In a week or so, most school-aged children will go back to school. It will mark the second year since I resigned from my teaching position. I miss the kids. But the educational system continues to hack me off.
An opinion piece in today's Fort Worth Star-Telegram discusses the increased pay for first-year teachers. School districts have been making huge increases in starting salaries for teachers so that they can actually acquire teachers. Okay, that's fine. I'm a little annoyed that it's a huge amount more than what I got as a first-year teacher, but hey--that's life, right? You win some, you lose some.
Here's the problem....
There isn't much of a difference between what a new teacher makes and what a fifth-year teacher makes. I mean, there's really not much of a difference. This has always been the case, at least in my experience. So, the public school system may acquire teachers, but is it keeping them? If you get only about a $100 a year pay increase each year, what's the point of staying? Fortunately, many teachers teach because they care about what they do. But in today's world of growing class sizes, limited budgets, high-stakes testing, discipline problems, and all the family issues that factor into students' lives, sometimes it can be too much. And good teachers leave the field of education.
Here's another problem....
If you're a good teacher, you have pretty much only one option for advancement and higher pay: administration. But shouldn't the quality teachers stay in the classroom, doing what they are talented in? Even if excellent teachers go into training positions, they need to stay in the classroom in order to not lose touch with, as I heard so often when I was a teacher, "the ones in the trenches." And veteran teachers should not be expected to train other teachers without monetary compensation. That's one of the problems with teachers--they care so much about students, that they'll do whatever is needed--without being compensated. And eventually, they'll get worn out. And education will lose the best teachers.
Another school year is about to start. And I'm not one of the ones in the trenches anymore. But I'm still mad. And there are more things I'm mad about related to education. But I'll stop here for now.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Monday, July 31, 2006
Live (as in "alive") Lawnmowers
First of all, I have to apologize to myself for not taking the time to write for me. I've wanted to be a writer since I was 7, and I've neglected this blog horribly. But sometimes you're just not "in the zone." However, that's all the more reason to write. I did order a book of writing exercises recently, and have completed 9 of them. So that's something. Through those exercises, I'm learning that perhaps I ought to focus on children's books. (Eegads, not that anyone else in the world wants to do that, eh?)
Nothing too spectacular to share today, except just a quick story of a hilarious vignette I saw on my street the other day.
As I was driving by a neighbor's house the other day, I was nearly accosted by a lawnmower, moving independently into the street, with no apparent aid from human hands. I glanced up from the menacing machine to see my blonde (I'm a blonde, too, but this woman is blonde) neighbor running toward the lawnmower as it came toward my car (intent on chopping me to bits, I'm sure), one hand outreached for the runaway, and the other hand...on her cell phone that she was still speaking on. People who cannot effectively drive while talking on their cell phones is one thing. People who try to talk and mow...folks, just don't try it. I think that task is best left to stunt professionals.
Nothing too spectacular to share today, except just a quick story of a hilarious vignette I saw on my street the other day.
As I was driving by a neighbor's house the other day, I was nearly accosted by a lawnmower, moving independently into the street, with no apparent aid from human hands. I glanced up from the menacing machine to see my blonde (I'm a blonde, too, but this woman is blonde) neighbor running toward the lawnmower as it came toward my car (intent on chopping me to bits, I'm sure), one hand outreached for the runaway, and the other hand...on her cell phone that she was still speaking on. People who cannot effectively drive while talking on their cell phones is one thing. People who try to talk and mow...folks, just don't try it. I think that task is best left to stunt professionals.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Quote of the Week
Okay, it seems there's never any time for me to write. But I know I need to just make the time. But I really need to make myself work, so I'm just going to post a line from a movie that I saw recently.
"We must have British nipples."
~Bob Hoskins as Vivian Van Dam in Mrs. Henderson Presents
If you haven't seen this movie, I recommend it. It is set in WWII London, and it has a deeper significance than nudity. To read about it, click here.
"We must have British nipples."
~Bob Hoskins as Vivian Van Dam in Mrs. Henderson Presents
If you haven't seen this movie, I recommend it. It is set in WWII London, and it has a deeper significance than nudity. To read about it, click here.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
She lives!
Yes, I'm still alive. ;)
The past few weeks have been ridiculously hectic. I began working on a project in mid-December, and it finally was completed (for the most part) this Tuesday night. Several people were involved, and the project had its ups and downs, but for now, it's done. Yesterday was a long day, too, because I had to attend a conference, which was kicked off with an announcement of the project and a sneak peak of what it looks like.
There were times when I thought it would never end. There seemed to be so much work to do, and difficult situations sometimes became more difficult, and sometimes I got so frustrated that I wanted to cry...and sometimes I did.
But hours, days, and weeks rolled by, and the deadline of the project did arrive. Those of us who were working on the last phases of the project worked hard that last day. And now it's over. Endings do come, even when it seems like they never will. Part of why I enjoyed being a teacher was that feeling I had every year that that particular school year would never end. But I knew that it would. It always did. Seasons come, and seasons go.
We encounter difficult seasons in our lives. I met a colleague face-to-face last night (we'd communicated only via e-mail before) who lost her father a year ago. He had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, and three months later, he was gone. She is around my age. Also, she injured her back around the time of her father's passing and had to have back surgery recently. She can't pick up her 2-year-old daughter. I shared that I had lost my mother a year ago and that my husband had had his hip replaced a month after her death. It was comforting to know that there are people who can relate to what I've experienced. And really, we all face suffering and pain in our lives.
Last night the attendees of the conference were taken on a bus tour of two blighted areas of South Dallas--Fair Park and the Frazier area. The organization I work for is involved in efforts to revitalize these areas. Our tour guides (a local Baptist preacher and a community development corporation director--both of whom live in these areas) showed us land that has been left vacant for years--land that had been the site of apartments. Now much of the land is contaminated. We saw car washes and convenience stores that are the sites of drug deals, and a motel that is the site of murders and other illegal activity. It was depressing. But we also saw the construction of new housing units that various organizations are working to create. We saw older, larger homes (just down the road from run-down homes) that are in the process of being gradually restored by people who care, who want to make this world something that everyone can enjoy and contribute to positively.
Sometimes, even as we are working so hard, it seems that it will never end. But it will. That's what I like about God. He is faithful. He has brought me the summer every year of my life. (It's my favorite season.) God controls time. Our job is to do something good with the time we have. And someday, it will all end. That's the promise of heaven. And homes won't be fall apart. Mold and lead will not threaten our heavenly habitats. There won't be murders, addiction, greed, and corruption. Differences won't separate the children of God. It will end. And I think our job now is to try to make our world, as much as we can, a mini replica of what heaven will be like.
Do what you can in your part of the world to work toward that effort. If we don't show people a taste of what is in store, how will they know what they'll be missing?
The past few weeks have been ridiculously hectic. I began working on a project in mid-December, and it finally was completed (for the most part) this Tuesday night. Several people were involved, and the project had its ups and downs, but for now, it's done. Yesterday was a long day, too, because I had to attend a conference, which was kicked off with an announcement of the project and a sneak peak of what it looks like.
There were times when I thought it would never end. There seemed to be so much work to do, and difficult situations sometimes became more difficult, and sometimes I got so frustrated that I wanted to cry...and sometimes I did.
But hours, days, and weeks rolled by, and the deadline of the project did arrive. Those of us who were working on the last phases of the project worked hard that last day. And now it's over. Endings do come, even when it seems like they never will. Part of why I enjoyed being a teacher was that feeling I had every year that that particular school year would never end. But I knew that it would. It always did. Seasons come, and seasons go.
We encounter difficult seasons in our lives. I met a colleague face-to-face last night (we'd communicated only via e-mail before) who lost her father a year ago. He had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, and three months later, he was gone. She is around my age. Also, she injured her back around the time of her father's passing and had to have back surgery recently. She can't pick up her 2-year-old daughter. I shared that I had lost my mother a year ago and that my husband had had his hip replaced a month after her death. It was comforting to know that there are people who can relate to what I've experienced. And really, we all face suffering and pain in our lives.
Last night the attendees of the conference were taken on a bus tour of two blighted areas of South Dallas--Fair Park and the Frazier area. The organization I work for is involved in efforts to revitalize these areas. Our tour guides (a local Baptist preacher and a community development corporation director--both of whom live in these areas) showed us land that has been left vacant for years--land that had been the site of apartments. Now much of the land is contaminated. We saw car washes and convenience stores that are the sites of drug deals, and a motel that is the site of murders and other illegal activity. It was depressing. But we also saw the construction of new housing units that various organizations are working to create. We saw older, larger homes (just down the road from run-down homes) that are in the process of being gradually restored by people who care, who want to make this world something that everyone can enjoy and contribute to positively.
Sometimes, even as we are working so hard, it seems that it will never end. But it will. That's what I like about God. He is faithful. He has brought me the summer every year of my life. (It's my favorite season.) God controls time. Our job is to do something good with the time we have. And someday, it will all end. That's the promise of heaven. And homes won't be fall apart. Mold and lead will not threaten our heavenly habitats. There won't be murders, addiction, greed, and corruption. Differences won't separate the children of God. It will end. And I think our job now is to try to make our world, as much as we can, a mini replica of what heaven will be like.
Do what you can in your part of the world to work toward that effort. If we don't show people a taste of what is in store, how will they know what they'll be missing?
Friday, April 21, 2006
Say It Ain't So....
And we thought our kids didn't care about getting an education. (This is a very sarcastic comment.) Check out http://www.boxfreeconcepts.com/download/highschool.html to find out what I mean.
And we wonder where employers find a lot of their incompetent employees. Let's check out the people who purchase this website's products.
And we wonder where employers find a lot of their incompetent employees. Let's check out the people who purchase this website's products.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Hear Ye, Hear Ye...
...Princess Suri of Neptune has descended to Planet Earth. The media have not yet reported any tentacles, but I have my suspicions that a thorough examination would reveal some odd appendages.
Don't you love it that Brooke Shields had her baby on the same day? God sure has a sense of humor, doesn't He?
Don't you love it that Brooke Shields had her baby on the same day? God sure has a sense of humor, doesn't He?
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
The Gift of Music
Last night my husband and I went to the Bass Performance Hall in Fort Worth to see Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, perform with the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra. Little did we know what the night would hold. That evening was a gala concert held in the honor of Van Cliburn, the pianist, who happens to be a long-time resident of "Cowtown." Cliburn was presented with a key to the city as well as a citation from the governor of Texas. April 4 was declared Van Cliburn Day. Mr. Cliburn struggled to speak, overcome with emotion. He thanked Almighty God for classical music, saying he could not live without it. He shared with the audience that when he hears a good piece of music, it is as if he were feeling the breath of God. He also explained that each of us is an instrument in "the great orchestra of life," bringing our unique talents to the world. He also talked about how music is invisible, but it is real. I couldn't help but think he may have been making a reference to God as well.
Videotaped presentations of well wishes were delivered by First Lady Laura Bush, one of the gala's honorary chairpersons, Secretary of State, Condoleeza Rice, and Placido Domingo, one of the world's greatest tenors. When I was in college, Mr. Cliburn came into the bookstore at which I worked. He was very gracious as I asked for his autograph. He seems to be a very humble man, and the honor that was given him last night was certainly deserved.
After this portion of the evening, the music began. Of course, we sang the National Anthem first. I wish we did this more often as citizens. We should also say the Pledge of Allegiance. God has certainly blessed this country, as we forget that far too often.
Then, Itzhak Perlman entered, walking with the crutches that I remember him using when I watched him on Sesame Street as a little girl. I can't describe what it was like to watch Mr. Perlman play. He played the violion solo of Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major, Opus 61 from memory. The other orchestra members had music in front of them. Not Mr. Perlman. There were times when Mr. Perlman was not playing and the orchestra was that he slowly rocked side to side, a tender smile on his face. One could tell he must feel embraced by that piece of music. I wondered how many times he had played that piece in his life. It was an amazing experience.
For the last portion of the concert, the orchestra was accompanied by a chorus, a soprano, and a mezzo-soprano in performing selections by Verdi. Two of the four pieces had religious themes. I couldn't help but think of King David as the chorus, representing the Hebrew slaves of biblical times, sang about the River Jordan and Zion.
David must have thanked God for music. I think he also understood, as Mr. Cliburn does, that each one of us has been specially crafted by our Maker to provide the world with gifts that only we can give. Those gifts come from our core, our center, our spirit. And when that spirit is in tune with God and His desires, what music emits from us! What a beautiful world God has made. And are we not blessed to be instruments in making it even more beautiful?
Videotaped presentations of well wishes were delivered by First Lady Laura Bush, one of the gala's honorary chairpersons, Secretary of State, Condoleeza Rice, and Placido Domingo, one of the world's greatest tenors. When I was in college, Mr. Cliburn came into the bookstore at which I worked. He was very gracious as I asked for his autograph. He seems to be a very humble man, and the honor that was given him last night was certainly deserved.
After this portion of the evening, the music began. Of course, we sang the National Anthem first. I wish we did this more often as citizens. We should also say the Pledge of Allegiance. God has certainly blessed this country, as we forget that far too often.
Then, Itzhak Perlman entered, walking with the crutches that I remember him using when I watched him on Sesame Street as a little girl. I can't describe what it was like to watch Mr. Perlman play. He played the violion solo of Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D Major, Opus 61 from memory. The other orchestra members had music in front of them. Not Mr. Perlman. There were times when Mr. Perlman was not playing and the orchestra was that he slowly rocked side to side, a tender smile on his face. One could tell he must feel embraced by that piece of music. I wondered how many times he had played that piece in his life. It was an amazing experience.
For the last portion of the concert, the orchestra was accompanied by a chorus, a soprano, and a mezzo-soprano in performing selections by Verdi. Two of the four pieces had religious themes. I couldn't help but think of King David as the chorus, representing the Hebrew slaves of biblical times, sang about the River Jordan and Zion.
David must have thanked God for music. I think he also understood, as Mr. Cliburn does, that each one of us has been specially crafted by our Maker to provide the world with gifts that only we can give. Those gifts come from our core, our center, our spirit. And when that spirit is in tune with God and His desires, what music emits from us! What a beautiful world God has made. And are we not blessed to be instruments in making it even more beautiful?
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Cough and Sniff
I have been sick for over a week. It began with a sore throat last Tuesday night. Usually, I can knock out a cold or sinus problems with OTC medications. Not this time. Nope. I had to go the doctor and get some real drugs. Thank God for antibiotics.
One recent evening when I was in the shower, trying to get the steam to open up my nasal passages, I composed this poem.
Thanks to the antibiotics and codeine-laced decongestant syrup my primary care physician prescribed, as well as to the heavenly Healer, I am beginning to feel as if I may one day resume my normal activities. Perhaps I'll even post on the blog again sooner than usual.
One recent evening when I was in the shower, trying to get the steam to open up my nasal passages, I composed this poem.
A Hay Fever Haiku
sick
feverish eyes
multiple mucus invasions
please, God
help
Thanks to the antibiotics and codeine-laced decongestant syrup my primary care physician prescribed, as well as to the heavenly Healer, I am beginning to feel as if I may one day resume my normal activities. Perhaps I'll even post on the blog again sooner than usual.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Testing, Testing
A friend just told me that a new rule for the Texas Assessment of Knowledge and Skills, a.k.a. the TAKS test, or the bane of Texas teachers' existence, stipulates that administrators of the standardized test (that would be the overworked teachers of our great state) must stand for the duration of the exam.
Quoi? C'est possible?
What idiot came up with that one?
Another question that creeps into my brain is What if my friend's principal made up that rule?
Hey, stranger things have happened.
When I was teaching (I resigned after last school year), I anticipated the TAKS with both dread and relief. The advent of the TAKS test (at least at my campus) meant that:
1) We could dress in jeans and "spirit" shirts on testing days.
2) We didn't have to prepare lessons for at least our morning classes on testing days.
3) Students would be mostly quiet for a few hours, with the exception of the snores emitting from the students who had completed the test and were grabbing some shut-eye.
4) The spring semester had arrived, so we could just barely make out the light at the end of the tunnel, which is the last day of school.
However...we were allowed to sit down. But, we weren't supposed to work on our computer. And I think that really doing anything that took attention away from staring at the heads of the students as they worked through the test was discouraged.
But we were allowed to sit down.
What is the world coming to if teachers are not permitted to sit down during TAKS testing? So, let me get this straight...does this rule imply that teachers are not working if they are sitting down? Let's apply this rule to other situations....
Are receptionists inefficient if they sit?
Should dentists stand while they examine their patients' teeth?
What about judges who sit while hearing lawyers' arguments? Isn't it well known that judges think better on their feet?
What about accountants? Wouldn't you prefer to have your CPA do your taxes while standing after being on his or her feet for several hours?
What about bus drivers? Hey, man, you better not sit down. Texas thinks that people can do their jobs better while standing.
Okay, enough of that nonsense.
But I've got another thought....What about a teacher who uses a wheelchair? Would he or she be stripped of his or her teacher's license for violating the rules of administering the TAKS?
When I was teaching, I stood for most of the day. I was a very interactive teacher, as was the nature of my subject area. But I was never required to stand.
Something is rotten in the state of Texas.
Quoi? C'est possible?
What idiot came up with that one?
Another question that creeps into my brain is What if my friend's principal made up that rule?
Hey, stranger things have happened.
When I was teaching (I resigned after last school year), I anticipated the TAKS with both dread and relief. The advent of the TAKS test (at least at my campus) meant that:
1) We could dress in jeans and "spirit" shirts on testing days.
2) We didn't have to prepare lessons for at least our morning classes on testing days.
3) Students would be mostly quiet for a few hours, with the exception of the snores emitting from the students who had completed the test and were grabbing some shut-eye.
4) The spring semester had arrived, so we could just barely make out the light at the end of the tunnel, which is the last day of school.
However...we were allowed to sit down. But, we weren't supposed to work on our computer. And I think that really doing anything that took attention away from staring at the heads of the students as they worked through the test was discouraged.
But we were allowed to sit down.
What is the world coming to if teachers are not permitted to sit down during TAKS testing? So, let me get this straight...does this rule imply that teachers are not working if they are sitting down? Let's apply this rule to other situations....
Are receptionists inefficient if they sit?
Should dentists stand while they examine their patients' teeth?
What about judges who sit while hearing lawyers' arguments? Isn't it well known that judges think better on their feet?
What about accountants? Wouldn't you prefer to have your CPA do your taxes while standing after being on his or her feet for several hours?
What about bus drivers? Hey, man, you better not sit down. Texas thinks that people can do their jobs better while standing.
Okay, enough of that nonsense.
But I've got another thought....What about a teacher who uses a wheelchair? Would he or she be stripped of his or her teacher's license for violating the rules of administering the TAKS?
When I was teaching, I stood for most of the day. I was a very interactive teacher, as was the nature of my subject area. But I was never required to stand.
Something is rotten in the state of Texas.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Bathrobe Prison
How is it that our miniature dachshund manages to create the most alarming situations in the middle of the night?
Here's the latest one....
On the night of February 13, I climbed into bed and read a while, as is my almost-nightly custom. The weather is still a bit chilly in the evenings, so I kept my terrycloth robe on while I read about lofty things like being an artist and how that relates to God. (See Madeleine L'Engle's book Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art for more on that topic. My highlighter is running out of ink from all the passages I've marked in hot pink.) After my eyelids began to droop, I returned the book to the tower of assorted publications on my night table and lay my head on my pillow.
Any lofty concepts or beautiful dreams landed with a thud a couple of hours later. I'm not sure if I awoke to the rustling near me, or if it was my husband's declaration about our Rusty: "He's stuck in your robe!"
Sure enough, there he was, stuck in the sleeve of my bathrobe. A stuffed weiner. A terrycloth-covered tube. He was one trapped dog.
What do you do to get a 15-pound muscly and scared dachshund out of the sleeve of a bathrobe? I picked him up, grabbed the edges of the fabric, and shook it gently and rhythmically to see if I could dislodge him at all. His body slid down a little, which I took as a good sign. But then there was that long snout. He kept putting his head down as he wriggled franticly. I tried snapping my fingers above his head in an effort to divert his attention and cause him to raise his head with his nose pointed up. No dice.
Sometimes you've just gotta use scissors.
Fiskars shears finally released him from his accidental prison. The newly-released prisoner ran to the back door to be let outside and then kept his leg hiked for quite a length of time. Guess that predicament really scared him.
We joked later about how Rusty just wanted to give us a stuffed animal for Valentine's Day. I know--that's horrible. If my husband hadn't woken up and realized the situation, it could have ended quite differently. But in such situations, you've got to keep your sense of humor. And then never leave a bathrobe near a dog unattended again.
Here's the latest one....
On the night of February 13, I climbed into bed and read a while, as is my almost-nightly custom. The weather is still a bit chilly in the evenings, so I kept my terrycloth robe on while I read about lofty things like being an artist and how that relates to God. (See Madeleine L'Engle's book Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art for more on that topic. My highlighter is running out of ink from all the passages I've marked in hot pink.) After my eyelids began to droop, I returned the book to the tower of assorted publications on my night table and lay my head on my pillow.
Any lofty concepts or beautiful dreams landed with a thud a couple of hours later. I'm not sure if I awoke to the rustling near me, or if it was my husband's declaration about our Rusty: "He's stuck in your robe!"
Sure enough, there he was, stuck in the sleeve of my bathrobe. A stuffed weiner. A terrycloth-covered tube. He was one trapped dog.
What do you do to get a 15-pound muscly and scared dachshund out of the sleeve of a bathrobe? I picked him up, grabbed the edges of the fabric, and shook it gently and rhythmically to see if I could dislodge him at all. His body slid down a little, which I took as a good sign. But then there was that long snout. He kept putting his head down as he wriggled franticly. I tried snapping my fingers above his head in an effort to divert his attention and cause him to raise his head with his nose pointed up. No dice.
Sometimes you've just gotta use scissors.
Fiskars shears finally released him from his accidental prison. The newly-released prisoner ran to the back door to be let outside and then kept his leg hiked for quite a length of time. Guess that predicament really scared him.
We joked later about how Rusty just wanted to give us a stuffed animal for Valentine's Day. I know--that's horrible. If my husband hadn't woken up and realized the situation, it could have ended quite differently. But in such situations, you've got to keep your sense of humor. And then never leave a bathrobe near a dog unattended again.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
AAE?
In the past few months, a strange, possibly medical, phenomenon has happened to me. I cannot live without my computer. Actually, to be more specific, I cannot live without the Internet. Somehow, I cannot continue to exist without the wealth of information and entertainment my regular dosages of online life provide. My current job requires me to use the Internet regularly, and I suppose I should be seeking treatment for this affliction. But I won't. I love it.
One of the side effects of Internet usage that I have noticed is a propensity for using acronyms, abbreviations, and the like. In childhood and adolescence, we girls all signed notes to our best friends with "BFF" and such. Before my immersion in cyberspace, phrases such as "TTFN," "ASAP," (one of my boss' favorite phrases), and "N E WAZ" required no special decoder for me. I'd even gotten used to "LOL," even though I don't like it. It doesn't sound like laughing to me. Whenever I see it, I hear a soprano singing as if she is practicing her scales. "Lawl, lawl, lawl, lawl!" I stick with "Hahahahaha" in my online writing. But don't let my aversion to "LOL" stop you from using it. I've worked past my issues with it...mostly.
A few months ago, I joined a list serv for copyeditors. The daily discussion of sentence construction, questions and answers (Q&A's) regarding computer technology, and occasional punny responses have been a delight for me, both personally and professionally. It is this list serv that I credit for my interest in these new expressions. Here are some common ones:
FWIW
IMO
IMHO
TIA
AFAIK
HTH
OTOH
Translations: "For what it's worth," "in my opinion," "in my humble opinion," "thanks in advance," "as far as I know," "hope that helps," and "on the other hand."
Recently I used HTH in an e-mail to a friend. I put the translation in parentheses in case she wasn't familiar with the acronym. She responded with "TAT! (Thanks a ton!)" She then typed "Har har!" Not LOL. This stuff cracks me up. Oh, dear--I'm such a language freak.
The other day someone from the list serv used an acronym that I couldn't figure out. Thanks to Google, I found this website: http://www.netlingo.com/emailsh.cfm. It's awesome. It has helped me decipher several comments online.
So, what does my post title mean? "Are acronyms evil?"
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Doggie Fragrance
No, it's not what you think. I haven't begun dousing my dog with cologne, though a few months ago, I did see some fragrance made for dogs in Dillard's. Or maybe it was Foley's. At any rate, I'm not one of those dog owners.
This morning I walked by my miniature dachshund as he was sunning himself. He sits on the sofa every morning because the sun streams in through the back door. I bent down to kiss him on his head. He smelled like Rice Krispies! We haven't had Rice Krispies in that house ever, and I can't remember the last time I even ate Rice Krispies or Rice Krispie treats. (Hmmm...that sounds good....) Maybe there's some kind of chemical reaction when sunlight hits dog fur that causes such a warm, yummy smell.
As for the doggie cologne, though...last week, the little weiner cuddled up with my husband right after my husband put on cologne. A few minutes after that, I bent down to snuggle with the dog. Imagine my bewilderment when I smelled the cologne that my husband wore when we fell in love on our pet. Talk about twisted....
This morning I walked by my miniature dachshund as he was sunning himself. He sits on the sofa every morning because the sun streams in through the back door. I bent down to kiss him on his head. He smelled like Rice Krispies! We haven't had Rice Krispies in that house ever, and I can't remember the last time I even ate Rice Krispies or Rice Krispie treats. (Hmmm...that sounds good....) Maybe there's some kind of chemical reaction when sunlight hits dog fur that causes such a warm, yummy smell.
As for the doggie cologne, though...last week, the little weiner cuddled up with my husband right after my husband put on cologne. A few minutes after that, I bent down to snuggle with the dog. Imagine my bewilderment when I smelled the cologne that my husband wore when we fell in love on our pet. Talk about twisted....
Pronunciation of the Elderly
I visited my grandparents last weekend. Several times, my 84-year-old grandfather mentioned my "blodges," referring to these lovely posts of mine. In the conversation, I used the word "blogs," but he didn't catch on. He also refers to the inventor of the chicken sandwich as "Chick-a-fil." I love it. I hope when I'm an old lady, my mispronunciations give my grandchildren this much joy and amusement.
In light of these fun moments that are the true stuff of life, I hereby declare that my only real New Year's resolution will be to post on this blog once a week. Life's too funny not to record such tidbits.
In light of these fun moments that are the true stuff of life, I hereby declare that my only real New Year's resolution will be to post on this blog once a week. Life's too funny not to record such tidbits.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Made of Dust
Lately I, like many others, have begun to feel a little stressed about how much I have to do. A turkey to roast, Christmas gifts to purchase and mail, a checkbook to balance...and New Year's Day will bring the pressure to resolve to do better in the next year.
However, I have also come to realize and am coming to grips with the fact that none of us will ever feel as if he or she is finally on top of everything. Our ducks will never be in a completely straight row. We'll miss the occasional dot of an "i" and be too tired to cross that "t." And I think it's meant to be that way.
The Bible says we are made of dust. So why do we feel that we need to have the perfect Thanksgiving centerpiece, work out at least 3 times a week, regardless of whatever may arise, and keep to our regimented schedule of housecleaning?
Structure is a good thing. But the sooner we realize that we are not superhuman, the better we'll feel. And I think we'll then have more energy to attack those tasks. Plus, I think God wants us to understand that we can't achieve perfection on our own. Some people may think of this with frustration. I embrace the thought with relief.
In light of these thoughts, I feel much better in my skin and my mind is more at ease. I'm happy with my imperfection.
However, I have also come to realize and am coming to grips with the fact that none of us will ever feel as if he or she is finally on top of everything. Our ducks will never be in a completely straight row. We'll miss the occasional dot of an "i" and be too tired to cross that "t." And I think it's meant to be that way.
The Bible says we are made of dust. So why do we feel that we need to have the perfect Thanksgiving centerpiece, work out at least 3 times a week, regardless of whatever may arise, and keep to our regimented schedule of housecleaning?
Structure is a good thing. But the sooner we realize that we are not superhuman, the better we'll feel. And I think we'll then have more energy to attack those tasks. Plus, I think God wants us to understand that we can't achieve perfection on our own. Some people may think of this with frustration. I embrace the thought with relief.
In light of these thoughts, I feel much better in my skin and my mind is more at ease. I'm happy with my imperfection.
Monday, November 07, 2005
The Closet Wookie
Recently I learned something I didn't know about my husband. Through three years of marriage (eight years as a couple), he had managed to keep a tight lid on his condition. Oh, there had been some signs. I should have known. Little did I know that my in-laws' cleaning out their attic could be such a significant turning point.
My husband is a Star Wars nerd.
Looking back now, I can see the symptoms. At the mention of anything Star Wars-related, my husband's eyes would brighten like a light saber. One Christmas, my mother-in-law gave him the Star Wars trilogy. Occasionally, his parents mentioned his Star Wars toys in the attic, and he would rattle off the names of a couple of the spaceships and characters. A country song by Mark Wills called Nineteen Somethin' that came out a couple of years ago included the line "Saw Star Wars at least eight times." My husband really related to that song. Of course, most of that is because that song is a tribute to the decade of the 80s, and my husband's love of everything 80s is so vast that it would require an entire other blog post. And sure, we went to the movies to see Episode I. But none of these events revealed the whole truth.
A couple of weeks ago I came home to find my husband in his parents' garage. (They live down the street.) They had cleaned out the attic. My father-in-law handed me a photo of himself and his little son, now grown into my six-foot-tall husband. My mother-in-law showed me numerous Pony League football jerseys and Little League baseball pants. There was even a wolf costume he'd worn in a school play. It was a nice, normal moment in time of nostalgia and reminiscence. Then out came a white metal popcorn can, the kind with a handle. It had his sister's name on it, so I felt absolutely no threat at its appearance. However, it held the secrets that had been locked away all those years in the attic. Hans Solo, Princess Leia, R2-D2, C-3PO, Yoda--they were all there. But I know their names. You'd have to be a total doofus not to know their names. But there must have been dozens of characters in that bucket of whose names I have no recollection. But my husband identified each one as he pulled it out, even giving biographical information about some of them. Eventually my mother-in-law handed him the boxes that housed the spaceships. He greeted each of those by name like long lost friends. Later, the artillery of the Star Wars clan was discovered, and he stated the name of each weapon as well as which weapon went with which character.
To be fair, I must note here that I did play with Barbies as a child. But I don't remember their Mattel-assigned labels. (Okay, I do recall that one was "Peaches and Cream Barbie.")
I sat for some time in the garage in the still air of that Texas autumn evening with my mouth hanging open. Troubling thoughts began to invade my Star Wars-impaired mind. Who was this man? Was it safe to procreate with him? Would our firstborn emerge from the womb with Wookie hair and powers of the Jedi?
Later we went home sans Star Wars paraphernalia. My sweet, normal husband was back. At least until the Target brochure came in the mail a week ago with Darth Vader Pez dispensers, among other Lucas creations, on its cover. I hope someday to learn more about this world he loves so dearly. But for now, I just don't quite get it.
My husband is a Star Wars nerd.
Looking back now, I can see the symptoms. At the mention of anything Star Wars-related, my husband's eyes would brighten like a light saber. One Christmas, my mother-in-law gave him the Star Wars trilogy. Occasionally, his parents mentioned his Star Wars toys in the attic, and he would rattle off the names of a couple of the spaceships and characters. A country song by Mark Wills called Nineteen Somethin' that came out a couple of years ago included the line "Saw Star Wars at least eight times." My husband really related to that song. Of course, most of that is because that song is a tribute to the decade of the 80s, and my husband's love of everything 80s is so vast that it would require an entire other blog post. And sure, we went to the movies to see Episode I. But none of these events revealed the whole truth.
A couple of weeks ago I came home to find my husband in his parents' garage. (They live down the street.) They had cleaned out the attic. My father-in-law handed me a photo of himself and his little son, now grown into my six-foot-tall husband. My mother-in-law showed me numerous Pony League football jerseys and Little League baseball pants. There was even a wolf costume he'd worn in a school play. It was a nice, normal moment in time of nostalgia and reminiscence. Then out came a white metal popcorn can, the kind with a handle. It had his sister's name on it, so I felt absolutely no threat at its appearance. However, it held the secrets that had been locked away all those years in the attic. Hans Solo, Princess Leia, R2-D2, C-3PO, Yoda--they were all there. But I know their names. You'd have to be a total doofus not to know their names. But there must have been dozens of characters in that bucket of whose names I have no recollection. But my husband identified each one as he pulled it out, even giving biographical information about some of them. Eventually my mother-in-law handed him the boxes that housed the spaceships. He greeted each of those by name like long lost friends. Later, the artillery of the Star Wars clan was discovered, and he stated the name of each weapon as well as which weapon went with which character.
To be fair, I must note here that I did play with Barbies as a child. But I don't remember their Mattel-assigned labels. (Okay, I do recall that one was "Peaches and Cream Barbie.")
I sat for some time in the garage in the still air of that Texas autumn evening with my mouth hanging open. Troubling thoughts began to invade my Star Wars-impaired mind. Who was this man? Was it safe to procreate with him? Would our firstborn emerge from the womb with Wookie hair and powers of the Jedi?
Later we went home sans Star Wars paraphernalia. My sweet, normal husband was back. At least until the Target brochure came in the mail a week ago with Darth Vader Pez dispensers, among other Lucas creations, on its cover. I hope someday to learn more about this world he loves so dearly. But for now, I just don't quite get it.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Take Me to Your Leader
I try very hard not to read the newspaper or watch the news too much. I don't advocate ignorance. But I do advocate joyfulness, and I find it difficult to be joyful when being fed such depressing news stories. I watch the headlines that appear on the main page when I log on to my e-mail account, and when I see something on which I'd like more details, one mouse click reveals the full story.
Now news from Hollywood...ugh. I try not to subject myself to it, but I find that I, like many Americans, am drawn to celebrities' goings-on, despite my attempts to ignore such drivel. Why should I care whom Paris Hilton is dating now that she broke up with Paris? (That sentence would sound so stupid to someone not up on pop culture.) So, earlier this week (or was it last week?), I sheepishly clicked to get the full scoop on Demi's and Ashton's alleged nuptials. I clicked to watch the clip reporting Brad and Jennifer's putting their $26 million (think that's right) mansion on the market. But last night I saw a headline that repulsed me and sent shivers down my spine such that I was reminded of all the news stories about which I have no desire to know. The story? Katie is pregnant.
I have definite opinions, like many Americans, about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. I long for the days of a decade and a half ago when a photo of Tom was posted in my teenage bedroom. As Tom and Nicole's marriage fell apart and I watched with the world as Tom toted other women around as if he were doing them a favor (the whole Cruise/Cruz thing was so stupid; do you think it was for publicity only?), my faith in Tom's cuteness began to crumble. What a turd. I hate that word by the way, but if the shoe fits....As for Katie, I wish she'd remained the cute girl on Dawson's Creek. I didn't watch the show regularly, but I always liked her. Now...what a fruit loop.
The Church of Scientology is not an area of expertise for me, nor will it ever be. I do not have a hermetic argument prepared to defend my opinions. But let me offer a few reasons why I think Tom and Katie's baby will emerge and shock the world (well, those who haven't seen the signs that this was coming), as it will not be a human baby, but rather will be seafoam green, have one eyeball in the center of its strangely large head a la the Halloween critters Target stores are marketing (talk about scary...I want Casper!), and have ears reminiscent of Shrek.
1) Tom and Mimi Rogers' marriage did not produce children.
2) Tom and Nicole did not procreate. Their two children were adopted.
3) Katie has been required to accompany Tom to numerous events and has always been escorted by "chaperones," who often answer questions for her.
Tom and his cohorts have been searching for an appropriate victim to house and birth the spawn of their kind. Mimi and Nicole did not fit the bill. (Side note: I really like Keith Urban, so Nicole, you'd better be good to him. And good for you, for keeping company with someone who seems to have some spiritual ideas that make sense.)
I do not own a "Free Katie" t-shirt, but when that alien pops out of poor, brainwashed Katie in a few months, I may be inclined to say I told you so.
In other Hollywood news, Us Weekly has reported that Nick and Jessica have really broken up. For the love of all that is good in this world, I wish that story would die whether we know if it's true or we have to live in ignorance forever.
Acknowledgement: Thanks to my hubby for the title of this piece. Say it out loud in a nasal, robotic voice. It'll be fun!
Now news from Hollywood...ugh. I try not to subject myself to it, but I find that I, like many Americans, am drawn to celebrities' goings-on, despite my attempts to ignore such drivel. Why should I care whom Paris Hilton is dating now that she broke up with Paris? (That sentence would sound so stupid to someone not up on pop culture.) So, earlier this week (or was it last week?), I sheepishly clicked to get the full scoop on Demi's and Ashton's alleged nuptials. I clicked to watch the clip reporting Brad and Jennifer's putting their $26 million (think that's right) mansion on the market. But last night I saw a headline that repulsed me and sent shivers down my spine such that I was reminded of all the news stories about which I have no desire to know. The story? Katie is pregnant.
I have definite opinions, like many Americans, about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. I long for the days of a decade and a half ago when a photo of Tom was posted in my teenage bedroom. As Tom and Nicole's marriage fell apart and I watched with the world as Tom toted other women around as if he were doing them a favor (the whole Cruise/Cruz thing was so stupid; do you think it was for publicity only?), my faith in Tom's cuteness began to crumble. What a turd. I hate that word by the way, but if the shoe fits....As for Katie, I wish she'd remained the cute girl on Dawson's Creek. I didn't watch the show regularly, but I always liked her. Now...what a fruit loop.
The Church of Scientology is not an area of expertise for me, nor will it ever be. I do not have a hermetic argument prepared to defend my opinions. But let me offer a few reasons why I think Tom and Katie's baby will emerge and shock the world (well, those who haven't seen the signs that this was coming), as it will not be a human baby, but rather will be seafoam green, have one eyeball in the center of its strangely large head a la the Halloween critters Target stores are marketing (talk about scary...I want Casper!), and have ears reminiscent of Shrek.
1) Tom and Mimi Rogers' marriage did not produce children.
2) Tom and Nicole did not procreate. Their two children were adopted.
3) Katie has been required to accompany Tom to numerous events and has always been escorted by "chaperones," who often answer questions for her.
Tom and his cohorts have been searching for an appropriate victim to house and birth the spawn of their kind. Mimi and Nicole did not fit the bill. (Side note: I really like Keith Urban, so Nicole, you'd better be good to him. And good for you, for keeping company with someone who seems to have some spiritual ideas that make sense.)
I do not own a "Free Katie" t-shirt, but when that alien pops out of poor, brainwashed Katie in a few months, I may be inclined to say I told you so.
In other Hollywood news, Us Weekly has reported that Nick and Jessica have really broken up. For the love of all that is good in this world, I wish that story would die whether we know if it's true or we have to live in ignorance forever.
Acknowledgement: Thanks to my hubby for the title of this piece. Say it out loud in a nasal, robotic voice. It'll be fun!
Friday, September 23, 2005
Who Am I? An Answer, Not a Question
Until four months ago, I was a teacher. When issues regarding education arose in a conversation, I knew my role. "I understand," I would say with a knowing smile. "I'm a teacher." When a child misbehaved in public and the parent would apologize, I would shake my head dismissively and, with a wave of my hand, say, "No problem. I'm a teacher." I was a teacher. That was my identity for seven years, and if you count the years spent preparing for the position, it was really eleven years. More than a third of my life focused on becoming or being a teacher.
Since resigning from my post, I have evaluated what comprises a person. Our society tends to rely on occupational labels. Upon meeting a new person, one typically asks, "What do you do?" Recently I read an online discussion of the usage of the terms "housewife" and "homemaker." A woman said that at her high school reunion, she had asked an old friend, "What have you been up to?" The woman defensively said, "I'm a housewife." Maybe she used the term "homemaker." I can't remember. My point is that we seem to attach our complete identities to our ways of earning income. And, depending on our own perceptions or on what we think are the perceptions of others, we may struggle with these labels. Why the labels? If asked what I do, I would be correct in saying, "I breathe. I cook. I sleep. I dream. I love. I hurt," would I not?
I have been surprised by my lack of concern about this issue since I severed ties with my old label. Teaching, I have been finding, will always be a part of my identity. Teaching is not confined to the walls of a classroom, nor does it have to be attached to a paycheck. I also laugh, write, bake, listen, sing. It is the sum of all the things we do that comprise our identity.
And isn't one's identity more than verbs? What we do is certainly part of who we are. But what about the nouns? The ocean, the South Texas hill country, books, wine, the color blue, cherry-flavored Kool-aid, Spode dishes, a fondness for red-headed children--aren't these part of my identity? The people in our lives, too, must be considered in our evaluation of our identities. The experiences we've had with them, the good ones, the bad ones, the ones that still hurt us, the ones that taught us lessons even though they hurt, the ones with people for whom we've learned to smile in remembrance of, even through the tears.
I think the next time someone asks me what I do, I will say...I live.
Since resigning from my post, I have evaluated what comprises a person. Our society tends to rely on occupational labels. Upon meeting a new person, one typically asks, "What do you do?" Recently I read an online discussion of the usage of the terms "housewife" and "homemaker." A woman said that at her high school reunion, she had asked an old friend, "What have you been up to?" The woman defensively said, "I'm a housewife." Maybe she used the term "homemaker." I can't remember. My point is that we seem to attach our complete identities to our ways of earning income. And, depending on our own perceptions or on what we think are the perceptions of others, we may struggle with these labels. Why the labels? If asked what I do, I would be correct in saying, "I breathe. I cook. I sleep. I dream. I love. I hurt," would I not?
I have been surprised by my lack of concern about this issue since I severed ties with my old label. Teaching, I have been finding, will always be a part of my identity. Teaching is not confined to the walls of a classroom, nor does it have to be attached to a paycheck. I also laugh, write, bake, listen, sing. It is the sum of all the things we do that comprise our identity.
And isn't one's identity more than verbs? What we do is certainly part of who we are. But what about the nouns? The ocean, the South Texas hill country, books, wine, the color blue, cherry-flavored Kool-aid, Spode dishes, a fondness for red-headed children--aren't these part of my identity? The people in our lives, too, must be considered in our evaluation of our identities. The experiences we've had with them, the good ones, the bad ones, the ones that still hurt us, the ones that taught us lessons even though they hurt, the ones with people for whom we've learned to smile in remembrance of, even through the tears.
I think the next time someone asks me what I do, I will say...I live.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Festival Fun
Last weekend the hubby and I decided to check out GrapeFest, the wine festival held annually in Grapevine, Texas. Attractions included live music (band of one of hubby's work acquaintances played--Irish rock--they wore kilts--very fun to watch/listen), grape-stomping contest (had to sign up prior to festival--darn it! I wanted to pretend I was Lucy!), and various carnival foods. Yum. Somehow, blue cotton candy soothes my soul. We sampled quite a few wines. (Don't worry--we took shuttles that were provided.) Some were very tasty, and others would make a wino wince. I highly recommend Su Vino, a winery located, I believe, on Main Street. Very hip but not pretentiously so.
I love festivals. As I said, you can always get cotton candy. Then there's watching the kids ride the ferris wheel and the carousel. Observing parents deal with fussy, overly-tired children is pretty amusing, too...when you don't have one of your own! But what I love the most about festivals, carnivals, and the like is the huge range of types of people you find. There was the "goth" couple, with dark lipstick, nail polish, and piercings, accompanied by their very unadorned early elementary-aged son. Then there are the random single, middle-aged men, whose shorts ride a bit too high above their waists. They are often found near a music stage, nodding their heads rather geekily to the music. Usually, they try to tap their toes but manage to lose their balance in the process. This festival also had a booth devoted to Harleys, so there were quite a few biker guys and gals, who always look like they want to kill somebody, but, in my experience, are just big softies. I have to laugh as I see these people, but not maliciously. I'm so amazed at how many different kinds of people there are. As my mom often said, it takes all kinds of people to make a world. And at festivals, we all get along. We're all there to have a good time, enjoy the food, wine and music, and just kick back and relax. Would that we lived our everyday lives that way.
I do have to share what we observed as we sat on a park bench under a red oak tree, consuming aqua-colored spun sugar. (By the way, it's autumn, people. The tree had big, fat acorns hanging from it--beautiful.) A couple of feet away from our bench stands a bronze statue of a man in a suit. A rather ordinary-looking man, he has spectacles and leans a bit on a cane. Let me repeat that it's a statue. A teenage boy walked by with what seemed to be his mother and some other family member. He halted in front of the statue and stared into Mr. Statue's eyes for a full ten seconds. I guess he decided he was pretty safe and that it was an inanimate object because then he moved on. Hubby and I giggled that someone would think it was a real person. But we also had suspicions that he was a person with special needs, so we assumed that was the reason for his hesitant behavior. But in the next few minutes, three or so more people did the same thing. And these individuals looked like they had fully functioning brains. I've seen "living statues" at other festivals and at Covent Garden in London, so I can understand the apprehension of approaching something that looks to be a statue but could actually be a real person that will later scare the pants off you. But really--is it that hard to distinguish between a living human being and a metal one? It's all in the eyes. As it's been said, "The eyes are the window of the soul." I think I'll steer clear of statues for a while though, just to be on the safe side.
I love festivals. As I said, you can always get cotton candy. Then there's watching the kids ride the ferris wheel and the carousel. Observing parents deal with fussy, overly-tired children is pretty amusing, too...when you don't have one of your own! But what I love the most about festivals, carnivals, and the like is the huge range of types of people you find. There was the "goth" couple, with dark lipstick, nail polish, and piercings, accompanied by their very unadorned early elementary-aged son. Then there are the random single, middle-aged men, whose shorts ride a bit too high above their waists. They are often found near a music stage, nodding their heads rather geekily to the music. Usually, they try to tap their toes but manage to lose their balance in the process. This festival also had a booth devoted to Harleys, so there were quite a few biker guys and gals, who always look like they want to kill somebody, but, in my experience, are just big softies. I have to laugh as I see these people, but not maliciously. I'm so amazed at how many different kinds of people there are. As my mom often said, it takes all kinds of people to make a world. And at festivals, we all get along. We're all there to have a good time, enjoy the food, wine and music, and just kick back and relax. Would that we lived our everyday lives that way.
I do have to share what we observed as we sat on a park bench under a red oak tree, consuming aqua-colored spun sugar. (By the way, it's autumn, people. The tree had big, fat acorns hanging from it--beautiful.) A couple of feet away from our bench stands a bronze statue of a man in a suit. A rather ordinary-looking man, he has spectacles and leans a bit on a cane. Let me repeat that it's a statue. A teenage boy walked by with what seemed to be his mother and some other family member. He halted in front of the statue and stared into Mr. Statue's eyes for a full ten seconds. I guess he decided he was pretty safe and that it was an inanimate object because then he moved on. Hubby and I giggled that someone would think it was a real person. But we also had suspicions that he was a person with special needs, so we assumed that was the reason for his hesitant behavior. But in the next few minutes, three or so more people did the same thing. And these individuals looked like they had fully functioning brains. I've seen "living statues" at other festivals and at Covent Garden in London, so I can understand the apprehension of approaching something that looks to be a statue but could actually be a real person that will later scare the pants off you. But really--is it that hard to distinguish between a living human being and a metal one? It's all in the eyes. As it's been said, "The eyes are the window of the soul." I think I'll steer clear of statues for a while though, just to be on the safe side.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Beware of the Condiments
Occasionally, in the name of saving money, I make a trip to Sam's Club. Lifting the oversized boxes of Tide, large packages of chicken breasts, and giant jars of pickles is certainly a hassle, but on many items, we save a handful of dollars, so it's worth the effort. Among the items I regularly purchase at this discount dreamland are condiments. Two extra large bottles of Heinz 57 cost quite a bit less than even one medium-sized counterpart at the local grocery store. However, such thriftiness can come at a price.
About a month ago, after eating a lunch of fast food burgers my husband had brought home, he took our Goliath ketchup bottle back to the kitchen to return it to the refrigerator. Somehow, he dropped it. Such large plastic condiment containers may look invincible, but let me assure you that they are actually fragile creatures. Upon hitting the ceramic tile floor, the sides of the bottle collapsed, perhaps as a consequence of its sheer weight and size. After discussing in some unpleasant terms our assessment of the situation, we laughed it off and mopped up the sugary red goo that had splattered, if not to the ends of the earth, at least to the ends of our kitchen. Even our miniature dachshund did what he could to help clean up the accident.
Yesterday someone hit a repeat button. We couldn't have replicated the events so perfectly if we'd been performing a physics research experiment. As a result of the Heinz crash of September 6, 2005, condiments of enormous size will no longer be purchased by this household. I advise that you heed my warning before yielding to the temptation of a 4-month supply of ketchup in one bottle. I'm sure Kroger grocery stores will be happy to hear of my purchasing change.
About a month ago, after eating a lunch of fast food burgers my husband had brought home, he took our Goliath ketchup bottle back to the kitchen to return it to the refrigerator. Somehow, he dropped it. Such large plastic condiment containers may look invincible, but let me assure you that they are actually fragile creatures. Upon hitting the ceramic tile floor, the sides of the bottle collapsed, perhaps as a consequence of its sheer weight and size. After discussing in some unpleasant terms our assessment of the situation, we laughed it off and mopped up the sugary red goo that had splattered, if not to the ends of the earth, at least to the ends of our kitchen. Even our miniature dachshund did what he could to help clean up the accident.
Yesterday someone hit a repeat button. We couldn't have replicated the events so perfectly if we'd been performing a physics research experiment. As a result of the Heinz crash of September 6, 2005, condiments of enormous size will no longer be purchased by this household. I advise that you heed my warning before yielding to the temptation of a 4-month supply of ketchup in one bottle. I'm sure Kroger grocery stores will be happy to hear of my purchasing change.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
In Memory of New Orleans
My heart aches. My heart aches for the lives lost and devastated by Katrina. And my heart aches for the city--the beautiful, crazy, eccentric city of New Orleans. This has been a year of loss in my life. My mind cannot wrap itself around the magnitude of this catastrophe and the extreme feelings of helplessness the people of the Crescent City must feel. Perhaps because of this, I am grieving the loss of the city itself. It will rise again, I know. But it will never be the same again.
My mother's family is from Louisiana. Some of them live in New Orleans. When I was 16, we took a family vacation to this gem of the South. I loved the architecture and the quirky and often frightening history of the place. I felt the emotions of the long-gone occupants of the Houmas House. Our visit to the Audubon Zoo was a fun-filled day, a pleasure to see the animals as well as enjoy the lovely layout and landscaping of the facility. We saw a man playing "Amazing Grace" on his trumpet at the Cafe Du Monde. Midway through his song, he noticed a woman with cerebral palsy trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab. The man stopped, waved down a taxi and, taking her by the arm, helped her into the car. He then turned and picked up where he left off and continued his rendition of "Amazing Grace." My mother loved to tell that story, explaining to people that he was truly living amazing grace. Also on that trip, I had a pleasant little flirtation with a boy on the deck of the dinner cruise river boat. He was visiting with his youth group from Oregon. He gave me a stick of gum. I still have the wrapper pressed into my photo album that holds pictures from that trip. It was a magical night, made more memorable by the charm of New Orleans.
More recently, my husband and I honeymooned in New Orleans. We stayed at the Melrose Mansion, a gorgeous white house, that boasts tasteful antiques and elegant southern hospitality. The Gumbo Shop was our choice for many a meal. It's the best gumbo I've ever tasted. We enjoyed speaking with Patrick, the maitre d' at The Bistro, the restaurant at the Maison de Ville hotel. He's quite a celebrity. I caught a show on the Travel Channel that featured him as one of the treasures of New Orleans. Of course, we rode the trolley along St. Charles. We did get a bit lost that afternoon, as we got off the trolley too soon in an attempt to sample the antique shops of the Garden District. But we eventually got there, feasted our eyes on gleaming 19th century furniture, stroked silk bedlinens in the trendy newer boutiques, and revived ourselves with iced cappuccinos. Eating at the Cafe Du Monde was a necessity. The beignets were warm, the cafe au lait was chilled. (Mind you, our wedding was in late June.) To top it all off, we saw an older man on the sidewalk by the cafe, playing a trumpet. I know it was the same man of my mother's precious tale of compassionate character. My husband spoke with him and purchased a CD from him. The man's name is Hack Bartholomew. I pray that Hack is safe in this world. If he's not, I pray that he's in his real home with his Father, the one about whom Hack told the visitors and citizens of New Orleans, I believe, every day in the French Quarter.
My husband and I had talked about returning to New Orleans. We talked with my distant cousin Mike at my mother's funeral this past March. We told him about how much we loved the city and missed it. There is a place in our hearts that calls New Orleans home. Cousin Mike, before parting, smiled at us kindly and said, "I've got to go take care of your city." So in this year of loss in my life, I grieve the loss of my mother, who I think was in some ways too good for this world. I grieve the loss of life in the bombings of London, a city my mother and I visited together in the summer of 1999. And I grieve the loss of the spirit, the beauty and the magic of New Orleans. I know that we will all be alright, in the end. But as the Bible says in Ecclesiastes, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." And now, I think, is the time for tears.
My mother's family is from Louisiana. Some of them live in New Orleans. When I was 16, we took a family vacation to this gem of the South. I loved the architecture and the quirky and often frightening history of the place. I felt the emotions of the long-gone occupants of the Houmas House. Our visit to the Audubon Zoo was a fun-filled day, a pleasure to see the animals as well as enjoy the lovely layout and landscaping of the facility. We saw a man playing "Amazing Grace" on his trumpet at the Cafe Du Monde. Midway through his song, he noticed a woman with cerebral palsy trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab. The man stopped, waved down a taxi and, taking her by the arm, helped her into the car. He then turned and picked up where he left off and continued his rendition of "Amazing Grace." My mother loved to tell that story, explaining to people that he was truly living amazing grace. Also on that trip, I had a pleasant little flirtation with a boy on the deck of the dinner cruise river boat. He was visiting with his youth group from Oregon. He gave me a stick of gum. I still have the wrapper pressed into my photo album that holds pictures from that trip. It was a magical night, made more memorable by the charm of New Orleans.
More recently, my husband and I honeymooned in New Orleans. We stayed at the Melrose Mansion, a gorgeous white house, that boasts tasteful antiques and elegant southern hospitality. The Gumbo Shop was our choice for many a meal. It's the best gumbo I've ever tasted. We enjoyed speaking with Patrick, the maitre d' at The Bistro, the restaurant at the Maison de Ville hotel. He's quite a celebrity. I caught a show on the Travel Channel that featured him as one of the treasures of New Orleans. Of course, we rode the trolley along St. Charles. We did get a bit lost that afternoon, as we got off the trolley too soon in an attempt to sample the antique shops of the Garden District. But we eventually got there, feasted our eyes on gleaming 19th century furniture, stroked silk bedlinens in the trendy newer boutiques, and revived ourselves with iced cappuccinos. Eating at the Cafe Du Monde was a necessity. The beignets were warm, the cafe au lait was chilled. (Mind you, our wedding was in late June.) To top it all off, we saw an older man on the sidewalk by the cafe, playing a trumpet. I know it was the same man of my mother's precious tale of compassionate character. My husband spoke with him and purchased a CD from him. The man's name is Hack Bartholomew. I pray that Hack is safe in this world. If he's not, I pray that he's in his real home with his Father, the one about whom Hack told the visitors and citizens of New Orleans, I believe, every day in the French Quarter.
My husband and I had talked about returning to New Orleans. We talked with my distant cousin Mike at my mother's funeral this past March. We told him about how much we loved the city and missed it. There is a place in our hearts that calls New Orleans home. Cousin Mike, before parting, smiled at us kindly and said, "I've got to go take care of your city." So in this year of loss in my life, I grieve the loss of my mother, who I think was in some ways too good for this world. I grieve the loss of life in the bombings of London, a city my mother and I visited together in the summer of 1999. And I grieve the loss of the spirit, the beauty and the magic of New Orleans. I know that we will all be alright, in the end. But as the Bible says in Ecclesiastes, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." And now, I think, is the time for tears.
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