California Sweating vs Virginia Glistening: A Cavey and Kim Adventure

After a day of antique shopping, Cavey and I decided we needed some real excercise. The original plan was to use the treadmill but that evolved into a brisk walk.

Now, a brisk walk in California is nothing much. It may be hot, but it's a dry heat - so it is best to walk in the evening or early morning during the summer.

In Virginia, a brisk walk means losing 5 pounds of water weight due to the humidity. If I have not adequately described the humidity, allow me to take a moment to do so.

Picture taking the hottest shower you can stand. Once you step from the shower and begin drying off, you long to open the bathroom door, don't you? Notice how steaming HUMIDLY HOT it is until you open that bathroom door?

Okay. So now I have described for you the typical humidity in Virginia at 6:30pm.

So, we are taking this brisk walk and I am absolutely ecstatic over the many things that are beautiful in Virginia.

It is green - everywhere. Just rolling green lawns, broken up by huge green trees and thick green shrubbery that comes from the richest looking black and brown soil you've ever seen. Whole plants just spring up out of nowhere along the side of the road and in the ravines that run in front ofsome houses. In fact, whole shrubs can spring up overnight in a sidewalk crack.

"Those are beautiful flowers," I exclaim as we pass a particularly lovely brick house with an abundance of yellow and black flowers and huge green leaves and stems. "Oh those...? My mama's been tryin' to get rid of those things FOREVER..." responded Cavey.

And the houses? They are so full of character you want to cast them in a movie. They are beautiful homes dripping with architectural amendments that literally make me gasp. And shutters? Real shutters! Clapboard? Detached garages? Basement windows?

Lest you think me odd (or a closet architect), let me tell you that shutters in California tend to be factory fabricated and encased in polymer. All houses look alike and vary only in shades of beige. And if flowers grow in the desert, it's because their owners are anal-retentive and bring the plants in every winter. And half the summer.

Here there is brick and moss and NO FENCES! The lots are huge and this is such a beautiful neighborhood.

So naturally, I went on and on about that. Cavey looked a bit perplexed but she is a good hostess and let it go.

She told me as we passed each house the name of the occupants. These are neighbors and friends she and her husband's family have known for a lifetime.

"Those people there, in the white house? They haven't lived there very long.... only 10 or 15 years," she said, while I pondered that I don't even know the last names of any of my neighbors, although we are good about waving to each other.

After our brisk walk we returned to Cavey's lovely home and I quickly noticed that there is more than just architecture that makes us different. I was sweating profusely, at the point of dripping.

Cavey is not even glistening. Neither one of us got our heartrate up too much with this brisk walk, but I am rapidly losing water weight while she just looks a little "bothered."

I was then enticed by Cavey's children to jump on the trampoline. I am not sure how long I lasted, but at some point, I had to accept the fact that these children were
trying to kill the visitor from California.

"You sure do sweat a lot, Mrs. L," said the lovely and talented younger child.

"The only thing funnier than you on the trampoline, Mrs.L.... is Mike [the cat]," offered the exquisitely handsome son.

Not sure what to say in response to these effusive compliments, I stood there gulping water in an attempt to replenish what I just dripped out into the back lawn.

"Um.. Mrs. L? You're gonna take a shower, now...right?" asked the curiously sweat-free daughter.

"You think I should?" I replied.

Ever the Southern hostess she smiled. "Well... only if you want to."

She did look noticeably relieved when I emerged from the shower and represented myself - all cleaned up.

I think the poor child was truly concerned - after all, I am sleeping in her bed.

:-)K

My Cat Otis Has Quirks

Quirks are good things because they cause a second look. Anybody with a quirk - or several, since they tend to come in a package - is noticed and considered different. Set apart from the madding crowd, if you will.

But in a cat they are curious. I say this because my cat Otis is full of quirks and they only serve to beg the question: Why?

If I knew the answer I could be on Animal Planet. The pet psychics would be calling ME for advice. But I cannot explain. I can only illustrate.

I will list them his quirks:

1. He loves Dan dearly and goes out of his way to sit ON Dan or near him when Dan is home. But he never pesters Dan for food.

2. He can take me or leave me - except when he is nearing the hunger stage. If he is within 2 hours of possible hunger, Otis tends to keep a careful cat's eye out for me. If I am away, he in in my space within seconds of my return home.

3. Otis has staked out "spots" around the house. These include, but are not limited to the following locations: Under the dining room table, under the livingroom end table, the computer chair, the back of the couch (never the loveseat) in the family room. NEVER the livingroom. He loves to lay just outside the doggie door so the dogs can't leave. The dogs are polite enough to not step on Otis when he does this. If they get out through the door, however, all bets are off. They will trample over him to get back inside, using the pet door. Otis also favors the carpet next to my bedroom's French doors, but only during the Fall, Winter, and early Spring. Never in summer. He also likes the newspaper, but ONLY if I am reading it.

4. Otis will yowl at you if he is in the front yard - never the back yard.

5. He tolerates female guests and will allow them to pet him. But he adores, unequivically, any and all male guests, including those we don't know. He follows the cable guy, delivery people, and meter readers all over - dogging every step in an attemt to rub against their masculine legs. He also likes boys, but in moderation. He barely tolerates girls. Even as a kitten, this was so. The boys in the neighborhood could haul that little fluff ball all over heck and gone on their bikes or skateboards. But he leaped out IMMEDIATELY if any of the little girls attempted to put him in their baby buggies or bicycle baskets.

6. He likes chicken but hates beef.

7. He likes milk but hates cheese.

8. He will sleep across the shoes tossed against the family room loveseat. The more the shoes, the better he sleeps.

9. Otis loves bags. If one sticks around long enough, such as the one in the office filled with school supplies, he attempts to bond with it as only a cat can do. He kneads it, bites at it, and then acts surprised when he gets plastic in his mouth.

As I write this, Otis is laying across the above referenced bag. It now has several "love bite" holes in it and surely can't be comfortable for resting. But this is his way of letting me know that he just MAY be ready for his second helping of Fancy Feast today. It IS that time and he just wants to be sure I remember.

But it won't be me he thanks once he is fed. He will wait for Dan to get home and then greet him with a slam against the leg and a lap visit as soon as the man settles into his chair.

If I had MY way, he would then yack up some chunks of plastic - but then again, maybe I am being petty. After all, he's a cat.

Or maybe I'm just being quirky.

The Farcical Fable of the Fearsome Feathered Mamba

It occurs to me I need to tell this tale in order to explain the 'feathered mamba' reference in my earlier swimsuit post.

I assure you this story is funny - and all at my expense. Which means it is funny for most people but slightly embarrassing for me.

About 4 years ago, my friend Cavey invited a bunch of us from the Professional Reading Chatboard on Teachers.net for a get-together at her mother's lake house in Virginia. The eMails and phone calls were flying during the month before the trip and one of the concerns I expressed was about snakes.

You see, I am not really a snake person although I do try to be and have become significantly less phobic over the past 10 years. The one snake fear I have to deal with accompanies my hikes on the Pacific Crest and other trails in the region. During the summer and autumn months, the rattlesnakes are out. Of all my hiking trips, I've only seen one and I heard one in a bush last September. But the fear is real, especially if I am hiking alone.

But other areas of the country have lots of different kinds of skeery snakes. And some of them like water. I have watched National Geographic and the Animal Planet enough to know that I am not being histrionic here. It is perfectly logical to expect snakes in Virginia - especially near water.

So naturally I asked and was not too pleased when Cavey casually replied that yes, they do indeed see snakes at the lake. "But they won't hurt you," she said. "Unless it's a copperhead."

I almost cancelled my tickets. I came this close. Black snakes? Copperheads? "Yeah, they like to curl up down by the water," Cavey said, with way too much serenity in her voice for my taste.

So, needless to say, I had to scan like a hawk the first time I went near the lake. There is a beautiful dock and cabana by the water - so wilder elements don't often make an appearance, I am told. Ducks, yes. But black snakes? Copperheads? "Well.. there was that one time..."

I swear that people in the South are much too relaxed about these things.

"They won't HURT you," Cavey said when we were treading water one day.

This, of course, is small comfort to somebody who absolutely dreads the possibility of sharing water space with a black snake. Well, with any snake, to be truthful. And with my luck, it would be a copperhead who spent too much time last night taking snakey licks out of Bubba's beer can - the one that dumped over on the dock down the shore. So he'll hit the water with one heck of a reptilian hangover, making him mean as a .... well, mean as a snake.

I was a grown up about it though, and took to the water like a fish. I loved it and since no snakes were ever in sight, I relaxed a little bit every single day.

So one lazy lake afternoon, I was treading water and talking to Cavey, Brad, and Grace as they lounged on the dock, nursing glasses of sweet tea and discussing vacation-related things like reading comprehension and the efficacy of computer-based fluency programs. In the water with me is Nik, Brad's wife, who is half asleep on the inner tube, lifting her head periodically to talk Brad into taking a swim or to proclaim that she is really, really, happy here in the water.

Cavey needed to repeat something to me because I hadn't quite caught it and did the old "HUH?" thing from the lake. As she came to the ladder she adjusted her sunglasses and began peering over my head towards an area of water about 20 feet away from me. After peering for a couple seconds, she leaned her head forward and looked harder. This caused me to turn around to see what she was looking at. Now, this is where accounts will differ. I truly don't remember saying anything but in my mind I was convinced that she was watching a big black snake swim through the water. Had I been rational, I would have turned around and looked better myself.

But I did not.

Somebody on the dock asked, "What is it?" at the same time I was swimming faster than I ever had in my entire life, counting the year I was on the swim team. I hauled my ample self UP the ladder and OUT onto the dock in one swift move that caused Cavey to reel backwards and almost dump her tea in Grace's lap. This caused Grace to jump up, which caused Brad to jump up.

In the meanwhile, Nik has seen me swimming wildly for my life and figures she will haul that tube to the ladder first and ask pertinent questions later. Her eyes had that "deer in the headlights" look as she attempted to get OUT of the tube and ONTO the dock.

Nik's reaction only served to reinforce that I was right all along - there are black snakes in that lake water, I just knew it! Nik saw it! She had to! Look at her face! Look how fast she swims in that tube!

Now, THEY will all tell you that I was the one who actually SAID the word "snake," which caused Brad and Grace to leap up and Nik to begin paddling hard enough to send her heart into arythmia. But I am sure that it wasn't me and that I was simply reacting the way any normal person would react when a really good and trusted friend starts peering at the water behind you in a very suspicious way.

As Nik is gasping for breath and I am turning around to see how many inches I came from certain snakey contact, Grace and Brad and Cavey are looking at the water very, very, closely.

"What is that?" asked Brad.

They all peered closer.

And then in a second and a half I became the butt of any and all future lake jokes.

"It's a stick," Brad said, with no small measure of delight.

"A WHAT?" yelled Nik, who was still clutching her chest.

"A stick," chortled Grace. "Yes - a stick!" I think she slapped her thigh but I am not certain. I was still reeling in fear and embarrassment.

Cavey is holding her sides laughing, snorting sweet tea out her nose while Brad points out the "stick" for Nik. She shoots me a rather incredulous look.

"Yes," said Brad dramatically. "It is the fearsome lake mamba. The feathered mamba, to be precise."

"Yep, that's it," agreed Cavey. "The feathered one."

"I need a beer," said Nik, and headed off towards the house, squelching her baser instict to push me back into the water, I am certain.

No amount of 'splaining on my part did any good. They would not agree, ever, that that moving black stick in the lake resembled a snake.

They also thought it was funny when I grumbled, practically under my breath, that mambas don't have feathers.

Swimming Suit Dilemma: A Whale Tale

I am looking forward to my upcoming trip to Virginia this weekend - to visit Cavey and the Rocket Scientist.

Since we MIGHT get to go to the lake house (to feed the mighty Feathered Mamba), I need something to wear while swimming.

I have two perfectly reasonable lined lycra tops that will camouflage any and all abdominal imperfections, like scarring, stretch marks, and (oh yeah!) fat.

The bottoms, however, are really bicycle shorts and acceptable if I am swimming alone or with a similiarly-proportioned-friend - but not suitable for the lake house, where the women are tanned and fit and full of collagen. (And the men are above average.)

When these bottoms get wet they are less than attractive.

So - I went to Mervyns and looked.

And looked.

And looked.

Mervyns has all manner of swimwear on sale, which is a good thing except nothing was right.

I found some black speedo type bottoms. Of the scores of black Speedo bottoms hanging on the rack, flung into the aisle, and piled all over the floor, there was exactly ONE in my size. ONE pair that didn't send rolls of muffin top over the edges for that quirky "I am so accepting of my fat self" presentation. They did have quite a few "Size Moose" Speedo bottoms but I, thank goodness, didn't need those. "Size Cow" is bad enough.

I have a gray lycra top. There are NO such things as gray bottoms or gray sport shorts to wear over the black speedo bottom. So I can't match the gray lycra top.

I have a blue lycra top. There are no such things as blue bottoms or blue sport shorts to wear over the black speedo bottoms. So I can't match the blue lycra top.

I found some blue Adidas sport shorts with stripes. They weren't exactly what I had in mind, but I was getting desperate. The stripes come in purple, white, pink, and
green. There was exactly ONE pair with white striping that would reasonably go over the black speedo bottoms and match the blue lycra top.

One try-on quickly determined that these are the type of shorts that will immediately, without hesitation, without passing Go to collect $200, fall off the split second the Rocket Scientist hits the gas and I shoot up on water skis. There I will be: In front of God, Bubba, and everybody with my fat self in black speedo bottoms and blue Adidas shorts riding along my knees.

OR WORSE: The Rocket Scientist will hit the gas and I will tumble, head over heels like a skipped rock - resembling Baby Beluga with blue sport shorts clinging to the right ankle and the left water ski tumbling towards Maryland.

For now, I am relying on Plan B. I will wear the black speedo bottoms, the ONLY one in my size, under the blue bicycle shorts that match the blue lycra top.

I will look frumpy next to the beautiful southern women but I can comfort myself by remembering that I am slimmer than I was the last time I visited Virginia. And that whatever I managed to wear THAT trip, while water skiing or leaping from the water to escape the Feathered Mamba, stayed on. At least, there are no extant pictures to prove otherwise.

I can't recall what I wore - I only remember Cavey saying, when I finally emerged from hiding under my towel, "What are those, hon? Bicycle shorts?"

Hope for the Brown Dog?

Our long-haired dachshund, Seamus, never has headaches.

This is because, as the saying goes, you must have brains to have headaches. And since Seamus has never demonstrated any intellectual prowess, we don't think he has much in the cranial region.

This isn't to say we don't love him dearly. But this is a dog who will go in and out the doggie door, even if the French door right next to it is WIDE open. He tries to smother you with kisses - with chew bones, dog toys, and Meaty Bones in his mouth.

This is a dog who loves to hike but simply cannot go off-leash. He just doesn't understand that "off leash" means he may roam around a bit, but he must stay near ME. Augie and Duke have modeled this procedure for Seamus many times. He still takes off like a houng dog after a rabbit - especially if he sees a rabbit. And dachshunds ARE hound dogs.

It isn't that I haven't attempted to train him. I wait until he's a bit tired so I can get his attention and then let him off-leash and constantly praise him for staying on the trail. ("Good trail, Seamus! Good trail!")

If he goes into the bushes I call him back, taking care to keep my tone neutral. Most of the time he comes back and I praise him again ("Good trail, Seamus, Good trail!")

But when he is off-leash he acts possessed and eventually he takes off further and further away from me - until I having to run to stay caught up with him. This makes him run AWAY from me. I've never beaten this dog in his life, but he is certain that once I get a-hold of him after a chase UPHILL, I will pound on him. So he keeps running.

Augie is very good at finding Seamus and I suppose that he does his canine best to convince the brown dog to rejoin the pack. But I think Seamus speaks a different dialect.

Each morning, Seamus starts the Rancho Vista/Palmdale West Division of Canines Meeting. It is their morning meeting and apparently quite important because all the dogs participating seem to have a LOT to say. Sometimes Seamus starts this meeting too early and I have to call him back to bed. But once the minutes have been read and old business covered, Seamus is loathe to give up the podium to Daisy next door, who I am sure could run the meeting without him.

Seamus is a OneDog Alarm System - warding off attacks by trash trucks, mail carriers, UPS drivers, Mormon missionaries, neighborhood dog walkers, and neighors standing or conversing in their own yards. In fact, without even SEEING a neighbor or a dog walker, Seamus discerns them and barks. And barks. And barks. From the BACK of the house.

He doesn't respond to verbal commands to cease barking. I have read the dog trainer books by Uncle Mattie, Cesar's Way, by the Dog Whisperer, and looked up online dog training manuals. To no avail. None of these supposed experts has ever dealt with a dog like Seamus, I am sure. And to compound the cacophony, dachshunds are hard-wired to always, always, always have the last word. Even if it is a full minute AFTER the initial barking frenzy.

So, when the construction dude arrived today to dig big holes and cut pieces of concrete with very loud tools, Seamus went on alert. As if the sound of a jackhammer working on the patio isn't loud enough - Seamus must bark loudly and often to express his supreme concern. And to compound the problem, once Seamus actually SEES the construction dude, all he11 breaks loose, despite my attempts to calm him down and tell him this is a FRIEND not a FOE and this is GOOD what he is doing, very, very GOOD. Patio covers are GOOD for dogs in summer, very GOOD.

So I took Seamus to the chair and ordered him to stay there. Dan laughed and Seamus immediately tried to leave. I stood there and ordered him back. When he didn't comply, I picked him up and put him back on the chair. Then I praised him for staying.

I praised him a LOT. And he stayed.

And then he attempted to get down but one order from me to get back to the chair sent the low dog scuttling. He jumped up on the couch. I decided that wasn't a battle to fight, so I praised him again.

And... he went over the the chair and promptly flopped down. And he stayed!

I'm not sure - but maybe there's hope for Seamus and I can teach him commands.

I just don't look forward to hauling that chair up the Pacific Crest Trail.

;-)K

Heroic Dogs...But what would MINE do?

While getting my hair cut today, the conversation in the salon turned to the heroic little chihuahua in Colorado who jumped in front of a hostile rattler, saving the 1-year old grandson of the homeowners from a nasty, and possibly fatal, snake bite.

Since I hadn't heard the story, I Googled it when I got home and found there are many heroic dog stories out there - dogs who fetch phones for disabled owners, dogs jumping in front of lunging alligators, dogs chasing nasty critters out of houses.

The salon owners, knowing I hike with my dachshunds, told the salon group that my "lowdawgs" would probably do the same for me.

But I'm not so sure.

Yeah, they do the usual barking frenzy when anybody walks in front of my house and they happen to see them. Any and all delivery people are suspect and heaven help ANYBODY walking towards me while we are walking or hiking.

That is, unless the dogs are tired. Then, they are as docile as lobotomy patients and move aside. If I stop to talk, they stand there and allow themselves to be petted. Or they flop to the ground for a few minutes of panting shut-eye.

When the speech teacher at school brought me a baby glossy snake, I couldn't get it to eat. So, I decided to to let it go in an area rich with the glossy snakes' favorite food - juvenile lizards. When I released the snake, Augie sniffed around with much interest. When we passed the location on our way down the trail, Augie went back to the exact release spot - to sniff some more. But the snake was gone - hopefully dining on lizards and shouting, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, I'm free at last!"

But the most telling event that makes me wonder about my dogs taking a rattlesnake bite for me involves Duke and a walk up the San Francisquito trail.

Up ahead, about 20 minutes into our hike, I spotted a snake laying across the trail. Not close enough to discern a species, I called to Duke, who was trotting happily
ahead of me.

"Duke!" I shouted. "DUKE! Stop!"

Duke promptly jumped over the lounging reptile, turned around, and sat down. Luckily for both of us, it was a gopher snake and it couldn't care less about me, Duke, or
the fact that his long snakey body was completely blocking the trail. (Snakes do this because they CAN. Showoffs.)

And what do you say to your dog when he obeys - albeit a bit too slowly? Castigating him for the possibility of sitting down next to a rattler would only tell him, in
complete canine understanding, that he did a bad thing - so it's better NOT to listen when she yells, "Duke! Duke! Stop!"

Or do you praise him for sitting down, albeit a bit too slowly? In his canine brain will he think that sitting next to a snake is a GOOD thing?

It's just so complicated.

My friend and teaching colleague, Pam, spent $175.00 to take her two dogs to a rattlesnake "desensitization" class. She was very proud of this, since she and her
husband and just built a lovely home on a golf course - that backs right smack dab up against prime snake territory.

The course involved a live rattler whose jaws were muzzled shut, making him one happy snake, I am sure. The snake was placed in various positions while the instructor gave various directions to the dogs and their owners. Small electric shocks were involved. This serves to upset the dogs and unsettle the owners.

The muzzled snake probably got some perverse satisfaction out it.

"Now we can walk anywhere and not worry," Pam said happily and much confidence when I asked her how the training class went.

But a week or so later, Pam was not so sure. It seems she took the dogs for a walk behind the house, up on a trail. Not only did she completely miss the rattler laying in the road (she walked over it), her dogs did too. According to her husband, who was walking behind them, "all of them just stepped right over it without a look." One of the dogs even turned around to sniff it. The husband's sharp warning scared the dog more than any old electric shock, that was for sure.

So, while Pam's dogs will probably bond with any trail snakes, mine will probably hop over them. Or sniff them.

Not too big a chance our dogs will "take a bite" for either of us.

Unless they're tired. Then they might flop down ON them and wait to be petted.

:-)K

The Hades that is Time Warner Cable's "Customer Service"

I just wasted the past 90 minutes trying to solve an internet connection problem that has plagued me for weeks. It has gotten worse over time.

Each time I call Time Warner, the company that bought out Adelphia, I go through a phone labrynth until I reach the technical support department for internet service.

I have done this so many times now that I know which buttons to push before they recorded voice finishes her inane directions - thus getting me connected THAT much
faster. Of course, most of the time it is 'hurry up and wait' since a 'technician' is always "helping other customers" and I am to "please stay on the line" and I will be helped - eventually.

And each time I am connected to a pleasant young man who leads me through a series of computer hoops in order to correct the problem. It has gotten to the point that I try most of this stuff BEFORE I even call - thereby saving precious time.

Once I called and got a pleasant young lady - but she concluded that the problem was with my Norton Internet Security and that I needed to call them. I spent the next
55 minutes talking to some guy named Saresh or Harish in India - before he concluded that the problem was with the cable company - and NOT Norton. I was to call back Time Warner. I did and we did a comical rerun of the first call to the young lady - only this time it was a pleasant young man.

Go to "settings" and repair the connection? Check.
Shut down computer and start it back up again? Check.
Shut down computer, unplug little wire, count to 45 and
then hook it back in and start it all up again? Check.

I also try the cheater way - unplugging and replugging the little cable wire while the 'puter is on. THAT trick used to work but it doesn't anymore. The computer or the modem or whatever is plaguing me has caught on.

So today, Bryan, the pleasant young man assigned to help me, put me through the hoops. We went to the "black box" and did all kinds of "pinging" in order to find out what the problem is.

"Why don't you just reset the modem?" I asked. "That always seems to work."

"I want to get to the root of this problem," he said. "If you don't mind."

"Good man," I said. "Let's get to the root of this problem."

We disabled Norton and Pinged in the black box some more. (You get to it by clicking on 'run' from the Start box and then typing in "cmd.")

This took FOREVER. And the phone connection wasn't that good. The phone problem has been going on ever since I had to switch from SBC to stupid Verizon. But that is another post altogether. (I get to pay MORE for my telephone and get worse service.)

Then, Bryan told me that the problem was most likely the modem. I asked him if the modem was INSIDE my computer and he said no, it was the cable box I got from Adelphia. The one with all the lights.

He said he could hook me up to my local service provider to set up an appointment for a service technician to come out and replace the box. The last time one of these
pleasant young men attempted to do that, I was connected to San Antonio, Texas, and was told off by a rather unpleasant young man who wanted to know why I called HIM
when I am clearly in California and not San Antonio, Texas.

"I didn't call you, I was connected to you by somebody at your help desk," I replied, feeling foolish and annoyed all at once.

"Well, ma'am.. I can't help you. Nothing for you comes up on my screen."

"So what do I do?" I asked him. "Can you connect me to somebody who can help me?"

"No - you will have to call back the place you just called. Ask them to connect you again."

Needless to say, I didn't call back again - until today when ONCE AGAIN I had connection problems. After spending almost 2 hours with me on the line, Bryan connected me, successfully, to rather UNpleasant young man named Robert.

"What can I do for you?" Robert asked in a monotone. I started to go through the whole story and then said, "Bryan gave me a ticket number. Would that help you?"

"I got the ticket number." (Dead silence.) So that means he has the whole sordid pinging history right in front of him. Apparently he didn't understand it. Bryan assured me that all my "history" would be on the screen for local company.

Then he spoke. "What can I do for you?"

I patiently told him about my internet problems and he asked if the little box's lights were lit up.

"Yes. They are always lit up," I replied.

"Well. Then there's nothing wrong with the modem."

"But Bryan determined that it WAS the modem." I said, getting annoyed. "What should I do now?"

He waited awhile and then said, "You can just monitor it. Watch it and see if the lights go out."

I almost laughed. I am to "watch" the box? THAT will solve this problem?

"The lights NEVER go out," I said through rather gritted teeth. "And the computer won't connect to the internet."

"If the lights are on, the problem is not with the modem."

"Then what IS THE PROBLEM?" I asked patiently, once again.

There was dead air and I was certain that Robert had hung up on me.

"If the technician comes out and there is no problem you are going to be charged a service call."

"But if the problem is the modem - then how can I be charged?"

"If the lights are on, the modem is not the problem."

Robert gave me a choice of times and I selected the morning. He asked me AGAIN for my name and phone number. Apparently, all of Bryan's helpful information was written
in a language that Robert didn't care to understand.

So, I gave him my name and telephone number, reiterated that yes, the bill IS in my husband's name, and thanked him for his half-hearted attempt to "help."

Then he thanked me profusely for calling Time Warner Cable. Well... as profusely as a man who speaks in monotone can muster.

I'm thinking that WiFi is sounding better and better everyday.

:-)K

For Want of the Perfect Fabric

Today I ventured out into the heat again, in search of
the perfect fabric for re-upholstering my great-great-
grandmother's English rocking chair.

What I am looking for is very elusive. It is fabric that I
will know when I see it and so far, I haven't seen it. I
haven't even caught a glimpse.

For your information, all the fabric out there in the commercial world looks alike and all the local stores carry the same tired stuff... just more of it in some
cases and for more money in others. Most upholstery fabric is just variation on a theme.

I want something vintage and colorful - in keeping with the historic nature of this chair. I can remember only too slightly the fabric that was on it during my earliest
childhood. I have tactile memories of running my finger along a stripe of burgundy or a swirl of velvet - but only catch a glimpse of the colors - a deep red, some greens, blues, golds... maybe browns?

None of my old family photographs shows the material on the chair. I have a wonderful picture of my great-great-grandmother sitting on the chair. But her body covers the upholstery. Every single square inch of it.

I contacted my older cousins but, being guys, they are little help. They can barely remember the chair, let alone what fabric adorned it during their childhoods. This
perplexes me since they played on and around it for years and years. But they are men and I suppose this lack of material memory is to be forgiven. I bet they remember all of my grandfather's fishing rods and guns and tools.

I have haunted my local antique shops, looking for scraps of vintage fabric or an old table runner or plush rug that might serve the purpose. I have a small and colorful tapestry rug hanging on the wall in my hallway - it has a lot of pretty red and is adorned with adorable English corgis - which is appropriate, since the chair was made in England and came with my great-great-grandparents when
they emigrated - both times. But how can I cut up that tapestry and make the Solomon choice about which dog to place where? No... I just can't do it.

I don't think I can adequately describe what I want for this chair. I only know that I shall know it when I see it and this makes for a frustrating search indeed.

The chair may just sit in my livingroom without upholstery for the time being - until I find the perfect and ellusive fabric - material that may only exist in my mind.

Which means I need to find a really good hypnotist.

Dad in a Sock

My stepmother has relented and is allowing me to take some of Dad's ashes up to the High Sierras with me - to scatter around the mountain lakes and streams he loved all his life.

It is a strange business, this scattering of ashes. Not something you come across everyday so there are no set rules or regulations for decorum or anything. I've never come across any articles about it in Good Housekeeping or Ladies Home Journal.

I was home alone when the Strange Box that contains all of my Dad's earthly remains arrived. They didn't come in the mail or by Federal Express - which he might have appreciated. They were hand delivered by a guy in a fancy suit, driving a non-descript car, who approached my front door carrying a simple cardboard box. It wasn't until he opened the box on my dining room table that I saw the actual box itself - blond oak with bits of brass hardware. Inside THAT box was another box - a heavy brass contraption that separated the holder from the actual remains by about 5 pounds of heavy metal.

During our brief discussion, after I "signed" for Dad, the guy told me that if I ever wanted these ashes scattered, they could handle those arrangements. "It is illegal in California," he said somberly, "to scatter cremated remains without a permit."

I hated to ask what all THAT entailed but I couldn't imagine some strange suited-up funeral home dude following me up some remote mountain trail, schlepping my dad's ashes in a backpack.

And yet - this is precisely what I shall do sometime within the next week - shlep my what little bit of my father I possess in a physical form up a mountain trail or down by a rushing creek, or along the edge of a mountain lake.

I am am gathering from my life's experiences that there are no "cremation police" lurking in the bushes of the Sierra Nevada, waiting for people like me to begin scattering ashes without a permit. So I am going to be a scofflaw and do this the way I want to do it, which is the way it should be since I don't intend to involve outsiders anymore than I already have during this very difficult time.

The first time I rememeber being in the Sierras with my Dad was a time we were camping with my grandfather and my sister was about 2 years old. She wasn't steady on her feet yet and despite the sturdy white shoes that my father called "clodhoppers," she tripped and fell about every 2.5 minutes. Every tumble involved crying and carrying on, which annoyed the heck out my 7-year old self, who wanted to explore and cross the creek and collect pinecones in peace. There I was, 7 years old, craving mountain peace.

I remember my father picking her up after a fall and telling my grandfather that Susan was "tripping over every single little rock that protrudes even an INCH off the ground." This he said with a huge smile and evoked great laughter from everyone around the campsite.

At some point, Susan managed to manuever herself over to the creek, plopping herself down next to me. I was on my belly, peering deep into the water, which was rushing past us at almost lightning speed. At the bottom of a clear pool was a small wood-grain pocketknife, lost by somebody and just out of reach. I wanted to reach in and get it - but there was no way I could do so without getting wet - and getting wet was not something I could do and stay out of trouble. So, I stared longingly at that knife. At some point, Susan began reaching for the water and I sat up and pulled her backwards, under the armpits, afraid she would fall in. This didn't deter her and I had to keep repeating the manuever again and again, while telling her that she would fall in if she didn't stop. I did not want her falling in.

She didn't fall in and I never retrieved that pocket knife. And that was one of many trips up North over the course of my childhood.

When my stepmother told me she would let me scatter some of his ashes in the Sierras, I was satisfied but disconcerted. Did I have an appropriate container for such an endeavor? Just exactly does one use?

I am going to guess she used a small screwdriver or Allen wrench to open the heavy brass box - because when she handed me the jar, there they were - ashes.

"Don't tell me you've got him in a Ziploc bag," I said, taking the glass jar from her hands and peering inside at what looked like a sandwich-sized Ziploc bag.

"Yes... I didn't know what else to put him in," she said. "Is that alright?"

Now what to say? What IS appropriate? An urn? A crystal bowl? A leather satchel? What? A medieval medicine pouch?

"I guess you should put that in something," she said, realizing that anyone peering in closely enough might figure out the contents and call the Funeral Police or Cremation Cops, or whoever one called when an unauthorized person is seen carrying human remains in a Ziplock bag around.

After a moment's thought, she went to his dresser and began rummaging around. "How about a pair of your Dad's socks?" She asked a bit brightly. "Hmm.. yeah, these. These were his favorite fishing socks."

She retrieved a pair of rather bedraggled looking wool socks he no doubt used on many trips to the Sierras. I slipped the jar inside one of them and told her the socks would be fine.

My hiking partner on these mountain trips is my sister, Susan, who is now called Sue and no longer trips over little rocks that protrude an inch or more off the ground. Telling her about this little task seemed the appropriate and courteous thing to do, since pulling out a sock in the middle of hike and saying, "By the way, I've got Dad here..." might take her by surprise. After all, he was her father too and it's only fair.

And my father, of all people, would be highly amused at the thought of his daughters carrying some of his ashes on a hike - in one of his socks. It would have been a story he would tell to his friends, with an intake of breath just before laughing out loud at the absurdity and lack of dignity - which somehow suits him just right. Like an old pair of fishing socks.

So I called Susan.

"We're taking some of Dad with us," I said over the phone. "I don't know which part, since I only have about a handful."

She didn't miss a beat. I guess Sue does not surprise that easily.

"We are," she replied with an air of nonchalance and acceptance. "Great."

She paused.

"Where is he?"

"In my pack," I said. "So I don't forget and leave him on the couch or something."

"Ah." There was a pause. "Just don't tell me you have him in a Ziplock bag," she said.

"Well. Yeah. In a jar. In a sock."

"You have Dad. In a sock."

"Yeah. In a Ziplock bag, in a jar, in a wool sock. In by hiking pack. The new one."

Sue exhaled. "OKAY," she said, which much emphasis on the "oh" part. I suppose this wasn't the sort of conversation she thought we would be having either. That made two of us.

Thinking she might be a bit disconcerted by the whole thing, I offered, "I guess we could just dig a hole by a creek. I can dig the hole...."

"No," she interrupted, "We'll scatter him. We should scatter him."

"Okay."

Then she said, with just a tinge of somber excitement, "You have a NEW pack?"

I told her all about the new pack and then we ended the conversation.

So sometime within the next week, my sister and I will hike to a place and scatter my dad's small amount of ashes around the places he loved. We will take turns dipping our fingers into the Ziplock bag and doing whatever it is we are supposed to do - following no protocols or set rules since this is never anything we ever thought about doing.

At some point, we will have to cross a creek on a rickety bridge way too high for comfort and she will help me across as she always does.

She does this wearing her "clodhopper" hiking boots, grabbing me anywhere she deems appropriate, steadying my journey.

She keeps me from falling in - always.

:-)K

Conquering the Home Office...Tape, anyone?

It is Day 2 of my "get organized project" in the home office. I sit amongst the detritus that is usually my favorite room in the house - perplexed as to what I should do next.

On the floor are notebooks - six of them at last count, 4 white and 2 blue and all empty. WHY does anyone need all those notebooks, you may ask? I don't know. They were stuffed into the cupboard I am hoping will hold all photographs that are in an elongated pile against the bookcase. There is also a smaller blue plastic notebook, with three rings and a look of newness about it.

There are photo albums, bags, boxes, and smaller bags - with photos that need organization. They've needed organization since 1982 so what is the hurry? I just have to get them into neat piles so they will FIT.

I have a brand new filing cabinet. It is metal, with two drawers. It took me a long time to pick it out over at Staples, only to find they didn't have the original one I chose - so this is the replacement, which cost $20 more. What makes it worth more money than the first one? I don't know.

But some guy named Joe with big black glasses begrudingly went in the back to get it for me. I venture to guess that, had I asked him, he wouldn't know why this one cost more money than the first one. Given his demeaner every time I go into Staples, I don't reckon that Joe thinks about anything too terribly much.

The top drawer of this $20-more filing cabinet is reserved for my doctorate stuff. It is there the paperwork trail of my program will be stored. Right now it is empty except for the application, which I faxed last Monday.

The bottom drawer is blessedly empty but there are odds and ends that need to be put there. But which ones? I don't know.

I have a few small and empty bookshelves amongst the set that Dan built into the wall for me a few months ago. It is my fervent hope that the completed albums might find refuge there. But hope springs eternal and I am haunted by the overfilled filing cabinet drawer that houses important paperwork that really MUST be sorted through... one of these days. This I know because every single time I go in there, mountains of overstuffed files rise up and attempt escape.

But upstairs on my nightstand are stacks of books. Books that were in various stages of being read and now they are ready for placement on the bookshelves. Which means less room for all the photo albums, not to mention the boxes and bags and more bags of pictures that seemed a good idea at the time.

In this organizational semi-frenzy, I have discovered half a dozen small spiral note pads. All of them have been used to some degree and I have no recollection of having purchased any of them. Why so many? I don't know.

And tape. You would think I had a depression-era type fear of running out of tape - that I needed to hoard it or something. But no. I just have a lot of tape. Two completely unopened 3-packs, several loose rolls wrapped in cellophane, and a few rolls that are obviously being used. I really don't need to tape a lot of things. I use tape at Christmas time and a bit throughout the year. Why so much tape? I don't know.

My love for office supplies is evident - all the drawers store various office supplies. Glue sticks, paper clips, binder clips, mechanical pencils, scissors, Sharpie markers, water color markers, calculators, index cards, sheet protectors, folders with 3-hole brads, folders without brads, colored third-cut folders, old folders bearing names of previous students. Peeling the labels off these old folders is like an archeological expedition. A student from 3 years ago and underneath that, another student, then another, going back to my very first classroom. "Tawon," is written right on the folder itself. Tawon who is a senior in high school by now. IF he made it that far. His ambition, as I recall, was to be a gangster.

And computer stuff. Stuff that went with the Dell that exploded and crashed about 5 years ago. Old floppy disks that store gosh-knows-what on them. CD Roms with names on them that look important but which ring no mental bells. Cords? Oh yes. A plethora of cords, all sizes. Should I keep them or toss them? I haven't needed them, obviously, in over 4 years so why keep them? But what if I NEED them and they are expensive and what a waste it would be to have to drive to Staples, endure the apathy of Joe again, just to buy a cord I stupidly through out one summer day when I was in a cleaning frenzy. Why? I don't know!

In a bag there is the collection of paperwork I needed for taxes. It needs to be stored. My storage boxes for old tax paperwork are in the garage. My rule of thumb is to remove one box each year and shred it. This way I can keep the pile of boxes at a minimum. This is on my "to do" list because the pile of boxes is beginning to lean precariously. Obviously, I haven't been following my own rule very well.

So here I sit. I play games of Free Cell in between bouts of productivity. I am determined to get this room in order so that when there is no time to do it in the near future, I can feel restfully assured that the mess isn't hopeless. I am cleaning and organizing using the time-honored "A.D.D." method of cleaning and organizing. Each discover and all errant pictures lead me off on a tangent.

One more game of free cell. One more attempt to organize paperwork and supplies.

I just hope I don't find any more tape. Or notebooks! No more notebooks.

Lament for a Favorite Antique Store

One of my favorite antique stores has been sold. It happened quickly because I wasn't able to say good-bye to Andrea, the owner, or find out the details.

Andrea, a rather flamboyant young lady who favored colorful vintage clothing, wildly coiffed bleached-blond hair, and ankle-threatening spiked heels, often threatened she would sell the store and return to Oregon. I guess she just up and did it - which would be vintage Andrea.

Her shop was cluttered - but there was a method to her arrangements. One never knew what treasures could be found by poking around behind the old parking meter, Coca Cola machine, or vintage juke box. She made elaborate labels for each item out of old photographs, scalloped tags, and colorful ribbon. If she didn't write the label herself with typical curlicues and dotted points, she commisioned her friend Debbie, who often came in with food and her calligraphy pen, to spend a couple afternoon hours.

Debbie works down the street at the another antique shop that is more of a "junk" store than anything else. It is all Debbie can do to keep the owner organized and his addiction to Internet poker games often has Debbie leaving the store in annoyance. She never stays away too long.

The running gag between them concerns items they both consider to be the "world's ugliest antiques." Each will see how quickly the other can sell what has been picked out for them.

"Kimberli! Don't you just love this MOOSEHEAD?" Andrea would squeal when I came in the door, under the trellis and around some vintage baby buggy or milk crate or something. The moosehead was totally atrocious but Debbie had bet Andrea lunch she could sell the ugly 'kewpie' looking doll before Andrea could unload the moosehead.

"It's so... rustic. Don't you have a room that is kind of rustic, almost 'hunting lodge?' It would be perfect!"

I would always decline. That moosehead was truly awful. I think there was 19th century dust and mold deeply imbedded in it somewhere.

Another fixture of Andrea's store was Dottie, her much-loved and terribly spoiled chihuahua. Dottie had her own bed, her own bowl, and wore "outfits" that Andrea often made herself. Sometimes the dog would leave her bed and seek me out while I nosed around some distant end of the store. She really was a sweet dog, despite the feather boa and painted nails.

Andrea's store always had new items that she found in her travels - she often just up and drove places to acquire stock. One could always count on something unique when Andrea returned from a travel.

There was always food, coffee, and goodies in the store. People loved Andrea and flocked to her with these items of homage. She had a regular entourage of followers - and they were always a lot of fun.

Jim was a Japanese guy who worked for one of the aerospace companies. When he was there, Andrea played Broadway tunes on the Bose radio - and Jim was always puttering around, fixing things, putting things up, taking things down, moving something to the left.

"Jim's teaching me to play poker," Andrea announced one Saturday when I ventured inside (under a vintage garden swing, a huge watering can, and around an old fire extinguisher).

"Andrea's trying to teach me Spanish," Jim replied, immersed in the card game but humming softly with the radio.

"He's not a good student," Andrea lamented, pursing her ruby red lips and adjusting a sequinned and beribboned head band that held the wild brassy blond hair from her face. The headband was a sample of several she had acquired from a local crafter. "Aren't they just divine," she gushed, when I fingered one. For Andrea, yes... for me it would look like "dress up."

"Neither is she," said Jim. But neither of them budged from their place at the rolled-top desk. Over the desk hung some vintage wind chimes, an old road sign, a rusty shopping basket, and some old canteens.

Sometimes she would teeter on those shoes from behind the counter and seek me out for a chat. Andrea was kind, decent, interesting, and fun. She loved life, Dottie, old things, and Oregon. She always wanted to go back to Oregon.

"How did you end up here?" I asked one day, while Jim attempted to secure yet another garden arbor to the much-maligned bit of wall space allocated for it.

"I followed a guy," she said with a hearty laugh. "He was a policeman. We met when he was on vacation. Didn't last. Here I am!"

Another frequent shop denizen was Bob, who found old scraps and vintage furniture pieces almost beyond repair and created something different from them. He crafted mantles, tables, garden benches, and the like. Andrea always displayed them outside the store, on the sidewalk with elaborately decorative tags. I overheard Bob say to Andrea once that he liked to price things just under what people are willing to pay, so he won't have to cart anything back to his garage if it doesn't sell. This way, his wife wouldn't be annoyed at all the clutter in the garage - a space he was always intending to "clear out." Bob would lean against the counter, drinking coffee, calling Dottie a "princess" and generally procrastinating whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.

Many of antiques in my home came from Andrea's shop. She always promised to stop by one day and see where it all ended up. But the school year kept me busy and a month or two went by before I made time to stop by the shop.

The fact that it had been sold was quickly apparent. My visit today quite literally sank my heart. Nothing hangs from the ceiling, there is no dog on a fancy bed in the corner, no trellises are to be seen, and the staid woman behind the counter, which lacks the roll-top desk and vintage wind chimes, is all business. The store has a rug now - and it is very clean. Almost sterile. No Andrea.

And the moosehead is gone.

Learn Chines Online

My favorite chatboard has some interesting advertisements that I usually ignore. But one kept popping up that got me curious. It says, in simple black and white, "Learn Chines Online." After a dozen or so exposures to this I began ruminating and then investigated further.

My first thought was that 'chines' is an instrument. Something like 'chimes' but with a new-age or some kind of ethnic twist. I wondered what 'chines' might look like and how they sounded and WHY in the world I'd never heard of them.

Then I thought "chines" was a card game or a fortune-telling game. You deal the cards and placed them a certain way and then read the official "chines guide" and told fortunes. I thought about the kind of pictures such cards would have. Would reading "chines" resemble reading Tarot? Or the I-Ching? I wondered where the "chines" cards came from. Did someone just make that up or was there a legitimate history that traces back to some ancient Afghan tribe that sequestered a certain and prized group of women who could read the "chines" only after special indoctrination that included smoke, ashes, celibacy, and some dead animal.

But alas, no. This ad promises that you can learn CHINESE online. Yep, an entire pictograph language ONLINE in no time. Forget the fact that Chinese is a tonal language that most westerners can only BEGIN to understand after long periods of intense study - locked in a basement in Beijing, no doubt.

So this is some money-making venture, I am sure, by somebody who purports to teach Chinese but can't spell it. I guess that as long as they pay their bills, we can continue speculating on the chatboard about the true meaning of learning "chines" online. You gotta wonder though - on a teachers' chatboard some advertiser is getting away with spelling an entire language wrong, and nobody has mentioned it.

Adventures with Alli - Day One

During my trip to Target this morning when I bought the pink-dog-tag-looking flash drive that didn't work - I looked for that weight loss stuff, the Alli. I figured with all the hype PLUS front page coverage in the L.A. Times and talk radio, there would be big old signs. But no! So I had to ask the pharmacist.

Tell me WHY I felt like I was asking for condoms? It was really hard for me to do!

The very lovely and quite slender pharmacist said that they didn't have any Alli in stock yet and that there would be a big o' display when they did. Then she gave me a funny look like I was trying to buy condoms and gave me a flyer. "You DO understand about this product, don't you? It makes you gassy."

I wanted to tell her that all I wanted to do was fit back into the stack of Size 8 jeans in my closet. But she would probably think I was lying or something. Pharmacists hear it all, I just bet.

I checked out in the Garden Department because I needed some pots. The lady behind me saw the flyer and I swear to Goodness... as loud as she could she says,

"OH YEAH - THAT ALLI STUFF? FOR WEIGHT LOSS? YEAH THEY HAVE IT AT SAM"S CLUB! A HUGE DISPLAY! ON SALE!"

Everyone in line was staring at me like I was holding a box of lubricated and ribbed Trojan-enz or something, complete with a tube of K-Y, a paperback copy of the Kama Sutra, AND a pack of DD batteries. Sheesh.

I thanked her quietly and skulked out of there while she says,

"OH YEAH.. I was just there! Like, aren't we ALL looking for that stuff? But man... I hear it makes you all gassy......."

So on my second trip out this afternoon, to return the pink-dog-tag-looking flash drive that didn't work, I went to Walmart since I figured, using my powers of inference, that if Sam's Club had it, Walmart would have it too.

They did. Big display.... I mean, prominent. All it needed was a neon sign that flashed,

"FAT ASSES! STOP HERE! IT's RIGHT HERE! THE STUFF THAT MAKES YOU GASSY! WITH THE OILY DISCHARGE!"

So I am trying to nonchalantly read the box and brochure and everybody and their stinkin' mother and whiny kid is there and I am RIGHT in the way of ALL of them and of course they see me and do a double-take and I feel like I'm in the magazine section checking out porno magazines or something.

So I circle around a few times and notice the display has a PHONE! A "hotline" in the display so you can call in front of everybody and their fat mother and whiny kid and ask..."..so, what about this gas? Is it lethal? Is it LOUD? I mean..will people actually HEAR me? Will it smell bad?"

Finally, I just dive-bomb the display, weaving in between a curious store clerk and some lady with POINTY toenails she actually had DONE, complete with rhinestones and flowers.

I hide the big box, which has a SECURITY lock thingy on it, under my purse and go looking for the flash drive, which is halfway across the store.

Walmart on a Saturday is an experience you just don't NEED to have - especially when you have something in your cart that just begs people to peer in while you scan the computer-related paraphenalila for 2 gigs of "MORE POWER!"

The checkout line wasn't that long but the cashier had to leave to go look up a price which means a huge and rather loud family gets to stand behind me and STARE at the security-tied box on the check out counter, my copy of Prevention Magazine, and my Dasani water. Plus the Cruzer flash drive thing - but nobody notices THAT.

I swear they are talking in low tones to each other, in between yelling at the kids, who are pulling down the displays.

("See? She buyin' that stuff... that stuff that makes you all gassy.... s'pose to help you lose weight..." "Baby, don't you be THINKIN' I'm gonna buy you that stuff...")

THEN I get to pay for it and you can just imagine the look I got from the cashier - some girl with a muffin-top she displays proudly under her blue associates vest. The packaging flummoxes her and she turns it over and over in her hands. She realizes she can't take the security thing off. So, she CALLS for somebody to come remove it!

I swear TO GOODNESS, in front of EVERBODY she announces that she has to go to electronics to get the security cord thing off of "this weight loss product....."

"HEY AIN'T THIS THE STUFF THAT MAKES YOU gassy?"

Okay. And I have to stand there while she weaves through the crowd and she is gone for whole minutes. While the huge and loud families behind me stand there and cluck their tongues.

So - I got the stuff home.

I ate chicken and took one. My stomach is a bit... acidy.

Later I ate a Pollo Bowl (most of one, anyway..) and took another one. My stomach is a bit acidy.
So far, so good. No gas.

I would like a nice glass of merlot, but I don't want to push my luck here.

There is only so much "gassiness" one can blame on the dog.

The Long-Remembered T-Shirt Crime

My good friend and colleague asked me today if I wouldn't mind stepping into her room to help her finish painting grass on the tee shirts that first grade is decorating for their upcoming zoo field trip.

Every year the first grade teachers buy plain white tee shirts and decorate them with acrylic paint and animal stamps. This helps the kids stand out in the crowd and provides a nice souvenir for the children - since they aren't allowed to visit the gift shop.

She was using green paint and I asked her if she had more than one shade - to make the grass more interesting. She said that yes, she was "allowed" to use more than one shade of green on the grass.

Then she gave me a jaundiced eye and made me promise not to "get her in trouble" by "doing anything wrong" with the tee shirts.

I had to laugh out loud when she very seriously told me that my "tee shirt crimes" were long remembered by first grade and that they were "talking about them today" when giving her the "rules" about making the tee shirts.

Allow me to preface my explanation here by telling you that I came from a school that made zoo shirts every year. However, THAT experience was nothing like the experience of making zoo shirts at THIS school. As I quickly discovered when it was time to make the shirts for the first grade zoo trip.

There are rigid rules for making zoo shirts and these rules are never to be bent, disregarded, or broken. This is because all the shirts must look the same. The deviance allowed is the choice of animals. These rules are sacrosanct. They are to be adhered to with the greatest respect and reverence.

I shall recount them for you:

Rule 1: All children are allowed a choice of TWO (2) zoo animals to have stamped on their shirt. No more and no less. Exactly two.

My crime: I let the children pick as many animals as they wanted. The only guideline is that they had to fit.

Rule #2: Only teachers may stamp the animals. The children are not allowed to stamp the animals because they will make a mess.

My crime: I let the kids stamp their shirts. The kids were to wear the shirts so why not have a hand in making the shirts? (Yes, they made a mess.)

Rule #3: There are to be NO animals stamped on the sleeves. Refer please to Rule #1.

My crime: There are two sleeves with perfectly good surfaces.

Rule #4: Despite the fact that the stamped animals cry out for details, there are to be NO DETAILS applied to the dried stamped animals. No eyeballs, no stripes, no tusks, and no tips on the tails. No claws, no whiskers, and no pink tongues.

My crime: Eyeballs, stripes, tusks, tail tips, claws, whiskers, and pink tongues were added to the animals once the paint dried. The kids had a blast. Once the details were added, you could tell what the animals were supposed to be. (Remember, they made a mess when stamping them in the first place.)

Rule #5: Grass is grass. Just grass. Two colors allowed.

My crime: Grass is good, but numerous flowers and a tree for the monkey is better. (Too much HGTV, I think. Things need to "pop!")

My final faux pas: Writing "Road Trip 2005" on the sleeve with a sharpie marker.

The shirts turned out beautifully. They were full of character. The other shirts were neat, tidy, and tame. My kids' shirts were a bit over the top.

I have never, to this date, been forgiven for this. I think they are putting the rules into a rule book and any new teachers have to sign a memo of understanding now before they are allowed to make zoo shirts. I think my friend and colleague was forced to sign under duress.

So... I helped my colleague with grass. Just grass. No flowers, no trees, no details. ("Was it YOU who added a tree for the monkey? They were talking about that today too. It must have been YOU.")

Her animals were clearly resting or standing in the grass. My animals were clearly hopping over it and bounding through it. She took this in stride and even thanked me for my "help."

My wavy, wind-blown, two-toned grass did give her cause to scratch her head though.

The Dispellation of Rumor

The rumor mill has been busily churning of late and I am happy to report that, having attended an actual "planning committee" meeting, I can dispel some of the more creative false ideas that have implanted themselves insidiously in the psyches of local teachers.

1. The No Cafeteria Rumor: I am told that yes, there will be a cafeteria at the new school and that NO, teachers will not be required to feed children in the classroom. In fact, there will be staff in the cafeteria and NO, teachers will not be required to prepare the meals each day.

2. The No Library Rumor: I am assured that yes, indeed - there will be a library at the new school. It will not be housed in the cafeteria and will actually have BOOKS. Who knows about staffing, though. The rumor mill is free to grist away on this one.

3. The No Office Rumor: The new school will come complete with an actual office. This means that teachers will not have to double as attendance clerks, secretaries, or nurses. Teachers will also not have to answer office telephones on a 'tag team' basis.

4. There will be NO Administrator on Site Rumor: Well... the administrator will be like the Velveteen Rabbit. He/she may or may not be "real." He/she will have "authority" but since an administrative credential is lacking within the two likely candidates, the title will be real and the authority will be real but he/she will lack certain administrative things, like... the huge paycheck and the ability to evaluate their own teachers.

5. The We Will Teach Out of Boxes in a Tin Shack Rumor: There are tangible buildings. Teachers are expected - no, encouraged - to unpack.

6. The Porta-Potty Rumor: There will indeed be real bathrooms. Well, no permanent bathrooms. Just "real" bathrooms actually hooked up to a sewer. Or a septic tank. There will be no portable potties with holes for threatening the misbehaving children.

I can't dispel any myths about the lack of playground and landscaping. This will be paid for, according to the superintendent, with funds "left over" from the construction. This means, of course, that we may as well keep that rumor alive and hope to goodness that kindergarten tricycles can be ordered with oversized rubber "dirt" wheels.

First, the Eviction Notices!

It is pretty official that I will be moving to Saddleback when it opens in January. You wouldn't have known it last week, but I am getting rather excited about it.

The picture at left represents some of the inhabitants of the new school site that are being asked to vacate the premises posthaste and forthwith. While some are slithering off to better digs, a few recalcitrant denizens are digging in for a court fight.

They have the home court advantage because so many of their second cousins are lawyers. This makes it difficult to enforce the order to vacate. You know how lawyers can keep things tied up forever in red tape.

It was suggested today in a Saddleback planning meeting that our new mascot could indeed be the sidewinder. Or the Mojave Green. But something tells me that these are not exactly warm and fuzzy mascots that will endear us to students and parents.

Visualize It!

My dear mother, who is in her early 70s, has believed in the power of positive thinking for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I remember her poring over books like, "Think and Grow Rich," and "The Power of Positive Thinking." She also loved anything about Edgar Cayce (the Sleeping Prophet), reincarnation, and hypnosis.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when she went crazy over "The Secret," buying it in hardcover as well as the audiobook format so she can listen and learn while she drives. I've never felt extremely comfortable with her listening to ANYTHING while she drives, considering she likes two speeds: Fast and FASTER.

So today Mom arrives for a visit and barbecue, announcing that she is "visualizing not needing the hearing aide."

My early years, you must know, were punctuated by my mother barking at me to "speak up" and "stop mumbling" and "I can't hear you!" Little did we know she had bad hearing. We just thought she was annoying.

So she buys the cheapest hearing aide in town and then gripes about it until my sister and I convince her to spring for a better model. She still gripes about it and decides ONLY to put it in if you are worth a listen. OR if she paid "good money" to go to a play or concert. Sometimes, she confides, she doesn't put it in so she doesn't have to listen to boring people.

My sister says that if Mom would stop buying clothes she could get herself a decent hearing aide. "But how will we talk about her when she's in the backseat?" I whine. Some of the funniest car rides in my life have included my sister in the front seat, yelling at Mom, who is only hearing every third word, while I run low-volume running commentary in the front seat. The goal is to get my sister almost to the point of laughing but not popping any veins. Mom catches on if her youngest daughter starts snorting water or blood out of her nose. And you can just guess who gets in trouble.

"You have a point. But you must admit that she has an addiction to new clothes," my sister says. Of course she is right. My sister knows about these things.

So today on the way to my favorite antique store she tells me, "I don't need to put my hearing aide in. I can hear you just fine. I am visualizing not needing it. I can't say I can't hear. That's negative."

"You can hear my just fine because I'm shouting at you, Mom," I say wickedly.

"No you're not. It's not nice to tease your mother."

Then she tells me that "this gal" she knows "doesn't need her glasses anymore." She just 'visualizes' being able to see and she doesn't SAY she can't see something anymore. She just - visualizes. And then she sees.

When we returned home, she launched into a story about my Auntie C - who is a true Psychodelic Relic. Seems Auntie C's dog got into the manure and had to be rushed to the vet. Naturally, the vet, seeing her coming, ran x-rays and "discovered" a bladder stone. So the dog "must have surgery" right away to the tune of $3000.00. Auntie C is a bit overboard on this dog - so the vet factors in visits from Auntie C when budgeting his big-ticket expenses for the month.

I tell Mom I think Auntie C should wait, since the dog isn't showing any symptoms or having any problems. At the very least, she should get a second opinion.

Mom informed me that she and C went to the "good psychic" in Carlsbad and he told her to hold off. He doesn't see anything wrong with the dog. For good measure, Mom and Auntie C swung the pendulum and asked if the dog should have surgery. The pendulum swung no.

So, turning away to hide my smirk and knowing I am going to burn in Hell for this, I say to Mom, "Is she visualizing? Is she visualizing the dog not needing surgery?"

Mom pops up off the couch, eyes wide. "No! I don't think she is. I should tell her!"

In for a dime, in for a dollar, I always say. So I casually add (feeling the flames licking my toes already), "Well, Mom.. how about YOU visualize and get the process going? Visualize the dog without any bladder stones. Visualize clear, clean, smooth, healthy dog bladders."

"I'm going to write that down," Mom says, pulling out her trusty pad and pen. "That's a good idea. Are you sure you haven't read "The Secret?"

After dinner, I walked Mom to her car. "Click it, or ticket," I warned good-naturedly.

She is getting into the car.

"What?" She barks. "Speak up! I can't hear you!"

"CLICK IT OR TICKET MOM!" I yell.

"You don't have to yell. Remember, I am visualizing not needing my hearing aide."

As she whips the car around to leave, she pops her head out the window.

"I have a shield around my car," she says. "I visualize it."

Then she speeds off down the street and takes the corner on 3 wheels, no doubt popping in "The Secret" for her listening pleasure.

I forgot to ask Mom to visualize me 20 pounds lighter.

:-)K

This Tract House

If I still had a first floor bedroom, I could rip up the carpet and find.... a cement foundation. No hardwood with character that some poor misguided soul in the 1970s decided to cover up with orange and avocado shag. No fun floor discoveries here!

I'm not saying that all houses in California are like this, just the post-war cookie cutter tract houses, whose builders determined that basements were morally wrong and hardwood floors simply too expensive. Attics? Good GAWD man, just shoot them full of insulation and be done with it.

I see the renovation shows on HGTV and just gasp with envy - all that hardwood covered up by linoleum and carpet - rediscovered by some zealous and lucky homeowner, who polishes the new treasure to a rich gloss and then yells "neener neener neener" to all the poor saps stuck in tract housing.

Older homes in California have basements and moulding and hardwood floors. But you have to venture near the older communities to find those - and they are nice and cheap. Want an old craftsman in Pasadena? Get ready to write a check in the high six figures. An old Victorian on the outskirts of San Francisco or San Diego or some other San-something community? Don't make me laugh. You can't afford it.

My house was built by a builder with a dream. A dream to make money, quickly, without real effort. Work crews were hired for minimum wage, which would guarantee that no pride in workmanship would ever be present. Walls aren't straight because most of these workers flunked geometry. The roof might leak because the foreman only brought by one case of beer instead of two on the day the roofing tiles were nailed in place. The walls are literally shot with "texture" in order to camouflage the fact that they are not built to the specifications of the previous generation, let alone the guys on This Old House. I think Norm Abram would gnash his teeth if he saw how the corners meet in my family room.

My house looks exactly like every other 2 story house in this development. I mean, exactly. They used the same paint can after B&B Ubiquitous Stucco Surfaces came through in one afternoon and spewed a premix of stucco and coloring to the outside of each house. They had to count up from the end so they knew which house to "do" next.

And here's the good part. There is raised "trim" along the outside of the house that we thought was wood mistakenly covered by stucco in the interest of saving time. Because of course, time is money. I wanted all the stucco removed from the trim because I have this idea that I want my little piece of cookie-cutter suburbia to have "character" and be somewhat unique. Well, there is no wood underneath. I lifted a bit of peeling stucco from the trim by the door to discover to my amazement that it is (ready?)... styrofoam! Yup! Honest to goodness styrofoam that was nailed on or superglued or something to the house and then covered with stucco. This gave the appearance of raised trim.

Do you realize how disconcerting this is? To realize that your HOUSE is covered with the same material used by Dixie plates and disposable coffee cups? That you could literally tear this stuff off your house and recycle it as a floatation device? (Which makes me wonder - if we had a flood, would the house float?)

And it gets better. The stuff doesn't just come off when you whack at it. It comes off in bits and pieces that fly all over hell and gone when loosened from the house. It has been glued down with some space-age substance. AND.. you can't just nail down a wood board to replace it. Nosiree! They have to be glued down because the surface of the house will not, under any circumstances, accept nails or bolts or anything remotely similar.

I would love to discover something unique and wonderful about this house, I truly would. A hardwood floor, a hidden passageway, a subterranean wine cellar - how fun would THAT be? Instead, I am doomed to find old beer cans and bits of stucco when I dig in the yard.

Maybe I can recycle the styrofoam.

Half a Whale

Today in Kindergarten I read aloud the story of Humphrey, the humpback whale who took a wrong turn and swam up the Sacramento River a few years back. This is a nice story and the kids tend to enjoy it very much.

But first, we have to discuss why this is such a big deal that Humphrey ended up in a river instead of out in the open sea where he belonged.

So, we were discussing what we knew about whales prior to actually reading the story. Most of the kids have little background knowledge about oceans and the animals in them.

Alex raised his hand and announced that he could eat a whale. Without missing a beat, I replied, "No, you can't" and called on another student.

But Alex will not be so easily trifled with - he folded his arms and said, "Yes! I can!"
Before I could reply, Genevieve folded her arms indignantly and said to Alex, "No, Alex, you can't eat a whale."

Alex whirled around to face Genevieve and argue that yes, he could indeed eat a whale.

Genevieve, who has clearly had enough of Alex for this school year and next, shook her head. Her eyes were wide and she leaned forward for emphasis.

"Alex! You cannot eat a whale!"

Alex, equally convinced now that surely he CAN eat whale, shot back, "Yes. I can!"

Genevieve huffed out her breath and rolled her big brown eyes enough to simulate a seizure.
"Alex. Listen. You. Can. NOT. eat. a. whale. It. is. too. BIG!!"

Alex shook his head wearily.

"Yes, I can. I cut it in half!"


****

The New School

For several years now the topic of "the new school" usually evokes snickering and eye-rolling because it's been "all talk and no action." The pundits would fold their arms and say knowingly, "It will never open."

The only thing slower that the release of matching state funds for the building of a school is the relocation of a Mojave Ground Squirrel, who lived there first, hired lawyers, and gave the district a run for the state's money.

When we actually got a date for opening - this last September, which came and went, the pundits laughed that low-laugh chuckle of the all-knowing and repeated, "It'll never open."

Then came declining enrollment.

I think that's the elephant in the livingroom right now. It's a fact rarely discussed and when it is mentioned, it is done so in whispered tones with furtive glances. "Don't we have declining enrollment? Why are we opening a school with declining enrollment? Doesn't the Board say we have no money? How can we open a school if we don't have any money?"

But what do we know. What do the crossed-armed pundits know, really? We are only teachers. We have trouble with the copy machine. We forget to dial 9 first and we aren't allowed to laminate things.

Will there be a cafeteria? No. How about a library? No. An office? Don't think so. How about a playground? Will tricycles ride on dirt? Will there be water in the classrooms? And how do I know any of these things? Secondhand, thirdhand - from the pundits.

If we were opening a charter school and planning things from the ground up, I would be excited. I would feel a part of something. But so far, the meetings to plan have been opened only to "invited" attendees and I don't make the short list.

I drove by the new school site today and noticed that a bus driveway has been graded. It is a semi-circular thing that looks like 2 buses will fit in it at the same time, end to end. I guess one could squeeze in 3 buses if one hangs out onto the road, or if all the buses are short buses. But really - is it wise to go work in a school that is only serviced by "short" buses?

I volunteered to go to the new school out of respect and consideration for 2 of my colleagues, who really did not want to go. My 3rd colleague is retiring, so I assumed her replacement would go - with me. I found out today that only one teacher from our site has to go - so naturally I asked if I could stay - since the replacement teacher should go.

I was told no - I have to go. Staffing issues make it impossible for the 'replacement teacher' to go.

I am starting to commiserate with that ground squirrel. I wonder if he got any relocation expenses.

Drudgery

Last week I starting adding more art to the group time activities since we are creating a Wonderful World book for Kinder graduation. The pages require different art media to match the lyrics and it always turns out quite nice.

I thought the kids would enjoy using Vano starch to affix sunshine-colored tissue paper squares to the manila paper, creating a "bright blessed day." This page is supposed to remind you of sunshine. I had reds, oranges, and yellows - all cut up into squares and ready to be "painted on" to the paper.

To my surprise, the kids were less than enthusiastic about this project. Painting they like - gluing down construction paper - they like. This they approached with fear and trepidation, unsure of what they were supposed to do.

"Just paint the starch over the tissue paper," I said cheerfully, demonstrating on Aracely's paper. "Look what happens when you layer the colors - red over the yellow - what do you get?"

The small group at the table didn't answer. They just peered at Aracely's paper suspiciously and then slowly began gathering bits of tissue paper and stirring the paintbrush around in the cup of starch.

"What is this stuff?" asked Tony, wrinkling his nose. "It stinks."

"It's starch," I replied. "People use it for ironing shirts - to make the collars nice and stiff and for getting rid of wrinkles."

I doubt that any of them had any idea what I was talking about so I had to decide whether it was worth it to launch into a teaching point about starched clothing to kids who will probably never iron a shirt in their lives.

"Is it like glue?" asked Tony, looking up from the starch.

"Yes. It's like glue," I said, taking the path of least resistance. They all nodded with resignation and some satisfaction. Glue, they like. The more of it, the better, in fact.

"Okay." Tony wasn't sure, obviously, but he began carefully placing tissue on his paper and cautiously using the starch, with his nose wrinkled and his face set in a grimace.

"Teacher - like this?" asked Oswaldo, pointing to a lone piece of yellow tissue, held to the paper by a tiny drop of starch.

"Cover the whole thing with the brush, Oswaldo, like this," I said, demonstrating again how to brush the starch over the tissue paper.

None of the small group seemed to like this activity at all and one by one they attempted to leave after placing several pieces of tissue on the paper. None of their papers matched what I envisioned - a colorful array of sun colors that would match bright and beautiful sunshine, making anybody looking at it smile at the whimsy and delight that absolutely MUST accompany a picture like this.

"I done, Teacher, " announced Abraham, getting up from the table. He had applied exactly 3 pieces of tissue to his paper, one of each shade of orange available.

"No, Abraham, like this - " and once again I demonstrated how to add more sheets and to layer the colors and make the paper yell, "SUNshine!"

He reluctantly sat back down.

I started helping Nancy and Oswaldo by putting little piles of tissue by the papers.

"No, Abraham, not like that!" Aracely huffed, stopping the reluctant artist from pouring starch over a small volcano of tissue he had piled on his paper in frustration.

I couldn't believe it. So I let them have it - my best teacher spiel.

"Guys, this is ART! You are supposed to love art! This is your chance to experience color and texture and create something beautiful! You act like this is drudgery!"

"Drudgery," repeats Nancy, who is learning English and always repeats new words to herself when she hears them.

"Yes, Nancy. Y'all are acting like this is pure drudgery."

I bent over to retrieve some fallen tissue pieces and look up in time to see Aracely smacking piles of tissue over her paper after having "dipped" them in the starch. The conglomeration stuck to her hands and when she discovered this, she leaned over to put her hand in Gisela's face, giggling wildly.

Gisela naturally protested and drew back.

"Aracely, what are you doing?" I asked, reaching for her hands in order to peel off some of the tissue.

Nancy sighed. "Drudgery."

"What, Nancy?" I asked, looking and feeling a bit perplexed.

"Yeah. Drudgery. She doing drudgery."

********

Alexandra and Her Sister

This morning I was gathering supplies from the cupboard when Alexandra tracked me down. She is usually one of the first students to arrive and often she is brimming with news about her family. With great seriousness she will tell me about her brother, who apparently just got out of jail, her mother's injuries, and how her father "points this finger (she demonstrates)" when he's mad at somebody. She is never particularly happy because she has a lot of worries for a six year old. I swear she is getting a furrow in her brow - or maybe it's the florescent lighting.

"Teacher," she said seriously, "my sister had to go to the doctor's."

"Really," I replied distractedly, trying to locate enough paint for an upcoming project. "What's the matter with her?"

I must point out that some member of Alexandra's family is always going to "the doctor's." They must have an open account or at least a standing appointment.

"Her foot got swellen up."

"Well... I certainly hope everything is okay," I said, reaching back into the cupboard for brushes.

"Yeah," said Alex with a shrug, "she's still alive."

First Annual 'I Hate Electronics' Day

This day began like any other. And then....

1. My cat Otis got very ill this morning and I had to rush him to the vet. Went online to ensure the catfood we bought in good faith was still not on the recall list. Fancy Feast is okey dokey. Otis is hiding under the bed. He is caterwauling in pain and is reluctant to get into his cat carrier. I have to move the night stands out of the way and remove the mattress and box springs out of the way in order to retrieve this very distressed cat. Did the designer of these cat carriers actually ever get a cat INTO one? No idea.

2. On the way to the vet, cell phone wouldn't turn on, despite being fully charged yesterday. Completely dead. Stupid cell phone. Otis is caterwauling in the back seat.

3. Returned home to go online to retrieve student midterms and some other stuff I wanted to do. No internet service. This is annoying. I have places to go and things to see on the internet. No internet service. Turn off computer, disconnect the wiring, wait 15 seconds, reconnect the wiring, turn on the computer. No internet service.

3.a. Call stupid cable company and go through the hoops with some gal who acted as if I disturbed her Free Cell game. She concludes, after 35 minutes, that the problem is with Norton Internet Security and to call them. I ask why Norton would be messing with me after I paid them all this money to protect me from bad internet things. She has no idea.

3.b. Spend the next 50 minutes on the phone with some dude in India who puts me through the paces drop-kicking Norton and trying to find the problem. Concludes the problem in is NOT Norton and to stupid cable company back. I ask him why the gal at the cable company would tell me the problem was with Norton when obviously it wasn't. Was she guessing? He has no idea.

4. Call Stupid Cable Company and go through Phone He11, only to get a recorded message telling me that "my area" is experiencing internet problems but not to worry cuz they are ON IT so "hang up." They also apologized for inconvenience. Inconvenience? I lose 90 minutes on a precious day off and they call that an INCONVENIENCE? Obviously they have no idea.

5. Decide to go upstairs and watch DVD from Netflix. Looking forward to this, in fact. Cannot get TV/DVD player to talk to each other. D cannot get DVD/TV set to talk to one another. Can't watch movie. It has worked before. Why won't it work now? No idea.

6. Go run errands and discover Shell gasoline card is expired. No new cards received. Call Shell and go through Phone He11 only to discover that no real live person is there anyway and must call back tomorrow. Why would Shell forget to send me cards? I have been with them for 20 years and always pay my bill - sometimes in advance! Nobody can tell me anything but my guess is they would have no idea.

7. Find out that trusty HP Printer is being replaced by newfangled huge-looking copier/fax/photo printer/dishwasher/telescope thingy that skeers the he11 outta me. Can't print anything cuz I know I will hit the wrong button. There are so many. I was perfectly happy with the trusty HP Printer. But Dan loves gadgetry and thinks this is a terrific Mother's Day gift. You get the idea.

8. Call to find out Otis has run up a $1000 vet bill with a stupid pancreas infection. Leave it to Otis. Just wish he'd eaten the cell phone, peed on the DVD player, and buried the new printer thingy. Why is Otis so sick, I ask. What happened to my kitty? They're running more tests, the office gal assures me. She really has no idea.

Nine for a Line

My father died on June 7 of last year and did not get an obituary. Nobody could think clearly enough to compose anything worthy.

This morning, as I perused the paper, I realized that I could write a "memorial" or "tribute" to dad and have it run the anniversary of his death. This would be fitting and since he had so many friends and coworkers over the years, such a memorial might we well-read.

So - I called the L.A. Times to inquire about the cost of such an endeavor. I should have known this wasn't cheap when ObitLady asked me if I was sitting down.

"$9.00 a line," she said, no doubt biting a bullet when she said it.

"Well, how many words in a line," I asked, thinking that a line could be really really long or really really short. ObitLady didn't miss a beat because I bet she has this conversation all day long.

"28 characters is a line, and that includes punctuation and spaces."

"A line isn't sold by the word?" I ask incredulously.

"Well, no..." she says, patienting tittering at my ignorance. "Some people use really big words."

"I tend to use really big words. I LIKE really big words. They are more expressive that really little words."

"Well," ObitLady says with glee, "YOU will be spending a lot more money than people who use little words." She is clearly pleased by this.

"But shouldn't we reward the educated and erudite use of language in this world?" I ask, hoping she'll offer me a discount based on my successful navigation of high school and college English.

"Well, of course. Obits with longer words are certainly more interesting to read," she says, "But the cost of running one in the Times is still $9.00 a line."

"Okay. Well, what about a picture? Can we run a picture?" I ask, tapping my bright purple crayola market on the counter, hoping she will tell me that YES, pictures may be included at no extra charge.

"Are you sitting down?" she asks.

"That much, huh?" I ask, getting a bit deflated.

"Yes. Tell me you are sitting down," ObitLady says with what I consider too much enthusiasm.

"I'm not sitting. But give me a second to lean on something."

She chuckles. Apparently I amuse her.

"Okay. It's $850.00 MINIMUM. And I mean MINIMUM."

"$850 to run a picture?" I ask. I DID hear her the first time but clarification is a good defense to use when you are bowled over by something. $850 to run the picture I have in mind bowls me over. Forget running TWO pictures.

"Yikes. Okay. $850 for the picture, MINIMUM, and $9.00 a line. Yer killin' me here."

She chuckles again. No doubt she will repeat this conversation.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she replies. "I suppose so."

"You do this in order to keep yourself in business," I say, in my most accusatory tone.
"Job security. Yes. Definitely."

We discuss deadlines and I tell her that if I unearth some buried treasure today I MIGHT eMail her a fittingly worded and erudite memorial essay about my father and MAYBE, just maybe, if I use the next paycheck from my 2nd job, I will sacrifice it to run the picture and keep HER family clothed and fed another week. Or two.

She thanks me profusely.

I am thinking this post here would cost me about $3000.00.
:-)K

Stupid Questions, Part 2

Today I took small groups of the afternoon kids outside to splatter white paint on black paper. The finished product will be a page in their Wonderful World book, which they will present and sing at Kindergarten Graduation next month. This page depicts the "dark sacred night" and is always a hit. Not only do the kids get to splatter paint, they get to add glitter when they bring the masterpiece back inside.

I take the time to model for the kids how to do a Jackson Pollack and splatter the white paint all over the black paper so that it looks like the night sky. I use words like 'constellation' and 'orion' and 'nebulas' and the kids just can't WAIT to get their hands on that paintbrush.

I have learned through experience it is best to stand back (way back) before they let loose. And they splatter. They splatter white paint all over the place - the grass, the sidewalk, their friends, their clothing, and often - their paper and their friend's paper.

Most of the children do not want to stop. The fact that the night sky is just perfect matters not at all. The experience is the thing. After all, how often does anyone REALLY get a chance to splatter paint? Gleefully? Gloriously? All over the place with wild abandon?

Most of them are good listeners and will stop when I say something about how marvelous their night sky has turned out and when I say something about the glitter on the table in the classroom, well - they pick up their masterpiece and head inside.

But some children simply can't stop. It is almost a physical need. They never get to do this kind of stuff.

I was ready to wrap the activity up for the day but Clemente was just not wanting to stop splattering. His paper looked quite good and I told him so. But he wanted more.

I poked my head inside the room to check on the glitterers - because a little glitter is never enough. MORE glitter is much better. This is a Kindergarten Rule. More is Better.

I glance back at Clemente to see him sitting down on the paint splattered grass. He has both paint brushes now and is wildly splattering all over what was once a nice little green patch of lawn. The paint in the cup is long gone but no matter - Clemente is clearly lost in the moment, sitting on the grass, eyes half closed, wildly pummeling two paintbrushes up and down and all around.

And along comes Stupid Question #2 for the day.

"Clemente," I ask with as much calm and patience as I can - after all, his blue jeans are now looking mysteriously, uh - splattered. His shoes, shirt, hands, legs, and arms - splattered. He looks like a professional house painter after a long day of vaulted ceilings.

"Clemente, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Clemente stops and looks at me as one might view a much adored but truly unhinged elderly relative. His jaw slightly drops and he looks truly, truly, sorry for me.

"Drumming," he replies, before going back to the task at hand.

"Of course you are," I say, "OF COURSE you are!"

How silly of me.