A friend of mine was complaining the other day that her dog had to have minor surgery and wear a lampshade. This will keep him from overlicking the wound. I am sorry about all this. Especially the lamp shade. NO dog with any dignity should have to wear a lampshade.
When Augie Doggie had surgery, he didn't have to wear a lampshade because I didn't make him. I just nagged him a lot about licking his incisions - and I made everyone around me nag him too. The poor dog never got in a good lick when I was around.
Augie Doggie had fatty tumors. There were seven of them and they bothered me. I don't know if they bothered him, but his self-esteem had to be affected when Dustin started calling him Lumpy. Augie knew that "Lumpy" wasn't the same as "Augie." Dogs are smart that way.
I waited awhile and then made arrangements to have the vet look at them. With barely a glance, the vet said they were fatty tumors and even extracted a bit of Fatty Tumor Extract to put under the microscope and be sure. I got to look at it. It looked just like I pictured Fatty Tumor Extract to look like. White and watery and lacy.
So - Augie had a surgery date in order to improve his self-esteem and to make Dustin stop calling him Lumpy. And what do you think the vet discovered while listening to Augie's heart beat? YES! A heart murmur! A real one, complete with danger and mortality.
So - no surgery until the Heart Murmur was analyzed completely. This involved calling in the Canine Cardiac Specialist. This doctor drives all over heck and gone with her portable heart device and takes pictures of dog hearts. Not exactly what I would do after 22 years of vet school, but hey... to each her own, right?
This little "scan" cost $350, payable directly to the Canine Cardiac Specialist. Once this was done, it was determined that Augie Doggie COULD have his fatty tumors removed. Removal of said tumors cost less than the heart scan. I am of the belief that this Canine Cardiac Specialist must be a relative of the regular vet or something. Or there is some kind of "kickback" involved. Very hush-hush and not to be spoken of out loud or in public.
So, all the lumps were removed and I was charged by the minute. All the removals added up to 22 minutes which is pretty impressive when you realize how big those lumps were and how none of them actually TOUCHED each other.
Augie Doggie is the picture of health now. No lumps anywhere.
But Dustin still calls him Lumpy.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The Cellphone
My first cell phone was as big as my face and Dan got it for me when I started working in Rosamond - far away from civilization, as far as he was concerned. I often rode to work with a gal who ran out of gas once - this was all the reason he needed to get me a cellphone. He already had one - attached to the floorboard of his truck with screws and a phone cord. Very fancy.
When the big one died - because they all have a built-in "self-destruct" computer chip that guarantees you are going to have to go back to fancy Cell Phone Store as soon as the "contract" is up, Dan got me a slimmer version that had number keys so small I had to use a toothpick to dial out. Lucky for me I am not much of a cell phone talker because keeping a toothpick on hand sounds easier than it really is. This phone was apparently so bad that I started getting teased about it. But I didn't care - it worked when I needed it. Once, I even had it ON when Dan tried to call me during a Medical Emergency. (Dustin almost had his finger sliced off at work.) And then it stopped working and Dan got annoyed because I was commuting to the other ends of the Earth, Lake Los Angeles, without one.
Now, Dustin had a "fancy" one that I inherited when this cheap one finally sputtered it's last cell*ular breath. By "fancy," I mean that it flipped open.
Then, just like that, it stopped working. Dustin KNEW it was on its last breath when he gave it to me. But he figured I wouldn't catch on for awhile and he was right. He had replaced his with one that flips open to a KEYBOARD. It takes pictures, makes phone calls, wakes him up for work, and does the dishes. (It leaves streaks but hey - what do you expect from an electronic device?)
So, I asked Dustin to go get me a new phone because he speaks Cell*ular and gets along great with the Brittneys and Jasons who work behind the counter at the Great Cell*ular Place, where fingers fly across keyboards and they serious things about contracts, minutes, texting, and the dangers of pedicures from that place at the end of the mall. I was ready for a more "serious" cell phone.
However, SON delegating this job to DAD. Dad knows even LESS about Cell*ular Stuff than I do - having CHOSEN, of his own accord, the cheeepest, and I do mean CHEEESIEST phone on the planet. The one they keep behind the counter and put in a paper bag to give you so nobody COOL will actually see them handling it.
So. Dan gets me the exact replica of his cheeep and cheeesy phone. It will do text messaging but only if the stars and planets are aligned just so. It has ring*tones - but I keep silencing the dang thing just by being NEAR it and can never figure out HOW to make it ring out loud.
People ALWAYS complain that they call me on my Cell and I don't pick up. Well, shoot - I would pick up if I HEARD the thing.
Anyway.. the moral of the story is to not let my husband pick out the phone, that's all I can say.
:-)K
When the big one died - because they all have a built-in "self-destruct" computer chip that guarantees you are going to have to go back to fancy Cell Phone Store as soon as the "contract" is up, Dan got me a slimmer version that had number keys so small I had to use a toothpick to dial out. Lucky for me I am not much of a cell phone talker because keeping a toothpick on hand sounds easier than it really is. This phone was apparently so bad that I started getting teased about it. But I didn't care - it worked when I needed it. Once, I even had it ON when Dan tried to call me during a Medical Emergency. (Dustin almost had his finger sliced off at work.) And then it stopped working and Dan got annoyed because I was commuting to the other ends of the Earth, Lake Los Angeles, without one.
Now, Dustin had a "fancy" one that I inherited when this cheap one finally sputtered it's last cell*ular breath. By "fancy," I mean that it flipped open.
Then, just like that, it stopped working. Dustin KNEW it was on its last breath when he gave it to me. But he figured I wouldn't catch on for awhile and he was right. He had replaced his with one that flips open to a KEYBOARD. It takes pictures, makes phone calls, wakes him up for work, and does the dishes. (It leaves streaks but hey - what do you expect from an electronic device?)
So, I asked Dustin to go get me a new phone because he speaks Cell*ular and gets along great with the Brittneys and Jasons who work behind the counter at the Great Cell*ular Place, where fingers fly across keyboards and they serious things about contracts, minutes, texting, and the dangers of pedicures from that place at the end of the mall. I was ready for a more "serious" cell phone.
However, SON delegating this job to DAD. Dad knows even LESS about Cell*ular Stuff than I do - having CHOSEN, of his own accord, the cheeepest, and I do mean CHEEESIEST phone on the planet. The one they keep behind the counter and put in a paper bag to give you so nobody COOL will actually see them handling it.
So. Dan gets me the exact replica of his cheeep and cheeesy phone. It will do text messaging but only if the stars and planets are aligned just so. It has ring*tones - but I keep silencing the dang thing just by being NEAR it and can never figure out HOW to make it ring out loud.
People ALWAYS complain that they call me on my Cell and I don't pick up. Well, shoot - I would pick up if I HEARD the thing.
Anyway.. the moral of the story is to not let my husband pick out the phone, that's all I can say.
:-)K
Saturday, March 10, 2007
If I wore a hat...
I'd a thrown it into the ring this morning. And I do wonder why I don't wear a hat. Hats have such potential, you know? And some people can really make a statement with a good hat. Me? I just don't look good in a hat.
Hats aside, I called my principal on the phone at home this morning. This always takes an act of courage since she never seems really thrilled to hear from me. My mother is thrilled when I call and so is my son. And some of my friends - they are happy when I call. I think this is because I never actually call - I eMail. I have this phone phobia and it often takes me awhile to actually PLACE the call. And my princy seems to sense this and tries to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible when I call. I become this inarticulate, nervous, rambling idiot on the phone.
Of course, calling your principal at home on a Saturday morning is bound to be placed in the "iffy" catagory. She does have friends at school who wouldn't think twice of calling her at home - but I'm not in that category. Sometimes I think I am - but usually I don't think I am, which is why it took me five minutes to work up the courage to call her.
I called because she has complained about the volume of eMails she gets. So, not wanting to add to that mountainous pile, I decided to call her - only to find out that she cleared her INbox before leaving on Friday. Who knew? Shesh. I should have just eMailed her and risked being forever at the bottom of the pile, never knowing if she actually reads my eMails or not.
I send her these detailed eMails (imagine that) and often get something like, "sounds good," or "great!" in response. She is really into Terse Verse, that principle of mine. People who like Terse Verse don't often appreciate a well-written eMail. This makes people who fancy themselves as writers a bit nervous.
But a terse phone conversation? That's enough to send my heart into palpitations and my nerves to jangling. Here I am just wanting a nice casual conversation about throwing my hat and I am reduced to wreck status. Other people might be able to call and have a nice "Oh yeah, really?" conversation with her - but not me. This is after 5 years and I am starting to take in personally.
Anyway, so I called to tell her that after much thoughtful consideration I would like to loop with my kids up to first grade. I miss teaching first grade and with one of the veteran teachers retiring, now would be a good time to jump back into the nuts and bolts of teaching reading.
Now, call me narcisstic and egocentric but I happen to think I'm a good teacher and have taught my current, rather difficult crop, well. The fact that I am willing to take them with me to continue the "she's not my friend" drama says a lot for my well of patience and good character. You'd think she would say something like, "Okay. Sounds good. Let me get back to you when I've had a chance to sort stuff out." But no.. she actually hesitated. As if me moving back to first grade is a bad thing.
This does wonders for my self-esteem of course. And it has me wishing fervently that I hadn't bothered to call her at all. In my extrapolating mind I have myself looking for another job, at a district where I am truly appreciated for the 20 hours I put in last week on the Science Night and before that the Dr. King Thing and before that the Christmas Pageant.
Too early for a glass of whine - I mean wine. I think I will go buy a hat.
Hats aside, I called my principal on the phone at home this morning. This always takes an act of courage since she never seems really thrilled to hear from me. My mother is thrilled when I call and so is my son. And some of my friends - they are happy when I call. I think this is because I never actually call - I eMail. I have this phone phobia and it often takes me awhile to actually PLACE the call. And my princy seems to sense this and tries to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible when I call. I become this inarticulate, nervous, rambling idiot on the phone.
Of course, calling your principal at home on a Saturday morning is bound to be placed in the "iffy" catagory. She does have friends at school who wouldn't think twice of calling her at home - but I'm not in that category. Sometimes I think I am - but usually I don't think I am, which is why it took me five minutes to work up the courage to call her.
I called because she has complained about the volume of eMails she gets. So, not wanting to add to that mountainous pile, I decided to call her - only to find out that she cleared her INbox before leaving on Friday. Who knew? Shesh. I should have just eMailed her and risked being forever at the bottom of the pile, never knowing if she actually reads my eMails or not.
I send her these detailed eMails (imagine that) and often get something like, "sounds good," or "great!" in response. She is really into Terse Verse, that principle of mine. People who like Terse Verse don't often appreciate a well-written eMail. This makes people who fancy themselves as writers a bit nervous.
But a terse phone conversation? That's enough to send my heart into palpitations and my nerves to jangling. Here I am just wanting a nice casual conversation about throwing my hat and I am reduced to wreck status. Other people might be able to call and have a nice "Oh yeah, really?" conversation with her - but not me. This is after 5 years and I am starting to take in personally.
Anyway, so I called to tell her that after much thoughtful consideration I would like to loop with my kids up to first grade. I miss teaching first grade and with one of the veteran teachers retiring, now would be a good time to jump back into the nuts and bolts of teaching reading.
Now, call me narcisstic and egocentric but I happen to think I'm a good teacher and have taught my current, rather difficult crop, well. The fact that I am willing to take them with me to continue the "she's not my friend" drama says a lot for my well of patience and good character. You'd think she would say something like, "Okay. Sounds good. Let me get back to you when I've had a chance to sort stuff out." But no.. she actually hesitated. As if me moving back to first grade is a bad thing.
This does wonders for my self-esteem of course. And it has me wishing fervently that I hadn't bothered to call her at all. In my extrapolating mind I have myself looking for another job, at a district where I am truly appreciated for the 20 hours I put in last week on the Science Night and before that the Dr. King Thing and before that the Christmas Pageant.
Too early for a glass of whine - I mean wine. I think I will go buy a hat.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Trail Nasties
Even though the weather was a bit windy and chilly, I took the dogs out on our favorite "kick butt" trail. The elevation climbs quickly and steadily - guaranteeing a good workout for all of us. I also like it because of its scenery - lots of interesting rocks and plants.
Duke likes this trail because it is ripe with trail nasties - things he is sure he can eat but not without an argument from me.
He tends to pretty obedient - unless we are talking about anything edible. Then, all training, respect, and learning are OFF.
He is almost trained to "leave it!" when I holler that command. Last summer, he sat down and waited when I hollered "leave it!" as he came upon a basking snake on the trail. The trouble was, he sat down RIGHT next to the snake - which would have been a bad thing if this reptile wasn't a harmless gopher snake.
I let him chase rabbits, mice, squirrels, birds, and even deer when he happens upon them while we hike, since the chances are between NIL and zero he will ever catch anything. But "leave it!" sounds suspiciously like "eat it!" and this is the excuse he uses when he finds a morsel of what HE thinks is edible food.
Sometimes trail nasties are scat - he finds these piles very interesting. But most often, they are leftovers from trail misfortune.
It's nature. Things die on or near the trail. Bigger animals make kills and leave the bones and gristle for lesser members of the pack. Duke considers himself obligated to partake of these things - out of respect for the Universal Canine Consciousness, I suppose.
I can shout "leave it!" till the cows come home (and he would promptly chase them) - but no amount of cajoling on my part is going to make him put down what he perceives to be a tasty morsel - no way. The fact that said morsel is probably loaded with bacteria and airborne viruses only adds to the texture, as far as he is concerned.
He has gotten away with eating trail nasties at least a half dozen times and he hasn't died yet. No upset stomachs, no regurgitation, no bad gas - or worse. But something tells me he is pressing his luck here.
He also has a terrific memory for any and all trail nasties. If he found something good there once, he encodes it in his cognitive map so he will be sure to check out the area thoroughly during our next visit. If I manage to confiscate his "find" and fling it into the hinterlands, Duke will take off after it, into the brambles, brush, and great beyond. In his mind, this is like chasing a ball or something.
Tonight, Duke is one contented dog. Not only did he find a couple decent trail nasties today, he managed to snag himself some cat food.
What he DOESN'T understand is why I won't let him smooch me.
Duke likes this trail because it is ripe with trail nasties - things he is sure he can eat but not without an argument from me.
He tends to pretty obedient - unless we are talking about anything edible. Then, all training, respect, and learning are OFF.
He is almost trained to "leave it!" when I holler that command. Last summer, he sat down and waited when I hollered "leave it!" as he came upon a basking snake on the trail. The trouble was, he sat down RIGHT next to the snake - which would have been a bad thing if this reptile wasn't a harmless gopher snake.
I let him chase rabbits, mice, squirrels, birds, and even deer when he happens upon them while we hike, since the chances are between NIL and zero he will ever catch anything. But "leave it!" sounds suspiciously like "eat it!" and this is the excuse he uses when he finds a morsel of what HE thinks is edible food.
Sometimes trail nasties are scat - he finds these piles very interesting. But most often, they are leftovers from trail misfortune.
It's nature. Things die on or near the trail. Bigger animals make kills and leave the bones and gristle for lesser members of the pack. Duke considers himself obligated to partake of these things - out of respect for the Universal Canine Consciousness, I suppose.
I can shout "leave it!" till the cows come home (and he would promptly chase them) - but no amount of cajoling on my part is going to make him put down what he perceives to be a tasty morsel - no way. The fact that said morsel is probably loaded with bacteria and airborne viruses only adds to the texture, as far as he is concerned.
He has gotten away with eating trail nasties at least a half dozen times and he hasn't died yet. No upset stomachs, no regurgitation, no bad gas - or worse. But something tells me he is pressing his luck here.
He also has a terrific memory for any and all trail nasties. If he found something good there once, he encodes it in his cognitive map so he will be sure to check out the area thoroughly during our next visit. If I manage to confiscate his "find" and fling it into the hinterlands, Duke will take off after it, into the brambles, brush, and great beyond. In his mind, this is like chasing a ball or something.
Tonight, Duke is one contented dog. Not only did he find a couple decent trail nasties today, he managed to snag himself some cat food.
What he DOESN'T understand is why I won't let him smooch me.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Tail of a Wedged Dog
Poor Seamus.
He's my dog with little brain who often evokes Eeyore with his sad "thanks for noticing" look whenever he is feeling blue and unappreciated.
This morning he and Augie were lounging on the bed with me while I attempted to read a book. All that page-turning caught the attention of Little Beans, the feisty and lovable white puppy who bothers Seamus to no end. To say Seamus is jealous of Little Beans is like saying that Hamlet's father had some anger issues.
My gentle and sweet brown dog has been known, on occasion, to go after the feisty white puppy - teeth bared, growling, and with injury on his mind. (What 'mind' he has. Sigh.)
So, when Little Beans joined us on the bed and wedged his little body into my chest and under my neck so that my attention was on HIM and not the BOOK, Seamus decided to wedge his long dachshund body likewise, but against my back and shoulders, since I happened to be in the way of him moving the white dog out of the way.
Augie, not to miss out, chose a wedge-like position also - against my stomach.
I was one wedged-in dog owner. And remained so for several pages until the desire to move became overwhelming.
Now, in the past - when Seamus has gone after the puppy, I have pushed him off the bed in punishment. I don't know if the Dog Whisperer would approve, but my options are limited when Seamus bares his fangs and intends harm for Little Beans, who is arguably the cutest puppy in town. This is a fact not lost on Seamus - who doesn't understand that being the cutest longhaired dachshund in town has its advantages. Or that he is technically NOT a puppy anymore.
So I wiggle a bit and when I attempt to move up on my pillow I unintentionally shoved Seamus right off the bed - into the tiny little spot right between the nightstand and the bed.
When he doesn't move, I figure he is stunned by my behavior. So I reach down and pet him and tell him I am sorry and to come back up.
Seamus doesn't move.
I adjust myself and start reading again - with Augie and Beans happily wedged into my left side.
But then I start thinking about Seamus, who must be in a snit - he isn't coming back. He isn't moving at all. So my mind flashes on the possibilities - I've injured him, he hit his head and is comatose, his leg is broken, he has internal injuries....
I look down.
Seamus is WEDGED in between the bed and nightstand. He couldn't move if he wanted to. His short legs are attempting to move but his long body won't follow suit. So he stays, convinced he's done something REALLY BAD this time because he won't even look at me.
I unwedge him, which takes awhile, but he won't get back on the bed.
I decide to shower and have coffee. Seamus stays put the whole time.
After my shower and breakfast I come back upstairs to find Seamus on my pillow, looking forlorn and dejected.
I take him downstairs to use the backyard canine potty facilities. He does so but won't come back inside - convinced that he is the worst dog in town.
I'm thinking that Dog Wedging must have some serious connotations in the Dog World. You do it when you want possession of the Alpha Female (that would be me). You do it for security and because it is a dogly thing to do.
But to be wedged to the point where you can't move? Now there's some serious issues there - I just wish I knew what they were....
He's my dog with little brain who often evokes Eeyore with his sad "thanks for noticing" look whenever he is feeling blue and unappreciated.
This morning he and Augie were lounging on the bed with me while I attempted to read a book. All that page-turning caught the attention of Little Beans, the feisty and lovable white puppy who bothers Seamus to no end. To say Seamus is jealous of Little Beans is like saying that Hamlet's father had some anger issues.
My gentle and sweet brown dog has been known, on occasion, to go after the feisty white puppy - teeth bared, growling, and with injury on his mind. (What 'mind' he has. Sigh.)
So, when Little Beans joined us on the bed and wedged his little body into my chest and under my neck so that my attention was on HIM and not the BOOK, Seamus decided to wedge his long dachshund body likewise, but against my back and shoulders, since I happened to be in the way of him moving the white dog out of the way.
Augie, not to miss out, chose a wedge-like position also - against my stomach.
I was one wedged-in dog owner. And remained so for several pages until the desire to move became overwhelming.
Now, in the past - when Seamus has gone after the puppy, I have pushed him off the bed in punishment. I don't know if the Dog Whisperer would approve, but my options are limited when Seamus bares his fangs and intends harm for Little Beans, who is arguably the cutest puppy in town. This is a fact not lost on Seamus - who doesn't understand that being the cutest longhaired dachshund in town has its advantages. Or that he is technically NOT a puppy anymore.
So I wiggle a bit and when I attempt to move up on my pillow I unintentionally shoved Seamus right off the bed - into the tiny little spot right between the nightstand and the bed.
When he doesn't move, I figure he is stunned by my behavior. So I reach down and pet him and tell him I am sorry and to come back up.
Seamus doesn't move.
I adjust myself and start reading again - with Augie and Beans happily wedged into my left side.
But then I start thinking about Seamus, who must be in a snit - he isn't coming back. He isn't moving at all. So my mind flashes on the possibilities - I've injured him, he hit his head and is comatose, his leg is broken, he has internal injuries....
I look down.
Seamus is WEDGED in between the bed and nightstand. He couldn't move if he wanted to. His short legs are attempting to move but his long body won't follow suit. So he stays, convinced he's done something REALLY BAD this time because he won't even look at me.
I unwedge him, which takes awhile, but he won't get back on the bed.
I decide to shower and have coffee. Seamus stays put the whole time.
After my shower and breakfast I come back upstairs to find Seamus on my pillow, looking forlorn and dejected.
I take him downstairs to use the backyard canine potty facilities. He does so but won't come back inside - convinced that he is the worst dog in town.
I'm thinking that Dog Wedging must have some serious connotations in the Dog World. You do it when you want possession of the Alpha Female (that would be me). You do it for security and because it is a dogly thing to do.
But to be wedged to the point where you can't move? Now there's some serious issues there - I just wish I knew what they were....
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Kindergarten Valentines from the Trenches
Today the kids were making Valentine cards for their parents. At my table, during Group Time, they had to draw a picture of something Mom and Dad like to do together, and then write a greeting - like, "Happy Valentine's Day."
At any given time, there are about 6 kids during these open-ended activities sitting at my table. I instruct Jovante to draw a picture of mom and dad doing what they like to do together.
He draws mom and then he looks at me very annoyed and says, "Do I hafta draw them when they fighting? All they say is 'whatsup whatsup whatsup!"
****
Erik is sitting next to Madelin and following my directions, drawing a nice picture of his parents holding hands. Madelin's parents are "roller skating." Erik asks if he can write his greeting in Spanish, since mom and dad don't speak English. I proceed to help him. Erik turns to Madelin and says, "I can write in Spanish."
Madelin keeps coloring and says, "I can't speak Spanish."
Erik doesn't miss a beat. "That's okay," he says, "You just have to keep practicing."
********
Flower is drawing her parents working in the yard. She is trying to draw a shovel. She asks for guidance.
"What are they doing?" I ask."Cleaning up dog Sh**," she replies.
(I remind her there are NICER ways of saying this. Since she can't say "excrement" she settles on "Poop".)
About 20 minutes later she storms OUT of the bathroom up to my table. "Mrs. L.....there was POOOOP all over the toilet seat and I had to clean it up!"
"Kind of like your poor parents, huh Flower?" (I just couldn't resist.)
*********
Then there's Niya..the PERFECT child. She is the kindest, gentlest, sweetest little girl on the planet. She sets to work drawing diligently, her parents sitting on the couch. Mom wears socks and dad is barefoot. She carefully draws his toes. Then she decides it is too cold and adds socks.
"They like to watch T.V.," she explains.
Then she draws the television, complete with little details, like knobs and the DVD player. Then, she draws a picture inside the T.V. screen.
I look away long enough to check on the other kids and am horrified to look back at Niya's paper to see a body with a HEAD laying next to it. She is using a red crayon to depict the blood and gore.
She is coloring serenely, perfect pigtails swaying.
"They like to watch scary movies. This one has his head cut off."
**************
Franky is drawing a detailed scene of his whole family outside in the yard, playing with the dog.
"My mom and dad like to play with the dog in the morning."
"So this is what they like to do together? How nice," I say. He nods in agreement.
A little while later he says, "Well, actually ... my mom doesn't get up in the morning. She doesn't play with the dog."
"Oh. Well.. I thought your mom and dad played with the dog in the morning."
"My dad hates the dog. He don't play with the dog." Then he sighs. "Actually, I'm the only one who plays with the dog in the morning."
***************
Aracely is busily drawing away on the paper.
"What are your parents doing?" I ask... noticing that they both have HUGE baseball-mitt looking things on their hands.
Aracely smiles. "They're making COOKIES," she says sweetly. "Mommy makes them and Papi eats them."
****************
At any given time, there are about 6 kids during these open-ended activities sitting at my table. I instruct Jovante to draw a picture of mom and dad doing what they like to do together.
He draws mom and then he looks at me very annoyed and says, "Do I hafta draw them when they fighting? All they say is 'whatsup whatsup whatsup!"
****
Erik is sitting next to Madelin and following my directions, drawing a nice picture of his parents holding hands. Madelin's parents are "roller skating." Erik asks if he can write his greeting in Spanish, since mom and dad don't speak English. I proceed to help him. Erik turns to Madelin and says, "I can write in Spanish."
Madelin keeps coloring and says, "I can't speak Spanish."
Erik doesn't miss a beat. "That's okay," he says, "You just have to keep practicing."
********
Flower is drawing her parents working in the yard. She is trying to draw a shovel. She asks for guidance.
"What are they doing?" I ask."Cleaning up dog Sh**," she replies.
(I remind her there are NICER ways of saying this. Since she can't say "excrement" she settles on "Poop".)
About 20 minutes later she storms OUT of the bathroom up to my table. "Mrs. L.....there was POOOOP all over the toilet seat and I had to clean it up!"
"Kind of like your poor parents, huh Flower?" (I just couldn't resist.)
*********
Then there's Niya..the PERFECT child. She is the kindest, gentlest, sweetest little girl on the planet. She sets to work drawing diligently, her parents sitting on the couch. Mom wears socks and dad is barefoot. She carefully draws his toes. Then she decides it is too cold and adds socks.
"They like to watch T.V.," she explains.
Then she draws the television, complete with little details, like knobs and the DVD player. Then, she draws a picture inside the T.V. screen.
I look away long enough to check on the other kids and am horrified to look back at Niya's paper to see a body with a HEAD laying next to it. She is using a red crayon to depict the blood and gore.
She is coloring serenely, perfect pigtails swaying.
"They like to watch scary movies. This one has his head cut off."
**************
Franky is drawing a detailed scene of his whole family outside in the yard, playing with the dog.
"My mom and dad like to play with the dog in the morning."
"So this is what they like to do together? How nice," I say. He nods in agreement.
A little while later he says, "Well, actually ... my mom doesn't get up in the morning. She doesn't play with the dog."
"Oh. Well.. I thought your mom and dad played with the dog in the morning."
"My dad hates the dog. He don't play with the dog." Then he sighs. "Actually, I'm the only one who plays with the dog in the morning."
***************
Aracely is busily drawing away on the paper.
"What are your parents doing?" I ask... noticing that they both have HUGE baseball-mitt looking things on their hands.
Aracely smiles. "They're making COOKIES," she says sweetly. "Mommy makes them and Papi eats them."
****************
Sunday, February 11, 2007
A Molehill from a Mountain....
So my husband had this huge goose egg on his head as a result of colliding with the steering wheel during his heart-attack/accident 2 weeks ago. This "hematoma" was large, red, and rather annoying because it pulled on his forehead skin. (I would have thought - 'facelift!' - but he didn't.)
So, during his scheduled visit to the cardiologist last Tuesday, he asks the guy to "take it off." The doctor had previously said that "the body will take care of it" but the body was slow - and Dan wanted this huge bump gone.
So.. I'm thinking that the request is a simple one. Just poke a hole in it and extract whatever is inside to make it poke out. Since it is called a HEMAtoma, I am figuring it is full of blood that lacks direction back into the body.
I'm also thinking syringe, some guaze, maybe some alcohol or peroxide, and the mountain will be reduced. "Hey, Judy...(or whatever her name is)...bring me a Number 4b syringe, will ya?" I picture the cariologist asking. That didn't happen.
"Judy" had to schedule the "procedure" at the hospital for Friday - an outpatient thing. I'm thinking... okay.... they are worried about blood loss? Isn't that the point? What is the ISSUE here? Seems simple to me. Apparently not.
So - the hospital calls twice during the week to give Dan "instructions" - like this is some huge deal. When he gets there he is given an I.V. and put in a gown and placed in a waiting area. A nurse even comes by to play 100 Questions with him.
"Do you have any heart problems?" she asks.
"Uh yeah. I had a heart attack," Dan answers.
Her eyes widen and she gasps, "WHEN?"
"Two weeks ago. When I got THIS," (he motions to the forehead.
She acts surprised. "Wow," she says, writing something on the clipboard.
Dan waits for over TWO hours. They tell him there is an issue with "the room" and when they can move him into "the room" they will but for now, he will have to wait "here."
The cardiologist shows up. He is chagrined to find that the hospital, acting upon his office's communications, has actually prepped Dan for surgery. They even had the anesthesiologist on call - for when the doctor finally arrived.
The good doctor apologizes and then asks for THE SYRINGE and he ... guess what? Just guess!
Yes.. it takes him less than 20 seconds to extract most of the contents of the hematoma. The nursing staff has gathered around to watch, impressed with the volume of the bloody contents.
Then he is bandaged and....sent home.
And I am thinking, when all of this is related to me..."Sheesh! I coulda done that!"
For the price of the syringe I could have done THAT in my bathroom. I just can't wait to get the bill for THIS little mountainous expedition.
So, during his scheduled visit to the cardiologist last Tuesday, he asks the guy to "take it off." The doctor had previously said that "the body will take care of it" but the body was slow - and Dan wanted this huge bump gone.
So.. I'm thinking that the request is a simple one. Just poke a hole in it and extract whatever is inside to make it poke out. Since it is called a HEMAtoma, I am figuring it is full of blood that lacks direction back into the body.
I'm also thinking syringe, some guaze, maybe some alcohol or peroxide, and the mountain will be reduced. "Hey, Judy...(or whatever her name is)...bring me a Number 4b syringe, will ya?" I picture the cariologist asking. That didn't happen.
"Judy" had to schedule the "procedure" at the hospital for Friday - an outpatient thing. I'm thinking... okay.... they are worried about blood loss? Isn't that the point? What is the ISSUE here? Seems simple to me. Apparently not.
So - the hospital calls twice during the week to give Dan "instructions" - like this is some huge deal. When he gets there he is given an I.V. and put in a gown and placed in a waiting area. A nurse even comes by to play 100 Questions with him.
"Do you have any heart problems?" she asks.
"Uh yeah. I had a heart attack," Dan answers.
Her eyes widen and she gasps, "WHEN?"
"Two weeks ago. When I got THIS," (he motions to the forehead.
She acts surprised. "Wow," she says, writing something on the clipboard.
Dan waits for over TWO hours. They tell him there is an issue with "the room" and when they can move him into "the room" they will but for now, he will have to wait "here."
The cardiologist shows up. He is chagrined to find that the hospital, acting upon his office's communications, has actually prepped Dan for surgery. They even had the anesthesiologist on call - for when the doctor finally arrived.
The good doctor apologizes and then asks for THE SYRINGE and he ... guess what? Just guess!
Yes.. it takes him less than 20 seconds to extract most of the contents of the hematoma. The nursing staff has gathered around to watch, impressed with the volume of the bloody contents.
Then he is bandaged and....sent home.
And I am thinking, when all of this is related to me..."Sheesh! I coulda done that!"
For the price of the syringe I could have done THAT in my bathroom. I just can't wait to get the bill for THIS little mountainous expedition.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Dan's Excellent Hospital Adventure
Dan got booted from the hospital last night - not too soon, considering the free side-show they call "roommates" in the hospital. ICU was great, but once you're in a regular room, it is like White Trash Meets Ghetto. Dan called it "free entertainment."
He was wheeled into the room at 6am Saturday morning - to find Fleck and Patty. Seems Fleck had given himself a bit of alcohol poisoning and Patty had rode in the ambulance with him. They'd spent 2 days in Emergency while he "got it outta his system" but then there was "trouble with the oxygen" in his blood so he had to stay. Patty made herself at home - climbing into the bed and snoring like a freight train, while Fleck, still attached to his tubes, IVs, and monitors, walked up and down the hallway yelling for "Nora" and "stepping out" for a smoke. They used the phone constantly (when she was awake) and discussed everything from money, drugs, "ak-ahol," "the damn kids," and how they were going to get back to Palmdale once Fleck was kicked loose. Patty also ordered food - thinking this was room service. The hospital provided a taxi voucher - probably to get rid of them.
Then there was John. He was in for his diabetes. He had family problems and we heard ALL about them during the plethora of phone calls to the mother of his daughter, ANNdrea, who had apparently made a terrorist threat at school and was suspended pending an expulsion hearing. Once daddy went into the hospital, it seems young ANNdrea needed funds to she emptied John's pockets, took his cell phone, and her whereabouts were unknown. John's older boys sauntered in for a visit and we were treated to details about their many shenanigans, including getting kicked out of school (but making up credits), losing jobs, "staying" at friends' houses that were loaded with dope and drug paraphenalia, and the best way for one of the boys' mama get disability.
During the height of what, at times, sounded like a rap concert, the nurse's assistant came in to drill Dan loudly and tenaciously about his potty habits. "IS THIS ALL YOU'VE PEED today? Since MY SHIFT? WHAT ABOUT A BM? YOU HAVE ONE OF THOSE YET?"
Turns out HER name was Nora, the one Fleck kept looking for during the early part of the day. I asked Nora if Dan could take a shower - if for my sake only since he was getting kind of ripe - all that testosterone and adrenaline. "OH NO, he can't shower... it'll shock him." (?? I didn't ask.)
Seems you can't shut the room door at night - "the nurse will want to keep an eye on you," which is funny since we can count using half a hand just how many times a nurse actually showed herself (or HIMself - "Michael" is another story) once Dan was booted from ICU.
So - all night long phones ring, hospital staff converses - loudly - and floors get mopped, waxed, buffed, and spit-shined. Need blood? Come and get it RIGHT when the patient finally drops off to sleep. Need to check on Potty Progress? Don't do it during the day when he is AWAKE. Jar him awake at night to demand details about the urinal levels. The answers will be more coherent then - especially if the patient has been given a sleeping pill in order to actually SLEEP during the cacophony that is called "night" at the hospital.
He was released with what looks like a thesis of post-instructions, plus a half page of prescriptions, each with varying sizes, instructions, and times for ingestion. The nice little pharmacist at Target took pity on me when I showed up at 10 minutes to 6 last night to fill them. She also got me a pill-splitter and a blood pressure cuff.
The boys are enjoying the blood pressure cuff very much. Well, Dustin is - he and I register as "Dead" on the machine while Danny's comes up higher than Dan's - something that is perplexing him to no end. He checks it every hour, certain a fate similar to his father's awaits him next Tuesday.
I've only tried to kill Dan twice. The first time I won't tell you about, but the most recent occasion concerns his plethora of pills - one of which is supposed to be a HALF pill twice a day and I gave him a whole pill this morning. He told me the "pretty colors" and other hallucinations were quite interesting.
So now - Dan is home, resting upstairs - right next to the phone, which is ringing about every 12.5 minutes. (It's always for him.)
I am letting him answer the phone - weaning him gently off the hospital routine is the kindest way, isn't it?
:-)Kim
He was wheeled into the room at 6am Saturday morning - to find Fleck and Patty. Seems Fleck had given himself a bit of alcohol poisoning and Patty had rode in the ambulance with him. They'd spent 2 days in Emergency while he "got it outta his system" but then there was "trouble with the oxygen" in his blood so he had to stay. Patty made herself at home - climbing into the bed and snoring like a freight train, while Fleck, still attached to his tubes, IVs, and monitors, walked up and down the hallway yelling for "Nora" and "stepping out" for a smoke. They used the phone constantly (when she was awake) and discussed everything from money, drugs, "ak-ahol," "the damn kids," and how they were going to get back to Palmdale once Fleck was kicked loose. Patty also ordered food - thinking this was room service. The hospital provided a taxi voucher - probably to get rid of them.
Then there was John. He was in for his diabetes. He had family problems and we heard ALL about them during the plethora of phone calls to the mother of his daughter, ANNdrea, who had apparently made a terrorist threat at school and was suspended pending an expulsion hearing. Once daddy went into the hospital, it seems young ANNdrea needed funds to she emptied John's pockets, took his cell phone, and her whereabouts were unknown. John's older boys sauntered in for a visit and we were treated to details about their many shenanigans, including getting kicked out of school (but making up credits), losing jobs, "staying" at friends' houses that were loaded with dope and drug paraphenalia, and the best way for one of the boys' mama get disability.
During the height of what, at times, sounded like a rap concert, the nurse's assistant came in to drill Dan loudly and tenaciously about his potty habits. "IS THIS ALL YOU'VE PEED today? Since MY SHIFT? WHAT ABOUT A BM? YOU HAVE ONE OF THOSE YET?"
Turns out HER name was Nora, the one Fleck kept looking for during the early part of the day. I asked Nora if Dan could take a shower - if for my sake only since he was getting kind of ripe - all that testosterone and adrenaline. "OH NO, he can't shower... it'll shock him." (?? I didn't ask.)
Seems you can't shut the room door at night - "the nurse will want to keep an eye on you," which is funny since we can count using half a hand just how many times a nurse actually showed herself (or HIMself - "Michael" is another story) once Dan was booted from ICU.
So - all night long phones ring, hospital staff converses - loudly - and floors get mopped, waxed, buffed, and spit-shined. Need blood? Come and get it RIGHT when the patient finally drops off to sleep. Need to check on Potty Progress? Don't do it during the day when he is AWAKE. Jar him awake at night to demand details about the urinal levels. The answers will be more coherent then - especially if the patient has been given a sleeping pill in order to actually SLEEP during the cacophony that is called "night" at the hospital.
He was released with what looks like a thesis of post-instructions, plus a half page of prescriptions, each with varying sizes, instructions, and times for ingestion. The nice little pharmacist at Target took pity on me when I showed up at 10 minutes to 6 last night to fill them. She also got me a pill-splitter and a blood pressure cuff.
The boys are enjoying the blood pressure cuff very much. Well, Dustin is - he and I register as "Dead" on the machine while Danny's comes up higher than Dan's - something that is perplexing him to no end. He checks it every hour, certain a fate similar to his father's awaits him next Tuesday.
I've only tried to kill Dan twice. The first time I won't tell you about, but the most recent occasion concerns his plethora of pills - one of which is supposed to be a HALF pill twice a day and I gave him a whole pill this morning. He told me the "pretty colors" and other hallucinations were quite interesting.
So now - Dan is home, resting upstairs - right next to the phone, which is ringing about every 12.5 minutes. (It's always for him.)
I am letting him answer the phone - weaning him gently off the hospital routine is the kindest way, isn't it?
:-)Kim
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Trail Dog
Duke is a mountain goat.
I don't mean that literally, but the dog just loves to hike and there's no stopping him. He just goes and goes and goes. Pretty amazing for a miniature dachshund, huh?
Duke is the smallest of my dogs and runs on pure nervous energy. It's not that he's a barker or that he's neurotic or anything, he just seems perpetually wound up. He rarely relaxes and when he does, you can still see him twitching every 30 seconds or so.
Duke is one of the only dogs I've ever seen who can smile. He smiles in greeting, usually, and if you don't watch carefully, you're likely to miss it. Smiling is accompanied by much wiggling of the hindquarters and vocalizing about whatever it is that is making him so happy - like cheese. Or the prospect of a hike.
Duke just loves to hike and nothing slows him down. On general walks he stays right next to me but when hiking, he plays scout and runs off ahead or takes the rear and makes sure I don't get attacked by a bear or something. He's stepped on foxtails, sharp rocks, and pointy cockleburrs - he just keeps going, hobbling on 3 legs if necessary. I'd like to think he looks at me like the lion looked at Androcles when he removed the thorn - but it's hard to tell with Duke. He usually looks wide-eyed and nervous. Once he tangled with some red ants - they bit him on the paw, rear-driver's side... he didn't even pause. Just hitched up the back end and kept going.
Sometimes I wish I could get inside that little dog's head and figure him out.
When he was a puppy, he lived with Connie and Dave out in Mojave. They had this plan to breed and sell miniature dachshund puppies and Duke was to be the stud. No sooner had they adopted Heidi than the two of them took off for an 8-day adventure in the Mojave Desert. They crawled back to civilization without having learned their lesson - because after birthing 2 litters of pups, they up and did it again. Sadly, Heidi did not return that time and Duke was a bit worse for wear when he hobbled back to the Mojave spread. His hindquarters were very sensitive and he developed a slight hitch in his back leg.
When Connie and Dave moved to Antelope Acres, Duke was penned up and miserable. Dustin and I would often go out to the house when Connie and Dave were up in Washington - to take care of the plants, the house, and Duke. The sight of that little dog peering through the gate, praying for somebody to throw a ball for him really stuck with me. So when Connie and Dave decided to put Duke up for adoption because they couldn't pay him enough attention, Dustin and I leapt at the chance.
Duke seemed to remember Augie Doggie - one of the pups from Heidi's first litter. Even though he was, by all accounts, a terrible father to the puppies, Augie quickly forgave him and they became best friends. As long as Augie gets to be in charge, that is.
Sometimes I take just Duke out for a hike - in compensation for getting picked on by Seamus or bothered by Little Beans. He was the one I took when I first discovered the Pacific Crest Trail in San Francisquito Canyon. He really seems to strut when he is by himself.
I think his favorite hikes are with me and Augie - the two of them run off ahead, side by side, father and son - enjoying life and thinking about whatever trail dogs think about as they run up the trail toward the sun.
I don't mean that literally, but the dog just loves to hike and there's no stopping him. He just goes and goes and goes. Pretty amazing for a miniature dachshund, huh?
Duke is the smallest of my dogs and runs on pure nervous energy. It's not that he's a barker or that he's neurotic or anything, he just seems perpetually wound up. He rarely relaxes and when he does, you can still see him twitching every 30 seconds or so.
Duke is one of the only dogs I've ever seen who can smile. He smiles in greeting, usually, and if you don't watch carefully, you're likely to miss it. Smiling is accompanied by much wiggling of the hindquarters and vocalizing about whatever it is that is making him so happy - like cheese. Or the prospect of a hike.
Duke just loves to hike and nothing slows him down. On general walks he stays right next to me but when hiking, he plays scout and runs off ahead or takes the rear and makes sure I don't get attacked by a bear or something. He's stepped on foxtails, sharp rocks, and pointy cockleburrs - he just keeps going, hobbling on 3 legs if necessary. I'd like to think he looks at me like the lion looked at Androcles when he removed the thorn - but it's hard to tell with Duke. He usually looks wide-eyed and nervous. Once he tangled with some red ants - they bit him on the paw, rear-driver's side... he didn't even pause. Just hitched up the back end and kept going.
Sometimes I wish I could get inside that little dog's head and figure him out.
When he was a puppy, he lived with Connie and Dave out in Mojave. They had this plan to breed and sell miniature dachshund puppies and Duke was to be the stud. No sooner had they adopted Heidi than the two of them took off for an 8-day adventure in the Mojave Desert. They crawled back to civilization without having learned their lesson - because after birthing 2 litters of pups, they up and did it again. Sadly, Heidi did not return that time and Duke was a bit worse for wear when he hobbled back to the Mojave spread. His hindquarters were very sensitive and he developed a slight hitch in his back leg.
When Connie and Dave moved to Antelope Acres, Duke was penned up and miserable. Dustin and I would often go out to the house when Connie and Dave were up in Washington - to take care of the plants, the house, and Duke. The sight of that little dog peering through the gate, praying for somebody to throw a ball for him really stuck with me. So when Connie and Dave decided to put Duke up for adoption because they couldn't pay him enough attention, Dustin and I leapt at the chance.
Duke seemed to remember Augie Doggie - one of the pups from Heidi's first litter. Even though he was, by all accounts, a terrible father to the puppies, Augie quickly forgave him and they became best friends. As long as Augie gets to be in charge, that is.
Sometimes I take just Duke out for a hike - in compensation for getting picked on by Seamus or bothered by Little Beans. He was the one I took when I first discovered the Pacific Crest Trail in San Francisquito Canyon. He really seems to strut when he is by himself.
I think his favorite hikes are with me and Augie - the two of them run off ahead, side by side, father and son - enjoying life and thinking about whatever trail dogs think about as they run up the trail toward the sun.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
On the Topic of Christmas Bows
I'm wrapping presents today and started ruminating about bows. I wonder how many people really THINK about bows? I think bows get shortchanged.
I love bows, especially the real fancy ones that are tightly looped. Deep reds and greens make me salivate but I appreciate a good white, cream, silver, and gold bow too. Cheap bows annoy me. Why bother?
Some people THROW bows away after unwrapping a gift. I have never understood this. It's not like they wear out or anything - they are perfectly good!
I always dive for the bows and save them, but not after hawking out the situation to make sure the recipient isn't saving bows too. It's not very classy to snatch a good bow away from a bow-saver. It can get kind of embarrassing. I've recycled some bows several times. This is a matter of great pride.
You have to divide your bows into categories before wrapping. Some people, like my father-in-law, get the cheap bows because NOTHING in his house is allowed to hit the floor in the form of trash and bows fit this category. He just stuffs them in the bag and I learned long ago not to complain. (Just dig 'em out later.)
Some people KNOW you recycle bows and just remove the bow and hand it to me. This is quick and easy. Other people have to be told to give me the bow. If they put the bow in the box with the gift, I've learned to ask if they save bows too. Especially if it's a really, really GOOD bow, because they may not realize what they have. Heaven forbid they return home, stack the box and throw away the bow!
The more often you recycle your bows, the cheaper they get to use. If you take the cost of the entire bag of bows and divide it by the number of bows in the bag, you get the FIRST price. But then the price is HALVED each time you recycle it. Pretty soon your bows are costing you fractions of a penny and this HAS to be good for the universe.
If you buy bows one year but don't use them all, you will have them for the following year. Finding a bag of last year's bows is ALMOST as good as getting a bag of bows free! After all, the cost of the bag is depreciated from last year - so it's much cheaper.
Packages with good bows don't need ribbon - ribbon is redundant. The only time you should use ribbon is if you're curling it - and you have to work pretty darn hard to make a curling ribbon "bow" look half-way decent. A well-done curly bow is a work of art.
Bows should be dead-on center of the package - not placed in some obscure corner, throwing off the balance of things. Especially well-done curly bows. They need to cascade JUST SO.
:-)Kim
I love bows, especially the real fancy ones that are tightly looped. Deep reds and greens make me salivate but I appreciate a good white, cream, silver, and gold bow too. Cheap bows annoy me. Why bother?
Some people THROW bows away after unwrapping a gift. I have never understood this. It's not like they wear out or anything - they are perfectly good!
I always dive for the bows and save them, but not after hawking out the situation to make sure the recipient isn't saving bows too. It's not very classy to snatch a good bow away from a bow-saver. It can get kind of embarrassing. I've recycled some bows several times. This is a matter of great pride.
You have to divide your bows into categories before wrapping. Some people, like my father-in-law, get the cheap bows because NOTHING in his house is allowed to hit the floor in the form of trash and bows fit this category. He just stuffs them in the bag and I learned long ago not to complain. (Just dig 'em out later.)
Some people KNOW you recycle bows and just remove the bow and hand it to me. This is quick and easy. Other people have to be told to give me the bow. If they put the bow in the box with the gift, I've learned to ask if they save bows too. Especially if it's a really, really GOOD bow, because they may not realize what they have. Heaven forbid they return home, stack the box and throw away the bow!
The more often you recycle your bows, the cheaper they get to use. If you take the cost of the entire bag of bows and divide it by the number of bows in the bag, you get the FIRST price. But then the price is HALVED each time you recycle it. Pretty soon your bows are costing you fractions of a penny and this HAS to be good for the universe.
If you buy bows one year but don't use them all, you will have them for the following year. Finding a bag of last year's bows is ALMOST as good as getting a bag of bows free! After all, the cost of the bag is depreciated from last year - so it's much cheaper.
Packages with good bows don't need ribbon - ribbon is redundant. The only time you should use ribbon is if you're curling it - and you have to work pretty darn hard to make a curling ribbon "bow" look half-way decent. A well-done curly bow is a work of art.
Bows should be dead-on center of the package - not placed in some obscure corner, throwing off the balance of things. Especially well-done curly bows. They need to cascade JUST SO.
:-)Kim
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Franky's Gift Tag
Yesterday, the kindergarten kids made beaded necklaces for the mothers for Christmas. Once this fine jewelry was completed, the kids brought their creations over to one of the middle school helpers for wrapping. (We went through an entire roll of tape. More tape is better when you are five.)
The final link in this process was the creation of a gift card for Mom. The kids would dictate what they wanted to say on the card, Lupita would write it out on a white board, and the kids would copy it. (Except for Jasmine. "YOU write it," she ordered me.)
All the kids at the table were hard at work copying their personalized greetings:
"Merry Christmas Mom."
"This is for you, Mom."
"Feliz Navidad, Mami."
"Happy Holidays Mom."
"I love you Mommy."
So Lupita asks Franky what he wants to write on his mother's gift card.
"Happy Halloween," replies Franky.
"But Franky... it's Christmas," reminds Lupita.
Franky is unfazed and doesn't miss a beat.
"I'm okay with that."
The final link in this process was the creation of a gift card for Mom. The kids would dictate what they wanted to say on the card, Lupita would write it out on a white board, and the kids would copy it. (Except for Jasmine. "YOU write it," she ordered me.)
All the kids at the table were hard at work copying their personalized greetings:
"Merry Christmas Mom."
"This is for you, Mom."
"Feliz Navidad, Mami."
"Happy Holidays Mom."
"I love you Mommy."
So Lupita asks Franky what he wants to write on his mother's gift card.
"Happy Halloween," replies Franky.
"But Franky... it's Christmas," reminds Lupita.
Franky is unfazed and doesn't miss a beat.
"I'm okay with that."
Sunday, December 10, 2006
No Tip for the Newspaper Dude
Here is the note I plan to enclose in the fake Christmas card lodged into my L.A. Times when it arrives sometime this week:
Dear Newspaper Dude:
I am in receipt of your thoughtful and obviously "personalized" Christmas greeting and I bet you think that my response includes a cash gift, in acknowledgement of your "service" this year. I am a generous person and considered enclosing a crisp $10 bill - but cannot for the following reasons:
1. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, my "plastic wrapped" paper continues to land in the sprinklers at least 2 mornings out of 7. The plastic wrap does little good. Why do you bother? Call me a tree-hugger.
2. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, the paper ends up UNDER one of my vehicles at least once a week. This means that I, in my work clothes, must get down on my hands and knees at 6am on these currently frosty mornings, to shimmy under a vehicle to retrieve my paper. I don't like having to do this. Call me a wimp.
3. Wet papers are messy and often unreadable. My calls for replacement papers always mean that the readable version won't arrive until AFTER I've left for work. You know darn good and well I leave the house early - because when you deliver my replacement - I AM NOT HOME. Doofus. Call me cantankerous.
4. AND.. at least once a month my paper doesn't show up at all. This may not seem much to you - but I pay $52.00 every other month for this service and do appreciate timeliness. Call me picky and unreasonable.
When you remedy these issues I will enclose a cash gift commisurate with your improved service.
Sincerely,
KimKca
Dear Newspaper Dude:
I am in receipt of your thoughtful and obviously "personalized" Christmas greeting and I bet you think that my response includes a cash gift, in acknowledgement of your "service" this year. I am a generous person and considered enclosing a crisp $10 bill - but cannot for the following reasons:
1. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, my "plastic wrapped" paper continues to land in the sprinklers at least 2 mornings out of 7. The plastic wrap does little good. Why do you bother? Call me a tree-hugger.
2. Despite my numerous pleadings to you, the paper ends up UNDER one of my vehicles at least once a week. This means that I, in my work clothes, must get down on my hands and knees at 6am on these currently frosty mornings, to shimmy under a vehicle to retrieve my paper. I don't like having to do this. Call me a wimp.
3. Wet papers are messy and often unreadable. My calls for replacement papers always mean that the readable version won't arrive until AFTER I've left for work. You know darn good and well I leave the house early - because when you deliver my replacement - I AM NOT HOME. Doofus. Call me cantankerous.
4. AND.. at least once a month my paper doesn't show up at all. This may not seem much to you - but I pay $52.00 every other month for this service and do appreciate timeliness. Call me picky and unreasonable.
When you remedy these issues I will enclose a cash gift commisurate with your improved service.
Sincerely,
KimKca
Friday, December 08, 2006
Poinsettia Parts?
We have been making My Poinsettia Book in class, one page per day. This is part of our ELA and ELD lessons for the week.
Today, the kids had to cut out 4 poinsettia leaves from construction paper and glue them onto the page, then add the cut-up text: The leaves are green.
After several reminders, Dominique finally came over to my table and began cutting out the leaves. After gluing down the text, she arranged the leaves artfully on the page. I asked Dominique to come over to me and read the book to me - so I could check the correctness and her developing concepts of print. I noticed that she had glued the arch-shaped scraps from her cut-out leaves to the opposite page.
"Dominique," I asked patiently. "What part of the poinsettia are these?"
Dominique carefully caressed each one and then looked at me seriously, as if she felt very, very, sorry for me.
Then she leaned over and whispered: "The eyebrows."
Today, the kids had to cut out 4 poinsettia leaves from construction paper and glue them onto the page, then add the cut-up text: The leaves are green.
After several reminders, Dominique finally came over to my table and began cutting out the leaves. After gluing down the text, she arranged the leaves artfully on the page. I asked Dominique to come over to me and read the book to me - so I could check the correctness and her developing concepts of print. I noticed that she had glued the arch-shaped scraps from her cut-out leaves to the opposite page.
"Dominique," I asked patiently. "What part of the poinsettia are these?"
Dominique carefully caressed each one and then looked at me seriously, as if she felt very, very, sorry for me.
Then she leaned over and whispered: "The eyebrows."
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The "Little P.E. Lady"
Most of you know that my school has been under Nazi-review the past few years and in addition to the usual Nazi Crew coming in to wag fingers at us, we had a state team come in to do a once-over on our overall program. They used to call it Program Quality Review but now it has a new name and a new acronym.
So Janice, my principal, has been sweating bullets because she knows that our P.E. "program" (rolling on the floor trying not to lose my liver here) leaves a lot to be desired. Not that she really wants to DO anything about it, but she is tired of being "dinged" for stuff. She went to some meeting to let administrators know in advance what this Gestapo Review team is looking for - and she came away quaking in her pointy shoes over the "little P.E. lady."
Apparently this lady wants to see lesson plans, in plan books. She wants a prescribed curriculum that adheres to the California State Standards and she wants those kids SHIP SHAPE and having P.E. every waking minute they aren't learning to read or using the bathroom.
So you know what rolls downhill and the next thing we know there is a fire-drill of the "P.E. in the Planbook" sort. Whether or not you actually DO it seems open to interpretation - but it needs to be in the book and done often enough that the kids don't say "huh?" when asked about P.E.
I have worried about this myself - feeling less than exemplary as a teacher of P.E., I have asked for a curriculum or at least a Binder o' Suggestions. But nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about S.P.A.R.K. P.E.... they have handy little binders chock full of suggestions. Nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about Sue, my sister the P.E. Guru who is willing to come down here FREE and inservice the staff. I sensed a great big YAWN from Janice's office. At least I think it was a yawn since I never heard from her about it.
I sat down with Janice and waved my arms wildly about the crap that is served to our students disguised as school lunches - and was told this was "a battle you will not win." Not that she doesn't agree. But she doesn't eat school lunches.
So, we all had to live in fear today that the "little P.E. lady" would come in with her Nike sweatsuit and $100 running shoes and brightly colored lanyard with a great big shiny whistle attached. I pictured a cross between some Asian dominatrix and Richard Simmons, 5'1" and all of 100 pounds soaking wet - with buns of steel and a finely cut bicep. I figured she would make us all drop and give her twenty.
Well, friends, I gotta tell you.... if I'd been drinking a soda it would have shot out my nose when I saw this "little P.E. lady." If this lady is little, then I'm Thumbelina. I think it would be generous of me to say that this lady's pants size probably rivals the age range of my two sons. She didn't have a whistle - only a clipboard and she apparently loves to count minutes because our kids only got 10 minutes of actual movement time during their hour of P.E. today. (Heaven help poor Kenny tomorrow.) I have to admire her for standing out there for an hour during an icy windstorm, painstakingly counting minutes.
We will be "dinged" she reported in her most severe voice, because 85% of our 5th graders are at risk for heart disease. We do a crappy job of teaching P.E. and she really wants us to know about it.
My mind flashed back to Arroyo Seco Junior High School and my P.E. teacher, Mrs. Hammond, who had a pot belly that rivaled any solid 8-month pregnancy, and liked to scream at us during calisthentics in between drags on her Pall Mall.
If this lady has had ANY exercise in the past year, it has been a walk through the parking lot when everybody and their mother decided to beat her to the grocery store.
I did speak up, of course. I talked about the poor food choices and the necessity for staff development. I didn't mention the apparent dichotomy between HER and her JOB.
She "thanked me for sharing" and then wrote something on her clipboard.
I went an extra ten minutes on the treadmill tonight - just for good measure.
So Janice, my principal, has been sweating bullets because she knows that our P.E. "program" (rolling on the floor trying not to lose my liver here) leaves a lot to be desired. Not that she really wants to DO anything about it, but she is tired of being "dinged" for stuff. She went to some meeting to let administrators know in advance what this Gestapo Review team is looking for - and she came away quaking in her pointy shoes over the "little P.E. lady."
Apparently this lady wants to see lesson plans, in plan books. She wants a prescribed curriculum that adheres to the California State Standards and she wants those kids SHIP SHAPE and having P.E. every waking minute they aren't learning to read or using the bathroom.
So you know what rolls downhill and the next thing we know there is a fire-drill of the "P.E. in the Planbook" sort. Whether or not you actually DO it seems open to interpretation - but it needs to be in the book and done often enough that the kids don't say "huh?" when asked about P.E.
I have worried about this myself - feeling less than exemplary as a teacher of P.E., I have asked for a curriculum or at least a Binder o' Suggestions. But nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about S.P.A.R.K. P.E.... they have handy little binders chock full of suggestions. Nothing happened. I eMailed Janice about Sue, my sister the P.E. Guru who is willing to come down here FREE and inservice the staff. I sensed a great big YAWN from Janice's office. At least I think it was a yawn since I never heard from her about it.
I sat down with Janice and waved my arms wildly about the crap that is served to our students disguised as school lunches - and was told this was "a battle you will not win." Not that she doesn't agree. But she doesn't eat school lunches.
So, we all had to live in fear today that the "little P.E. lady" would come in with her Nike sweatsuit and $100 running shoes and brightly colored lanyard with a great big shiny whistle attached. I pictured a cross between some Asian dominatrix and Richard Simmons, 5'1" and all of 100 pounds soaking wet - with buns of steel and a finely cut bicep. I figured she would make us all drop and give her twenty.
Well, friends, I gotta tell you.... if I'd been drinking a soda it would have shot out my nose when I saw this "little P.E. lady." If this lady is little, then I'm Thumbelina. I think it would be generous of me to say that this lady's pants size probably rivals the age range of my two sons. She didn't have a whistle - only a clipboard and she apparently loves to count minutes because our kids only got 10 minutes of actual movement time during their hour of P.E. today. (Heaven help poor Kenny tomorrow.) I have to admire her for standing out there for an hour during an icy windstorm, painstakingly counting minutes.
We will be "dinged" she reported in her most severe voice, because 85% of our 5th graders are at risk for heart disease. We do a crappy job of teaching P.E. and she really wants us to know about it.
My mind flashed back to Arroyo Seco Junior High School and my P.E. teacher, Mrs. Hammond, who had a pot belly that rivaled any solid 8-month pregnancy, and liked to scream at us during calisthentics in between drags on her Pall Mall.
If this lady has had ANY exercise in the past year, it has been a walk through the parking lot when everybody and their mother decided to beat her to the grocery store.
I did speak up, of course. I talked about the poor food choices and the necessity for staff development. I didn't mention the apparent dichotomy between HER and her JOB.
She "thanked me for sharing" and then wrote something on her clipboard.
I went an extra ten minutes on the treadmill tonight - just for good measure.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Dad's Birthday
Today is my dad's birthday. On this day in 1938, my grandparents welcomed into the world, gave him a good family name, and proceeded to give him a good childhood.
How does anyone really determine what a "good life" is? Did he live a good life or did he not? How to measure such a thing - that indeterminable quality that defines a life as having been well-lived?
If we measure by accomplishments, we could balance positives by degree. A good job, a loving wife, children, and a head full of hair. But is that enough?
If we measure by pursuits, we can look at life-long literacy that translated into a love of books and curiosity about many things. He loved a good conversation and could entertain people for hours with his wit, knowledge, and good humor. He loved the "manly pursuits" modeled for him by his father and uncle - strong, decent men of integrity who worked hard all their lives and enjoyed outdoor pursuits and working with their hands.
My father certainly didn't lack for looks. Until the day he died that man looked good. Women watched him and on what he would say were too many occasions in his life, he watched back. His weight problem just wasn't an issue. He still looked good - and therein lies one of the differences between men and women.
Did he courageously fight his demons? Those addictions that dogged him relentlessly his whole life? I think he did put up the fight - but something inside him just couldn't be convinced that tenacity needed a hold here - that sticking to something required more than good-looks and a winning smile. He had been beaten by them all his life - and not tasted success. To taste that success might have made all the difference. But how are we to know?
My father was a man of voracious appetite, telling one of his best friends that he "just couldn't stop" and push the plate away. When he was briefly successful, he was miserable - the demons just kept gnawing. So he opted for pills and surgery - what he perceived to be the "reasonable" way out. Medically speaking, I suppose it was - but was it the right way? The only way? In the end, did those drugs for weight loss contribute to his death? They are easy to blame.
And the drugs and alcohol - now there's an elephant in the livingroom! Drugs and alcohol - twin demons who took up residence with my father early in his life and steered him away from the very accomplishments he would have used to gauge his life in years to come. Drugs for pain, alcohol for release - from what?
Did my dad think he didn't measure up to my grandfather's standards? Did my grandfather ever take him to task for being weak in this way? Or did he remain taciturn and take refuge in his garage? These things I do not know. He certainly couldn't have been pleased - these were never behaviors the firefighter and cabinet maker pursued. He liked fast cars - but gave them up when one damn near killed his son. (Did he blame my dad for crashing that Austin-Healy? Or did he blame the car? Did my father feel blamed? By the time the story got to me it was a family legend. Humorous. Innocent.)
My father battled depression his whole life. Nobody discussed it. Nobody talked about it. Nobody petted or dressed the elephant in the living room. This depression was chemical and he came by it naturally - his mother assuaged hers with alcohol every evening of her life. (But always after 5:00pm.) His maternal grandfather was apparently quite the drinker and left deep and abiding wounds that his family will never discuss. To discuss it would be admitting weakness - moral weakness, not physical - after all, if you ask God to cure your affliction and it isn't cured, then you just didn't ask hard enough.
He was the most intelligent man I know. This sounds grandiose - after all, I've met many intelligent people. So take it with a grain of salt. But he was extremely smart in so many ways. What options this man had! Talk about the path not taken! A true scotsman lament - the would have beens. The coulda-shouldas. My father regretted many things. He told me this. He promised me he would wean off the pain-killers and I do believe he was trying. He supposedly stopped drinking but I have heard otherwise - and this is something best not discussed, right? What about that other road? The road that would have him sitting in his chair in South Pasadena right now and some pile of ash in a livingroom shrine.
So how to measure the man - this very fallible man born on this day 68 years ago in Glendale, California, to very loving parents and a warm, extended family?
I can only measure him by the depth of my love for him. I always forgave him - from the first days of my life he was never held accountable. I adored the man would forgive him anything. I miss him terribly and want to call him up almost everyday and tell him something, relate some tidbit to him, share a book, tell a joke. I miss him with a pain and a void that is unending.
I watch these psychic shows on television and fantasize that he is around me, watching me, wanting to tell me things. What would he tell me?
I wait for inevitable dreams of the man, since I have dreamed a lot in the past few years. But he has shown up twice. Once comically - the details I won't divulge but it was vintage dad, telling me he "couldn't go." The other was more recent - he drove up looking like my favorite professor and then put on sunglasses and became my dad - who walked by me without looking at me while those sunglasses got bigger and bigger and I'm thinking "Hobo Kelly" glasses. But this wasn't a funny dream.
I wish a happy birthday to the memory of the man because I can't tell him directly anymore. He is a pile of ash sitting in a shrine in a dark and sad apartment. He is surrounded by the detritus of his life - his things - the possessions that somehow link him this world in some tenuous and sad way. These things that we hold and caress in an attempt to conjure up the essence of the man, thinking, "He touched this. He touched this."
I am sad, bitter, and angry. I am these things because he should have been with me a lot longer. He shouldn't have died when he did. He was killed by his weaknesses - and what kind of justice is that? Where is the justice in the world when a man unable to control his appetites, his addictions, his needs - is done in by these very things? Definitely a human condition.
I miss my dad. I love him still. I wish a happy, happy birthday.
How does anyone really determine what a "good life" is? Did he live a good life or did he not? How to measure such a thing - that indeterminable quality that defines a life as having been well-lived?
If we measure by accomplishments, we could balance positives by degree. A good job, a loving wife, children, and a head full of hair. But is that enough?
If we measure by pursuits, we can look at life-long literacy that translated into a love of books and curiosity about many things. He loved a good conversation and could entertain people for hours with his wit, knowledge, and good humor. He loved the "manly pursuits" modeled for him by his father and uncle - strong, decent men of integrity who worked hard all their lives and enjoyed outdoor pursuits and working with their hands.
My father certainly didn't lack for looks. Until the day he died that man looked good. Women watched him and on what he would say were too many occasions in his life, he watched back. His weight problem just wasn't an issue. He still looked good - and therein lies one of the differences between men and women.
Did he courageously fight his demons? Those addictions that dogged him relentlessly his whole life? I think he did put up the fight - but something inside him just couldn't be convinced that tenacity needed a hold here - that sticking to something required more than good-looks and a winning smile. He had been beaten by them all his life - and not tasted success. To taste that success might have made all the difference. But how are we to know?
My father was a man of voracious appetite, telling one of his best friends that he "just couldn't stop" and push the plate away. When he was briefly successful, he was miserable - the demons just kept gnawing. So he opted for pills and surgery - what he perceived to be the "reasonable" way out. Medically speaking, I suppose it was - but was it the right way? The only way? In the end, did those drugs for weight loss contribute to his death? They are easy to blame.
And the drugs and alcohol - now there's an elephant in the livingroom! Drugs and alcohol - twin demons who took up residence with my father early in his life and steered him away from the very accomplishments he would have used to gauge his life in years to come. Drugs for pain, alcohol for release - from what?
Did my dad think he didn't measure up to my grandfather's standards? Did my grandfather ever take him to task for being weak in this way? Or did he remain taciturn and take refuge in his garage? These things I do not know. He certainly couldn't have been pleased - these were never behaviors the firefighter and cabinet maker pursued. He liked fast cars - but gave them up when one damn near killed his son. (Did he blame my dad for crashing that Austin-Healy? Or did he blame the car? Did my father feel blamed? By the time the story got to me it was a family legend. Humorous. Innocent.)
My father battled depression his whole life. Nobody discussed it. Nobody talked about it. Nobody petted or dressed the elephant in the living room. This depression was chemical and he came by it naturally - his mother assuaged hers with alcohol every evening of her life. (But always after 5:00pm.) His maternal grandfather was apparently quite the drinker and left deep and abiding wounds that his family will never discuss. To discuss it would be admitting weakness - moral weakness, not physical - after all, if you ask God to cure your affliction and it isn't cured, then you just didn't ask hard enough.
He was the most intelligent man I know. This sounds grandiose - after all, I've met many intelligent people. So take it with a grain of salt. But he was extremely smart in so many ways. What options this man had! Talk about the path not taken! A true scotsman lament - the would have beens. The coulda-shouldas. My father regretted many things. He told me this. He promised me he would wean off the pain-killers and I do believe he was trying. He supposedly stopped drinking but I have heard otherwise - and this is something best not discussed, right? What about that other road? The road that would have him sitting in his chair in South Pasadena right now and some pile of ash in a livingroom shrine.
So how to measure the man - this very fallible man born on this day 68 years ago in Glendale, California, to very loving parents and a warm, extended family?
I can only measure him by the depth of my love for him. I always forgave him - from the first days of my life he was never held accountable. I adored the man would forgive him anything. I miss him terribly and want to call him up almost everyday and tell him something, relate some tidbit to him, share a book, tell a joke. I miss him with a pain and a void that is unending.
I watch these psychic shows on television and fantasize that he is around me, watching me, wanting to tell me things. What would he tell me?
I wait for inevitable dreams of the man, since I have dreamed a lot in the past few years. But he has shown up twice. Once comically - the details I won't divulge but it was vintage dad, telling me he "couldn't go." The other was more recent - he drove up looking like my favorite professor and then put on sunglasses and became my dad - who walked by me without looking at me while those sunglasses got bigger and bigger and I'm thinking "Hobo Kelly" glasses. But this wasn't a funny dream.
I wish a happy birthday to the memory of the man because I can't tell him directly anymore. He is a pile of ash sitting in a shrine in a dark and sad apartment. He is surrounded by the detritus of his life - his things - the possessions that somehow link him this world in some tenuous and sad way. These things that we hold and caress in an attempt to conjure up the essence of the man, thinking, "He touched this. He touched this."
I am sad, bitter, and angry. I am these things because he should have been with me a lot longer. He shouldn't have died when he did. He was killed by his weaknesses - and what kind of justice is that? Where is the justice in the world when a man unable to control his appetites, his addictions, his needs - is done in by these very things? Definitely a human condition.
I miss my dad. I love him still. I wish a happy, happy birthday.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Seamus and the Trash Can
My long-haired dachshund, Seamus, has a fascination with the downstairs bathroom trash can. Once upon a time, he found treasure in there and that was enough to compel him to knock the can over every single day of his life.
I don't know what the treasure was, but - knowing Seamus, it was probably something disgusting. Each day he seeks this elusive treasure by knocking the can over and rifling the contents before walking away, tail between his legs in disapointment.
The can is round and metal - with raised designs to emulate something antique. It is a cream color and very attractive. It is also very loud when it topples - so we are clued in right away that the bathroom floor is littered. But it holds very little on a daily basis - used tissue, an occasional soap wrapper, and dryer lint. The really good stuff is upstairs in the master bathroom or the boy's bathroom - but for some reason known only to Seamus and his cognitive deficits - he doesn't bother those.
Seamus is my dog with little brain. I always say that this is probably a blessing for him since No Brain = No Headaches and Seamus is a very happy dog. Happy, but tenacious. He always looks for lizards when we hike, cats when we walk, and treasure in the downstairs bathroom trash can every single morning.
He rarely finds either - but that never stops him from trying.
I don't know what the treasure was, but - knowing Seamus, it was probably something disgusting. Each day he seeks this elusive treasure by knocking the can over and rifling the contents before walking away, tail between his legs in disapointment.
The can is round and metal - with raised designs to emulate something antique. It is a cream color and very attractive. It is also very loud when it topples - so we are clued in right away that the bathroom floor is littered. But it holds very little on a daily basis - used tissue, an occasional soap wrapper, and dryer lint. The really good stuff is upstairs in the master bathroom or the boy's bathroom - but for some reason known only to Seamus and his cognitive deficits - he doesn't bother those.
Seamus is my dog with little brain. I always say that this is probably a blessing for him since No Brain = No Headaches and Seamus is a very happy dog. Happy, but tenacious. He always looks for lizards when we hike, cats when we walk, and treasure in the downstairs bathroom trash can every single morning.
He rarely finds either - but that never stops him from trying.
Friday, October 20, 2006
You want fries with that?
Considering the gosh-awful week I've had with my Kinders, I am considering a change of profession. I have until June to practice asking patrons if they would like fries with that. What do you think?
****
Concerned: "Would you REALLY like fries with that? Or are you eating AT something?"
Annoyed: "Don't tell me... you want FRIES with that."
Incredulous: "You want FRIES with THAT?"
Sweet: "Okay, hon.. you want some fries to go with that?"
Motherly: "Honey, you may want some fries to go with that."
Grandmotherly: "Look dear... some fries would go nicely with that."
Bitter and Motherly: "You don't REALLY want fries with that, right?"
Righteous: "Um.. you don't NEED fries with that."
Prissy: "Fries? French fries? With THAT?"
Condescending: "I suppose that you want Fatty Old Fries with that?"
Terse: "Fries?"
Overbearing: "Okay, you want some fries to go with that. And a shake. And one of those lovely salads. And you need extra napkins. And some wipes for your hands because heaven knows you need wipes for those hands and here is an extra lid in case you lose the first one and DON'T forget to get a straw. Here. Here's a straw."
Surprised: "You WANT fries with that? REALLY?"
Elated: "Stupendous! You DO want fries with that! Wonderful! I am so very pleased! Fries it will be. With that."
Analytical: "Okay. I am thinking that you might like some fries to go with that. Am I right? Have you examined WHY you want fries to go with that? I mean, really THOUGHT about it?"
Bossy: "Fries with that."
Victimly: "Yeah, YOU could have fries with that. ME, I could never, ever, get fries with that."
Militarily: "You're gettin' fries with that."
;-)Kim
****
Concerned: "Would you REALLY like fries with that? Or are you eating AT something?"
Annoyed: "Don't tell me... you want FRIES with that."
Incredulous: "You want FRIES with THAT?"
Sweet: "Okay, hon.. you want some fries to go with that?"
Motherly: "Honey, you may want some fries to go with that."
Grandmotherly: "Look dear... some fries would go nicely with that."
Bitter and Motherly: "You don't REALLY want fries with that, right?"
Righteous: "Um.. you don't NEED fries with that."
Prissy: "Fries? French fries? With THAT?"
Condescending: "I suppose that you want Fatty Old Fries with that?"
Terse: "Fries?"
Overbearing: "Okay, you want some fries to go with that. And a shake. And one of those lovely salads. And you need extra napkins. And some wipes for your hands because heaven knows you need wipes for those hands and here is an extra lid in case you lose the first one and DON'T forget to get a straw. Here. Here's a straw."
Surprised: "You WANT fries with that? REALLY?"
Elated: "Stupendous! You DO want fries with that! Wonderful! I am so very pleased! Fries it will be. With that."
Analytical: "Okay. I am thinking that you might like some fries to go with that. Am I right? Have you examined WHY you want fries to go with that? I mean, really THOUGHT about it?"
Bossy: "Fries with that."
Victimly: "Yeah, YOU could have fries with that. ME, I could never, ever, get fries with that."
Militarily: "You're gettin' fries with that."
;-)Kim
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Why Be Redundant?
Every year the kids and I create The Tactile Alphabet Book. This is a book created by gluing something touchable to the page and accompanying it with a sentence strip that is framed like this: "___ is for ____." For example, 'Gg is for grass'. We generally complete one page a day.
So, you have to picture it. Each day the kids make their way to my table during our Group Time. We have already reviewed the letter of the day, sang UP to the letter of the day, and acted out the sentence with word cards. We've counted the words in the sentence, looked for letters we know, and practiced the sound that is spelled by the letter. We do this almost every day. This means I cut up almost 20 sentences per day and repeat the process 26 times, not including the cover title.
So last week one of our letters was Qq. It was a big hit, since Dominique, the Class Queen, has a 'q' in her lovely and long name. The kids cut out photocopies of quarters and glued them down to the page, then carefully placed the cut up sentence at the bottom: Q q is for quarters. We discussed how using one quarter would change the word to 'quarter.'
As luck would have it, 5 kids were seated at the table and all 5 happened to finish at the same time. Each day the kids have to read the sentence back to me before setting it on the floor to try. This means I listen to and watch 20 kids read aloud 20 sentences to me each day for 26 pages.
"Okay, Ethan. Read it back to me."
As expected, Ethan dutifully touched once under each word and recited, "Q q is for quarters."
"Alex? Read it back to me."
"Q q is for quarters."
"Carlos?"
"Q q is for quarters."
"Bernie?"
"Q q is for quarters."
"Genevieve?" (No response. Her head is in her hand. She looks put-upon, which is interesting since I am the one engaging in the repetitive behavior.)
"Gena? Genevieve? What does yours say?"
Gena dramatically shrugs her shoulders. Then she responds in her most put-upon of voices,
"The same as theirs!"
;-)Kim
So, you have to picture it. Each day the kids make their way to my table during our Group Time. We have already reviewed the letter of the day, sang UP to the letter of the day, and acted out the sentence with word cards. We've counted the words in the sentence, looked for letters we know, and practiced the sound that is spelled by the letter. We do this almost every day. This means I cut up almost 20 sentences per day and repeat the process 26 times, not including the cover title.
So last week one of our letters was Qq. It was a big hit, since Dominique, the Class Queen, has a 'q' in her lovely and long name. The kids cut out photocopies of quarters and glued them down to the page, then carefully placed the cut up sentence at the bottom: Q q is for quarters. We discussed how using one quarter would change the word to 'quarter.'
As luck would have it, 5 kids were seated at the table and all 5 happened to finish at the same time. Each day the kids have to read the sentence back to me before setting it on the floor to try. This means I listen to and watch 20 kids read aloud 20 sentences to me each day for 26 pages.
"Okay, Ethan. Read it back to me."
As expected, Ethan dutifully touched once under each word and recited, "Q q is for quarters."
"Alex? Read it back to me."
"Q q is for quarters."
"Carlos?"
"Q q is for quarters."
"Bernie?"
"Q q is for quarters."
"Genevieve?" (No response. Her head is in her hand. She looks put-upon, which is interesting since I am the one engaging in the repetitive behavior.)
"Gena? Genevieve? What does yours say?"
Gena dramatically shrugs her shoulders. Then she responds in her most put-upon of voices,
"The same as theirs!"
;-)Kim
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Dominique and the Sweater
We were having a very productive "big book" session this morning - the kids were extremely involved and 'reading' with me with much enthusiasm. I was pleased with this on-task behavior and visible interest of the children.
Except for Dominique, who was enamored with her lovely lavendar sweater - worn for picture day but much too hot, as she loudly complained, to actually WEAR. So, I asked her to hang it up. She did. Slowly. The first time.
But somehow, the sweater ended up in Dominique's possession again - and she was twisting it, turning it, manipulating it, swinging it, and just generally ENJOYING the sweater WAY too much. I have learned to NOT ask her to go hang anything back up once she is on the rug. The chances are real good I won't see her again for a long, long time. The drinking fountain, the bathroom, the scented soap, the paper towels, the cubbies - temptation is far too great.
"Dominique. Hold the sweater on your lap," I instructed. She did. For 8 seconds.
We proceeded to read about the adventures of Mrs. Wishy-Washy and her constantly dirty animals that needed to be washed. While the kids read with much enthusiasm about the dirty pig, cow, and duck, Dominique proceeded to 'wear' the lavendar sweater so that the sleeve was covering her eyes like a blindfold. Then she began bobbing her head around, in a perfect Stevie Wonder imitation.
I had a choice: Interrupt the flow of the dirty animals and their daily scrub, or deal with Dominique. Snapping my fingers at her did no good. Hissing "DOMINIQUE!" only caused her head to bob in my general direction. So, we kept reading. It was a pragmatic decision.
We finished the book and the kids begged for another one. I chose this transition time to hiss again at Dominique, "DOMINIQUE! Give me that sweater!"
Then several of the children began pawing the cover of the book to enthusiastically point out the letters they know - and Dominique resumed her Ray Charles routine with the sleeve of her sweater draped dashingly across her eyes.
Throughout the next book the kids were engaged and pretty much ignored Dominique's head-bobbing with the sweater. At times she was up on her knees - the climax of her performance.
When the book was finished I put my head in my hands and quietly said to Dominique, the child I am constantly redirecting, "Dominique. What do you think I am going to say to you now?"
She bobbed her head in my general direction and then loudly replied, "I don't know! I can't SEE!"
Except for Dominique, who was enamored with her lovely lavendar sweater - worn for picture day but much too hot, as she loudly complained, to actually WEAR. So, I asked her to hang it up. She did. Slowly. The first time.
But somehow, the sweater ended up in Dominique's possession again - and she was twisting it, turning it, manipulating it, swinging it, and just generally ENJOYING the sweater WAY too much. I have learned to NOT ask her to go hang anything back up once she is on the rug. The chances are real good I won't see her again for a long, long time. The drinking fountain, the bathroom, the scented soap, the paper towels, the cubbies - temptation is far too great.
"Dominique. Hold the sweater on your lap," I instructed. She did. For 8 seconds.
We proceeded to read about the adventures of Mrs. Wishy-Washy and her constantly dirty animals that needed to be washed. While the kids read with much enthusiasm about the dirty pig, cow, and duck, Dominique proceeded to 'wear' the lavendar sweater so that the sleeve was covering her eyes like a blindfold. Then she began bobbing her head around, in a perfect Stevie Wonder imitation.
I had a choice: Interrupt the flow of the dirty animals and their daily scrub, or deal with Dominique. Snapping my fingers at her did no good. Hissing "DOMINIQUE!" only caused her head to bob in my general direction. So, we kept reading. It was a pragmatic decision.
We finished the book and the kids begged for another one. I chose this transition time to hiss again at Dominique, "DOMINIQUE! Give me that sweater!"
Then several of the children began pawing the cover of the book to enthusiastically point out the letters they know - and Dominique resumed her Ray Charles routine with the sleeve of her sweater draped dashingly across her eyes.
Throughout the next book the kids were engaged and pretty much ignored Dominique's head-bobbing with the sweater. At times she was up on her knees - the climax of her performance.
When the book was finished I put my head in my hands and quietly said to Dominique, the child I am constantly redirecting, "Dominique. What do you think I am going to say to you now?"
She bobbed her head in my general direction and then loudly replied, "I don't know! I can't SEE!"
Monday, October 02, 2006
Following Directions
Following directions is always a huge issue for young children. Listening skills take a long time to develop and kindergarten teachers really need the patience of saints.
Today I found that the children DO listen, at least some of the time. Maybe the problem isn't so much the directions as the GIVING of the directions. This was obvious today.
The children are working on an autobiography. Our page today listed their favorite color. I passed out the clipboards and crayons and asked the children to look at the nice black outline of a crayon - so artfully placed on the page. At the top of the page is the sentence frame, "My favorite color is ________________."
After reminding them several times NOT to tap, bang, or snap their clipboards, I asked the kids to look into the crayon box and pull out their favorite color. "Don't TELL me," I said, "Show me!"
They did. I had them wave it around while I checked for complete compliance. Then I directed the children to color in the oversized black crayon outline.
Since it is the beginning of the year, I can't really expect them to write the color word in the sentence frame. But hey - I have high expectations and why not give it a try? Why not allow them to exceed their grasp, go for the gold, and really shine as STAR learners? Why not give them the opportunity to be successful - and copy the color word onto the sentence frame?
I set out huge color word cards. We had reviewed them before the activity started. I got a bunch of blank looks. Understanding just wasn't there.
Then I hit upon this marvelous idea.
"You know," I said in a conspiratorial tone, "the name of your favorite color is RIGHT THERE on the crayon."
I showed them on about a half dozen crayons where the color word could be found. A collective "ooh" and "ahh" went up from the rug and I was pleased. The busily began printing.
They put their finished papers on my table, as directed, and got ready to go home. After taking them to the bus, I returned to the classroom to see how well this little endeavor turned out.
Creatively printed in areas IN and AROUND the sentence frame on almost all my students' papers was one word:
"CRAYOLA"
Today I found that the children DO listen, at least some of the time. Maybe the problem isn't so much the directions as the GIVING of the directions. This was obvious today.
The children are working on an autobiography. Our page today listed their favorite color. I passed out the clipboards and crayons and asked the children to look at the nice black outline of a crayon - so artfully placed on the page. At the top of the page is the sentence frame, "My favorite color is ________________."
After reminding them several times NOT to tap, bang, or snap their clipboards, I asked the kids to look into the crayon box and pull out their favorite color. "Don't TELL me," I said, "Show me!"
They did. I had them wave it around while I checked for complete compliance. Then I directed the children to color in the oversized black crayon outline.
Since it is the beginning of the year, I can't really expect them to write the color word in the sentence frame. But hey - I have high expectations and why not give it a try? Why not allow them to exceed their grasp, go for the gold, and really shine as STAR learners? Why not give them the opportunity to be successful - and copy the color word onto the sentence frame?
I set out huge color word cards. We had reviewed them before the activity started. I got a bunch of blank looks. Understanding just wasn't there.
Then I hit upon this marvelous idea.
"You know," I said in a conspiratorial tone, "the name of your favorite color is RIGHT THERE on the crayon."
I showed them on about a half dozen crayons where the color word could be found. A collective "ooh" and "ahh" went up from the rug and I was pleased. The busily began printing.
They put their finished papers on my table, as directed, and got ready to go home. After taking them to the bus, I returned to the classroom to see how well this little endeavor turned out.
Creatively printed in areas IN and AROUND the sentence frame on almost all my students' papers was one word:
"CRAYOLA"
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