As long as I took the day off work for my retirement appointment, I visited Sam’s Club, which I fondly refer to as the $200 store, canceled the noxious credit card, and got an identification card only. After finishing my short shopping list in record time, I decided to see what was playing at the theater across the street as I haven’t been going to many movies since last fall.
Music and Lyrics, with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore, was starting in a half hour, so I bought a ticket and sat and read until the movie madness began. By the time I watched the 20 minutes of entertaining short features and then struggled through the awful coming attractions trailers, I was ready to get on with the movie, for crying out loud! It’s annoying to be a captive audience for ads and promos that I would normally zap or mute.
I liked the storyline of the movie: cute, warm and cuddly. Hugh Grant looks old, while Drew Barrymore looks young, which always strikes me oddly: cannot the filmmaker see that the pair doesn’t match? That same age mismatch drove me nuts in the Dianne Lane movie, Under the Tuscan Sun, and took away from any enjoyment I may have found in the chick flick.
Anyway, back to the point, there were continuity issues with Music and Lyrics that interfered with my movie viewing pleasure! Huge Grant wears a large silver ring alone, and then paired with another silver ring; first on his middle finger, and then on his ring finger. It shifts back and forth in the same scene, and because the rings are so large, it becomes obvious. It almost looks as if he’s wearing a wedding ring, but wants to hide it with the other, bigger ring, so maybe there’s something going on behind the scenes that made its way into the film.
In the scene in the coffee shop, where Hugh and Drew are talking, Drew picks up her drink to take a sip, the camera shifts to Hugh’s lines, and right back to Drew, who once again has to pick up the drink she was sipping a second ago. Hugh’s muffin is pristine in half of his close-ups, and picked apart in the other half. He picks a piece of it, lifts it to his lips while Drew speaks her lines, and then repeats the same process again when the camera comes back to him for his response. Sip/no sip; bite/no bite/ rings shifting back and forth. It is so distracting to be able to see the obvious camera changes that it made me wonder how low budget the movie actually was.
The final distraction is Drew’s dark moustache. Yeah, in half the film, she looks like she has a heavy 5 o’clock shadow or a very chocolatey milk moustache, which is not attractive. I could not tell if it was caused by the camera angle, a poorly lit set, or a personal hair growth issue! If I had been starring in the movie, I would have insisted on someone going into the film and erasing that dark shadow across my face!
I liked the film for what it is, entertainment on a rare day off, but found the quality of the filmmaking sorely lacking. The music is perky, and the Britney clone who sings the new song Alex writes is spot-on all the way to the skimpy costume she wears at the concert. But at $7.25 a ticket for the Wednesday afternoon matinee, this is one I’d wait to pop my own corn and see on DVD.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Root
The root of the word “unit” is -uni-, which means one. Last night, on the television show The Unit, a visual demonstration of the root -uni- captured what is wrong with so much of the world today: lack of unity, of one-ness, of working together for the common good.
In education, we are degraded into doing our personalities, rather than our jobs, as our educational leaders ping-pong from one bandwagon strategy to another, seemingly making change simply for the change it makes. We have become reactive to the whims and vagaries of the politicians, the public, and the spin doctors who know what's wrong and how to fix it from the comfort of their easy chairs. Seasoned educators know what works: the basics must be mastered before the child can be challenged by anything beyond that level of understanding. If the student cannot master one content area due to a lack of basic skills and training, the chances are slim that (s)he can master many content areas that require those skills and training.
In the military, the concept is that one person is in charge of one group of soldiers, and that unit performs as one: it’s what saves lives during battle. No one should have to think about what anyone else is thinking, doing, or not doing, as all are acting as one. The person new to the military has the least knowledge, experience, and skills to be the leader, so the individual who has earned a higher rank is in charge. If an individual wants to be in charge, (s)he must demonstrate through knowledge, skill application, and time in grade that (s)he has earned the right to be in charge.
Last night, the TV drama showed what happens when one person cannot grasp the concept of “unit.” One soldier (a junior troop) second-guessed the person in charge (a seasoned veteran), which led to independent decision-making—and death. It may be just a TV show, but it’s also real life.
It’s not all about me--who I am, what I need, what I want—it’s about the collective “one” that makes this country unique. While politicians, pundits, and educators tout the value of individuality and diversity, the perceived need to meet all of the needs of all of the diverse individuals who live in the country, the commonality, the unit, is disintegrating. We are becoming a nation divided, and a nation divided cannot stand.
Show me the weakest link in a chain and I’ll show you a broken chain.
In the classroom with 40 students, one teacher cannot meet the needs of all—unless there is a commitment from the class to work as one, as a unit. If all students attend class, bring their required materials, pay attention to the lesson, ask questions, complete the homework, and test themselves on their learning, education takes place. If one student deviates from that unified process, the system fails as the one teacher has to deal with the one deviation, rather than working as one with the other 39 students to learn what needs to be learned.
In the television show, the experienced senior military leader quickly assessed the situation, realized which “shit bird” was the problem in the chain of command, and went into strict military mode, calling each individual by his/her rank, establishing who is in charge and who follows orders, and then using his well-trained cadre of men (the unit) to re-establish the unity of the dysfunctional unit they encountered in the field. Once everyone knew the one person in charge, the one person who would issue orders that would be followed, the unit began performing appropriately and the goal, to defend a military position, was met.
Paramount to the system working, however, was the authority of the rank, the positional power the individual has to establish the process, monitor the procedure, and deal with disciplinary issues in a timely, effective manner that leaves no doubt who is in charge. Okay, so here exists a slightly different tactic, the senior enlisted military personnel telling the ‘shit bird’ that if he fails to perform his mission “I will kill you,” while holding a lethal weapon in his hands, but the point is made. Define the mission, give the tools to the person in charge, and then provide all the material and support that person needs to accomplish the mission, and a dysfunctional group of people can become a well-disciplined, functioning unit—on the battlefield and in a classroom.
Of course, in TV Land it works without a hitch and makes the point about order and discipline. In the educational system, no one exactly knows what the mission is beyond “educate the kids,” and everyone has a different strategy/ tactic for accomplishing the mission, but no one is issued a weapon that can be used to ensure the orders are drawn, delivered, and executed. In the classroom, the disintegration begins with the student, travels to the parent, who accosts either a counselor and/or an administrator, and comes back on the teacher, who now has not only no authority over the conduct of the students, but no control over the classroom. The end result is chaos and the failure to educate all the students in the room because one student's needs must be met before anything else can be accomplished.
The theory of “the unit” extends into so many aspects of today’s life, and it is easy to spot those whose goal it is to take the focus off the unit and put it onto themselves. Until and unless we become a unit again, an organized rank structure where the senior men and women, those with knowledge, experience, and authority, make the decisions and assure that they are implemented, we will continue to flounder, both in society and in the classroom. It is great to have young people with young ideas, but until those ideas are implemented and evaluated for effectiveness, the older, more experienced personnel need to assess the situation, draw up the appropriate strategies, deploy the junior troops effectively to meet the objective, and then monitor the situation.
Last night, I kept hearing the senior man direct the junior troops to reform and re-deploy, to prepare for the next assault from the enemy. He didn't say, "This isn't working, so let's change what we're doing." He knew that his strategy was carefully considered and executed, a strategy based on knowing what works and what doesn’t, a strategy based on tried and true battle tactics, with the message "Let’s work as one to get the job done" one skirmish at a time so (together) our unit can win the war. He knew that there would be casualities, but he also knew that there would be fewer casualities working as a unit than there would be if everyone did their own thing. He prepared for the worst and hoped for the best--and then rode it out.
And the unit prevailed: they did the job they had to do, working as a unit, and they prevailed.
In education, we are degraded into doing our personalities, rather than our jobs, as our educational leaders ping-pong from one bandwagon strategy to another, seemingly making change simply for the change it makes. We have become reactive to the whims and vagaries of the politicians, the public, and the spin doctors who know what's wrong and how to fix it from the comfort of their easy chairs. Seasoned educators know what works: the basics must be mastered before the child can be challenged by anything beyond that level of understanding. If the student cannot master one content area due to a lack of basic skills and training, the chances are slim that (s)he can master many content areas that require those skills and training.
In the military, the concept is that one person is in charge of one group of soldiers, and that unit performs as one: it’s what saves lives during battle. No one should have to think about what anyone else is thinking, doing, or not doing, as all are acting as one. The person new to the military has the least knowledge, experience, and skills to be the leader, so the individual who has earned a higher rank is in charge. If an individual wants to be in charge, (s)he must demonstrate through knowledge, skill application, and time in grade that (s)he has earned the right to be in charge.
Last night, the TV drama showed what happens when one person cannot grasp the concept of “unit.” One soldier (a junior troop) second-guessed the person in charge (a seasoned veteran), which led to independent decision-making—and death. It may be just a TV show, but it’s also real life.
It’s not all about me--who I am, what I need, what I want—it’s about the collective “one” that makes this country unique. While politicians, pundits, and educators tout the value of individuality and diversity, the perceived need to meet all of the needs of all of the diverse individuals who live in the country, the commonality, the unit, is disintegrating. We are becoming a nation divided, and a nation divided cannot stand.
Show me the weakest link in a chain and I’ll show you a broken chain.
In the classroom with 40 students, one teacher cannot meet the needs of all—unless there is a commitment from the class to work as one, as a unit. If all students attend class, bring their required materials, pay attention to the lesson, ask questions, complete the homework, and test themselves on their learning, education takes place. If one student deviates from that unified process, the system fails as the one teacher has to deal with the one deviation, rather than working as one with the other 39 students to learn what needs to be learned.
In the television show, the experienced senior military leader quickly assessed the situation, realized which “shit bird” was the problem in the chain of command, and went into strict military mode, calling each individual by his/her rank, establishing who is in charge and who follows orders, and then using his well-trained cadre of men (the unit) to re-establish the unity of the dysfunctional unit they encountered in the field. Once everyone knew the one person in charge, the one person who would issue orders that would be followed, the unit began performing appropriately and the goal, to defend a military position, was met.
Paramount to the system working, however, was the authority of the rank, the positional power the individual has to establish the process, monitor the procedure, and deal with disciplinary issues in a timely, effective manner that leaves no doubt who is in charge. Okay, so here exists a slightly different tactic, the senior enlisted military personnel telling the ‘shit bird’ that if he fails to perform his mission “I will kill you,” while holding a lethal weapon in his hands, but the point is made. Define the mission, give the tools to the person in charge, and then provide all the material and support that person needs to accomplish the mission, and a dysfunctional group of people can become a well-disciplined, functioning unit—on the battlefield and in a classroom.
Of course, in TV Land it works without a hitch and makes the point about order and discipline. In the educational system, no one exactly knows what the mission is beyond “educate the kids,” and everyone has a different strategy/ tactic for accomplishing the mission, but no one is issued a weapon that can be used to ensure the orders are drawn, delivered, and executed. In the classroom, the disintegration begins with the student, travels to the parent, who accosts either a counselor and/or an administrator, and comes back on the teacher, who now has not only no authority over the conduct of the students, but no control over the classroom. The end result is chaos and the failure to educate all the students in the room because one student's needs must be met before anything else can be accomplished.
The theory of “the unit” extends into so many aspects of today’s life, and it is easy to spot those whose goal it is to take the focus off the unit and put it onto themselves. Until and unless we become a unit again, an organized rank structure where the senior men and women, those with knowledge, experience, and authority, make the decisions and assure that they are implemented, we will continue to flounder, both in society and in the classroom. It is great to have young people with young ideas, but until those ideas are implemented and evaluated for effectiveness, the older, more experienced personnel need to assess the situation, draw up the appropriate strategies, deploy the junior troops effectively to meet the objective, and then monitor the situation.
Last night, I kept hearing the senior man direct the junior troops to reform and re-deploy, to prepare for the next assault from the enemy. He didn't say, "This isn't working, so let's change what we're doing." He knew that his strategy was carefully considered and executed, a strategy based on knowing what works and what doesn’t, a strategy based on tried and true battle tactics, with the message "Let’s work as one to get the job done" one skirmish at a time so (together) our unit can win the war. He knew that there would be casualities, but he also knew that there would be fewer casualities working as a unit than there would be if everyone did their own thing. He prepared for the worst and hoped for the best--and then rode it out.
And the unit prevailed: they did the job they had to do, working as a unit, and they prevailed.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Let It Blow, Let It Blow, Let It Blow
The desert is landlocked by poorly planned road systems and premature over-building to capitalize on the discretionary income of retirees fleeing the snows of colder climes. When road conditions are ideal, it is arduous to make the journey from one side of the freeway to the other; when weather conditions deteriorate, it is impossible.
The wind blows through the pass between two high mountains ranges, the sand stirs up, swirls in little devil winds, and then roars across the desert floor like an out-of-control freight train late for a delivery. The geographical configuration exacerbates the wind and the sand phenomenon and creates a blizzard of hazard for travelers, closing roads and taking the paint off vehicles.
The precious few roads from one side of the interstate to the other intersect the path of the blinding sandstorms following the path of an old river bed. It is nigh unto impossible to cross an over-pass when the winds are fierce enough to close the roads commuters depend on.
Today, two of the three local overpasses were closed: the dense cloud of sand could be seen for miles, making any kind of travel on the covered roads both dangerous and foolhearty. The result of those closures led to total gridlock on the third overpass, especially where the lights are out of sync and the frustrated drivers must drive miles out of their way to get back home.
At the bottom of one overpass, I waited in the middle lane, not moving through far too many light cycles, before I figured out the problem. The lane to the right of me only continues through the light, where it suddenly merges with the middle lane, my lane. The drivers behind me kept swerving into the right lane, and then had to force their way back into the middle lane when their lane abruptly ended.
The result was traffic moving on my left and traffic moving on my right, but the middle lane completely at a stand-still.
Therefore, I opted for a turn-off when there was a brief break in the traffic to my left, figuring that I would circle around the gas station and get onto the overpass from the other direction at the signal. That was a good plan--except there was so much traffic that I could not get over to the left-turn lane. When I finally was able to safely edge into the turn lane, I noticed that the right-turn only lane and the straight ahead lanes were filled to capacity, but knowing that the straight ahead lane terminates at a gas station on the other side of the light, I knew what was coming when it was finally my turn to turn left onto the overpass: all those "straight ahead" cars were making U-turns and coming back to the overpass and into my turning lane!
I understand road rage; today, I experienced it. I wanted nothing more than to plow into those damned drivers who thought their destination more important than mine. Repeatedly, I tried to make my left turn through the signal and onto the overpass, but the traffic was so backed up that I was now stranded at the beginning of the intersection, unable to proceed. The traffic I had been part of was coming through the intersection and blocking it during their turn at the green light, so when I got the green, I couldn't move into the intersection. The straight ahead drivers were blowing through the light and turning left onto the overpass illegally, cutting off those of us waiting in the left-turn lane. The cars that U-turned at the gas station were sneaking onto the overpass with each signal change, regardless of whose turn it was to proceed. And there we all sat!
Finally, I just said to hell with it and started my turn when the light glowed green. I honked at the car trying to cut me off from the lane to my right--the straight ahead to the gas station lane--and prayed that he'd back off his illegal left-hand turn and let me through the intersection. I held my ground for the line of cars turning right in front of me from the U-turn crowd, and finally made my way across the overpass and headed home.
The wind is still blowing, and it's supposed to continue to blow until the weekend. The gusts are anywhere from about 20 mph to well over 50 mph, with no decrease in sight. We all know what happens when the wind blows and the roads are closed, so why aren't there traffic control officers deployed at key intersections to help the traffic flow more smoothly?
The wind blows through the pass between two high mountains ranges, the sand stirs up, swirls in little devil winds, and then roars across the desert floor like an out-of-control freight train late for a delivery. The geographical configuration exacerbates the wind and the sand phenomenon and creates a blizzard of hazard for travelers, closing roads and taking the paint off vehicles.
The precious few roads from one side of the interstate to the other intersect the path of the blinding sandstorms following the path of an old river bed. It is nigh unto impossible to cross an over-pass when the winds are fierce enough to close the roads commuters depend on.
Today, two of the three local overpasses were closed: the dense cloud of sand could be seen for miles, making any kind of travel on the covered roads both dangerous and foolhearty. The result of those closures led to total gridlock on the third overpass, especially where the lights are out of sync and the frustrated drivers must drive miles out of their way to get back home.
At the bottom of one overpass, I waited in the middle lane, not moving through far too many light cycles, before I figured out the problem. The lane to the right of me only continues through the light, where it suddenly merges with the middle lane, my lane. The drivers behind me kept swerving into the right lane, and then had to force their way back into the middle lane when their lane abruptly ended.
The result was traffic moving on my left and traffic moving on my right, but the middle lane completely at a stand-still.
Therefore, I opted for a turn-off when there was a brief break in the traffic to my left, figuring that I would circle around the gas station and get onto the overpass from the other direction at the signal. That was a good plan--except there was so much traffic that I could not get over to the left-turn lane. When I finally was able to safely edge into the turn lane, I noticed that the right-turn only lane and the straight ahead lanes were filled to capacity, but knowing that the straight ahead lane terminates at a gas station on the other side of the light, I knew what was coming when it was finally my turn to turn left onto the overpass: all those "straight ahead" cars were making U-turns and coming back to the overpass and into my turning lane!
I understand road rage; today, I experienced it. I wanted nothing more than to plow into those damned drivers who thought their destination more important than mine. Repeatedly, I tried to make my left turn through the signal and onto the overpass, but the traffic was so backed up that I was now stranded at the beginning of the intersection, unable to proceed. The traffic I had been part of was coming through the intersection and blocking it during their turn at the green light, so when I got the green, I couldn't move into the intersection. The straight ahead drivers were blowing through the light and turning left onto the overpass illegally, cutting off those of us waiting in the left-turn lane. The cars that U-turned at the gas station were sneaking onto the overpass with each signal change, regardless of whose turn it was to proceed. And there we all sat!
Finally, I just said to hell with it and started my turn when the light glowed green. I honked at the car trying to cut me off from the lane to my right--the straight ahead to the gas station lane--and prayed that he'd back off his illegal left-hand turn and let me through the intersection. I held my ground for the line of cars turning right in front of me from the U-turn crowd, and finally made my way across the overpass and headed home.
The wind is still blowing, and it's supposed to continue to blow until the weekend. The gusts are anywhere from about 20 mph to well over 50 mph, with no decrease in sight. We all know what happens when the wind blows and the roads are closed, so why aren't there traffic control officers deployed at key intersections to help the traffic flow more smoothly?
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Countdown Continues
The notification came Friday that I passed the remaining/redo comp question, so all the requirements for the Master of Science degree, Curriculum and Instruction, have been met. However, due to a quirk at the university, I cannot officially be given the degree until after graduation the end of May.
Usually, that would not be a big deal, but this is my retirement year, and my retirement is based on my single highest salary year. The difference between a BA +75 units and an MS +75 units is significant, totaling several hundreds of dollars in retirement pay monthly. Therefore, it became urgent that I determine how to get salary recognition from the district without actually having the degree certification in hand.
Thanks be that there are good people in the world, one of whom is at the university, and the other employed by my school district. I sent emails over the weekend, to which I received prompt replies, and followed up with a couple of phone calls. Because I am retiring and the hang-up is not with me, but with university policy, the university rep is going to write an official verification letter assuring that I have earned the degree: I just won’t have it on the official transcript until after May 2007.
The district personnel will accept the unofficial web transcript and the letter from the university until the official transcript arrives sometime in March, followed by a replacement official transcript in June that shows the degree has been conferred.
Now that’s a whole lot of confusing for something that should be simple, but whatever it takes, I go to my formal retirement conference Wednesday with new information that will help determine what my monthly retirement benefit will be. I also need to find out for sure how much I can earn each month before affecting my retirement: teachers have a cap on earnings after putting in 30 years at the front of the classroom. I also am eligible for social security, but my benefits from that retirement are diminished by STRS retirement benefits.
I am amused that other occupations may double and triple-dip, but teachers lose additional benefits to STRS benefits. I recall fondly meeting former governor Ronald Reagan during my freshman year in college; he eventually earned a pension from being the president of the Screen Actors Guild, another pension from serving as governor of California, and a third retirement income from his tenure as President of the United States.
Had he been a teacher, rather than an actor and politician, he too would have lost the right to some of his retirement benefits.
Usually, that would not be a big deal, but this is my retirement year, and my retirement is based on my single highest salary year. The difference between a BA +75 units and an MS +75 units is significant, totaling several hundreds of dollars in retirement pay monthly. Therefore, it became urgent that I determine how to get salary recognition from the district without actually having the degree certification in hand.
Thanks be that there are good people in the world, one of whom is at the university, and the other employed by my school district. I sent emails over the weekend, to which I received prompt replies, and followed up with a couple of phone calls. Because I am retiring and the hang-up is not with me, but with university policy, the university rep is going to write an official verification letter assuring that I have earned the degree: I just won’t have it on the official transcript until after May 2007.
The district personnel will accept the unofficial web transcript and the letter from the university until the official transcript arrives sometime in March, followed by a replacement official transcript in June that shows the degree has been conferred.
Now that’s a whole lot of confusing for something that should be simple, but whatever it takes, I go to my formal retirement conference Wednesday with new information that will help determine what my monthly retirement benefit will be. I also need to find out for sure how much I can earn each month before affecting my retirement: teachers have a cap on earnings after putting in 30 years at the front of the classroom. I also am eligible for social security, but my benefits from that retirement are diminished by STRS retirement benefits.
I am amused that other occupations may double and triple-dip, but teachers lose additional benefits to STRS benefits. I recall fondly meeting former governor Ronald Reagan during my freshman year in college; he eventually earned a pension from being the president of the Screen Actors Guild, another pension from serving as governor of California, and a third retirement income from his tenure as President of the United States.
Had he been a teacher, rather than an actor and politician, he too would have lost the right to some of his retirement benefits.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Commitment
My personality is so much more comfortable with males than with females that it surprised me when sudden tears flooded my eyes as my son exchanged marriage vows with his fiancée yesterday. They stood together, eyes locked, and spoke in loud, clear voices: these are not children wondering if they are doing the right thing, they are adults who know that what they have together is rare and precious, and to be treasured.
He met her on-line, a chance encounter that blossomed into a relationship, that deepened into love and a proposal. They are both in their 30’s and marrying for the only time! I object to the “first” marriage syndrome, which subtly implies that there will be other marriages in the future, that somehow the ‘first’ marriage is just practice.
When my son met his future bride face-to-face for the first time, he was amazed that she was exactly what he had always dreamed his wife would be—and more. He knew that he shared a special relationship with her, but they had geographical problems that could interfere with a serious relationship: west coast for one, east coast for another. While old timers think that absence makes the heart grow fonder, for today’s life style it just adds a layer of complication most couples cannot surmount.
My son pledged his troth when he proposed and she accepted: from that day, he was married in his heart, so anything else became a mere formality. He has valiantly tried to arrange to join his bride, willingly giving up his job and his (very expensive) apartment, as well as his SoCal roots, to join her, but red tape ties his hands with every turn he takes. There are personal issues that are stumbling blocks in their path, but they have been taking them on, one at a time, and are finally making headway toward their goal to live happily ever after—together.
Yesterday, they took a step that took a lot of courage for the bride, who is deeply committed to her faith and had to come to grips with a civil ceremony to achieve the goal of a church wedding down the road. She returns home this week a married woman, but her husband stays behind—again. He will visit her in March, but return to his lonely apartment until the issues that keep them apart can be resolved.
It will be a happy day for all of us when he finally can pack up his SoCal life, relocate, and begin their marriage in earnest, a day we all pray will come soon.
He met her on-line, a chance encounter that blossomed into a relationship, that deepened into love and a proposal. They are both in their 30’s and marrying for the only time! I object to the “first” marriage syndrome, which subtly implies that there will be other marriages in the future, that somehow the ‘first’ marriage is just practice.
When my son met his future bride face-to-face for the first time, he was amazed that she was exactly what he had always dreamed his wife would be—and more. He knew that he shared a special relationship with her, but they had geographical problems that could interfere with a serious relationship: west coast for one, east coast for another. While old timers think that absence makes the heart grow fonder, for today’s life style it just adds a layer of complication most couples cannot surmount.
My son pledged his troth when he proposed and she accepted: from that day, he was married in his heart, so anything else became a mere formality. He has valiantly tried to arrange to join his bride, willingly giving up his job and his (very expensive) apartment, as well as his SoCal roots, to join her, but red tape ties his hands with every turn he takes. There are personal issues that are stumbling blocks in their path, but they have been taking them on, one at a time, and are finally making headway toward their goal to live happily ever after—together.
Yesterday, they took a step that took a lot of courage for the bride, who is deeply committed to her faith and had to come to grips with a civil ceremony to achieve the goal of a church wedding down the road. She returns home this week a married woman, but her husband stays behind—again. He will visit her in March, but return to his lonely apartment until the issues that keep them apart can be resolved.
It will be a happy day for all of us when he finally can pack up his SoCal life, relocate, and begin their marriage in earnest, a day we all pray will come soon.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Ka-BOOM!
Yep, I have a short fuse when somebody does me wrong ... including the credit card company that sent me a "rewards" check for $6.55 in the same envelope containing news of a late fee for $20 on my last payment.
Normally, I wouldn't be bitching, but ...
The first of January, I paid the balance due in full ($500+) for the first bill sent by the credit card company the end of December. When I received another bill in the same month, I paid it in full ($70+), but that check evidently didn't arrive prior to 5 pm on the date due; hence, the late fee.
The notation that this late payment fee could appear on my credit score really pissed me off because I've already been there and done that for the ONE lost bill in a series of moves almost a decade ago. After living in the same house for 20+ years, I moved 4 times in 2 years and was amazed that only one bill never made the moves with me. That one bill haunts me to this day.
When I was informed during a refi on my current home 2 years ago about the failure to pay the $135 bill 7 years earlier, I immediately did so--but it was too late. According to the bill collection service, this lost bill cost me my excellent credit rating, and it didn't matter that it is the only blemish on a 40-year credit history: I was now a deadbeat and would pay for the rest of my life for the error of my ways!
Good God: I pay my bills the day I receive them, have "left-over" money at the end of every month, maintain a savings account, and don't buy anything I cannot afford to pay off in full when the bill arrives, so what is the problem?????
I called the credit card company instantly after opening the bill and told the service rep to cancel the card. Oh, no need for that: she'll take off the charge and it won't be reported to the credit services. She is so very sorry for the inconvenience, but would I be interested in protecting myself in the future with one of the company's services for just this situation: credit protection for a low monthly fee of just yada yada yada.
I got it: attach a late fee, talk to the steamed customer, and they'll fall right into the monthly protection plan trap. No, thanks. I again directed her to cancel my account immediately, but I'm sure she won't do that because she fixed the problem to her satisfaction, which is what her job description tells her to do: keep the card open and active!
I handle my own credit card issues: that card no longer exists. Problem solved.
Normally, I wouldn't be bitching, but ...
The first of January, I paid the balance due in full ($500+) for the first bill sent by the credit card company the end of December. When I received another bill in the same month, I paid it in full ($70+), but that check evidently didn't arrive prior to 5 pm on the date due; hence, the late fee.
The notation that this late payment fee could appear on my credit score really pissed me off because I've already been there and done that for the ONE lost bill in a series of moves almost a decade ago. After living in the same house for 20+ years, I moved 4 times in 2 years and was amazed that only one bill never made the moves with me. That one bill haunts me to this day.
When I was informed during a refi on my current home 2 years ago about the failure to pay the $135 bill 7 years earlier, I immediately did so--but it was too late. According to the bill collection service, this lost bill cost me my excellent credit rating, and it didn't matter that it is the only blemish on a 40-year credit history: I was now a deadbeat and would pay for the rest of my life for the error of my ways!
Good God: I pay my bills the day I receive them, have "left-over" money at the end of every month, maintain a savings account, and don't buy anything I cannot afford to pay off in full when the bill arrives, so what is the problem?????
I called the credit card company instantly after opening the bill and told the service rep to cancel the card. Oh, no need for that: she'll take off the charge and it won't be reported to the credit services. She is so very sorry for the inconvenience, but would I be interested in protecting myself in the future with one of the company's services for just this situation: credit protection for a low monthly fee of just yada yada yada.
I got it: attach a late fee, talk to the steamed customer, and they'll fall right into the monthly protection plan trap. No, thanks. I again directed her to cancel my account immediately, but I'm sure she won't do that because she fixed the problem to her satisfaction, which is what her job description tells her to do: keep the card open and active!
I handle my own credit card issues: that card no longer exists. Problem solved.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Sleeping Soundly
The words popped out of my mouth and amazed me with a memory that has been hibernating for two decades. “I don’t want to think about it” doesn’t mean that my brain isn’t thinking about it.
Last Thursday night, I was teaching my night class about narrative and descriptive writing. As we talked, I wove the words “insight” and “significance” into the conversation, two words that characterize quality writing. A person who writes what they know is often a better writer than the person who writes about assigned topics because the individual has a special insight that provides the significance that makes writing meaningful to a reader.
A student asked me for an example, and I had her develop an incident from her personal experience that demonstrated the two qualities of insight and significance. Another student asked a question, and we shared information about the difference between an objective narrative and a subjective narrative, the two sides of the narration/description coin that we examine as part of the course.
Another question was asked, and my response surprised me as, suddenly, my brain dredged up the memory of being startled awake by a man in my room while I was at a summer study conference on the east coast. He was standing there, slightly hunched toward me, and all I saw was his body cast in black from the darkness in the room. He lurched forward and fell across my supine body and began slobbering kisses all over my face.
Startled, I shoved at him—but he didn’t move. His body pinned me to the bed and his arms wrapped around me, holding me down, as he continued to kiss and kiss and kiss. I didn’t know who it was, but I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and I thought I was going to vomit. I thrashed and bucked my body wildly, but he wouldn’t be dislodged.
I tried to scream, but there was no sound, so I continued to fight him as the feeling of being wrapped up in the mattress and held in place by an immovable weight slowly suffocated me.
Suddenly, he went absolutely still. I froze for a moment, and then gave a forceful, full-body heave; he fell to the side and didn’t move. I twisted away from him, leaped from the bed, and ran to the door.
I woke up someone in the next room to get help, but she was sleepy and scared, and refused to come to my room to help me. I went to another door, and then another door, and finally a fourth door, trying to find someone who would come with me to get the man out of my room. When someone actually understood what I was saying, he pulled on his clothes and went with me to my room. I was so grateful and relieved to have help that I then started to cry and shake from head to toe.
When he went into my room and turned on the lights, he started to laugh! “It’s just Mike,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s just Mike,” he repeated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“He’s drunk, and he probably didn’t know where he was. I’ll take him to his room to sleep it off.”
And that was it. The incident was over for everyone else, but I was terrified. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night, nor did I go to the meetings the next day. I found the director of the institute and reported what had happened, but it was “just one of those things.” I was encouraged to let it go; after all, nothing happened, right? It was the last week of the institute, so I somehow held it together and then came home.
Perhaps I believed that nothing happened, or perhaps I needed to believe that, because I put it away in a small compartment in my brain and have kept the door shut on it all these years. “Nothing happened” means something different to me today than it did at the time, evident by the fact that I’ve been waking up, quickly and terrified, for the past couple of years at 2:00 am, the time Mike invaded my privacy and assaulted me in that dorm room.
We were all adults, teachers, selected from across the US to participate in the conference. For me, it was a special time to study an author I love, Shakespeare, and conduct research at the Folger Shakespeare Museum. I rode the trains from Maryland to the US capitol, visited all of the Smithsonians, as well as the Ford Theater, and enjoyed discovering people and places I did not know existed. I saw the Kennedy Center, Watergate, and the George Washington University Hospital, where I was a patient suffering from a wasp sting on the metro platform in Silver Springs, MD, that almost put me out of commission. I loved the underground mall, Crystal City, underneath the Pentagon, and the multi-storied shopping venue created from the old post office. I visited Arlington cemetery and the Vietnam War Memorial, finding the name of a neighbor who gave his life in service to his country. The highlight was spending July 4th on the Capitol Mall, seeing the bombs bursting in the air as the symphony played the 1812 Overture and a plane circled around the Washington Monument prior to landing at the nearby airport.
We ate out often, but also pooled our resources to bring food into the dorm so the elite group of scholars could engage in academic discourse, but we also shared some down time in a college dorm setting, evoking individual memories of our past experiences in a similar setting during our youth. Part of reliving the past was the booze—not much for me, but especially for the guys. Evidently, Mike was quite the boozer, and the night he came into my room, he was operating on a full-blown drunk.
Two decades later, I wake up suddenly and scream in horror as I see a dark shape in the hallway outside my bedroom, a dark male figure coming toward me. Some nights, I am so scared that it feels as if my heart will explode from the forceful pressure of my panic. Intellectually, I know that no one can come into my house without first silencing my dog, and to do that, the person has to deal with my dog waking up the whole neighborhood with her barking. When she has a problem with home security, my dog comes and wakes me up with a quick, gentle lick on my hand, and we both go to see what’s happening. If she stays outside too long and the barking has a growling sound to it that is distinctively “something’s wrong,” I call the local police department and ask them to do a drive-by. I’m not into taking unnecessary risks, regardless of the cause.
The nightmares persisted, increasing in frequency and intensity until Thursday night, when the words just popped out of my mouth and the incident was happening again, this time with a class sitting in the seats in front of me. Speaking the words aloud, telling oh, so briefly, about being assaulted, was a revelation. In an instant, my nightmares and sleeplessness made sense.
Unfortunately, this incident isn’t the only one in my life. None of the events is significant in a criminal way, but all of them have been a violation that offended me and created a defensiveness that stays with me. I am very cautious about including new men in my life, and take offense when, perhaps, none is intended by pushy men who let it be known that they are trolling for a sexual relationship—tonight—and/or find me too standoffish to be much fun. I haven’t dated much because, as one of my friends says, I’m just not available to men who may be interested in getting to know me. She’s right, and now I know that, too.
Perhaps now that my brain opened up the door on this topic, I’ll spend some time understanding why it stayed put away for so long. The least I can hope for is that I’ll finally go back to being a good sleeper, one who makes it through the night without the trauma of flashbacks and nightmares.
Last Thursday night, I was teaching my night class about narrative and descriptive writing. As we talked, I wove the words “insight” and “significance” into the conversation, two words that characterize quality writing. A person who writes what they know is often a better writer than the person who writes about assigned topics because the individual has a special insight that provides the significance that makes writing meaningful to a reader.
A student asked me for an example, and I had her develop an incident from her personal experience that demonstrated the two qualities of insight and significance. Another student asked a question, and we shared information about the difference between an objective narrative and a subjective narrative, the two sides of the narration/description coin that we examine as part of the course.
Another question was asked, and my response surprised me as, suddenly, my brain dredged up the memory of being startled awake by a man in my room while I was at a summer study conference on the east coast. He was standing there, slightly hunched toward me, and all I saw was his body cast in black from the darkness in the room. He lurched forward and fell across my supine body and began slobbering kisses all over my face.
Startled, I shoved at him—but he didn’t move. His body pinned me to the bed and his arms wrapped around me, holding me down, as he continued to kiss and kiss and kiss. I didn’t know who it was, but I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and I thought I was going to vomit. I thrashed and bucked my body wildly, but he wouldn’t be dislodged.
I tried to scream, but there was no sound, so I continued to fight him as the feeling of being wrapped up in the mattress and held in place by an immovable weight slowly suffocated me.
Suddenly, he went absolutely still. I froze for a moment, and then gave a forceful, full-body heave; he fell to the side and didn’t move. I twisted away from him, leaped from the bed, and ran to the door.
I woke up someone in the next room to get help, but she was sleepy and scared, and refused to come to my room to help me. I went to another door, and then another door, and finally a fourth door, trying to find someone who would come with me to get the man out of my room. When someone actually understood what I was saying, he pulled on his clothes and went with me to my room. I was so grateful and relieved to have help that I then started to cry and shake from head to toe.
When he went into my room and turned on the lights, he started to laugh! “It’s just Mike,” he said.
“What?”
“It’s just Mike,” he repeated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“He’s drunk, and he probably didn’t know where he was. I’ll take him to his room to sleep it off.”
And that was it. The incident was over for everyone else, but I was terrified. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night, nor did I go to the meetings the next day. I found the director of the institute and reported what had happened, but it was “just one of those things.” I was encouraged to let it go; after all, nothing happened, right? It was the last week of the institute, so I somehow held it together and then came home.
Perhaps I believed that nothing happened, or perhaps I needed to believe that, because I put it away in a small compartment in my brain and have kept the door shut on it all these years. “Nothing happened” means something different to me today than it did at the time, evident by the fact that I’ve been waking up, quickly and terrified, for the past couple of years at 2:00 am, the time Mike invaded my privacy and assaulted me in that dorm room.
We were all adults, teachers, selected from across the US to participate in the conference. For me, it was a special time to study an author I love, Shakespeare, and conduct research at the Folger Shakespeare Museum. I rode the trains from Maryland to the US capitol, visited all of the Smithsonians, as well as the Ford Theater, and enjoyed discovering people and places I did not know existed. I saw the Kennedy Center, Watergate, and the George Washington University Hospital, where I was a patient suffering from a wasp sting on the metro platform in Silver Springs, MD, that almost put me out of commission. I loved the underground mall, Crystal City, underneath the Pentagon, and the multi-storied shopping venue created from the old post office. I visited Arlington cemetery and the Vietnam War Memorial, finding the name of a neighbor who gave his life in service to his country. The highlight was spending July 4th on the Capitol Mall, seeing the bombs bursting in the air as the symphony played the 1812 Overture and a plane circled around the Washington Monument prior to landing at the nearby airport.
We ate out often, but also pooled our resources to bring food into the dorm so the elite group of scholars could engage in academic discourse, but we also shared some down time in a college dorm setting, evoking individual memories of our past experiences in a similar setting during our youth. Part of reliving the past was the booze—not much for me, but especially for the guys. Evidently, Mike was quite the boozer, and the night he came into my room, he was operating on a full-blown drunk.
Two decades later, I wake up suddenly and scream in horror as I see a dark shape in the hallway outside my bedroom, a dark male figure coming toward me. Some nights, I am so scared that it feels as if my heart will explode from the forceful pressure of my panic. Intellectually, I know that no one can come into my house without first silencing my dog, and to do that, the person has to deal with my dog waking up the whole neighborhood with her barking. When she has a problem with home security, my dog comes and wakes me up with a quick, gentle lick on my hand, and we both go to see what’s happening. If she stays outside too long and the barking has a growling sound to it that is distinctively “something’s wrong,” I call the local police department and ask them to do a drive-by. I’m not into taking unnecessary risks, regardless of the cause.
The nightmares persisted, increasing in frequency and intensity until Thursday night, when the words just popped out of my mouth and the incident was happening again, this time with a class sitting in the seats in front of me. Speaking the words aloud, telling oh, so briefly, about being assaulted, was a revelation. In an instant, my nightmares and sleeplessness made sense.
Unfortunately, this incident isn’t the only one in my life. None of the events is significant in a criminal way, but all of them have been a violation that offended me and created a defensiveness that stays with me. I am very cautious about including new men in my life, and take offense when, perhaps, none is intended by pushy men who let it be known that they are trolling for a sexual relationship—tonight—and/or find me too standoffish to be much fun. I haven’t dated much because, as one of my friends says, I’m just not available to men who may be interested in getting to know me. She’s right, and now I know that, too.
Perhaps now that my brain opened up the door on this topic, I’ll spend some time understanding why it stayed put away for so long. The least I can hope for is that I’ll finally go back to being a good sleeper, one who makes it through the night without the trauma of flashbacks and nightmares.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
I Heart U
It's Valentine's Day, the day for the wearing of the red--which is now the new color of the campaign for awareness about women's heart disease, the #1 killer of women in America.
Kinda takes the bloom off the bazillion roses being sent today, doesn't it?
In the local school districts, Valentine's Day deliveries have been banned because they cause such disruption. Go figure: 3000 students at the high school where I work, and about 300 of them will receive some kind of Valentine recognition from friends/family/loved ones. How disruptive is that? Somewhat, but probably more a pain in the butt for the sole receptionist who has to accept the delivery and then direct it to the right recipient.
The solution for yet another perceived problem is to ban ALL Valentine deliveries--except for the ways and means products being sold by school groups, such as the carnations and balloon bouquets! Seems that it's okay to deliver gifts on campus, but only those gifts bought on campus.
Can you say double standard? Do as I say, not as I do?
I remember the year I helped to decorate the Valentine's box during grade school. I worked on it for 2 weeks and thought it was the most beautiful box I'd ever seen. I waited anxiously to receive Valentines from classmates because even if it was just a few, it meant that someone cared enough about me to acknowledge it with a card. Sure, some kids received more than others, but that is a life lesson! Not everyone always is going to get a lot of recognition from others: deal with it and move on. That year, I was honored to be the one who took the Valentine box home, and it spent a lot of years on the shelf in my bedroom.
By the time I was in junior high school, we no longer got to decide to whom we would send a Valentine's card: if a card was made/purchased for one student, everyone in the class also had to receive a card to make it "fair." For those of us too poor to buy that many Valentine cards, it meant the death of delivering the one special card.
The May Day festivities were canceled the year it was decided that 'someone' may think our school celebration was honoring the Russians, who chose May Day to hold a huge parade and demonstration of their military might for the world to see. I remember feeling so special my 6th grade year, the year that I got to wear a beautiful pink dress my mother made for me and dance the May Dance with the other 6th graders, as we wove the colored ribbons around the May pole. It was a special day and remains a special memory.
I remember making the May Day baskets that we wove so carefully, filled with flowers from the yard, hung on neighbor's doorknobs, and left there to find. Spring came alive with the holidays and celebrations that gave us something to anticipate each year.
No more. In our effort to be "equal" to all citizens and their countries of origin, we have lost so many of the traditions that used to be part of the American experience. It used to seem that there were enough traditions to include all cultures in some way in the celebrations throughout the year, but not today. We still picnic on the 4th of July, and some families still cook a Thanksgiving turkey, but the other holidays have fallen under the attacks of the people who must not have received Valentine's during their youth and are still bitter about not being the most popular kid in the class!
I won't receive candy, cards, and flowers today, but I'm hostess for a baby shower for a young student who was brutally attacked by a man who is now in prison. She said to me through her tears that it isn't the baby's fault that the man made her pregnant, so she will give birth to the child and raise the child in a family filled with love--something that the baby's sperm provider may never have known. A couple of the girls who share lunch break every day asked if we could have a shower, and we picked Valentine's Day as the perfect day to share our love with this girl.
I admire this woman in ways that cannot be expressed in words, so imagine my dismay to find that some of the girls in the "lunch krew" who eat in my classroom every day have been forbidden to attend the shower and/or bring a gift for it because their parents don't believe that young girls should "allow themselves to become pregnant." Of course, the parents don't know the crime behind the impending birth, but I pray that their daughters, all of whom are bragging about doing their boyfriends, but don't let my mom find out--she'd kill me--never have to eat their words or prove their love for their daughters.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Kinda takes the bloom off the bazillion roses being sent today, doesn't it?
In the local school districts, Valentine's Day deliveries have been banned because they cause such disruption. Go figure: 3000 students at the high school where I work, and about 300 of them will receive some kind of Valentine recognition from friends/family/loved ones. How disruptive is that? Somewhat, but probably more a pain in the butt for the sole receptionist who has to accept the delivery and then direct it to the right recipient.
The solution for yet another perceived problem is to ban ALL Valentine deliveries--except for the ways and means products being sold by school groups, such as the carnations and balloon bouquets! Seems that it's okay to deliver gifts on campus, but only those gifts bought on campus.
Can you say double standard? Do as I say, not as I do?
I remember the year I helped to decorate the Valentine's box during grade school. I worked on it for 2 weeks and thought it was the most beautiful box I'd ever seen. I waited anxiously to receive Valentines from classmates because even if it was just a few, it meant that someone cared enough about me to acknowledge it with a card. Sure, some kids received more than others, but that is a life lesson! Not everyone always is going to get a lot of recognition from others: deal with it and move on. That year, I was honored to be the one who took the Valentine box home, and it spent a lot of years on the shelf in my bedroom.
By the time I was in junior high school, we no longer got to decide to whom we would send a Valentine's card: if a card was made/purchased for one student, everyone in the class also had to receive a card to make it "fair." For those of us too poor to buy that many Valentine cards, it meant the death of delivering the one special card.
The May Day festivities were canceled the year it was decided that 'someone' may think our school celebration was honoring the Russians, who chose May Day to hold a huge parade and demonstration of their military might for the world to see. I remember feeling so special my 6th grade year, the year that I got to wear a beautiful pink dress my mother made for me and dance the May Dance with the other 6th graders, as we wove the colored ribbons around the May pole. It was a special day and remains a special memory.
I remember making the May Day baskets that we wove so carefully, filled with flowers from the yard, hung on neighbor's doorknobs, and left there to find. Spring came alive with the holidays and celebrations that gave us something to anticipate each year.
No more. In our effort to be "equal" to all citizens and their countries of origin, we have lost so many of the traditions that used to be part of the American experience. It used to seem that there were enough traditions to include all cultures in some way in the celebrations throughout the year, but not today. We still picnic on the 4th of July, and some families still cook a Thanksgiving turkey, but the other holidays have fallen under the attacks of the people who must not have received Valentine's during their youth and are still bitter about not being the most popular kid in the class!
I won't receive candy, cards, and flowers today, but I'm hostess for a baby shower for a young student who was brutally attacked by a man who is now in prison. She said to me through her tears that it isn't the baby's fault that the man made her pregnant, so she will give birth to the child and raise the child in a family filled with love--something that the baby's sperm provider may never have known. A couple of the girls who share lunch break every day asked if we could have a shower, and we picked Valentine's Day as the perfect day to share our love with this girl.
I admire this woman in ways that cannot be expressed in words, so imagine my dismay to find that some of the girls in the "lunch krew" who eat in my classroom every day have been forbidden to attend the shower and/or bring a gift for it because their parents don't believe that young girls should "allow themselves to become pregnant." Of course, the parents don't know the crime behind the impending birth, but I pray that their daughters, all of whom are bragging about doing their boyfriends, but don't let my mom find out--she'd kill me--never have to eat their words or prove their love for their daughters.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
If You're Ever Down a Well
Sometimes I wonder about the definition of "friend," a word used too casually by some people to justify taking advantage of others. If we're "friends," that means I can be treated badly, but not complain, and when I draw the line and say no more, if the friend says "sorry," I have to forgive and forget so we can move on.
That's not working for me.
Perhaps my biggest fault is that I'm too nice to people who do not reciprocate, a hold-over from being the adult child of alcoholics, if the shrinks are to be believed. It's okay, they told me, to have my standards high and expect others to accept my standards for my life; what's not okay is for other people to expect me to meet their standards when they conflict with my own. At that point, I am allowed to choose what I accept and what I won't accept.
A neighbor, who is also a colleague, has been abusing the word "friendship" for about 5 years. Because she is one of the most dysfunctional people I know, I have many times over accepted her egregious behavior and moved on, but have left the door open because she has so few people in her life with whom she can talk and have a casual weekend breakfast. It has been difficult to be her acquaintance, and there have been many times when I have refused to answer the phone when I knew it was she calling, been busy when she wanted to go somewhere/do something, and spoken my piece to her outrageous comments and conduct when it crossed that invisible line that's always been my stopping point.
This week, she did it again. I asked her if her dog could come spend the day with my dog on the one day a week I leave the house at 6 am and don't get back until 10 pm. It's a long day for me, and for my dog, a Rott mix who thinks, at 90 pounds, that she's a precious little lap dog. It was agreed and it's been okay for the past couple of weeks.
This week, she left the dog on Thursday--and didn't come back to pick him up. Friday, she wasn't at work, and Friday night the dog was still here at 8:30 pm. I had already driven to her house to see if her car was there, which it wasn't, and then my mind began to worry: where was she, and was she okay, because I hadn't received a phone call or an email message to assure me she was okay.
When she finally called, she was calling from out of town: sorry, but something came up. I'm with (man's name). I'm leaving right now and will be there when I get there.
That's it.
When she did get to my home, she tried to call her dog out through the gate, but he was inside with me, so she had to ring the bell and look me in the eye. Again, "sorry," but with the added "it's complicated, and I don't want to go into it right now."
Hey, not a problem. We don't ever have to go into it. I pretty much have already filled in the blanks based on past performance, so any story that is told to excuse the behavior is just that: a story. I'm way past that stage of my life, so I'm done with this kind of behavior justified by our "friendship."
All it would have taken was a phone call. I really don't care where she was or the guy she was with (this time) or the nature of the relationship that required her to run away without so much as a by your leave. It was important enough to her to take the day off work on a 3-day weekend, so when she made that call (to the sub service), she should have called me.
She didn't.
My friends don't treat me this way.
That's not working for me.
Perhaps my biggest fault is that I'm too nice to people who do not reciprocate, a hold-over from being the adult child of alcoholics, if the shrinks are to be believed. It's okay, they told me, to have my standards high and expect others to accept my standards for my life; what's not okay is for other people to expect me to meet their standards when they conflict with my own. At that point, I am allowed to choose what I accept and what I won't accept.
A neighbor, who is also a colleague, has been abusing the word "friendship" for about 5 years. Because she is one of the most dysfunctional people I know, I have many times over accepted her egregious behavior and moved on, but have left the door open because she has so few people in her life with whom she can talk and have a casual weekend breakfast. It has been difficult to be her acquaintance, and there have been many times when I have refused to answer the phone when I knew it was she calling, been busy when she wanted to go somewhere/do something, and spoken my piece to her outrageous comments and conduct when it crossed that invisible line that's always been my stopping point.
This week, she did it again. I asked her if her dog could come spend the day with my dog on the one day a week I leave the house at 6 am and don't get back until 10 pm. It's a long day for me, and for my dog, a Rott mix who thinks, at 90 pounds, that she's a precious little lap dog. It was agreed and it's been okay for the past couple of weeks.
This week, she left the dog on Thursday--and didn't come back to pick him up. Friday, she wasn't at work, and Friday night the dog was still here at 8:30 pm. I had already driven to her house to see if her car was there, which it wasn't, and then my mind began to worry: where was she, and was she okay, because I hadn't received a phone call or an email message to assure me she was okay.
When she finally called, she was calling from out of town: sorry, but something came up. I'm with (man's name). I'm leaving right now and will be there when I get there.
That's it.
When she did get to my home, she tried to call her dog out through the gate, but he was inside with me, so she had to ring the bell and look me in the eye. Again, "sorry," but with the added "it's complicated, and I don't want to go into it right now."
Hey, not a problem. We don't ever have to go into it. I pretty much have already filled in the blanks based on past performance, so any story that is told to excuse the behavior is just that: a story. I'm way past that stage of my life, so I'm done with this kind of behavior justified by our "friendship."
All it would have taken was a phone call. I really don't care where she was or the guy she was with (this time) or the nature of the relationship that required her to run away without so much as a by your leave. It was important enough to her to take the day off work on a 3-day weekend, so when she made that call (to the sub service), she should have called me.
She didn't.
My friends don't treat me this way.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Film Bank
A new film has been added to my "don't see" list: Babel. It joins Lost in Translation and Crash as mediocre films that strike it big with viewers who obviously think that if it's artsy, it's excellent.
My film buddy and I wanted to see all the Academy-nominated films prior to the awards, and this one has been on the to-do list. Buzz has been good, but today we learned that "buzz" is another way of saying, "you can fool some of the people some of the time, and most of the people most of the time."
It's another Crash, one of those out-of-focus, swirling camera work film montages of people's lives that somehow miraculously intersect: call it cosmic connection. This one features a rifle, a Japanese businessman who gave it to the Moroccan guide, whose son uses it to shoot at a tourist bus, which wounds an American woman, whose children are back in San Diego with a Mexican housekeeper who takes them to Mexico for her son's wedding ... and loses the children in the desert while their mother is struggling to live in Morocco. There's also the daughter of the Japanese businessman, a deaf mute who is seeking for something she believes she can find by taking off her panties.
It's not just the $8 to get into the movie, but it's the feeling of what the heck? This movie is mediocre at best, and pretty bad at worst, so why does it rate 3 stars? I guess if everyone speaks in their native tongue, we're supposed to think we're missing something when the performances aren't spectacular.
Brad Pitt walks through the role; Kate Blanchette wears her wound well and hits the pot she pees in; the natives from three different countries visually argue for better dental hygiene; and the director must have been surprised when he was nominated for the Academy Award because I'm sure he knew that the film fits the category of "best copy cat," rather than best film and/or best director.
Nope, not buying the Babel DVD, but I may see the film another friend saw today, Iwo Jima, which she said is so engrossing that she found herself rooting for the Japanese to prevail when the Americans invaded their turf. Now, that has to be a pretty good film!
My film buddy and I wanted to see all the Academy-nominated films prior to the awards, and this one has been on the to-do list. Buzz has been good, but today we learned that "buzz" is another way of saying, "you can fool some of the people some of the time, and most of the people most of the time."
It's another Crash, one of those out-of-focus, swirling camera work film montages of people's lives that somehow miraculously intersect: call it cosmic connection. This one features a rifle, a Japanese businessman who gave it to the Moroccan guide, whose son uses it to shoot at a tourist bus, which wounds an American woman, whose children are back in San Diego with a Mexican housekeeper who takes them to Mexico for her son's wedding ... and loses the children in the desert while their mother is struggling to live in Morocco. There's also the daughter of the Japanese businessman, a deaf mute who is seeking for something she believes she can find by taking off her panties.
It's not just the $8 to get into the movie, but it's the feeling of what the heck? This movie is mediocre at best, and pretty bad at worst, so why does it rate 3 stars? I guess if everyone speaks in their native tongue, we're supposed to think we're missing something when the performances aren't spectacular.
Brad Pitt walks through the role; Kate Blanchette wears her wound well and hits the pot she pees in; the natives from three different countries visually argue for better dental hygiene; and the director must have been surprised when he was nominated for the Academy Award because I'm sure he knew that the film fits the category of "best copy cat," rather than best film and/or best director.
Nope, not buying the Babel DVD, but I may see the film another friend saw today, Iwo Jima, which she said is so engrossing that she found herself rooting for the Japanese to prevail when the Americans invaded their turf. Now, that has to be a pretty good film!
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
Just a Moment
Sometimes, there is a moment that makes the day worthwhile--such as the student who became upset when Act II of Julius Caesar ended today. She wants to know what's going to happen!
"Aren't you going to tell us," she asked, "or at least give us a clue?"
"Nope," I responded, "you'll have to do some more reading to know what comes next."
"But I have to know: does Caesar die? Who becomes the new king?"
A classmate provided the response from those in the know: "No way Caesar dies! The play is called Julius Caesar, and it's only the end of Act II. He can't die with all these pages left to read!"
Ah, it's so nice to know that someone is listening, that someone is reading along, that someone is engaged in the captivating classic by William Shakespeare! It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it takes savoring the moment to fully appreciate it.
Contrast the above conversation with another student's query, following a comment I made about how tired I am of finding that every single lesson in the lit book has a question that requires the student to ... "using a chart like the one below." An original idea lacks originality when it replicated a hundred times!
Anyway, I told the students that since the chart in the book is purple this time, I'll be looking for their purple chart when I collect the assignment Friday.
"But what if I don't have a purple marker?" she asked. "Can I still turn in the assignment?"
I just smiled.
"Aren't you going to tell us," she asked, "or at least give us a clue?"
"Nope," I responded, "you'll have to do some more reading to know what comes next."
"But I have to know: does Caesar die? Who becomes the new king?"
A classmate provided the response from those in the know: "No way Caesar dies! The play is called Julius Caesar, and it's only the end of Act II. He can't die with all these pages left to read!"
Ah, it's so nice to know that someone is listening, that someone is reading along, that someone is engaged in the captivating classic by William Shakespeare! It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it takes savoring the moment to fully appreciate it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Contrast the above conversation with another student's query, following a comment I made about how tired I am of finding that every single lesson in the lit book has a question that requires the student to ... "using a chart like the one below." An original idea lacks originality when it replicated a hundred times!
Anyway, I told the students that since the chart in the book is purple this time, I'll be looking for their purple chart when I collect the assignment Friday.
"But what if I don't have a purple marker?" she asked. "Can I still turn in the assignment?"
I just smiled.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Nowhere to Turn
Our campus is crowded; there are 2800 students occupying a school intended for 1500. Walking across campus during a passing period is quite a challenge, especially when students are so totally unaware of anyone else around them.
This morning, I had to go to the bathroom. Because the facility nearest my classroom has been removed and is in the process of being replaced with a much smaller handicapped facility, to make it to the bathroom and back during a break takes some doing--and some hustle.
I made it to right outside the office on the library side when the girls walking in front of me suddenly stopped. There was nowhere for me to go to get out of the way, so in order to avoid a collision, I tried to stop, but my shoe caught in the uneven pavement, and I pitched into the tree. My arm flung itself out to stop my fall, causing a nasty scrape on my forearm to deal with as I hurriedly finished the trip to the toilet, washed the wound well with soapy hot water, and scurried back to the classroom before the bell rang.
The wound bled, but I cleaned it again with waterless hand cleaner and bandaged it, so it wasn't a big deal.
I did, however, ask a student to take a photo of the injury, which I then attached to a brief accident report. The school secretary was a bit taken aback that I wanted to file a report of the accident and my injury. I assured her I really wanted to do that--and left the report and the photo with her. I reminded her that I have diabetes, which means that I am both prone to infection and slow to heal, so I want to be sure the accident and injury are properly documented.
During the last class period, a student asked me why I had a bandage on my arm, and I explained (briefly) that I had tripped and fallen into a tree. The one kid I just cannot stand to see come into the room had his usual smart-ass retort: "You fall all the time. You should retire and stay home! That would be great!"
Picture the obnoxious little fat boy laughing his ass off for all the other kids in the class.
If it had been anyone else making the comment, I would have laughed, but this kid's mouth gets to me as it's going constantly in a steady, vile stream of put-downs and crap directed at me, as well as the other students in the room. I've told him he's going to ISS every time he opens his mouth as I am sick of dealing with his rudeness and crudeness, but he doesn't care. As a matter of fact, he thinks it's funny that I find him offensive.
My apologies to John Wayne, but this campus just ain't big enough for the two of us! June can't come soon enough.
This morning, I had to go to the bathroom. Because the facility nearest my classroom has been removed and is in the process of being replaced with a much smaller handicapped facility, to make it to the bathroom and back during a break takes some doing--and some hustle.
I made it to right outside the office on the library side when the girls walking in front of me suddenly stopped. There was nowhere for me to go to get out of the way, so in order to avoid a collision, I tried to stop, but my shoe caught in the uneven pavement, and I pitched into the tree. My arm flung itself out to stop my fall, causing a nasty scrape on my forearm to deal with as I hurriedly finished the trip to the toilet, washed the wound well with soapy hot water, and scurried back to the classroom before the bell rang.
The wound bled, but I cleaned it again with waterless hand cleaner and bandaged it, so it wasn't a big deal.
I did, however, ask a student to take a photo of the injury, which I then attached to a brief accident report. The school secretary was a bit taken aback that I wanted to file a report of the accident and my injury. I assured her I really wanted to do that--and left the report and the photo with her. I reminded her that I have diabetes, which means that I am both prone to infection and slow to heal, so I want to be sure the accident and injury are properly documented.
During the last class period, a student asked me why I had a bandage on my arm, and I explained (briefly) that I had tripped and fallen into a tree. The one kid I just cannot stand to see come into the room had his usual smart-ass retort: "You fall all the time. You should retire and stay home! That would be great!"
Picture the obnoxious little fat boy laughing his ass off for all the other kids in the class.
If it had been anyone else making the comment, I would have laughed, but this kid's mouth gets to me as it's going constantly in a steady, vile stream of put-downs and crap directed at me, as well as the other students in the room. I've told him he's going to ISS every time he opens his mouth as I am sick of dealing with his rudeness and crudeness, but he doesn't care. As a matter of fact, he thinks it's funny that I find him offensive.
My apologies to John Wayne, but this campus just ain't big enough for the two of us! June can't come soon enough.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Patience is Sometimes Just Not Worth the Wait
I've been working in my office, using my computer to finish up some business. Five (yes, that's 5) separate times, the outside of my house has been hit with projectiles being fired by some kind of pellet or b-b gun.
Each time I've gone outside to catch whomever is doing the shooting and tell them to stop hitting my house. With the door open, I heard men talking and laughing, speaking some Spanish and some English, and then one of them yelling, "Kill it! Kill it!" and more shots.
They are in the house next door, so I waited outside until they came out and fired again. As I walked to the side of my house, the front door slammed, but they must have seen me because when I rang the bell, no one answered. After ringing the bell several times, I walked back to my house and called them.
You would not believe the "dumb" act on the phone: "Who's calling, please? Where did you say you live? Next door? What address would that be?"
I finally told her to come out her front door and she'll see me standing in my front yard, looking at her front door. And I hung up the phone.
I already have b-b holes in all 3 front windows from the last episode with b-b guns in my neighborhood, right after Christmas. My next-door neighbors also had their windows shot out, including the back window of their van, so it's hard to believe that they now have a pellet gun and are shooting in indiscriminantly in their front yard and hitting my house in the process.
I don't need the window to my office shot out: it has already been replaced once, and every penny of the cost came out of my pocket! I'm not up for that again, thanks anyway.
If they begin firing again, I'll call the police and let them handle it.
Each time I've gone outside to catch whomever is doing the shooting and tell them to stop hitting my house. With the door open, I heard men talking and laughing, speaking some Spanish and some English, and then one of them yelling, "Kill it! Kill it!" and more shots.
They are in the house next door, so I waited outside until they came out and fired again. As I walked to the side of my house, the front door slammed, but they must have seen me because when I rang the bell, no one answered. After ringing the bell several times, I walked back to my house and called them.
You would not believe the "dumb" act on the phone: "Who's calling, please? Where did you say you live? Next door? What address would that be?"
I finally told her to come out her front door and she'll see me standing in my front yard, looking at her front door. And I hung up the phone.
I already have b-b holes in all 3 front windows from the last episode with b-b guns in my neighborhood, right after Christmas. My next-door neighbors also had their windows shot out, including the back window of their van, so it's hard to believe that they now have a pellet gun and are shooting in indiscriminantly in their front yard and hitting my house in the process.
I don't need the window to my office shot out: it has already been replaced once, and every penny of the cost came out of my pocket! I'm not up for that again, thanks anyway.
If they begin firing again, I'll call the police and let them handle it.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Gender Issues
The buzz on campus is … separate classrooms for males and females … a separate “high school” for 9th grade only … differentiating instruction … expanding the curriculum offerings so more students have more choice.
It seems that recycling is alive and well in the educational institutions of this district. If a teacher stays in the profession long enough, there is time to see it come, go, come back again with a new name, die off, and be resurrected once again. At that point, it’s time to move on because the teacher truly has been there, done that, and seen it all.
When I walk through the door and see that the class is a majority of males, I relax: I prefer to teach boys. A recent discussion with a dear friend, also an educator, revealed the reason why: boys asks questions, but girls make comments.
Boys, if you can get past the male posturing, are generally more straight-forward than girls. If they want to know something, they ask. If the teacher asks a question, they clam up, but will respond with gentle prodding that allows them to be right—somehow.
Girls, on the other hand, don’t’ ask questions: they make comments, lots of comments, and if they don’t understand what’s going on, those comments often become personal snipes at one another, as well as the teacher.
Example: Teacher invites the students to talk about Antony, a character from the play Julius Caesar, to help them clarify their understanding of who Antony is and his role is in the play.
Male response: isn't he some guy in the play? (restating the question)
Female response: he’s so totally hot in the movie! (playing to the crowd)
Teacher: yes, he’s a male character in the play. I’m asking about the character in the play, not the actor in the film.
Male response: uh, I’m not sure what you want me to say. (silence from male students)
Female response: well, you don’t have to be so bitchy! How was I supposed to know you were talking about the play? (lots of giggling from other girls)
Guys either listen or they don’t; if they don’t listen, they fall asleep. Girls either listen or they don’t; if they don’t listen, it’s because they are writing notes, doing their make-up, whispering, text messaging, flirting with a guy across the room, making faces at a girl friend across the room, adjusting the furniture, digging in their backpacks, demanding to use the bathroom … the list is endless!
When a male student is told to knock it off, he usually does after first making a comment such as, “You talkin’ to me?” Once the teacher confirms that he is, indeed, the target of the comment, he usually accepts he’s been busted and shuts up, at least for the moment.
When a female student is told to knock it off, she attacks: “Me? Why do you always pick on me? I wasn’t doing nothing!!” If the teacher again directs her to be quiet, we have to travel the “why do you always pick on me/why aren't you telling so-and-so to be quiet: she's talking too” road, which can be long and winding even on a short day.
Guys seldom do personal grooming in the classroom; girls are hard-pressed to keep their make-up and mirrors hidden for an entire 55-minute class. Guys may read a text message, but seldom initiate it. Guys may not take notes on the class discussion, but girls are constantly writing anything except lecture notes. Guys don’t decorate their notebook covers, but girls have photos that would make any grown-up blush! Guys write filthy comments and gang graffiti in the textbooks and on the desktops, but girls confine their writing to notes they pass during class, between classes, during lunch, on the way to and from school, during the pep rally, at the dance. Neither the males nor the females use a paper and pencil to complete the assigned homework.
Tell a guy to pull up his pants and he does it; tell a girl to cover up her bulging boobs hanging out of a spaghetti strap tank top and she wants to know why you are looking at her!
For me, it’s a no-brainer: give me a group of guys over a gaggle of girls any day.
It seems that recycling is alive and well in the educational institutions of this district. If a teacher stays in the profession long enough, there is time to see it come, go, come back again with a new name, die off, and be resurrected once again. At that point, it’s time to move on because the teacher truly has been there, done that, and seen it all.
When I walk through the door and see that the class is a majority of males, I relax: I prefer to teach boys. A recent discussion with a dear friend, also an educator, revealed the reason why: boys asks questions, but girls make comments.
Boys, if you can get past the male posturing, are generally more straight-forward than girls. If they want to know something, they ask. If the teacher asks a question, they clam up, but will respond with gentle prodding that allows them to be right—somehow.
Girls, on the other hand, don’t’ ask questions: they make comments, lots of comments, and if they don’t understand what’s going on, those comments often become personal snipes at one another, as well as the teacher.
Example: Teacher invites the students to talk about Antony, a character from the play Julius Caesar, to help them clarify their understanding of who Antony is and his role is in the play.
Male response: isn't he some guy in the play? (restating the question)
Female response: he’s so totally hot in the movie! (playing to the crowd)
Teacher: yes, he’s a male character in the play. I’m asking about the character in the play, not the actor in the film.
Male response: uh, I’m not sure what you want me to say. (silence from male students)
Female response: well, you don’t have to be so bitchy! How was I supposed to know you were talking about the play? (lots of giggling from other girls)
Guys either listen or they don’t; if they don’t listen, they fall asleep. Girls either listen or they don’t; if they don’t listen, it’s because they are writing notes, doing their make-up, whispering, text messaging, flirting with a guy across the room, making faces at a girl friend across the room, adjusting the furniture, digging in their backpacks, demanding to use the bathroom … the list is endless!
When a male student is told to knock it off, he usually does after first making a comment such as, “You talkin’ to me?” Once the teacher confirms that he is, indeed, the target of the comment, he usually accepts he’s been busted and shuts up, at least for the moment.
When a female student is told to knock it off, she attacks: “Me? Why do you always pick on me? I wasn’t doing nothing!!” If the teacher again directs her to be quiet, we have to travel the “why do you always pick on me/why aren't you telling so-and-so to be quiet: she's talking too” road, which can be long and winding even on a short day.
Guys seldom do personal grooming in the classroom; girls are hard-pressed to keep their make-up and mirrors hidden for an entire 55-minute class. Guys may read a text message, but seldom initiate it. Guys may not take notes on the class discussion, but girls are constantly writing anything except lecture notes. Guys don’t decorate their notebook covers, but girls have photos that would make any grown-up blush! Guys write filthy comments and gang graffiti in the textbooks and on the desktops, but girls confine their writing to notes they pass during class, between classes, during lunch, on the way to and from school, during the pep rally, at the dance. Neither the males nor the females use a paper and pencil to complete the assigned homework.
Tell a guy to pull up his pants and he does it; tell a girl to cover up her bulging boobs hanging out of a spaghetti strap tank top and she wants to know why you are looking at her!
For me, it’s a no-brainer: give me a group of guys over a gaggle of girls any day.
It Is What It Is
While some people go through life taking it out on others, I have spent my life fighting to be me. I envy those who have their own “brand,” their own identification not associated with their parents, their siblings, their spouses, their offspring, their job. How refreshing it would be to just be … me.
This week, I gave a gift to a colleague because she asked me if I would make her a scarf like the one I wore to school. Sure, I said, and spent my TV time this week crocheting her a design I created. I wrapped it with tissue, tied the package with a bow, and put it in her cubby at work, hoping that she would like the end product of my endeavors.
The endless thank you cycle annoys me. She called my room and said thank you, and then asked if she could pay me for the item. No, it was my pleasure to create this item for you: wear it and enjoy it. Oh, I couldn’t do that: at least let me take you out for drinks. No, I seldom drink. Then, what about dinner? No, I made you the gift because you admired my scarf and asked about one for yourself. I am pleased that you like my handiwork, so wear the scarf and enjoy it. Oh, I can’t do that: I have to give you something for it!
I also received an email, and then a cutesy card expressing her gratitude, and then a mutual friend added her thanks from the recipient, who told her to be sure and thank me if she saw me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Some people need the endless enthusiasm of constant reinforcement, but I just need to be acknowledged sincerely, and then I move on. I don’t like standing in one place as I’m not the person today that I was yesterday, and I pray that I become yet another iteration tomorrow. Each day that I walk into the classroom is a new beginning, and I try conscientiously not to bring the baggage of yesterday with me. Some days it’s harder than others, especially when a particularly nasty confrontation occurs, but I know that my clients are kids, that they haven’t yet learned the basics of socially acceptable behavior, so I move on. If there truly is no harm, then there’s no reason for the foul: we don’t shoot penalty free throws in education.
In my personal life, however, it’s been a series of fouls and penalty shots, so as I face the late autumn/early winter of my time on earth, I feel battered from all the physical contact under the basket. I’ve spent my life as a guard, not as a shooting forward, so I’ve taken more than my share of elbows. Unfortunately for my game, people have been able to drive through me and dribble around me, and then score at my expense, so I don’t have impressive numbers in the win/loss statistical database.
For the past decade, since an especially nasty two years of my life led to a complete upheaval and change for me, I’ve worked hard to just be who I am, rather than living up to other people’s expectations and/or perceptions of who they need me to be. I seldom ask anyone for anything, but I’ve had to ask several times in the last few years, only to find that the old adage “ask and you shall receive” is not always up and running in my life.
I’m struggling right now, feeling an inner need to do something else, something I cannot define, but feeling the pressure to leave well enough alone. I looked at volunteering overseas, but had not understood that I must pay for all expenses except actual living expenses while in a foreign country. I’ve thought about volunteering for a literacy program, working with the Boys & Girls Club, becoming a den mother again (den grandmother?), but then I realize that all I’m doing is thinking about doing my job again—and losing myself in the process.
This is more difficult than I thought it would be, figuring out who I am and what my needs are on the journey to the end of the time allotted to my soul in this lifetime. The nagging sense of not being finished leads me to believe I am missing something essential, but my stored memories aren’t accessing that information yet, so, for now, it is what it is. I’ll wait to see what it’s going to become.
This week, I gave a gift to a colleague because she asked me if I would make her a scarf like the one I wore to school. Sure, I said, and spent my TV time this week crocheting her a design I created. I wrapped it with tissue, tied the package with a bow, and put it in her cubby at work, hoping that she would like the end product of my endeavors.
The endless thank you cycle annoys me. She called my room and said thank you, and then asked if she could pay me for the item. No, it was my pleasure to create this item for you: wear it and enjoy it. Oh, I couldn’t do that: at least let me take you out for drinks. No, I seldom drink. Then, what about dinner? No, I made you the gift because you admired my scarf and asked about one for yourself. I am pleased that you like my handiwork, so wear the scarf and enjoy it. Oh, I can’t do that: I have to give you something for it!
I also received an email, and then a cutesy card expressing her gratitude, and then a mutual friend added her thanks from the recipient, who told her to be sure and thank me if she saw me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Some people need the endless enthusiasm of constant reinforcement, but I just need to be acknowledged sincerely, and then I move on. I don’t like standing in one place as I’m not the person today that I was yesterday, and I pray that I become yet another iteration tomorrow. Each day that I walk into the classroom is a new beginning, and I try conscientiously not to bring the baggage of yesterday with me. Some days it’s harder than others, especially when a particularly nasty confrontation occurs, but I know that my clients are kids, that they haven’t yet learned the basics of socially acceptable behavior, so I move on. If there truly is no harm, then there’s no reason for the foul: we don’t shoot penalty free throws in education.
In my personal life, however, it’s been a series of fouls and penalty shots, so as I face the late autumn/early winter of my time on earth, I feel battered from all the physical contact under the basket. I’ve spent my life as a guard, not as a shooting forward, so I’ve taken more than my share of elbows. Unfortunately for my game, people have been able to drive through me and dribble around me, and then score at my expense, so I don’t have impressive numbers in the win/loss statistical database.
For the past decade, since an especially nasty two years of my life led to a complete upheaval and change for me, I’ve worked hard to just be who I am, rather than living up to other people’s expectations and/or perceptions of who they need me to be. I seldom ask anyone for anything, but I’ve had to ask several times in the last few years, only to find that the old adage “ask and you shall receive” is not always up and running in my life.
I’m struggling right now, feeling an inner need to do something else, something I cannot define, but feeling the pressure to leave well enough alone. I looked at volunteering overseas, but had not understood that I must pay for all expenses except actual living expenses while in a foreign country. I’ve thought about volunteering for a literacy program, working with the Boys & Girls Club, becoming a den mother again (den grandmother?), but then I realize that all I’m doing is thinking about doing my job again—and losing myself in the process.
This is more difficult than I thought it would be, figuring out who I am and what my needs are on the journey to the end of the time allotted to my soul in this lifetime. The nagging sense of not being finished leads me to believe I am missing something essential, but my stored memories aren’t accessing that information yet, so, for now, it is what it is. I’ll wait to see what it’s going to become.
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