Snake in the Grass

It has been wonderfully warm here for Spring Break and I have spent a couple days working in the yard. All the animals are acting a bit spring-feverish and I figured the snakes are no exception.

I don't pretend to know what my snakes are thinking about most of the time. They have reptilian brains which are supposed to be pretty rudimentary. If they had language, they would probably think in sound bites - stuff like, "find food," "get warm," "get not-warm."

And yet - they have temperaments. Rosie is calm and docile. She moves slowly and takes her time. She seems to burrow close to me which often leads my students to say things like, "Aw... she loves you!" I don't have the heart to tell them she is just seeking warmth and she knows my smell so she knows it's safe. IF she even reasons that far.

Patty, being a King snake, is quick-moving and very active most of the time. She is constantly checking out her surroundings and "on the hunt." Her rapid movements make some people a little hesitant to pick her up - which is fine with her since I don't get the idea she cares one way or the other. A pragmatic snake, my Patty.

So yesterday, taking a cue from the cat who was lounging in various postions all over the yard, I decided to let the snakes play "Snake in the Grass." Rosie has always enjoyed this game - the the extent that Rosie can enjoy anything. She likes to crawl languidly through the grass. Once, she found a bug and ate it. This was the highlight of her day, since she usually gets pet store mice.

Patty can't play "Snake in the Grass" with Rosie because, as a King snake, Patty would hunt Rosie down and eat her. This would cause much sadness and consternation on my part, since I've had Rosie for 10 years now. She's survived several escape attempts and a "liberation" at the jaws of my cat - who wouldn't hesitate to try it again. I love my Otis, but he is SUCH a predator.

So, after putting Rosie back in her enclosure, Patty got to come out to play. She is as quick as Rosie is languid. Watching Patty zip across the grass to the back planter was amazing. How DO snakes move so fast, anyway? Once she reached the planter, Patty began prowling behind all the plants - checking for mice, I am sure. She crawled up into an agapanthus and, finding no rodents, crawled back out and headed for the next one.

And then - out of nowhere comes THE CAT. Otis has been lax lately in his hunting of birds. He seems to have lost some of that instinct to kill and carry the prize into the house to leave on the floor as an Offering to That Lady Who Feeds Him. But catching sight of the black and white King snake brought out something predatory in Otis and in true cat-like fashion, he was next to me in a flash, watching intently as Patty navigated the deep woods behind the agapanthus. Knowing this little scenario could not play out well, with the cat cuddling up next to the snake and both of them sleeping behind the bushes, waiting for a bird - I snatched up the oversized feline and saved the life of the erstwhile rodent hunter.

But Otis is nothing if not intent. There was no way I could set him down and "order" him into the house the way I wish I could with the dogs. So I called for Dustin, who was on the computer taking a test for an online class he is taking (and hating).

Hollering for Dustin DID indeed bring the boy running - but it also brought out the dogs, anxious to find out what the cat did. Usually anything the cat does means a treat for them. In their younger days they would convince the cat to get up on the refrigerator and knock down the bread and bagels. This the cat did because the cat is a mercenary.

To the collective canine delight, they discovered the cat caught a SNAKE! This was of unending interest to them and they began sniffing wildly. This made the snake understandably nervous.
"What is it mom?" asked Dustin and of course I had to yell that the cat was ready to pounce on the snake and then all heck broke loose because I have new neighbors behind me and heaven knows I didn't think they were out there but the word SNAKE unleashed a torrent of expletives and the loud movement of lawn furniture.

So there I am, moving the dogs back with my feet, holding a squirming cat bent on destruction, and trying to keep track of a snake who is visibly unhappy about the dog paws so close to her head. (Snakes don't like anything near their heads. Unless it is food. Go figure.) AND.. and! The neighbors behind me are saying things like "Oh $!@#!," and "What the %$#@?" while Dustin bounds across the grass to take the cat and order the dogs to "get BACK in the house!" (They listen to him. Go figure.)

I pick up all four feet of wriggling Patty, who is rather annoyed, just in time to see a head peer over the wall.

"Don't worry, she's a pet," I say holding her up for what I am certain will be admiration. I thought the guy was going to recoil backwards off his ladder.

"Does she escape often?" he asks and something evil in me deadpans, "No...Well. I USUALLY find her pretty quickly."

I guess I'm going to have to go over there at some point today and try to explain about "Snake in the Grass."

Meanwhile, the cat is up early this morning - checking out the agapanthus very, very, carefully

Augie Doggie's Tumors

A friend of mine was complaining the other day that her dog had to have minor surgery and wear a lampshade. This will keep him from overlicking the wound. I am sorry about all this. Especially the lamp shade. NO dog with any dignity should have to wear a lampshade.

When Augie Doggie had surgery, he didn't have to wear a lampshade because I didn't make him. I just nagged him a lot about licking his incisions - and I made everyone around me nag him too. The poor dog never got in a good lick when I was around.

Augie Doggie had fatty tumors. There were seven of them and they bothered me. I don't know if they bothered him, but his self-esteem had to be affected when Dustin started calling him Lumpy. Augie knew that "Lumpy" wasn't the same as "Augie." Dogs are smart that way.

I waited awhile and then made arrangements to have the vet look at them. With barely a glance, the vet said they were fatty tumors and even extracted a bit of Fatty Tumor Extract to put under the microscope and be sure. I got to look at it. It looked just like I pictured Fatty Tumor Extract to look like. White and watery and lacy.

So - Augie had a surgery date in order to improve his self-esteem and to make Dustin stop calling him Lumpy. And what do you think the vet discovered while listening to Augie's heart beat? YES! A heart murmur! A real one, complete with danger and mortality.

So - no surgery until the Heart Murmur was analyzed completely. This involved calling in the Canine Cardiac Specialist. This doctor drives all over heck and gone with her portable heart device and takes pictures of dog hearts. Not exactly what I would do after 22 years of vet school, but hey... to each her own, right?

This little "scan" cost $350, payable directly to the Canine Cardiac Specialist. Once this was done, it was determined that Augie Doggie COULD have his fatty tumors removed. Removal of said tumors cost less than the heart scan. I am of the belief that this Canine Cardiac Specialist must be a relative of the regular vet or something. Or there is some kind of "kickback" involved. Very hush-hush and not to be spoken of out loud or in public.

So, all the lumps were removed and I was charged by the minute. All the removals added up to 22 minutes which is pretty impressive when you realize how big those lumps were and how none of them actually TOUCHED each other.

Augie Doggie is the picture of health now. No lumps anywhere.

But Dustin still calls him Lumpy.

The Cellphone

My first cell phone was as big as my face and Dan got it for me when I started working in Rosamond - far away from civilization, as far as he was concerned. I often rode to work with a gal who ran out of gas once - this was all the reason he needed to get me a cellphone. He already had one - attached to the floorboard of his truck with screws and a phone cord. Very fancy.

When the big one died - because they all have a built-in "self-destruct" computer chip that guarantees you are going to have to go back to fancy Cell Phone Store as soon as the "contract" is up, Dan got me a slimmer version that had number keys so small I had to use a toothpick to dial out. Lucky for me I am not much of a cell phone talker because keeping a toothpick on hand sounds easier than it really is. This phone was apparently so bad that I started getting teased about it. But I didn't care - it worked when I needed it. Once, I even had it ON when Dan tried to call me during a Medical Emergency. (Dustin almost had his finger sliced off at work.) And then it stopped working and Dan got annoyed because I was commuting to the other ends of the Earth, Lake Los Angeles, without one.

Now, Dustin had a "fancy" one that I inherited when this cheap one finally sputtered it's last cell*ular breath. By "fancy," I mean that it flipped open.

Then, just like that, it stopped working. Dustin KNEW it was on its last breath when he gave it to me. But he figured I wouldn't catch on for awhile and he was right. He had replaced his with one that flips open to a KEYBOARD. It takes pictures, makes phone calls, wakes him up for work, and does the dishes. (It leaves streaks but hey - what do you expect from an electronic device?)

So, I asked Dustin to go get me a new phone because he speaks Cell*ular and gets along great with the Brittneys and Jasons who work behind the counter at the Great Cell*ular Place, where fingers fly across keyboards and they serious things about contracts, minutes, texting, and the dangers of pedicures from that place at the end of the mall. I was ready for a more "serious" cell phone.

However, SON delegating this job to DAD. Dad knows even LESS about Cell*ular Stuff than I do - having CHOSEN, of his own accord, the cheeepest, and I do mean CHEEESIEST phone on the planet. The one they keep behind the counter and put in a paper bag to give you so nobody COOL will actually see them handling it.

So. Dan gets me the exact replica of his cheeep and cheeesy phone. It will do text messaging but only if the stars and planets are aligned just so. It has ring*tones - but I keep silencing the dang thing just by being NEAR it and can never figure out HOW to make it ring out loud.
People ALWAYS complain that they call me on my Cell and I don't pick up. Well, shoot - I would pick up if I HEARD the thing.

Anyway.. the moral of the story is to not let my husband pick out the phone, that's all I can say.
:-)K

If I wore a hat...

I'd a thrown it into the ring this morning. And I do wonder why I don't wear a hat. Hats have such potential, you know? And some people can really make a statement with a good hat. Me? I just don't look good in a hat.

Hats aside, I called my principal on the phone at home this morning. This always takes an act of courage since she never seems really thrilled to hear from me. My mother is thrilled when I call and so is my son. And some of my friends - they are happy when I call. I think this is because I never actually call - I eMail. I have this phone phobia and it often takes me awhile to actually PLACE the call. And my princy seems to sense this and tries to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible when I call. I become this inarticulate, nervous, rambling idiot on the phone.

Of course, calling your principal at home on a Saturday morning is bound to be placed in the "iffy" catagory. She does have friends at school who wouldn't think twice of calling her at home - but I'm not in that category. Sometimes I think I am - but usually I don't think I am, which is why it took me five minutes to work up the courage to call her.

I called because she has complained about the volume of eMails she gets. So, not wanting to add to that mountainous pile, I decided to call her - only to find out that she cleared her INbox before leaving on Friday. Who knew? Shesh. I should have just eMailed her and risked being forever at the bottom of the pile, never knowing if she actually reads my eMails or not.

I send her these detailed eMails (imagine that) and often get something like, "sounds good," or "great!" in response. She is really into Terse Verse, that principle of mine. People who like Terse Verse don't often appreciate a well-written eMail. This makes people who fancy themselves as writers a bit nervous.

But a terse phone conversation? That's enough to send my heart into palpitations and my nerves to jangling. Here I am just wanting a nice casual conversation about throwing my hat and I am reduced to wreck status. Other people might be able to call and have a nice "Oh yeah, really?" conversation with her - but not me. This is after 5 years and I am starting to take in personally.

Anyway, so I called to tell her that after much thoughtful consideration I would like to loop with my kids up to first grade. I miss teaching first grade and with one of the veteran teachers retiring, now would be a good time to jump back into the nuts and bolts of teaching reading.

Now, call me narcisstic and egocentric but I happen to think I'm a good teacher and have taught my current, rather difficult crop, well. The fact that I am willing to take them with me to continue the "she's not my friend" drama says a lot for my well of patience and good character. You'd think she would say something like, "Okay. Sounds good. Let me get back to you when I've had a chance to sort stuff out." But no.. she actually hesitated. As if me moving back to first grade is a bad thing.

This does wonders for my self-esteem of course. And it has me wishing fervently that I hadn't bothered to call her at all. In my extrapolating mind I have myself looking for another job, at a district where I am truly appreciated for the 20 hours I put in last week on the Science Night and before that the Dr. King Thing and before that the Christmas Pageant.

Too early for a glass of whine - I mean wine. I think I will go buy a hat.

Trail Nasties

Even though the weather was a bit windy and chilly, I took the dogs out on our favorite "kick butt" trail. The elevation climbs quickly and steadily - guaranteeing a good workout for all of us. I also like it because of its scenery - lots of interesting rocks and plants.

Duke likes this trail because it is ripe with trail nasties - things he is sure he can eat but not without an argument from me.

He tends to pretty obedient - unless we are talking about anything edible. Then, all training, respect, and learning are OFF.

He is almost trained to "leave it!" when I holler that command. Last summer, he sat down and waited when I hollered "leave it!" as he came upon a basking snake on the trail. The trouble was, he sat down RIGHT next to the snake - which would have been a bad thing if this reptile wasn't a harmless gopher snake.

I let him chase rabbits, mice, squirrels, birds, and even deer when he happens upon them while we hike, since the chances are between NIL and zero he will ever catch anything. But "leave it!" sounds suspiciously like "eat it!" and this is the excuse he uses when he finds a morsel of what HE thinks is edible food.

Sometimes trail nasties are scat - he finds these piles very interesting. But most often, they are leftovers from trail misfortune.

It's nature. Things die on or near the trail. Bigger animals make kills and leave the bones and gristle for lesser members of the pack. Duke considers himself obligated to partake of these things - out of respect for the Universal Canine Consciousness, I suppose.

I can shout "leave it!" till the cows come home (and he would promptly chase them) - but no amount of cajoling on my part is going to make him put down what he perceives to be a tasty morsel - no way. The fact that said morsel is probably loaded with bacteria and airborne viruses only adds to the texture, as far as he is concerned.

He has gotten away with eating trail nasties at least a half dozen times and he hasn't died yet. No upset stomachs, no regurgitation, no bad gas - or worse. But something tells me he is pressing his luck here.

He also has a terrific memory for any and all trail nasties. If he found something good there once, he encodes it in his cognitive map so he will be sure to check out the area thoroughly during our next visit. If I manage to confiscate his "find" and fling it into the hinterlands, Duke will take off after it, into the brambles, brush, and great beyond. In his mind, this is like chasing a ball or something.

Tonight, Duke is one contented dog. Not only did he find a couple decent trail nasties today, he managed to snag himself some cat food.

What he DOESN'T understand is why I won't let him smooch me.

Tail of a Wedged Dog

Poor Seamus.

He's my dog with little brain who often evokes Eeyore with his sad "thanks for noticing" look whenever he is feeling blue and unappreciated.

This morning he and Augie were lounging on the bed with me while I attempted to read a book. All that page-turning caught the attention of Little Beans, the feisty and lovable white puppy who bothers Seamus to no end. To say Seamus is jealous of Little Beans is like saying that Hamlet's father had some anger issues.

My gentle and sweet brown dog has been known, on occasion, to go after the feisty white puppy - teeth bared, growling, and with injury on his mind. (What 'mind' he has. Sigh.)

So, when Little Beans joined us on the bed and wedged his little body into my chest and under my neck so that my attention was on HIM and not the BOOK, Seamus decided to wedge his long dachshund body likewise, but against my back and shoulders, since I happened to be in the way of him moving the white dog out of the way.

Augie, not to miss out, chose a wedge-like position also - against my stomach.

I was one wedged-in dog owner. And remained so for several pages until the desire to move became overwhelming.

Now, in the past - when Seamus has gone after the puppy, I have pushed him off the bed in punishment. I don't know if the Dog Whisperer would approve, but my options are limited when Seamus bares his fangs and intends harm for Little Beans, who is arguably the cutest puppy in town. This is a fact not lost on Seamus - who doesn't understand that being the cutest longhaired dachshund in town has its advantages. Or that he is technically NOT a puppy anymore.

So I wiggle a bit and when I attempt to move up on my pillow I unintentionally shoved Seamus right off the bed - into the tiny little spot right between the nightstand and the bed.

When he doesn't move, I figure he is stunned by my behavior. So I reach down and pet him and tell him I am sorry and to come back up.

Seamus doesn't move.

I adjust myself and start reading again - with Augie and Beans happily wedged into my left side.

But then I start thinking about Seamus, who must be in a snit - he isn't coming back. He isn't moving at all. So my mind flashes on the possibilities - I've injured him, he hit his head and is comatose, his leg is broken, he has internal injuries....

I look down.

Seamus is WEDGED in between the bed and nightstand. He couldn't move if he wanted to. His short legs are attempting to move but his long body won't follow suit. So he stays, convinced he's done something REALLY BAD this time because he won't even look at me.

I unwedge him, which takes awhile, but he won't get back on the bed.

I decide to shower and have coffee. Seamus stays put the whole time.

After my shower and breakfast I come back upstairs to find Seamus on my pillow, looking forlorn and dejected.

I take him downstairs to use the backyard canine potty facilities. He does so but won't come back inside - convinced that he is the worst dog in town.

I'm thinking that Dog Wedging must have some serious connotations in the Dog World. You do it when you want possession of the Alpha Female (that would be me). You do it for security and because it is a dogly thing to do.

But to be wedged to the point where you can't move? Now there's some serious issues there - I just wish I knew what they were....

Kindergarten Valentines from the Trenches

Today the kids were making Valentine cards for their parents. At my table, during Group Time, they had to draw a picture of something Mom and Dad like to do together, and then write a greeting - like, "Happy Valentine's Day."

At any given time, there are about 6 kids during these open-ended activities sitting at my table. I instruct Jovante to draw a picture of mom and dad doing what they like to do together.
He draws mom and then he looks at me very annoyed and says, "Do I hafta draw them when they fighting? All they say is 'whatsup whatsup whatsup!"
****
Erik is sitting next to Madelin and following my directions, drawing a nice picture of his parents holding hands. Madelin's parents are "roller skating." Erik asks if he can write his greeting in Spanish, since mom and dad don't speak English. I proceed to help him. Erik turns to Madelin and says, "I can write in Spanish."

Madelin keeps coloring and says, "I can't speak Spanish."

Erik doesn't miss a beat. "That's okay," he says, "You just have to keep practicing."
********
Flower is drawing her parents working in the yard. She is trying to draw a shovel. She asks for guidance.

"What are they doing?" I ask."Cleaning up dog Sh**," she replies.

(I remind her there are NICER ways of saying this. Since she can't say "excrement" she settles on "Poop".)

About 20 minutes later she storms OUT of the bathroom up to my table. "Mrs. L.....there was POOOOP all over the toilet seat and I had to clean it up!"

"Kind of like your poor parents, huh Flower?" (I just couldn't resist.)
*********
Then there's Niya..the PERFECT child. She is the kindest, gentlest, sweetest little girl on the planet. She sets to work drawing diligently, her parents sitting on the couch. Mom wears socks and dad is barefoot. She carefully draws his toes. Then she decides it is too cold and adds socks.

"They like to watch T.V.," she explains.

Then she draws the television, complete with little details, like knobs and the DVD player. Then, she draws a picture inside the T.V. screen.

I look away long enough to check on the other kids and am horrified to look back at Niya's paper to see a body with a HEAD laying next to it. She is using a red crayon to depict the blood and gore.

She is coloring serenely, perfect pigtails swaying.
"They like to watch scary movies. This one has his head cut off."
**************
Franky is drawing a detailed scene of his whole family outside in the yard, playing with the dog.
"My mom and dad like to play with the dog in the morning."

"So this is what they like to do together? How nice," I say. He nods in agreement.

A little while later he says, "Well, actually ... my mom doesn't get up in the morning. She doesn't play with the dog."

"Oh. Well.. I thought your mom and dad played with the dog in the morning."

"My dad hates the dog. He don't play with the dog." Then he sighs. "Actually, I'm the only one who plays with the dog in the morning."
***************
Aracely is busily drawing away on the paper.

"What are your parents doing?" I ask... noticing that they both have HUGE baseball-mitt looking things on their hands.

Aracely smiles. "They're making COOKIES," she says sweetly. "Mommy makes them and Papi eats them."
****************

A Molehill from a Mountain....

So my husband had this huge goose egg on his head as a result of colliding with the steering wheel during his heart-attack/accident 2 weeks ago. This "hematoma" was large, red, and rather annoying because it pulled on his forehead skin. (I would have thought - 'facelift!' - but he didn't.)

So, during his scheduled visit to the cardiologist last Tuesday, he asks the guy to "take it off." The doctor had previously said that "the body will take care of it" but the body was slow - and Dan wanted this huge bump gone.

So.. I'm thinking that the request is a simple one. Just poke a hole in it and extract whatever is inside to make it poke out. Since it is called a HEMAtoma, I am figuring it is full of blood that lacks direction back into the body.

I'm also thinking syringe, some guaze, maybe some alcohol or peroxide, and the mountain will be reduced. "Hey, Judy...(or whatever her name is)...bring me a Number 4b syringe, will ya?" I picture the cariologist asking. That didn't happen.

"Judy" had to schedule the "procedure" at the hospital for Friday - an outpatient thing. I'm thinking... okay.... they are worried about blood loss? Isn't that the point? What is the ISSUE here? Seems simple to me. Apparently not.

So - the hospital calls twice during the week to give Dan "instructions" - like this is some huge deal. When he gets there he is given an I.V. and put in a gown and placed in a waiting area. A nurse even comes by to play 100 Questions with him.

"Do you have any heart problems?" she asks.
"Uh yeah. I had a heart attack," Dan answers.
Her eyes widen and she gasps, "WHEN?"
"Two weeks ago. When I got THIS," (he motions to the forehead.

She acts surprised. "Wow," she says, writing something on the clipboard.

Dan waits for over TWO hours. They tell him there is an issue with "the room" and when they can move him into "the room" they will but for now, he will have to wait "here."

The cardiologist shows up. He is chagrined to find that the hospital, acting upon his office's communications, has actually prepped Dan for surgery. They even had the anesthesiologist on call - for when the doctor finally arrived.

The good doctor apologizes and then asks for THE SYRINGE and he ... guess what? Just guess!
Yes.. it takes him less than 20 seconds to extract most of the contents of the hematoma. The nursing staff has gathered around to watch, impressed with the volume of the bloody contents.
Then he is bandaged and....sent home.

And I am thinking, when all of this is related to me..."Sheesh! I coulda done that!"
For the price of the syringe I could have done THAT in my bathroom. I just can't wait to get the bill for THIS little mountainous expedition.

Dan's Excellent Hospital Adventure

Dan got booted from the hospital last night - not too soon, considering the free side-show they call "roommates" in the hospital. ICU was great, but once you're in a regular room, it is like White Trash Meets Ghetto. Dan called it "free entertainment."

He was wheeled into the room at 6am Saturday morning - to find Fleck and Patty. Seems Fleck had given himself a bit of alcohol poisoning and Patty had rode in the ambulance with him. They'd spent 2 days in Emergency while he "got it outta his system" but then there was "trouble with the oxygen" in his blood so he had to stay. Patty made herself at home - climbing into the bed and snoring like a freight train, while Fleck, still attached to his tubes, IVs, and monitors, walked up and down the hallway yelling for "Nora" and "stepping out" for a smoke. They used the phone constantly (when she was awake) and discussed everything from money, drugs, "ak-ahol," "the damn kids," and how they were going to get back to Palmdale once Fleck was kicked loose. Patty also ordered food - thinking this was room service. The hospital provided a taxi voucher - probably to get rid of them.

Then there was John. He was in for his diabetes. He had family problems and we heard ALL about them during the plethora of phone calls to the mother of his daughter, ANNdrea, who had apparently made a terrorist threat at school and was suspended pending an expulsion hearing. Once daddy went into the hospital, it seems young ANNdrea needed funds to she emptied John's pockets, took his cell phone, and her whereabouts were unknown. John's older boys sauntered in for a visit and we were treated to details about their many shenanigans, including getting kicked out of school (but making up credits), losing jobs, "staying" at friends' houses that were loaded with dope and drug paraphenalia, and the best way for one of the boys' mama get disability.

During the height of what, at times, sounded like a rap concert, the nurse's assistant came in to drill Dan loudly and tenaciously about his potty habits. "IS THIS ALL YOU'VE PEED today? Since MY SHIFT? WHAT ABOUT A BM? YOU HAVE ONE OF THOSE YET?"

Turns out HER name was Nora, the one Fleck kept looking for during the early part of the day. I asked Nora if Dan could take a shower - if for my sake only since he was getting kind of ripe - all that testosterone and adrenaline. "OH NO, he can't shower... it'll shock him." (?? I didn't ask.)

Seems you can't shut the room door at night - "the nurse will want to keep an eye on you," which is funny since we can count using half a hand just how many times a nurse actually showed herself (or HIMself - "Michael" is another story) once Dan was booted from ICU.

So - all night long phones ring, hospital staff converses - loudly - and floors get mopped, waxed, buffed, and spit-shined. Need blood? Come and get it RIGHT when the patient finally drops off to sleep. Need to check on Potty Progress? Don't do it during the day when he is AWAKE. Jar him awake at night to demand details about the urinal levels. The answers will be more coherent then - especially if the patient has been given a sleeping pill in order to actually SLEEP during the cacophony that is called "night" at the hospital.

He was released with what looks like a thesis of post-instructions, plus a half page of prescriptions, each with varying sizes, instructions, and times for ingestion. The nice little pharmacist at Target took pity on me when I showed up at 10 minutes to 6 last night to fill them. She also got me a pill-splitter and a blood pressure cuff.

The boys are enjoying the blood pressure cuff very much. Well, Dustin is - he and I register as "Dead" on the machine while Danny's comes up higher than Dan's - something that is perplexing him to no end. He checks it every hour, certain a fate similar to his father's awaits him next Tuesday.

I've only tried to kill Dan twice. The first time I won't tell you about, but the most recent occasion concerns his plethora of pills - one of which is supposed to be a HALF pill twice a day and I gave him a whole pill this morning. He told me the "pretty colors" and other hallucinations were quite interesting.

So now - Dan is home, resting upstairs - right next to the phone, which is ringing about every 12.5 minutes. (It's always for him.)

I am letting him answer the phone - weaning him gently off the hospital routine is the kindest way, isn't it?

:-)Kim

Trail Dog

Duke is a mountain goat.

I don't mean that literally, but the dog just loves to hike and there's no stopping him. He just goes and goes and goes. Pretty amazing for a miniature dachshund, huh?

Duke is the smallest of my dogs and runs on pure nervous energy. It's not that he's a barker or that he's neurotic or anything, he just seems perpetually wound up. He rarely relaxes and when he does, you can still see him twitching every 30 seconds or so.

Duke is one of the only dogs I've ever seen who can smile. He smiles in greeting, usually, and if you don't watch carefully, you're likely to miss it. Smiling is accompanied by much wiggling of the hindquarters and vocalizing about whatever it is that is making him so happy - like cheese. Or the prospect of a hike.

Duke just loves to hike and nothing slows him down. On general walks he stays right next to me but when hiking, he plays scout and runs off ahead or takes the rear and makes sure I don't get attacked by a bear or something. He's stepped on foxtails, sharp rocks, and pointy cockleburrs - he just keeps going, hobbling on 3 legs if necessary. I'd like to think he looks at me like the lion looked at Androcles when he removed the thorn - but it's hard to tell with Duke. He usually looks wide-eyed and nervous. Once he tangled with some red ants - they bit him on the paw, rear-driver's side... he didn't even pause. Just hitched up the back end and kept going.

Sometimes I wish I could get inside that little dog's head and figure him out.

When he was a puppy, he lived with Connie and Dave out in Mojave. They had this plan to breed and sell miniature dachshund puppies and Duke was to be the stud. No sooner had they adopted Heidi than the two of them took off for an 8-day adventure in the Mojave Desert. They crawled back to civilization without having learned their lesson - because after birthing 2 litters of pups, they up and did it again. Sadly, Heidi did not return that time and Duke was a bit worse for wear when he hobbled back to the Mojave spread. His hindquarters were very sensitive and he developed a slight hitch in his back leg.

When Connie and Dave moved to Antelope Acres, Duke was penned up and miserable. Dustin and I would often go out to the house when Connie and Dave were up in Washington - to take care of the plants, the house, and Duke. The sight of that little dog peering through the gate, praying for somebody to throw a ball for him really stuck with me. So when Connie and Dave decided to put Duke up for adoption because they couldn't pay him enough attention, Dustin and I leapt at the chance.

Duke seemed to remember Augie Doggie - one of the pups from Heidi's first litter. Even though he was, by all accounts, a terrible father to the puppies, Augie quickly forgave him and they became best friends. As long as Augie gets to be in charge, that is.

Sometimes I take just Duke out for a hike - in compensation for getting picked on by Seamus or bothered by Little Beans. He was the one I took when I first discovered the Pacific Crest Trail in San Francisquito Canyon. He really seems to strut when he is by himself.

I think his favorite hikes are with me and Augie - the two of them run off ahead, side by side, father and son - enjoying life and thinking about whatever trail dogs think about as they run up the trail toward the sun.

On the Topic of Christmas Bows

I'm wrapping presents today and started ruminating about bows. I wonder how many people really THINK about bows? I think bows get shortchanged.

I love bows, especially the real fancy ones that are tightly looped. Deep reds and greens make me salivate but I appreciate a good white, cream, silver, and gold bow too. Cheap bows annoy me. Why bother?

Some people THROW bows away after unwrapping a gift. I have never understood this. It's not like they wear out or anything - they are perfectly good!

I always dive for the bows and save them, but not after hawking out the situation to make sure the recipient isn't saving bows too. It's not very classy to snatch a good bow away from a bow-saver. It can get kind of embarrassing. I've recycled some bows several times. This is a matter of great pride.

You have to divide your bows into categories before wrapping. Some people, like my father-in-law, get the cheap bows because NOTHING in his house is allowed to hit the floor in the form of trash and bows fit this category. He just stuffs them in the bag and I learned long ago not to complain. (Just dig 'em out later.)

Some people KNOW you recycle bows and just remove the bow and hand it to me. This is quick and easy. Other people have to be told to give me the bow. If they put the bow in the box with the gift, I've learned to ask if they save bows too. Especially if it's a really, really GOOD bow, because they may not realize what they have. Heaven forbid they return home, stack the box and throw away the bow!

The more often you recycle your bows, the cheaper they get to use. If you take the cost of the entire bag of bows and divide it by the number of bows in the bag, you get the FIRST price. But then the price is HALVED each time you recycle it. Pretty soon your bows are costing you fractions of a penny and this HAS to be good for the universe.

If you buy bows one year but don't use them all, you will have them for the following year. Finding a bag of last year's bows is ALMOST as good as getting a bag of bows free! After all, the cost of the bag is depreciated from last year - so it's much cheaper.

Packages with good bows don't need ribbon - ribbon is redundant. The only time you should use ribbon is if you're curling it - and you have to work pretty darn hard to make a curling ribbon "bow" look half-way decent. A well-done curly bow is a work of art.

Bows should be dead-on center of the package - not placed in some obscure corner, throwing off the balance of things. Especially well-done curly bows. They need to cascade JUST SO.

:-)Kim

Franky's Gift Tag

Yesterday, the kindergarten kids made beaded necklaces for the mothers for Christmas. Once this fine jewelry was completed, the kids brought their creations over to one of the middle school helpers for wrapping. (We went through an entire roll of tape. More tape is better when you are five.)

The final link in this process was the creation of a gift card for Mom. The kids would dictate what they wanted to say on the card, Lupita would write it out on a white board, and the kids would copy it. (Except for Jasmine. "YOU write it," she ordered me.)

All the kids at the table were hard at work copying their personalized greetings:

"Merry Christmas Mom."
"This is for you, Mom."
"Feliz Navidad, Mami."
"Happy Holidays Mom."
"I love you Mommy."

So Lupita asks Franky what he wants to write on his mother's gift card.

"Happy Halloween," replies Franky.

"But Franky... it's Christmas," reminds Lupita.

Franky is unfazed and doesn't miss a beat.

"I'm okay with that."

No Tip for the Newspaper Dude

Here is the note I plan to enclose in the fake Christmas card lodged into my L.A. Times when it arrives sometime this week:

Dear Newspaper Dude:

I am in receipt of your thoughtful and obviously "personalized" Christmas greeting and I bet you think that my response includes a cash gift, in acknowledgement of your "service" this year. I am a generous person and considered enclosing a crisp $10 bill - but cannot for the following reasons:

1. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, my "plastic wrapped" paper continues to land in the sprinklers at least 2 mornings out of 7. The plastic wrap does little good. Why do you bother? Call me a tree-hugger.

2. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, the paper ends up UNDER one of my vehicles at least once a week. This means that I, in my work clothes, must get down on my hands and knees at 6am on these currently frosty mornings, to shimmy under a vehicle to retrieve my paper. I don't like having to do this. Call me a wimp.

3. Wet papers are messy and often unreadable. My calls for replacement papers always mean that the readable version won't arrive until AFTER I've left for work. You know darn good and well I leave the house early - because when you deliver my replacement - I AM NOT HOME. Doofus. Call me cantankerous.

4. AND.. at least once a month my paper doesn't show up at all. This may not seem much to you - but I pay $52.00 every other month for this service and do appreciate timeliness. Call me picky and unreasonable.

When you remedy these issues I will enclose a cash gift commisurate with your improved service.

Sincerely,
KimKca

Poinsettia Parts?

We have been making My Poinsettia Book in class, one page per day. This is part of our ELA and ELD lessons for the week.

Today, the kids had to cut out 4 poinsettia leaves from construction paper and glue them onto the page, then add the cut-up text: The leaves are green.

After several reminders, Dominique finally came over to my table and began cutting out the leaves. After gluing down the text, she arranged the leaves artfully on the page. I asked Dominique to come over to me and read the book to me - so I could check the correctness and her developing concepts of print. I noticed that she had glued the arch-shaped scraps from her cut-out leaves to the opposite page.

"Dominique," I asked patiently. "What part of the poinsettia are these?"

Dominique carefully caressed each one and then looked at me seriously, as if she felt very, very, sorry for me.

Then she leaned over and whispered: "The eyebrows."

The "Little P.E. Lady"

Most of you know that my school has been under Nazi-review the past few years and in addition to the usual Nazi Crew coming in to wag fingers at us, we had a state team come in to do a once-over on our overall program. They used to call it Program Quality Review but now it has a new name and a new acronym.

So Janice, my principal, has been sweating bullets because she knows that our P.E. "program" (rolling on the floor trying not to lose my liver here) leaves a lot to be desired. Not that she really wants to DO anything about it, but she is tired of being "dinged" for stuff. She went to some meeting to let administrators know in advance what this Gestapo Review team is looking for - and she came away quaking in her pointy shoes over the "little P.E. lady."

Apparently this lady wants to see lesson plans, in plan books. She wants a prescribed curriculum that adheres to the California State Standards and she wants those kids SHIP SHAPE and having P.E. every waking minute they aren't learning to read or using the bathroom.

So you know what rolls downhill and the next thing we know there is a fire-drill of the "P.E. in the Planbook" sort. Whether or not you actually DO it seems open to interpretation - but it needs to be in the book and done often enough that the kids don't say "huh?" when asked about P.E.

I have worried about this myself - feeling less than exemplary as a teacher of P.E., I have asked for a curriculum or at least a Binder o' Suggestions. But nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about S.P.A.R.K. P.E.... they have handy little binders chock full of suggestions. Nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about Sue, my sister the P.E. Guru who is willing to come down here FREE and inservice the staff. I sensed a great big YAWN from Janice's office. At least I think it was a yawn since I never heard from her about it.

I sat down with Janice and waved my arms wildly about the crap that is served to our students disguised as school lunches - and was told this was "a battle you will not win." Not that she doesn't agree. But she doesn't eat school lunches.

So, we all had to live in fear today that the "little P.E. lady" would come in with her Nike sweatsuit and $100 running shoes and brightly colored lanyard with a great big shiny whistle attached. I pictured a cross between some Asian dominatrix and Richard Simmons, 5'1" and all of 100 pounds soaking wet - with buns of steel and a finely cut bicep. I figured she would make us all drop and give her twenty.

Well, friends, I gotta tell you.... if I'd been drinking a soda it would have shot out my nose when I saw this "little P.E. lady." If this lady is little, then I'm Thumbelina. I think it would be generous of me to say that this lady's pants size probably rivals the age range of my two sons. She didn't have a whistle - only a clipboard and she apparently loves to count minutes because our kids only got 10 minutes of actual movement time during their hour of P.E. today. (Heaven help poor Kenny tomorrow.) I have to admire her for standing out there for an hour during an icy windstorm, painstakingly counting minutes.

We will be "dinged" she reported in her most severe voice, because 85% of our 5th graders are at risk for heart disease. We do a crappy job of teaching P.E. and she really wants us to know about it.

My mind flashed back to Arroyo Seco Junior High School and my P.E. teacher, Mrs. Hammond, who had a pot belly that rivaled any solid 8-month pregnancy, and liked to scream at us during calisthentics in between drags on her Pall Mall.

If this lady has had ANY exercise in the past year, it has been a walk through the parking lot when everybody and their mother decided to beat her to the grocery store.

I did speak up, of course. I talked about the poor food choices and the necessity for staff development. I didn't mention the apparent dichotomy between HER and her JOB.

She "thanked me for sharing" and then wrote something on her clipboard.

I went an extra ten minutes on the treadmill tonight - just for good measure.

Dad's Birthday

Today is my dad's birthday. On this day in 1938, my grandparents welcomed into the world, gave him a good family name, and proceeded to give him a good childhood.

How does anyone really determine what a "good life" is? Did he live a good life or did he not? How to measure such a thing - that indeterminable quality that defines a life as having been well-lived?

If we measure by accomplishments, we could balance positives by degree. A good job, a loving wife, children, and a head full of hair. But is that enough?

If we measure by pursuits, we can look at life-long literacy that translated into a love of books and curiosity about many things. He loved a good conversation and could entertain people for hours with his wit, knowledge, and good humor. He loved the "manly pursuits" modeled for him by his father and uncle - strong, decent men of integrity who worked hard all their lives and enjoyed outdoor pursuits and working with their hands.

My father certainly didn't lack for looks. Until the day he died that man looked good. Women watched him and on what he would say were too many occasions in his life, he watched back. His weight problem just wasn't an issue. He still looked good - and therein lies one of the differences between men and women.

Did he courageously fight his demons? Those addictions that dogged him relentlessly his whole life? I think he did put up the fight - but something inside him just couldn't be convinced that tenacity needed a hold here - that sticking to something required more than good-looks and a winning smile. He had been beaten by them all his life - and not tasted success. To taste that success might have made all the difference. But how are we to know?

My father was a man of voracious appetite, telling one of his best friends that he "just couldn't stop" and push the plate away. When he was briefly successful, he was miserable - the demons just kept gnawing. So he opted for pills and surgery - what he perceived to be the "reasonable" way out. Medically speaking, I suppose it was - but was it the right way? The only way? In the end, did those drugs for weight loss contribute to his death? They are easy to blame.

And the drugs and alcohol - now there's an elephant in the livingroom! Drugs and alcohol - twin demons who took up residence with my father early in his life and steered him away from the very accomplishments he would have used to gauge his life in years to come. Drugs for pain, alcohol for release - from what?

Did my dad think he didn't measure up to my grandfather's standards? Did my grandfather ever take him to task for being weak in this way? Or did he remain taciturn and take refuge in his garage? These things I do not know. He certainly couldn't have been pleased - these were never behaviors the firefighter and cabinet maker pursued. He liked fast cars - but gave them up when one damn near killed his son. (Did he blame my dad for crashing that Austin-Healy? Or did he blame the car? Did my father feel blamed? By the time the story got to me it was a family legend. Humorous. Innocent.)

My father battled depression his whole life. Nobody discussed it. Nobody talked about it. Nobody petted or dressed the elephant in the living room. This depression was chemical and he came by it naturally - his mother assuaged hers with alcohol every evening of her life. (But always after 5:00pm.) His maternal grandfather was apparently quite the drinker and left deep and abiding wounds that his family will never discuss. To discuss it would be admitting weakness - moral weakness, not physical - after all, if you ask God to cure your affliction and it isn't cured, then you just didn't ask hard enough.

He was the most intelligent man I know. This sounds grandiose - after all, I've met many intelligent people. So take it with a grain of salt. But he was extremely smart in so many ways. What options this man had! Talk about the path not taken! A true scotsman lament - the would have beens. The coulda-shouldas. My father regretted many things. He told me this. He promised me he would wean off the pain-killers and I do believe he was trying. He supposedly stopped drinking but I have heard otherwise - and this is something best not discussed, right? What about that other road? The road that would have him sitting in his chair in South Pasadena right now and some pile of ash in a livingroom shrine.

So how to measure the man - this very fallible man born on this day 68 years ago in Glendale, California, to very loving parents and a warm, extended family?

I can only measure him by the depth of my love for him. I always forgave him - from the first days of my life he was never held accountable. I adored the man would forgive him anything. I miss him terribly and want to call him up almost everyday and tell him something, relate some tidbit to him, share a book, tell a joke. I miss him with a pain and a void that is unending.

I watch these psychic shows on television and fantasize that he is around me, watching me, wanting to tell me things. What would he tell me?

I wait for inevitable dreams of the man, since I have dreamed a lot in the past few years. But he has shown up twice. Once comically - the details I won't divulge but it was vintage dad, telling me he "couldn't go." The other was more recent - he drove up looking like my favorite professor and then put on sunglasses and became my dad - who walked by me without looking at me while those sunglasses got bigger and bigger and I'm thinking "Hobo Kelly" glasses. But this wasn't a funny dream.

I wish a happy birthday to the memory of the man because I can't tell him directly anymore. He is a pile of ash sitting in a shrine in a dark and sad apartment. He is surrounded by the detritus of his life - his things - the possessions that somehow link him this world in some tenuous and sad way. These things that we hold and caress in an attempt to conjure up the essence of the man, thinking, "He touched this. He touched this."

I am sad, bitter, and angry. I am these things because he should have been with me a lot longer. He shouldn't have died when he did. He was killed by his weaknesses - and what kind of justice is that? Where is the justice in the world when a man unable to control his appetites, his addictions, his needs - is done in by these very things? Definitely a human condition.

I miss my dad. I love him still. I wish a happy, happy birthday.

Seamus and the Trash Can

My long-haired dachshund, Seamus, has a fascination with the downstairs bathroom trash can. Once upon a time, he found treasure in there and that was enough to compel him to knock the can over every single day of his life.

I don't know what the treasure was, but - knowing Seamus, it was probably something disgusting. Each day he seeks this elusive treasure by knocking the can over and rifling the contents before walking away, tail between his legs in disapointment.

The can is round and metal - with raised designs to emulate something antique. It is a cream color and very attractive. It is also very loud when it topples - so we are clued in right away that the bathroom floor is littered. But it holds very little on a daily basis - used tissue, an occasional soap wrapper, and dryer lint. The really good stuff is upstairs in the master bathroom or the boy's bathroom - but for some reason known only to Seamus and his cognitive deficits - he doesn't bother those.

Seamus is my dog with little brain. I always say that this is probably a blessing for him since No Brain = No Headaches and Seamus is a very happy dog. Happy, but tenacious. He always looks for lizards when we hike, cats when we walk, and treasure in the downstairs bathroom trash can every single morning.

He rarely finds either - but that never stops him from trying.

You want fries with that?

Considering the gosh-awful week I've had with my Kinders, I am considering a change of profession. I have until June to practice asking patrons if they would like fries with that. What do you think?

****

Concerned: "Would you REALLY like fries with that? Or are you eating AT something?"

Annoyed: "Don't tell me... you want FRIES with that."

Incredulous: "You want FRIES with THAT?"

Sweet: "Okay, hon.. you want some fries to go with that?"

Motherly: "Honey, you may want some fries to go with that."

Grandmotherly: "Look dear... some fries would go nicely with that."

Bitter and Motherly: "You don't REALLY want fries with that, right?"

Righteous: "Um.. you don't NEED fries with that."

Prissy: "Fries? French fries? With THAT?"

Condescending: "I suppose that you want Fatty Old Fries with that?"

Terse: "Fries?"

Overbearing: "Okay, you want some fries to go with that. And a shake. And one of those lovely salads. And you need extra napkins. And some wipes for your hands because heaven knows you need wipes for those hands and here is an extra lid in case you lose the first one and DON'T forget to get a straw. Here. Here's a straw."

Surprised: "You WANT fries with that? REALLY?"

Elated: "Stupendous! You DO want fries with that! Wonderful! I am so very pleased! Fries it will be. With that."

Analytical: "Okay. I am thinking that you might like some fries to go with that. Am I right? Have you examined WHY you want fries to go with that? I mean, really THOUGHT about it?"

Bossy: "Fries with that."

Victimly: "Yeah, YOU could have fries with that. ME, I could never, ever, get fries with that."

Militarily: "You're gettin' fries with that."

;-)Kim

Why Be Redundant?

Every year the kids and I create The Tactile Alphabet Book. This is a book created by gluing something touchable to the page and accompanying it with a sentence strip that is framed like this: "___ is for ____." For example, 'Gg is for grass'. We generally complete one page a day.

So, you have to picture it. Each day the kids make their way to my table during our Group Time. We have already reviewed the letter of the day, sang UP to the letter of the day, and acted out the sentence with word cards. We've counted the words in the sentence, looked for letters we know, and practiced the sound that is spelled by the letter. We do this almost every day. This means I cut up almost 20 sentences per day and repeat the process 26 times, not including the cover title.

So last week one of our letters was Qq. It was a big hit, since Dominique, the Class Queen, has a 'q' in her lovely and long name. The kids cut out photocopies of quarters and glued them down to the page, then carefully placed the cut up sentence at the bottom: Q q is for quarters. We discussed how using one quarter would change the word to 'quarter.'

As luck would have it, 5 kids were seated at the table and all 5 happened to finish at the same time. Each day the kids have to read the sentence back to me before setting it on the floor to try. This means I listen to and watch 20 kids read aloud 20 sentences to me each day for 26 pages.

"Okay, Ethan. Read it back to me."
As expected, Ethan dutifully touched once under each word and recited, "Q q is for quarters."

"Alex? Read it back to me."
"Q q is for quarters."

"Carlos?"
"Q q is for quarters."

"Bernie?"
"Q q is for quarters."

"Genevieve?" (No response. Her head is in her hand. She looks put-upon, which is interesting since I am the one engaging in the repetitive behavior.)

"Gena? Genevieve? What does yours say?"
Gena dramatically shrugs her shoulders. Then she responds in her most put-upon of voices,

"The same as theirs!"

;-)Kim

Dominique and the Sweater

We were having a very productive "big book" session this morning - the kids were extremely involved and 'reading' with me with much enthusiasm. I was pleased with this on-task behavior and visible interest of the children.

Except for Dominique, who was enamored with her lovely lavendar sweater - worn for picture day but much too hot, as she loudly complained, to actually WEAR. So, I asked her to hang it up. She did. Slowly. The first time.

But somehow, the sweater ended up in Dominique's possession again - and she was twisting it, turning it, manipulating it, swinging it, and just generally ENJOYING the sweater WAY too much. I have learned to NOT ask her to go hang anything back up once she is on the rug. The chances are real good I won't see her again for a long, long time. The drinking fountain, the bathroom, the scented soap, the paper towels, the cubbies - temptation is far too great.

"Dominique. Hold the sweater on your lap," I instructed. She did. For 8 seconds.

We proceeded to read about the adventures of Mrs. Wishy-Washy and her constantly dirty animals that needed to be washed. While the kids read with much enthusiasm about the dirty pig, cow, and duck, Dominique proceeded to 'wear' the lavendar sweater so that the sleeve was covering her eyes like a blindfold. Then she began bobbing her head around, in a perfect Stevie Wonder imitation.

I had a choice: Interrupt the flow of the dirty animals and their daily scrub, or deal with Dominique. Snapping my fingers at her did no good. Hissing "DOMINIQUE!" only caused her head to bob in my general direction. So, we kept reading. It was a pragmatic decision.

We finished the book and the kids begged for another one. I chose this transition time to hiss again at Dominique, "DOMINIQUE! Give me that sweater!"

Then several of the children began pawing the cover of the book to enthusiastically point out the letters they know - and Dominique resumed her Ray Charles routine with the sleeve of her sweater draped dashingly across her eyes.

Throughout the next book the kids were engaged and pretty much ignored Dominique's head-bobbing with the sweater. At times she was up on her knees - the climax of her performance.

When the book was finished I put my head in my hands and quietly said to Dominique, the child I am constantly redirecting, "Dominique. What do you think I am going to say to you now?"

She bobbed her head in my general direction and then loudly replied, "I don't know! I can't SEE!"

Following Directions

Following directions is always a huge issue for young children. Listening skills take a long time to develop and kindergarten teachers really need the patience of saints.

Today I found that the children DO listen, at least some of the time. Maybe the problem isn't so much the directions as the GIVING of the directions. This was obvious today.

The children are working on an autobiography. Our page today listed their favorite color. I passed out the clipboards and crayons and asked the children to look at the nice black outline of a crayon - so artfully placed on the page. At the top of the page is the sentence frame, "My favorite color is ________________."

After reminding them several times NOT to tap, bang, or snap their clipboards, I asked the kids to look into the crayon box and pull out their favorite color. "Don't TELL me," I said, "Show me!"

They did. I had them wave it around while I checked for complete compliance. Then I directed the children to color in the oversized black crayon outline.

Since it is the beginning of the year, I can't really expect them to write the color word in the sentence frame. But hey - I have high expectations and why not give it a try? Why not allow them to exceed their grasp, go for the gold, and really shine as STAR learners? Why not give them the opportunity to be successful - and copy the color word onto the sentence frame?

I set out huge color word cards. We had reviewed them before the activity started. I got a bunch of blank looks. Understanding just wasn't there.

Then I hit upon this marvelous idea.

"You know," I said in a conspiratorial tone, "the name of your favorite color is RIGHT THERE on the crayon."

I showed them on about a half dozen crayons where the color word could be found. A collective "ooh" and "ahh" went up from the rug and I was pleased. The busily began printing.

They put their finished papers on my table, as directed, and got ready to go home. After taking them to the bus, I returned to the classroom to see how well this little endeavor turned out.

Creatively printed in areas IN and AROUND the sentence frame on almost all my students' papers was one word:

"CRAYOLA"

Dominique and the Cow

Ethan, one of the boys in my new class, is not very impressed with the cafeteria. He will eat all the fresh fruit but often examines the entree and decides to leave well-enough alone.

One day last week he asked me about the origin of cafeteria food. I told him it comes to school on a truck. He then asked where the truck gets the food. (The way he said 'food' gives a good indication how he feels about the daily fare.) I told him they get it from the market.

A couple days later, Ethan asks me HOW the 'food' gets to the market. I told him about farms. AND.. seizing the teachable moment, I grabbed the Gail Gibbons Farming book and set the class down for an informative read-aloud session.

Now, these kids are real talkers and getting them settled down for a story takes an Act of Congress and a LOT of elegant body language on my part. Often, I experience success - and the kids tune in to the book. All at the same time.

The Farming book was a huge hit. Background information sprung forth as we discussed harrowing the fields and planting the crops and milking the cows.

COWS? Oh my goodness. If the Wilsona Kindergarten owned a cow it would be treated like the cows of India. The kids really, really, loved the discussion of the cows and their roles in bringing us milk, cheese, yogurt, and butter. You would think some of these kids actually OWNED cows, they were so enamored and so interested. (Eliza informed me that her family has "sheeps," not cows, unfortunately.)

The kids FINALLY settled down so I could continue my read-aloud. It was almost a perfect teaching moment, the kids were SO engaged.

All of the sudden a giant caterwaul of sound emerged from the rug. Since I was really into the book and the kids' responses to it, I was more than a bit annoyed to look up and see Dominique up on her knees, swaying around, making a long and dreadful "ooooooooooooo" sound.

"Dominique! WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING?" I asked in my most controlled teacher voice.

She looked at me like I was crazy. Like I hadn't been there the whole time.

"I'm being a cow!"

How to Lose Your Mind in 11 Easy Steps

1. Type letter to parents and send it to print.

2. Walk to staff lounge to pick up letter and fill water bottle.

3. Fill water bottle from principal's private supply stashed in her office (but paid for by the school).

4. Leave water bottle on table while checking mailbox.

5. Leave cr*P in mailbox until tomorrow. Leave staff lounge.

6. Return to classroom door only to realize that water bottle is still on table.

7. Grumble to coworker about losing your mind and then go back to retrieve water bottle.

8. Return to classroom door and smack head in perfect "HEY I COULDA HAD A V-8!" motion. Grumble to different coworker about lost mind and return to staff lounge to retrieve the printed letter.

9. Search for paper to put in the empty paper tray so that letter can print. Wait patiently. When no letter appears, grumble to coworker about stupid computer, stupid printer, and inefficient, stupid networking system.

10. Find letter stashed in mailbox.

11. Return to classroom with letter, water bottle, and a look of complete chagrin upon face.

:-)Kim (who is bravely signing her name here.)

Little Beans and Mom

My 71 year old mother has never been fond of animals. She put up with the occasional cat but always had this slight aversion to dogs. Dogs are messy and slobbery and mom abhors messes and slobberyness.

To her credit, she has tolerated my dogs very well. In keeping with dogly tradition everywhere, they adore her. When gramma comes to visit they bark greetings and then attempt to cover her with doggy smooches. She is a good sport about this. Then they sit on her and around her and gaze at her with pure canine devotion. If they are lucky, she MIGHT toss a ball or a squeaky toy.

What mom is never ready for is the rambunctious puppy. Luckily for her, Duke and Seamus were full-grown when they were adopted and Augie was such a mellow puppy there are times I am convinced that puppyhood just passed him by. She was with me when I picked up Max from a breeder in Canyon Country. But Max was neurotic from Day 1 - so that doesn't count. When Mom visited, Max hid behind the couch.

Little Beans was introduced to Mom while still in the holding stage - Shannon was holding him and Beans cowered and shot hateful glances at anyone and everyone who wasn't Shannon or Dustin. It took Beans almost a month to figure out that I was not an axe murderer and that I did, indeed, truly belong in my own house.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that Little Beans is unfriendly. He just doesn't like people. This goes for most people. So when Mom came for a visit I figured Little Beans would stay out of sight. In true dogly fashion, however, Beans figured out that his mere puppyness would make Mom frantic and he used it to his advantage. He LOVED Mom right away. He bounced right up to her and began the process of Dogly Devotion. Puppy smooches gave way to puppy bites all along the hair line. Since mom values her hair and hates puppy smooches you can imagine she wasn't thrilled.

"I will pet you if you just sit there," Mom intoned in her best Great-Gramma voice. I had to laugh. Beans has many positions: Jump, Bounce, Leap, Run, Canter, Crawl, and Backstep - but SIT? No way. It never happens.

When Little Beans finally settled down a BIT - there are gradients of Puppy Serenity - Dustin came into the room. Beans LIVES for Dustin. (Well, Dustin, Shannon, and Augie - in order of preference.) Dustin is a 21-year old college student. He is very mature. Most of the time.

But on this day, when Mom needed calm and tranquility after an hour of doggy greetings and doggy attention and hyper-attentions of Little Beans, Dustin began playing with his puppy. Balls were thrown. Chases ensued. More toys were strewn about. High-pitched, ecstatic barks filled the air. Mom looked a bit stressed.

Our conversation was constantly punctuated by the leaping and bouncing antics of Little Beans, who found it more than necessary to stop by and smooch Mom about 2.5 minutes - and then bite at her hairline. Each time Mom reacted the same way - shrieking and saying, "No, no, no" as if Little Beans understands English. Seamus decided to get into the act by defending Mom and this involved much posturing and growling. Mom didn't feel defended at all. She was convinced that Seamus would just as readily attack HER.

When Mom left, Dustin and I were embarking on a walk - to help Little Beans expend some of this energy.

I think Mom went home and showered.

The Sharpener Boy

Let me tell you about Andrew. He had a possessive and obsessive relationship with the pencil sharpener - an electric one I bought at Staples when I noticed the classroom didn't have a sharpener. Andrew's affair make it necessary for me to buy a SECOND sharpener.

Brand new pencils became stubs within hours at the hands of dear Andrew, who would sharpen morning, noon, and night if I allowed it. Only dedication and tenacity on my part saved a grove of trees and reined in the unsated passions of dear, pencil-loving Andrew.

Andrew LOVED pencils and bought them constantly. He wheedled money from mom, dad, his grandparents, siblings, friends, neighbors, relatives, and perfect strangers. His collection was almost inspiring. And each morning, after arrival, Andrew began the long and loving routine of sharpening. And sharpening. And sharpening.

EACH pencil had to have a pinpoint, dagger-like sharpness. And EACH pencil he owned had to be sharpened. There was no rest or serenity for Andrew or any of us unless the entire collection was JUST SO.

I took to foraging in his desk at night for pencils in order to reduce his collection. I told him that only ____ pencils could be sharpened at a time and that he was hogging the sharpener. HE took to coming in earlier in order to use the sharpener while it was unattended and gloriously HIS alone. He took to counting his pencils because TOO MANY of them, in his opinion, ended up in the pencil basket and in the desk of classmates. He found this suspicious and unsettling.

His mother began coming into the classroom to reclaim the quarters Andrew liberated from her purse in order to feed his habit. She berated him, threatened him, grounded him, and even bought him a PEN. Andrew didn't miss a beat. Quarters, for a resilient and fixated kid like Andrew, were always obtainable.

I took to hiding the pencil machine, which was located in a nearby hallway. People complained. I didn't care. The PTO sent out a search party. I had to get devious. Several sympathetic teachers and I played "Musical Pencil Machine." Andrew began to get pale and shaky. He began foraging for pencils on the ground and in his classmates' desks. He lined them up by size and sorted them by color. The withdrawals were downright painful for him. But I was determined!

The day I caught him washing his pencils, I conceded defeat.

I bought a second sharpener and told everybody this was just for ANDREW. The class was relieved. I told Andrew he could sharpen before school, before recess, after lunch, and after school. He agreed that cutting down was a good thing. He also agreed to buy only one pencil a week. We shook on it.

When Andrew moved to 2nd grade, I sent the sharpener with him.

The teacher looked perplexed. She has NO idea.

:-)Kim

My "Flex" Day

Today I decided to work at home. I brought home a TON of work to prep for next week. I also brought the book binding machine, my new RED plan book, and loads of good intentions. I've never had a RED plan book before. I feel very festive about this.

As you know, the classroom was packed to the gills with mostly-useless stuff and I spent a lot of time last summer cleaning it out. The end of last school year is a huge haze to me - so when I left the last day of school I expected that ML would take her stuff and leave.

Well.......she did LEAVE. The stuff ? Nooks, crannies, boxes, tubs, bags, shelves... full of STUFF. That giant 'windy' sound you heard in mid-August was ME realizing that YET AGAIN I have to clean out a room before preparing for a school year.

The good news is that it is almost done. The lone exception is the top of MY filing cabinet (who has time to file your own stuff when HER stuff is permeating the place?), and the tops of the storage cabinets in the workroom. And I'll get to those when I get to them. AND I have a new room partner, Lupita, who is about as organized as my mother - so I will be having stress dreams about MY messes from now on. I only hope that Lupe doesn't own any white gloves. From one extreme to the other, huh?

So today is what the district calls a "flex" day. For some reason, you don't HAVE to work today but if you don't come in you are supposed to tell Janice - for what reason, I don't know. Maybe she adds and subtracts points. I should get extra points because of all the extra cleaning and de-cluttering I am doing. So today I am "flexing" but I forgot to tell Janice. I wonder if she will notice I am not there today.

The lone holdout in the PackRat Crowd is poor Charles. His room looks like a dang bomb went off and I am living in FEAR that Janice will ask ME to go in and clean it out. I think Charles is worried too - when I came over to his side of the building yesterday, he ran inside and locked the door.

:-)Kim

The Mary Hills and Bird Dogs

The dogs and I have been enjoying a local hike lately. It is a trailhead for the Pacific Crest Trail, located about 20 minutes from my house in San Francisquito Canyon. Usually we hike UP for about an hour and then come back. It is a steady climb but not too strenuous.

Today I decided to hike a bit further up the trail, since we had an earlier start. The dogs were all for it - especially since the area is covered with dove and quail - who love to tease and lead the dogs on - then fly away with much noise and disturbance. This does not dissuade the dogs, who would have NO idea what to do with a quail if they cornered one.

Now, the part of the trail that is an hour UP has what looks like a small hill. I am going to tell you that looks are deceiving. This particular hill is what I would call an OH MY GOD hill. But hikes are full of these hills and getting over them makes you feel very virtuous. Especially if you don't wheeze, moan, or land on your knees at any point during the ascent. Had I known what was BEYOND this hill, however, I just might have taken the adjacent off-road vehicle road instead. But NO. I stuck to the trail, just like a dedicated and responsible PCT hiker.

Cresting this trail is very invigorating because it is flat - for about 50 paces. Then there is another hill. This one is rutted and sandy and full of rocks. It is definitely an OH MY GOD Hill. Getting to the top, while huffing and puffing in a decidedly UNfeminine way, is a sure-fire way to give yourself a heart attack.

(And what is it with that old saying about men perspiring but women only "glistening?" It's running down my NOSE for heaven's sake!)

But guess what you see when you get to the top of this hill? YES! Another hill!

Friends, these are the HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD HILLS because once you see the third hill and begin ascension, you realize that you are GOING TO DIE. It will be an ignoble and lonely death - witnessed by three very dusty and slobbery weinie dogs who will immediately root around in the back pack for water and used kleenex - once you're dead.

It is at this point, as certain death looms and exploded lung will scatter along the trail, the dogs see more BIRDS. Despite the wheezing, hacking, huffing, puffing, and muscle-screaming climb, off they RUN at full dachshund speed to CATCH THE BIRDS. When they dejectedly return a few minutes later, completely chagrined and utterly birdless, I decide to go back before we lose the light.

EVERY single bird, rabbit, lizard, and potential bird, rabbit, and lizard is fair game. These short dogs do not understand the limits of human endurance and OFF THEY GO, careening down the HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD Hills with little to no regard for my safety, comfort, or well-being. The fact that I have the car keys means NOTHING. There are BIRDS!

This weekend I plan to return and see what is beyond the three hills. It is my fervent hope that they aren't quadruplets. But with my luck, it will be a mountain - home to a pack of wild turkeys.

:-)Kim

Bug Parts and Red Dye

Just why, exactly, are RED things so appealing? Would we feel the same way about something that is bright green? Or ebony black? Or deep purple? How about bright yellow? If they remove the red dye, the taste remains "red" but the color does not. Why does the red make it more appealing?

And why, exactly do we hate to eat bugs anyway? We eat cow muscle, chicken parts, and soda pop that POPS because we add an ingredient that we breathe OUT on a regular basis. We eat fish eggs and grind all kinds of ingredients together to create fatty delicacies like corn chips, jolly ranchers, and fake-butter popcorn. We actually eat PORK RINDS which, in essence, is the skin of a pig, deep fried - but we turn our collective noses up at BUG PARTS?

It doesn't make sense.

Think about it: Morgan Spurlock got horribly SICK after eating McDonald's food for a month. Ground up cow muscle with iceberg lettuce, wilted tomatoes and some gosh-awful sauce - everyday! Plus, deep-fried remnants of what were once potatoes and gallons of coca cola, which is loaded with refined sugar. But bug parts? We turn out noses up at bug parts?

See the commercial with the overweight guy going around the world sampling ingredients for Kashii - the fencepost cereal? He turns his nose up at grasshoppers on a stick, but digs his hand into some kind of grain that looks like mashed up wheat stalks. The grasshoppers are obviously cooked - probably slow-roasted over some open fire somewhere in the third world. They look crunchy don't they? But this guy, who looks like he could USE a steady diet of health food, won't touch them. The lady offering them? She looks healthier than HE does.

Something is topsy-turvy here.

Chickens Crossing the Road?

We all HEAR about the chicken crossing the road and we all PONDER the different answers to this eternal question, but in reality, has anyone ACTUALLY seen a chicken crossing a road? We see chipmunks, squirrels, deer, rabbits, and the occasional possum crossing the road. Sometimes we see snakes crossing the road - at night in the desert. Or coyotes or roadrunners. But chickens?

Don't chickens stay in barnyards or hen houses? What self-respecting chicken farmer would ALLOW an investment, like a chicken, to put itself in harm's way? Surely the farmers KNOW that cars use roads and will HIT unsuspecting chickens if they are not crossing fast enough.
Chickens meander and mosey too. They don't go fast unless a cat is after them. And what are the chances of a CAT chasing an actual chicken ACROSS a road?

It's like dogs named Fido. The mainstream media always refer to "Fido" when referring to your dog and people always seem to KNOW that FIDO is a code-word for DOG. Like it is some kind of really, really, popular name. But WHO IN HECK really has a dog named Fido? I have NEVER, ever, heard of a real dog named Fido.

Duke and Max, yes. Lots of dogs are named Duke or Max. But NO DOGS ARE EVER NAMED FIDO.

So - one of these days I am going to get a chicken, as soon as I can train my dachshunds not to KILL the chicken. The problem is they have a rubber chicken that they "kill" all the time. So I am not sure this is going to work. Dachshunds can't tell the difference between rubber chickens and real chickens. (Unless they are barbecued.)

AND - I am going to name the chicken FIDO.

Water, water, everywhere.....

I am surrounded by pools. They are everywhere. Big, clear, and inviting - they taunt me.
From my second floor window I can see 3 of them in the yards behind and beside me. The beckon and cajole. They call my name. But they are not serious.

Behind me is a beautiful built-in pool with elaborate stone work and one of those lazy pool snake things that is supposed to move around and keep it clean. But it doesn't move and the water is kind of green and murky-looking. In the 2 years I have lived here, nobody, EVER, swims in that pool. People live there - I can hear them, fighting, yelling, partying, yakking on the phone. But they walk AROUND the pool. They sit BESIDE the pool. They are NEVER, ever, IN the pool.

Kitty-corner behind me is another one. This pool is one of those molded things that was dropped into a hole in the ground. It is pristine and very blue. It is plain and not gussied up. It is surrounded by dirt. The original owners used it - usually late at night. But the new owners put a wrought iron fence around it and walked away. It stays clean. It stays pristine and inviting. But - it stays empty. Even their big black DOG can't get at it. He lays next to the sliding glass door, tongue hangning out, panting. But he can't go in the pool. It seems NOBODY can.

Next door is a family with 3 teenagers. The yard has never been landscaped. It is barren dirt and weeds - with a doughboy pool perched right in the middle. Every week some guy comes buy in a white truck to "take care" of the pool. I have seen the boys in the pool once and the mom once. The girl - never. The dad? Nope. It stands there amid the desert beseeching for swimmers. Nobody comes.

I work with several teachers who OWN pools. I was unabashed and unashamed to let them know that I envied them and that I REALLY LIKE TO GO INTO POOLS. They all say the same thing: "Come by anytime!" But they never call to invite me. They never write. And I am too self-conscious to just call them up and ask. (Phone phobia is not good at times like this.)

So I stand there on my little deck outside my bedroom looking at these pools and thinking about injustice. No, I didn't go into debt to get one of them. No, I didn't put up with pool contractors and loan officers and large earth moving equipment to get a pool. I didn't have to put up with some cheesy sign planted in my front yard announcing the construction of "yet another" pool by this very over-worked and over-priced company. So I can't say that I BLAME these people. Not really.

But sheesh. Here I am, willing to USE their pools, dog-paddling away, displacing a bit of water while they do whatever it is they do as they ignore their pools in this record-breaking heat. I am willing to love their pools, appreciate their pools, ENJOY their pools while they turn a blind eye to them.

It is some kind of cosmic torture - the unfairness of the world laid out before me, like dogs and kids with noses pressed against the glass, yearning to be free - an unable to get past the screen door.

Yes, I could go to the PUBLIC pool and swim with hundreds of screaming children. Yes, screaming. They don't swim, they scream. I deal with children all school year. I don't need them SCREAMING in my ear as I swim. I just don't.

I can go to my health club. I can endure the embarrassment as I walk from the locker room to the pool in my bike shorts and halter - AS IF I could get this fat butt into a bathing suit. But there is some kind of foamy stuff on the top of this pool. And there is some strange guy who swims back and forth and stares at me while I do the same. I've read too many true crime novels, I guess. And bacteria? Let's not go there.

Pools, pools, everywhere - and not a one for swimming.

The New Juicer

Well, friends... After much thought and consideration, I bought a Jack LaLanne juicer. It is very fancy and very expensive. But what price for good health? Watching Elaine LaLanne shove all matter of fruits and vegetables through that chute and creating wonderful, delicious, healthy juices just inspired me. After all, Jack is older than dirt and looks damn good. He also hauled a boat across a harbor with his teeth so there must be something to this juicing business.

I went to the market this morning and bought 3 different BAGS of apples - for that uniquely blended apple flavor. Did you know you can shove the WHOLE apple through the chute? Yes! The whole thing, although it is recommended that you remove the stem.

I also bought a whole BAG of oranges, 2 cantaloupes, a whole pineapple, and blueberries. Yes, 2 boxes of blueberries at almost $4 per box because they looked so delicious and they just chock-full of nutrients designed by Mother Nature to thwart all matter of illness. I also bought bananas but Elaine and Jack strongly stress in the little manual that one should NEVER put bananas in the juicer. It is BAD to put bananas in the juicer.

Here are my observations to date with regard to said juicer:

1. $4 worth of blueberries yields 2 teaspoons of juice.

2. One gala and one granny smith apple, stems removed, and one package of $4 blueberries creates 3/4 of a juice glass of juice. It is a purplish green color and tastes quite good.

3. Regardless of adherence to directions, the juicer is quite active. When the plastic "pulp collector" spins right off the juicer, which it did twice, fruit pulp flies all over the kitchen.

4. There are 8 parts which must be washed thoroughly when the juicer is finished creating 3/4 of a juice glass full of greenish-purple juice. All of these parts are interlocking and the remaining pulp adheres snugly.

5. Although dogs will eat almost anything, they will not lick up fruit pulp flung onto the floor, cabinet doors, or the refrigerator door. Any pieces that hit the dog dish will be disregarded.

I will say that my kitchen is squeaky clean after scrubbing and mopping but I am a little concerned about all this fruit in my house.

Jack and Elaine must have a maid.

The Strange Box

Taking possession of human remains is a very serious thing. It is one of those events that causes a great deal of introspection. There is an implied responsibility, a sense of the sacred. And - it is just plain weird.

How many times in your life can you turn to someone and say, "So - my father's ashes have been delivered to my house. They are in a box on the dining room table. The box is - lovely." It is a blond oak with brass corner things. When you open it, there is a brass urn - rectangular in shape with rounded corners.

The box is a very nice looking box but it is not the sort of box I would pick to place on the table as part of ordinary decor. I think the shape of it is funereal, but I may be influenced in my perception because I know what is inside. It is the sort of box you bury, but not in your backyard.

There is some poetic justice in having this box sit on the dining room table. It is the table my grandfather created in 1940 when he found the top of it underneath the house on Holland Ave. He turned the legs himself, attached them to the top and created a table. He placed that table in the dining room - where it remained for the next 65 years. My father sat at that table many times. He did his homework there and he tinkered with things there and he ate there - a thousand times?

What would he say had he known that the ashes of his body - all that remains of him on this earth - would one day rest upon this table and that his daughter would be unsettled by their mere presence? He might have laughed. Maybe he would have caressed the spot he thought his ashy bones would settle. Maybe he would have walked away, too overwhelmed to think about it.

My son walked past the box several times before realizing what it was. I lifted it out of the non-descript and everyday cardboard container and tried to hand it to him, unaware how heavy it was going to be. My son did not wish to handle the box. He stepped backward. Strange? How would I know?

Although tempted a few times to say that "my father was delivered" to my house by some guy driving a Ford Explorer, I resisted. My father is not in this box. What remains of my father has been reduced to something like 8 pounds of ashes - ashes that, if I remember correctly, look strangely like what gets scooped out of the barbecue after a few weeks of grilling. The body - the man - is gone.

"You have memories," the well-meaning say, and I want to reply that they are not enough. Memories are not enough. I have emotions. I have anger. I have a deep and abiding sadness. I have frustration that I cannot pick up the phone and tell him something. He is not here.

I have a box. A strange and unsettling box that needs to be somewhere out of my sight because it reminds me that he is gone. I had whole days when I was starting to feel better. Hours would go by and I wouldn't think about him. But now I am reminded. My father is dead. All I have is a box.

And a box on the table is not enough.

Sausage-Casing Girls

There is nothing quite like picking up the newspaper and finding that one of your favorite columnists is writing about something that you have noticed, something that niggled, pestered, and bothered but was let go. Because the topic is just not quite right for general discussion.

Well, if Robin Abcarian can write about it and the L.A. Times can show pictures of it, then I can talk about it.

AND.... I can write about it: The sausage-casing girls.

We have all seen them because they are legion, everywhere we go. The image of these girls, squeezed into too-tight hip-hugging jeans, pencil-thin teeny little tank tops, with rolls and rolls of fat hanging over like a spare tire - they are unavoidable. How in the world can ANYBODY stand to wear pants that crawl up the crotch and dig into the belly, and then ALLOW that tight squeeze to force the fat up and over - all the way around? Those little spaghetti-strap tank tops that are often worn in layers - are they really MEANT to hug the rolls between a too-small bra and a belt fastened on the very last loop valiantly holding up skinny jeans meant for somebody 30 pounds lighter?

I see these girls everywhere. They walk along with their exposed bellies jiggling like jello and I want to say something - like, "Do you realize how UNATTRACTIVE THAT IS?" Something like, "Have some pride! Respect yourself!" But I don't. I just can't. Maybe it's a generational thing comparable to the enormously baggy pants worn by some teen boys and the comical hair styles that often accompany them. The fact that I consider it silly and ridiculous to let half your boxers show on purpose doesn't dissaude any of them from doing it.

Robin Abcarian writes that most of these girls do not perceive themselves as fat - they buy the clothes they THINK they should fit into and ignore everything unattractive and uncomfortable about the reality of their bodies. One potential interviewee was actually 'hurt' and 'upset' that she was asked for an interview on this subject - "She thinks she looks cute, " her cousin explained. ("Cute?" Has the definition of the word changed that drastically in 20 years?)

This is not just one or two girls - seen just often enough to evoke comment. This is a majority of the teen to twenty-something female population. And to make matters worse, I observe it daily in my elementary school, little girls who are already overweight baring their bellies and celebrating their poor eating habits with tight jeans and teeny little tops not intended for real children.

I am aware every single day of my life that I am overweight. I hate having to buy and wear large size clothing in order to camouflage 40 extra pounds. I would LOVE to ignore it. I would LOVE to accept it. I would love to LOSE IT and KEEP IT OFF. I would even like to have it SUCKED OUT with surgical instruments. But I could never, ever, in a million years, leave the house dressed like a Sausage-Casing girl - "cute" as I may be in those Size 9 Levis.

Packrat Tales: Continuing....

Aunt Trudy loves containers. She has many, many, containers and she uses them to hold all matter of stuff. There is no container that is too old, too big, too small, or too mishapen to use. All containers have value and worth.

Most important are the bags. She has quite possibly saved each and every shopping bag she has ever encountered. Paper bags are neatly folded and stacked. She keeps them in closets, on the floor, and on top of her vintage 1950s era washing machine. Anytime she wishes to do laundry, the bags of bags must be moved - to the floor - until the laundry is finished. Then they are replaced to their perch on top of the washing machine.

Inside her closet are bags of newspaper bags. The kinds of bags the newspaper comes in are plastic - oblong and really not very reusable. But Aunt Trudy saves them and they sit in a brown paper shopping sack on the floor in her closet.

"Let me recycle these," I say, moving them out of the way to gain access to an elusive treasure she wants me to unearth from the back of the closet. "Oh no," she says. "I need them."

"What will you DO with them, Aunt Trudy?" I ask, straining to be patient as I move a box of very old-looking drapery hardware. "You have plenty of other bags."

"I use them when I sort things out," she says, as if sorting things out is something she does early and often.

The plastic grocery sacks she uses for garbage - quite literally since she refuses to USE the garbage disposal lest she "wear it out." She also uses them to line her trash cans and the extras area placed into this crafty-looking hand-towel plastic bag saver that an elderly neighbor gave her for her birthday ten years before. I would wager money that the FIRST bag she ever placed inside this thing still resides there.

If there is an after-market for 'disposable' microwave dishes, Aunt Trudy could make some nice pocket change. Each and EVERY disposable microwave dish that has EVER crossed her threshold remains in her kitchen until there is no space left. THEN they are stacked into like piles and put into bags and placed - yes! - on top of the washing machine with the paper bags. They too get moved down to the floor when a load of laundry is in the washer.

Yogurt and applesauce containers get stacked up too. After washing, they may get used to hold paperclips, rubber bands, nuts and bolts, staples, empty prescription bottles, tape, and old pens. They are everywhere. They are legion. Those unworthy of cluttering the house get relegated to the paper bag and will reside on top of the washing machine, to get a change in scenery whenever the sheets need laundering.

Since Aunt Trudy rarely buys shoes, the shoe box population in the house does remain manageable. These boxes are old and I imagine that anyone collecting old shoe boxes would consider them a treasure trove. On the bottom of most of the boxes are the lids - serving as coasters, no doubt, and spending more time on the bottom of the box than they EVER did in their rightful position on the top. The boxes have old coupons, old bank statements, letters, documents, medical bills, rolls of tape, address and phone books, clunky hardware, old tools, pictures, coffee cups with broken handles, key rings from touristy places, and painstakingly dated papers that need to be "gone over" before they are relegated to another pile, file, or the shredder tray.

"I could sure use these trays for paint at school," I say, hoping to reduce the clutter on top of the poor old washing machine.

"If you can use them, take them!" Aunt Trudy tells me, happy that her containers were saved and will now find a proper home.

"Wonderful! The kids will be so pleased. How about these? And these?" I hold up the bag of yogurt containers and plastic bread bags.

"Take them! Take them all." And before she can change her mind, I haul all this loot to the car, fully intending to recycle them once I returned home.

But later that night she calls my mother-in-law, in a panic.

"Kimberli threw out my containers! They were perfectly good! I can't find them anywhere."

"You gave them to her for paint at school," reminds my patient mother in law.

"Well.... I just hope I don't NEED any sometime soon." AS IF she couldn't use those useless newspaper bags.

The Packrat Files: Post 1

My 96-year old great-aunt is a packrat. ANY piece of paper that enters her home must be dated and then painstakingly read with her magnifier. Since this is a tedious process, the papers back up.

The stack I went through last week went back to 1998 - I kid you not, and MANY of these papers were advertisements for things she cannot possibly ever use. She is loathe to let ANYTHING go without having personally inspected it so I will try to be her eyes and speed the process up a bit.

"Fifth grade girls science camp, Aunt Trudy?" I ask ask I pass the ad to the recycle pile. "I guess not," she replies, somehow disappointed. "How about vinyl siding - Sears had a sale in 2004," I say with a perfectly straight face.

"I just got the house painted. Why would I want siding," she snaps.

"So - I can toss it?" (I toss it.)

"I don't know. You never know if you are going to need siding."

She has boxes and boxes and bags and bags of papers - receipts, old bills, flyers, company mailings, prospectuses, statements - you name it. One bag has cancelled checks from the 1950s written on a bank no longer in existence. But she won't HEAR of throwing them away because she may NEED them one day.

She has a shredder. Many, many papers are stacked on a tray in front of the shredder. But they don't get shredded until she's had the chance to "go over them" one more time - with the magnifier - just in case something was put there in error.

All over the house are these stacks. With each stack there are boxes - small, medium, and large - filled with rubber bands, paper clips, stubby pencils, markers, grease pencils, odds and ends, measuring tapes, staple removers, antique staplers, index cards, string, pictures, business cards, letter openers, envelopes - and other detritus of the disorganized. The boxes are ALL old shoeboxes or vintage boxes that she could never part with and they all hold mysterious treasure. One has postage stamps going back to the Nixon era, along with penny and 2cent stamps to use when you have to make up the difference because postage is no longer 21 cents.

One day I arrived and she was indignant. She has fired, ONCE AGAIN, a companion sent over from an agency that charges well for its services. This woman's crime? She went through the cupboards and freezer - tossing out cans that my aunt had diligently labeled - with dates going back to the late 1980s. 12 "perfectly good" cans of cranberry jelly from the early 1990s were tossed, along with packages of meat that only the bravest of souls would have defrosted for further inspection. These meat packages had been laid ON THE FLOOR and my aunt was carefully reconfiguring them in the freezer.

"Perfectly good meat! On the FLOOR. Right there!" She was incensed. The wastefulness of some people is just something she cannot fathom.

And speaking of freezers..... on top of the erstwhile stack of paper nearest her magnifier was a letter from SoCal Edison offering rebates to anyone buying an energy-saving refrigerator or other appliance. Clipped to it were several refrigerator ads from the local paper that she had collected over the course of several days.

"Is there something wrong with your refrigerator?" I asked her, leafing through pictures of stainless steel side-by-sides and the latest Sears Kenmore over and under model - complete with icemaker, water dispenser, and a little compartment for those items you need in a hurry.

"No, of course not. It's only 28 years old," she snapped.

"Well...then why all these ads?" I ask carefully.

"There's a rebate. $50.00!" She huffed at me like I was some sort of buffoon.

"So.. you are going to buy a new one?" I venture, steeling myself for the verbal attack that was sure to come.

"Of course not! Why would I?" She answered.

"So... why do you want to keep these ads .... and this letter from Edison about the rebate?"

"Just IN CASE!" She snorted. "JUST IN CASE! It might be a good deal."

"All right. Shall I create FILE for you? A 'Just in Case' Refrigerator file?"

"No. I don't need a new refrigerator. This one's only 28 years old."