture or a printed message to understand that dogs should not roam the streets. Of course, in third-world nations, dogs are the garbage cans, the animals that eat all the left-over food scraps, gnaw and bury the bones, and keep their territory safe by attacking intruders. I find the remains of cats, small dogs and rabbits on my lawn as often as I find the piles of poop because the dogs are doing what wild dogs do—foraging for and killing food.

I’m glad I don’t have small children because I doubt that a feral dog knows the difference between a small animal and a small child.

If we were living in that kind of unstructured environment, with lots of open land for an animal to hunt and protect, I could understand the need to allow the dogs to forage for food and to attack interlopers to their territory, but this is an established community in the US of A! The sidewalks are there for all to share, not as territories for uncontrolled dogs to protect from innocent residents out taking a walk! The yards belong to the people who live in the houses, not to packs of wild animals who want to mark that territory as their own by peeing, pooping, and leaving the remains of their kills as warning to other packs of wild dogs.

In an effort to balance the city budget, two important positions were eliminated: code enforcement and animal control. Since that decision was made about 18 months ago, the spread of graffiti and the increase in packs of wild dogs have gone unchecked, both of which conditions create concern for a community trying to establish itself as a credible area for families to live. At this point, it’s just easier for newcomers to purchase a home in a gated community than it is to deal with the issues outside the gates. I’m not sure I blame them for that decision, especially if they have small children who could be at risk from both the gangs and the feral dogs.

There’s no way I can afford to relocate to a formal gated community, so I’ll have to create my own gated community by fencing in the yard. I’ll make the call tomorrow.

A Blank Slate

A box of memorabilia came back from my visit to the family home, filled with things about which I have no memory—none. It’s disconcerting to see pieces of one’s life and not recognize them, nor have any recollection of the time, the place, the people, or the event.

There are old schoolbooks, lots of neat childish printing, effusive praise from teachers in beautiful penmanship, old Valentines from a grammar school classroom long ago—but no memory to associate with them. There are cards I created for my daddy when I was a wee little one, but no memory of them. There are some embroidery pieces I began, but did not finish, and no memory to tell me the story. There are letters from college filled with what my life was during that time, but few memories to connect to the words. There are letters from my marriage, and letters chronicling my career, and striking out on my own, but I could be reading anyone’s life story, rather than my own.

There are 3 letters, two from the same person and a third letter from a second person, and I don’t know why I have them. I must have written to the two men, students at Yale, and received responses from them, but where would I have met these two men? How would I have known them? Why would I have been corresponding with them? I googled their names, but came up blank; there is someone inside of me that would like to know who they were/who they are and whether they can connect these dots for me.

There is also a letter from the guy to whom I was briefly engaged. I don’t wonder about him very much or very often. Some things are best left in the past.

There is a yearbook, not from my senior year in high school, but from my junior year. I cannot believe how young I look and don’t know why I wasn’t wearing my glasses, which I’ve worn since I was 5 years of age. My hair was short, which I don’t like, so I’m sure there was a reason for the style that probably originated with my mother. At that age, I was already working after school at the old drugstore fountain, a job I really loved because I was both busy and constantly interacting with people. When my father died, the job became a necessity, both financially and psychologically. There was no money, but much worse for me was that there was no daddy.

I looked through the yearbook and was pleased to recognize faces and names, and amazed to see all the autographs from people I’m sure don’t remember me. There’s a picture of Jerry, my neighborhood crush, with his girlfriend, and my heart recalled how awful it was to take Jerry to my senior prom because no one else would ever have thought to ask me, so I asked him and persuaded him when he found out that my older brother and my friend would be doubling with us. He and his girlfriend were not together at the time, but they made up the weekend before the prom—and he asked me to let him off the hook. I said no, and lived to regret it: my life would have been better had I not gone to the event, rather than going with someone who did not want to be there or to be with me.

Perhaps someday the memories will return and I’ll be able to retrieve some of the life on the pieces of paper, but it doesn’t matter whether I do or don’t. I’m here now, in this time and this place, and there is no going back and changing one’s life history. I’m not sure what to do with the box, with the papers, but my mom hung onto them for decades, so I guess I can wait a bit to make a decision.

The Baby Bulge

An oxymoron is a statement that appears to be contradictory, but makes new meaning by juxtaposing two opposing ideas to form a new one, such as “sweet and sour” pork. How can a food be both sweet and sour at the same time? The two flavors combine to create a new flavor that has aspects of both individual flavors … and is quite delicious.

The public has been treated to some colorful oxymorons lately, including the “youthful Rod Stewart,” firmly entrenched in his 60s, marrying his decades-younger girlfriend, by whom he has already fathered a child. Rod is NOT “youthful;” however, marrying a woman almost half his age does, apparently, youthen him (to borrow Merlin’s terminology) in media-speak.

My favorite oxymoron, however, comes from a fashion feature on morning TV, where pregnant women are urged to find a “flattering swimsuit style” that enhances their baby bump, the new terminology for “pregnancy.” It’s so cute to be a media star and demonstrate the growth of the fetus in the womb in weekly references to the baby bump, but not so cute to talk about one’s advancing pregnancy?

Bright colors and bold patterns draw attention to the bulging baby body, which seems to be the goal of the “flattering swimsuit style:” if I am pregnant, the whole world is going to be pregnant with me! If I have to look at this swollen, distended body of mine, then the whole world is going to have to look at it, too! If I’m grossed out when my navel pops like a turkey timer at Thanksgiving, I’m going to share it with the entire world! If my breasts are too big to fit into the lingerie I wore before pregnancy changed my body, I’m not going to purchase new garments to contain them because I won’t be pregnant forever! So what if my breasts and abdomen are engorged and blue veins tattoo them in wide streaks? It’s my body, and I’ll do what I want with it.

Including foisting it onto the public who may not want to see either the bulging baby belly or the bulging baby breasts.

Perhaps up to about 5 months there is a bump, but after that point in a pregnancy, it is anything but a bump—and not something I want to see displayed in a public arena. If I’m at a public beach, I don’t want to smell anyone’s cigarette smoke or see a bulging baby belly defined by a bikini top and bottom. The tiny bikini apparel is not a “flattering swimsuit style” for any woman past her 5th month, so why does anyone believe that it is? Models, who are already stick thin, may be able to wear a small bathing suit with a bulging belly, especially if a make-up artist evens the skin tone and masks the blue veins and stretch marks during the photo shoot, but the majority of pregnant women are not stick thin models who can wear anything and look okay, especially in a public arena, such as a shopping mall, a restaurant, or a public pool or beach.

What about my right not to have this display of pregnancy infringe on my life? What if I cannot stand the appearance of a swollen pregnant abdomen? What if I am offended by the grossness of swollen women’s breasts swathed in deep blue veins hanging out of lingerie that is too small to accommodate the newly-enlarged baby breasts? What if I don’t want to accept that pregnancy is beautiful and a pregnant woman has the right to display her body parts in public? What if I don’t want to be exposed while I am eating a meal in a restaurant, shopping at the mall, or lounging by a swimming pool to bellies and breasts criss-crossed with blue veins and silvery stretch marks that are part of the natural process of pregnancy?

A lacey top or a t-shirt can become a cool and comfortable cover-up and provide the unwilling public with whom the mother-to-be is sharing her pregnancy just a bit of privacy about how much stretching there is across the abdomen to accommodate the coming blessed event. A dress, blouse or top that covers the décolleté can contain the baby breasts in a manner that keeps them out of the face of diners, shoppers, and sunbathers no matter how big they get.

However, the goal of today's maternity fashions seems to be to expose as much of the pregnancy to public ogling as possible, rather than to prevent the public from viewing the pregnant woman's private parts. It's a trend that needs to be curtailed for an appropriate time and place, rather than becoming part of the public landscape.

It’s a matter of thinking beyond the me and considering the us, the public that may not share your joy at seeing your belly and breasts swelling to accommodate the coming birth of your child. In the privacy of your own home, in the company of close family and friends who are excited about your big event, wear whatever you want and show off whatever you want to show off. But when you are in the public arena, cover yourself.

Don’t assume that the whole world is thrilled for you and wants to see how your body looks when it is ready to deliver your child. We're not, and we don't.

The Perfect Blendship

I Love Lucy was a huge hit decades ago, during the infancy of television. I did not like the loud, aggressive pushiness of Lucy and/or the shrinking violet routine of Ethel, but I've always remembered a song they sang together that included the lyrics

If you're ever down a well, ring my bell
If you're ever up a tree, call on me
It's friendship, friendship, just the perfect blendship.

Forty years ago, I came to the desert. Of course, it doesn’t seem that long ago, but a quick journey through the valley at night reveals the number of night lights has probably tripled during my residency, and it takes time to build complete communities. About 40 years, I guess.

I first lived on the military base, and I can still vividly recall the journey from my all-too-brief sojourn on the coast to the desolation of the desert military base. We drove through town, but it was …shabby store fronts and unpaved streets … not at all what I had grown up with and defined as a community. The first five years were the worst, especially learning to cope with isolation, erratic weather patterns, and the military way of living life. After five years, however, it was okay because that’s the way it was, and there was no sign that it was going to change.

There was base housing and then town, and then the sale of the house for new orders that were mysteriously cancelled at the 11th hour, and moving back aboard the base, which didn’t last long, and then moving back into town. Meanwhile, there were 2 children and, eventually, a full-time job, and a marriage that should not have been, but was. It took time, but all of this evolved into my life, not what I had imagined, not what I wanted, and, saddest of all, not what I needed. After 18 years, the marriage ended, and when 30 years had accrued, residency ended, too.

As Robert Frost wrote, “knowing how way leads unto way,” my path came back to the desert after a brief detour that lasted about 18 months. If there was one place I didn’t want to reside, it was the desert (again), but that was evidently the plan from above, so here I am. I was blessed with both the education and the ability to work full-time, so I’ve been self-sufficient, but there have been times when I could not do this by myself.

And that’s where my 3 closest friends have made the difference: when they’ve needed me, I’ve been there, and when I’ve needed them, they’ve been here. The rest of the time, the time apart from the need, we’ve been friends, a word that doesn’t describe the relationship one shares with strangers who become family of the heart. Friends are the ones who don’t have to be in your pocket all the time, the ones who can live their own lives but share parts of themselves with you in a different way than they share with the other people in their lives, and you do the same.

We drove together to the coast to share lunch with the fourth friend. It’s nostalgic to page through the relationships we’ve shared, seeming almost to echo marriage vows to love, honor, trust, support in sickness and in health, and continue to be friends. There have been peaks and there have been valleys, but what brought our lives together endures the best of times and the worst.

As we recalled so many memories, some shared by all and some shared by others, it struck me how much we have meant to each other. We remembered names, faces and places, strengths and weaknesses, joys and sadness, all tied together with the strength of having shared it with one another. There may have been others on the perimeter, but we were the core, and it showed in our blendship, our blurring of the lines between you and me, which is the us of our friendship.

My retirement is not noteworthy to many people, but it is to my friends, who honored me in a casa by the sea. We may not have this time together again, but I will always cherish the memory and the friendship of the special women in my life and the day we spent together at the beginning of the rest of my life.

Retirement: Day One

I've already finished all the little chores that occupy time and accomplish nothing, so I was looking at the office renovation project, the one that involves removing everything, installing appropriate cabinetry, repainting the walls, and then moving back in everything that does NOT have to do with teaching!

The closet is another bookcase, one on which I can shut the doors and not have to look at it, but it houses binders filled with excellent teaching materials and ideas that I plan to hand off to the next generation.

The actual shelves in the room are a huge mistake: coated wire shelving through which most books slip but which also attract an amazing amount of just plain desert dirt. No matter how often I take the items off and clean them, in a month I have to do it again. My plan is to replace those wire racks with closed cupboards and slow down the getting dirty process. It also will just plain look better!

However, on the bottom shelf, I came across an old favorite, my values clarification bible from the earliest days of my teaching career, and I took a nostaglic trip down memory lane. As I thumbed through the chapters, I came across the activity (Strategy #71) for getting ready for summer, prefaced with the warning that ...

"Summers are often menacing to people. They provide a long stretch of time, we often think, in which we can accomplish an amazing amount of work or learning or playing. Frequently, we become frustrated because we're not having as much fun as we think we should or are not getting as much work done as we think we should."

Yep, that is I: my plate is never empty and it's often too full, so I must learn and practice moderation in all things. Therefore, I set up a blank chart, using all the little "requirements" of Strategy #71, to see what my Top 5 are in each category--and it's awesome. I doubt that I'll ever finish my initial list in the 3 months of summer, but I'm known to accomplish what I set my mind to do, so we'll see.

It was easy to fill in the places I want to visit and the chores, but I altered the books to read column to include movies to see because I'm always reading something, and often more than one book at a time. This habit has to become USE THE LIBRARY as I tend to purchase books, proofread them, and then pass them on to hospitals and libraries and friends. I'm retired now, so have to learn to be more practical.

Anyway, I attached a copy of the list for my top 10 people to think about because they, too, are highly-motivated over-achievers, and emailed it to them. I really don't know how many of them are actually motivated to set short-term goals, but I'm going to assume we ALL have a "to do" list, of which this is simply one more.

There are 5 categories, with 5 fill-in-the-blank spaces for how to can accomplish these top 5 goals. Mine is not quite finished, but once it's printed, I'll have an action plan and won't feel quite so free-floating as I transition into retirement.

And, yes, cake decorating is on my list, as well as daily exercise, for which Mia will be most grateful.

The Slow-Down Plan

The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray, and so it is with my "slow down" plan.

After my final day tomorrow, the plan was to take a few days, prep the summer session, work 4 days a week for a month, take a few more days off, then prep for the fall semester. It seemed like a good idea to wind down, rather than abruptly stop working altogether.

However, the call came today: low enrollment = no summer school class. Thus, as of 3 pm tomorrow, I have no job!

What am I going to do?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, there's always the "to do" list, and mine never shortens, but that's not what I'm asking. I'm asking, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

Am I going to be okay with NOT working, or am I going to need to find "something" to do to justify my existence? Can I accept just cashing my retirement check and paying my bills, or do I need to earn my way, even during retirement?

I wasn't ready to make those decisions, but I guess life wants me to decide sooner, rather than later, and sooner starts ... tomorrow.

I'll keep ya posted on progress.

Paris and Roaming

“This isn’t fair! Mom! Mom! Mom!”

Boy, there’s going to be hell to pay when it becomes clear that the judge trumps the mom!

Imagine the conversation: It’s okay, dear, I'll get you out of that nasty place! You won’t ever have to go back there again! I’ll see to that if it’s the last thing I do. Imagine, putting MY daughter in jail.

The McMansion Incarceration Facility: Thanks, Mom. I don’t know what you told the sheriff, but I’m so glad it worked! Imagine me—in jail—with all those other prostitutes and drunks! And it’s like they never even said I was drunk when they arrested me that time. I mean, even they said I was just “under the influence.” That’s not like, drunk or anything, so what difference does it make? I don’t deserve this … it’s all my publicists’ fault that I was driving on a suspended license! He should be in jail, not me.

Courtroom: Cut to “the pose:” sway back, head tossed over one shoulder, that smoldering look aimed at the judge. It’s just a matter of time before he sees that I don’t belong here—not with all those real criminals. I’ll be back home in an hour. God, I could use a drink after all this drama!

Fade to the immediate remand to the custody of the police officers, who will escort your ass to jail, where you are to stay until I say you leave.

Perhaps Martha can drop by and give Paris some pointers, such as how to act graciously regardless of where you are incarcerated: McBarsville or McMansion.

Perhaps Dr. Phil can have a televised counseling session replete with tips on surviving one day at a time. He can have an in-studio audience of those women who have successfully completed their sentences sharing their survival stories.

Perhaps the right rev Al Sharpton can turn Paris into a poster child for judicial fairness, a role model for all white girls who get locked up with the minority criminals: look, Paris did her time, so shut up and do yours. Maybe just a touch of tan-in-a-bottle to make Paris look more ethnic.

The good news? The ankle monitor comes off.
The bad news? You’re going to have to learn to poop in semi-public.

The even better news? If you just do the time, you’ll earn 1 day off your sentence for each set of 4 days you complete. Let’s see, that means with 40 days left on the sentence, uh, 40 divided by 4, minus 1x times 4 – oh, well, Paris, you don’t have anything else to do, so you figure it out!

Nightmare in the Desert

One of the reasons I’ve never enjoyed watching Star Trek is the facial abnormalities of the aliens. One character, made up with brown bumps for eyebrows that mostly looked like embedded ticks, really freaked me out because my dogs have had ticks--and so have I. Yuk.

My skin crawled as I recently watched Pirates 3, and I knew that the “barnacle” people were going to haunt me sooner or later. Capt Jack’s father came apart from the ship, and the starfish on the side of his face grew; the character with the octopus tentacles just creeped me out beyond belief. I knew I hadn’t seen the last of them as the images have haunted me. They came in the dark last night …

I must have been tossing, turning, and talking in my sleep as my dog came in to see what was the matter. I dreamed that something, either seaweed or fins, grew out of my pointing finger on my right hand. They were long, very long, very noticeable—and no one knew why they grew or what to do about them. They were semi-solid and could not be hidden, so I had to deal with the long, trailing flow of them until someone could figure out what caused them to grow and how to remove them.

I kept waking up, checking my finger, and then falling back to an uneasy sleep, all the while hoping the dream stayed away, but it came back and came back. My stomach roils just thinking about it!

Finally, about 3 am, it was just easier to stay awake and wait for the sun to dawn to get up and shower away the remnants of the night. Perhaps putting it on paper will take away the dream?

CELEBRATION!

When I was back east for the graduation, a friend who retired from education a year ago asked about the celebrations being held for the retirees and was shocked when I admitted there were … none.

Today, there was a breakfast to honor the 3 retirees at my site, or at least that was the reason given to the staff for, once again, serving Mexican breakfast burritos, made with beef, egg, beans and rice—which I cannot stomach! The smell of the spicy hot salsa at 7:45 am turned my stomach, but I did manage to have a cup of coffee.

While the food line snaked around the walls of the meeting room, it became evident that those who were first in line were finished eating and picking up their bulletins and other paraphernalia for the hike back to the classrooms; after all, it is the last week of school and there is work to be finished before checking out for the summer.

“Hey, folks, don’t leave yet. We want to mention some special teachers today. It’ll only take a minute.”

I was briefly announced, handed a bouquet of flowers arranged by the ROP Floral Design class; the next retiree was more broadly announced—and given a life-time pass to all athletic events; and the third retiree was endlessly thanked for his numerous contributions to the school and community, his wife’s current employment with the district, her possible retirement next year, the retirement home he’s building, his son's business and his daughter's home, yada yada yada.

I had already returned to my seat. One of my colleagues leaned toward me and said, “Don’t you feel special? It’s obvious you are NOTHING based on the length of the other introductions.”

Yeah, it did feel that way, and thanks for confirming it for me.

As I said during the trip back east, nah, they haven’t done anything to celebrate my retirement.

Maybe once I exit the building the cheers will be heard.

From the desk of ...

As we age, we don’t get smarter and/or wiser, we just develop a different perspective of life. Where once the world was our oyster, now our vision is narrowed to ourselves and the world in our immediate vicinity.

I once was going to go out into the world and make a difference. My life was going to be significant, important, influence others, and leave a lasting mark on the world. Today, I’m all about checking to see if I wake up each morning. I don’t have the time, the energy, or the personal resources to take on the world, and I’m beginning to think that is okay with the rest of the world as it appears to go on without my input.

There were so many injustices that I wanted to address and, perhaps, fix, but fewer and fewer people share my world vision. My goal was uniqueness, but the world view is mediocrity, and the world is winning. Why educate the gifted and allow them to rise to the power positions when we can use race/ethnicity as the sole criteria for granting power to the people? Who cares if an individual is intelligent, capable, and competent when we can simply judge the book by its cover?

Thankfully, I’ve sat through my last staff meeting as my administrators assure me that education is not about information, but it’s all about the kids. I’ve been assured for the last time that our clientele cannot be held accountable for attendance, homework, or academic success because it’s not part of their culture: our demographic doesn’t value education, so we have to replace core content with pictures and projects.

Thankfully, for the last time, I have had to provide a “pass” mark for a senior who barely was able to complete his third try at sophomore English!

Thankfully, I’ve had to acquiesce for the last time to the profound silence about our standardized testing scores. The fact is that non-Hispanic whites and Asians perform significantly better on standardized testing—with or without targeted performance classes—and both Hispanics and African Americans don’t. “Significantly” means that the whites and Asians are well into the upper echelons, while both the Hispanics and A-As firmly anchor the bottom performance levels.

But we don’t talk about that because it’s “racist"; instead, we make it educational, and we work frantically to completely restructure the quality educational programs across the nation to address the bottom of the academic barrel, sacrificing the students at the top of the performance index in the process.

The end result is a mediocre system that, as Atticus Finch explains in the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, “…promote[s] the stupid and idle along with the industrious—because all men are created equal, educators will gravely tell, the children left behind suffer terrible feelings of inferiority.”

In my world view, it is far worse to be “stupid and idle” than it is to be held accountable for learning during childhood and held back a grade until the basics that allow a child to complete the educational journey are firmly mastered. A job should be earned based on ability, not ethnicity. A person who can do the job should be hired, retained, and promoted in the position; a person who cannot do the job should not be hired in the first place, and if performance is not up to the standards required by the position, fired.

If the world believes that a person needs to be both educated and able to demonstrate competent performance in a position, perhaps that expectation will become the national standard, rather than the expectation that Hispanics and A-As don’t have to be well-educated because their culture doesn’t value education.

Of course African-Americans don't value education: slaves didn’t need knowledge. They needed strong backs to work on the plantations and ignorance so they wouldn’t complain about it. Of course Mexicans don't value education: the majority of poor Mexicans don’t have access to education or jobs in Mexico, so they come to the US to earn quick cash, not to create a career path. If a person is in a country illegally, all that person wants to do is make it from one day to the next without being caught by ICE and deported.

It is up to the system to demand that academic standards are met by all students, not just those whose culture values education. What worked for Mexicans and Afro-Americans when they came to this country three centuries ago does not work today: reliance on a patron or an owner to provide them with a place to live in exchange for hard, physical labor and menial, non-skilled jobs. The global marketplace is evolving faster than these cultures are willing to adapt, and the jobs that demand academic knowledge and specific job performance are going to go to those who have the education and the skills, leaving the cultures that don’t “value” education less and less able to move beyond menial employment.

The US, rather than instilling the value of education into its new residents, as was the goal in the huge immigration wave at the beginning of the 20th century, has set that standard to the side. We no longer expect anyone to learn English because we accommodate a plethora of languages by creating little clusters of the country of origin, where both the heritage language and lifestyle are the way of life. These sub-communities recreate the lifestyle in the villages of the homeland, not adapt to the wide open spaces and opportunities of the US of A. The barrios and ghettos trap residents by ethnicity, and rather than offering unlimited opportunity to the people who inhabit these restricted areas, they condemn themselves to live the lifestyle they bring with them.

Once upon a time, I believed not just in the American dream, but in the American educational system. I no longer hold that belief. We have lowered our standards so there are no standards, but we continue to talk the talk so no one knows how few high school graduates are capable or competent to enter the work force and be productive citizens of this country.

Oh, they “feel good” about that piece of paper, but I don’t want them administering my medication in the hospital, or checking the mechanical soundness of my airplane, or filling out my social security paperwork!

When the crash comes, and it will come, there are going to be only so many ethnic restaurants, only so many swimming pools, only so many resorts that need gardeners and maids, only so many professional athletes, only so many music moguls required to meet the needs of the very wealthy who survive the fall. Everyone else will have to rely on education and job skills to survive and rebuild the nation and its economy.

Maybe we’ll also rebuild our educational system to reflect the demand for solid basic knowledge and academic excellence, rather than continuing to “promote the stupid and idle along with the industrious.”

And, maybe, one day I will enjoy 24 hours without being my job.