I see it all the time as a high school teacher: students not taking responsibility for themselves, parents enabling students, blaming others. Johnny is not failing because he’s not doing his homework or studying for tests and quizzes. No. Johnny is failing because I didn’t tell his parents three separate times, subsequent to the midterm report when his average was a 60, that he’s failing. And therefore it’s not fair that he’s failing. I’m not even kidding. It makes no sense to rational, responsible people. Like me. And you, I hope. And it’s not just in the classroom.
I find it unfortunate that purveyors of hot coffee products need to have printed on their to-go cups Caution: Contents Very Hot. Even Chinet has that printed on their “Comfort Cup” lids—and they don’t sell coffee. They sell cups in the grocery store that people can put their own hot coffee in. I remember well the landmark lawsuit in which a woman sued McDonalds when she burned herself on coffee, as I too had burned myself on coffee once. The only difference is--when I spilled the coffee on my upper thighs because I was holding the cup between my legs to add cream and sugar as Donna pulled away, in a small car with a stick shift, to get us to Newport--I didn’t sue. The blisters hurt, as did the open skin when I swam in the ocean that vacation. But it was my fault. I lived with it.
Apparently now people are obese because they are not being told how many calories are in the food they purchase in restaurants. It’s not a person’s fault if s/he is overweight, maybe with blood pressure running a little high from eating a Beefy 5-Layer Burrito a few times a week for lunch. It’s the restaurant’s fault for not letting a person know up front that it is high and calories, full of fat and sodium. If they posted that nutrition information, that person would surely get the soft chicken taco instead. Really? And a person whose favorite sandwich is a Big Mac will opt for four-piece McNuggets if they knew exactly what the calorie difference is?
I'm sorry. I don’t buy it. Maybe they’d make healthier choices on occasion, but the information is not top secret. Nutrition information is readily available on line and I’m sure from the management of said establishments. Why do we need it posted on the menu board? What’s next? A warning label on the burger wrappers: Caution: eating this burger can make you fat. Or Warning: the beans in this chili may cause flatulence. Has there been a lawsuit yet for not warning that beans cause gas? Well, I farted in my interview and didn’t get the job. I wouldn’t have had the chili beforehand if I knew beans make you fart. I’ve been unemployed and embarrassed ever since.
Now there’s an idea…
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Economy of Words
I try to be positive. Knowing firsthand the power of a compliment, I try to give them freely. I also try to smile a lot. I am not the woman in the grocery store who has steam coming out of her ears when shopping carts nearly collide. Rather, I’m the woman who walks down the aisle and makes eye contact with people and smiles at them—whether or not our carts crash. I talk to the people around me when I eat out at my regular steak place. I even let an older couple whom I see on occasion repeatedly call me Joan the other night without correcting them. I wave people ahead on the road, letting them sneak a left turn in traffic before I take my right, and if I get waved on I make sure I put my hand up in thanks and acknowledgment. I even put my hand up to say thanks after making a lane change in heavy traffic on the highway.
But I am also a teacher, a believer in the educable moment. Even at Lord and Taylor.
I had two coupons this afternoon—one specifically for $15 off any pair of shoes— when I made the pilgrimage to L&T. I browsed through the clearance racks, tried a few things on, but wasn’t really feeling it, so I decided to head upstairs to the shoe department. As I got on the escalator I got on several steps behind a woman I had seen in the woman’s department. Interestingly, I made the recognition because of her pretty pink sweater. She was not a full figured woman herself, but it didn’t faze me when I saw her at the clearance racks. More than anything I noticed her sweater.
As we made our ascent, she turned slightly to her husband, still on the first floor, who had turned his palms up and put his arms out as if to say, Where are you going? Why aren’t you down here looking?
In reply, she filled her cheeks with air and put her arms out in front of her abdomen, barely touching her fingertips— the universal sign of Santa Claus and, apparently in her world, Fatty. She was telling her hubbie she was inadvertently in the fat ladies department and needed to go upstairs.
Oh, yes, she did.
She caught my death stare when she turned around to respond to her whining child who was several steps behind me, wondering where she was going and why without him. She told him not to worry; she’d wait at the top.
As she waited to the side for her son, clearly preferring to run into petites, visibly uncomfortable, I made it to the top. I got off the escalator, turned to her, said “Bitch,” and walked on.
Oh, yes, I did.
But I am also a teacher, a believer in the educable moment. Even at Lord and Taylor.
I had two coupons this afternoon—one specifically for $15 off any pair of shoes— when I made the pilgrimage to L&T. I browsed through the clearance racks, tried a few things on, but wasn’t really feeling it, so I decided to head upstairs to the shoe department. As I got on the escalator I got on several steps behind a woman I had seen in the woman’s department. Interestingly, I made the recognition because of her pretty pink sweater. She was not a full figured woman herself, but it didn’t faze me when I saw her at the clearance racks. More than anything I noticed her sweater.
As we made our ascent, she turned slightly to her husband, still on the first floor, who had turned his palms up and put his arms out as if to say, Where are you going? Why aren’t you down here looking?
In reply, she filled her cheeks with air and put her arms out in front of her abdomen, barely touching her fingertips— the universal sign of Santa Claus and, apparently in her world, Fatty. She was telling her hubbie she was inadvertently in the fat ladies department and needed to go upstairs.
Oh, yes, she did.
She caught my death stare when she turned around to respond to her whining child who was several steps behind me, wondering where she was going and why without him. She told him not to worry; she’d wait at the top.
As she waited to the side for her son, clearly preferring to run into petites, visibly uncomfortable, I made it to the top. I got off the escalator, turned to her, said “Bitch,” and walked on.
Oh, yes, I did.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Picture This
I am HomeGoods yesterday looking at all the bowls and vases and candle holders and glass curios on the shelving that runs down the entire wall of the department, when suddenly the woman working in the department is my best friend, as I ooh and aah about some of the bowls--too pretty to use. I ask my new best friend, “do you have any plate holders?” and she directs me toward one. Now every time I pick up a bowl or a plate I move things around on the shelf to put it in the display holder to see how it looks.
The moment I put an iridescent purple bowl with an intricately detailed design in the plate holder, I have to ask my new best friend, now four feet away, for her opinion. "Isn't this beautiful?," I ask as I step back to admire it. She puts down what she's doing, walks down the aisle, and agrees. "Oh, yeah," she says, "I need to touch it." At that moment she reaches out and puts the lip of the bowl between her fingers. (See? We understand each other. We could definitely be BFFs.)
As she walks back to her price tag cart I say, "I should know better than to come in here! I always find something I just have to have."
"It's such great stuff," she agrees, and smiles at me, which is the equivalent of a longtime BFF saying “go ahead and buy it.” I refer you to the handbag incident last summer.
When I find myself holding a plate holder and two bowls--the purple one and a turquoise one imprinted with flowers (Hello?!?) she comes back to look at that one, too.
I say, "Seriously, I'm afraid that one day I'll hear a knock on my door and I'll open it to find men with a big roll of bubble wrap, there to talk all my bowls and vases away."
She laughs.
I’m serious.
The moment I put an iridescent purple bowl with an intricately detailed design in the plate holder, I have to ask my new best friend, now four feet away, for her opinion. "Isn't this beautiful?," I ask as I step back to admire it. She puts down what she's doing, walks down the aisle, and agrees. "Oh, yeah," she says, "I need to touch it." At that moment she reaches out and puts the lip of the bowl between her fingers. (See? We understand each other. We could definitely be BFFs.)
As she walks back to her price tag cart I say, "I should know better than to come in here! I always find something I just have to have."
"It's such great stuff," she agrees, and smiles at me, which is the equivalent of a longtime BFF saying “go ahead and buy it.” I refer you to the handbag incident last summer.
When I find myself holding a plate holder and two bowls--the purple one and a turquoise one imprinted with flowers (Hello?!?) she comes back to look at that one, too.
I say, "Seriously, I'm afraid that one day I'll hear a knock on my door and I'll open it to find men with a big roll of bubble wrap, there to talk all my bowls and vases away."
She laughs.
I’m serious.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Compliments
It’s hard to have a bad day when first thing in the morning, in my first period class, a student said to me, “Ms. K, you look so cute today.”
“Thanks!” I said, trying not to give away exactly how thrilled I was to receive a compliment. From a 15 year old girl. In my head, the thank you was followed by yay, I pulled it off, and then tell me what exactly so maybe I can do it again. Because…really?!?
My roots could support a giant oak, and I have never been quite sure about my denim jacket. Overall I questioned my entire outfit that morning, thought maybe it was a bit too Friday-ish, despite the black cuffed pants, the white v-neck, and the fact that the jacket is fitted/tailored/non-Levi. Actually, I think that’s why I’m not in love with the jacket. Does it look tailored or just too small, you know? Is my jacket the equivalent of the Incredible Hulk’s capris in the opening sequence? But boxy would be way to cazh, in my opinion. Anyway, the pants and my jewelry are pretty standard, but I haven’t worn a hair clip since September (I know, it’s not hair clip season yet, but between the roots and being overdue for a haircut, which I get taken care of tomorrow, my options were limited) and the jean jacket, though not new, is a spring item. What exactly was cute about me today? I couldn’t ask. I took the compliment and ran with it.
Just moments later, when I tried to boot up my computer—unsuccessfully—multiple times (ditto on the unsuccessfully), only to find out that my hard drive was fried, I didn’t melt down. I looked cute today, after all.
Several class periods later, when I still had no computer to use in my classroom and had to change lesson plans accordingly, I was still in a good mood. I looked cute, of course.
After losing another hour of my life, which I will never get back, to another useless faculty meeting in the band room, I didn’t seethe. I made eye contact with some friends and smiled. I looked cute.
And now I’m home. I didn’t run upstairs and put on my pajamas. Instead I am wondering if maybe I should go some place, maybe shopping, maybe out for a drink. There's still time to look cute, right?
Wow. The power of a compliment.
Pass it on.
“Thanks!” I said, trying not to give away exactly how thrilled I was to receive a compliment. From a 15 year old girl. In my head, the thank you was followed by yay, I pulled it off, and then tell me what exactly so maybe I can do it again. Because…really?!?
My roots could support a giant oak, and I have never been quite sure about my denim jacket. Overall I questioned my entire outfit that morning, thought maybe it was a bit too Friday-ish, despite the black cuffed pants, the white v-neck, and the fact that the jacket is fitted/tailored/non-Levi. Actually, I think that’s why I’m not in love with the jacket. Does it look tailored or just too small, you know? Is my jacket the equivalent of the Incredible Hulk’s capris in the opening sequence? But boxy would be way to cazh, in my opinion. Anyway, the pants and my jewelry are pretty standard, but I haven’t worn a hair clip since September (I know, it’s not hair clip season yet, but between the roots and being overdue for a haircut, which I get taken care of tomorrow, my options were limited) and the jean jacket, though not new, is a spring item. What exactly was cute about me today? I couldn’t ask. I took the compliment and ran with it.
Just moments later, when I tried to boot up my computer—unsuccessfully—multiple times (ditto on the unsuccessfully), only to find out that my hard drive was fried, I didn’t melt down. I looked cute today, after all.
Several class periods later, when I still had no computer to use in my classroom and had to change lesson plans accordingly, I was still in a good mood. I looked cute, of course.
After losing another hour of my life, which I will never get back, to another useless faculty meeting in the band room, I didn’t seethe. I made eye contact with some friends and smiled. I looked cute.
And now I’m home. I didn’t run upstairs and put on my pajamas. Instead I am wondering if maybe I should go some place, maybe shopping, maybe out for a drink. There's still time to look cute, right?
Wow. The power of a compliment.
Pass it on.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Songs
These days I can go days without listening to the radio. I think I listened to music the other night on my way home from Liz’s, but only because she had turned the radio on when she took my car to get milk, but I haven’t since. I love music of different genres, as evidenced by CD collection and my MP3 selection, and I lost count years ago of the concerts to which I have been (which is quite different from not remembering all of the details of concerts I have attended). I don’t dislike music at all. I just don’t need it the way I used to.
There was a time that songs were more than music, and music was my call to rebellion--and maybe an excuse to swear. Oh, the 70s! “Whooo are you? Who, who, who, who? […] Oh, who the f*ck are you?!” “Teenage Wasteland, oh yeah, it’s only teenage wasteland.” Songs were the sound track of coming of age and knowing more than our parents (so we thought); Mama had a squeeze box, and Steve Tyler had a big ten inch…record. “That Smell” by Lynyrd Skynyrd (“you fool, you!”) still brings out my inner burnout and definitely requires a volume crank. And Led Zeppelin? Well, let’s just say that there are a few people in my life who love to say, at least once in the ninth month of the year, Happy Zep-tember. But my favorite was always Peter Frampton, whose double live album was my favorite gift in sixth grade and whom I finally met—yes, met—in the early 90s when I was just about 25. Decades later I am still not embarrassed to love a song whose lyrics included "I don't CARE if they cut my HAIR." Rock. On. It’s always Rock-tober.
My road to feminism was paved with songs by Aretha Franklin—“Respect” and “Natural Woman”. And Helen Reddy gets a shout out, too. I think I can probably still sing every word of "I am Woman Hear me Roar." There were the songs that moved me, some I became aware of only as I became socially conscious and…well…liberal. If my life were a movie the soundtrack would have played What's Going On by Marvin Gaye, or Wake Up Everybody by Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes in the background as I took the T to Dorchester to the adolescent clinic at which I worked.
Lest you think I remain permanently ensconced in the 70s, I love to dance to Modern English, “Melt withYou”. When I want to hear passion and emotion in a voice who better to listen to than Eddy Vedder? Even with short hair. Pearl Jam makes me feel. Period. U2 does too. And Live. And others. From decades other than the 70s.
In all the places in between, in all the mixed tapes I made and shared or was given by friends, the songs I sang aloud made me feel like I had a good voice. I hung on to every word to tell me that I’d be okay, that my life would turn out okay. I would find love and be fine, and someday someone would sing a heartfelt song to me, soppy and sappy. Maybe [I] would bring [him] up or he would hold a boom box over his head to let me know how much he loved me. I could even break a heart if so inclined.
I did turn out okay; things are fine with me. I have found love. I’ve even been sung to in my life. And while music still moves me, transports me to times past and places I’ve been, I am okay with silence. I can sit in the moment, with my own thoughts and words in my head, writing my own song. But I still can't settle on the ten albums (well, CDs) I'd take to that deserted island, or download on my MP3 palyer, so I Gotta Feeling music will always be a part of my life.
There was a time that songs were more than music, and music was my call to rebellion--and maybe an excuse to swear. Oh, the 70s! “Whooo are you? Who, who, who, who? […] Oh, who the f*ck are you?!” “Teenage Wasteland, oh yeah, it’s only teenage wasteland.” Songs were the sound track of coming of age and knowing more than our parents (so we thought); Mama had a squeeze box, and Steve Tyler had a big ten inch…record. “That Smell” by Lynyrd Skynyrd (“you fool, you!”) still brings out my inner burnout and definitely requires a volume crank. And Led Zeppelin? Well, let’s just say that there are a few people in my life who love to say, at least once in the ninth month of the year, Happy Zep-tember. But my favorite was always Peter Frampton, whose double live album was my favorite gift in sixth grade and whom I finally met—yes, met—in the early 90s when I was just about 25. Decades later I am still not embarrassed to love a song whose lyrics included "I don't CARE if they cut my HAIR." Rock. On. It’s always Rock-tober.
My road to feminism was paved with songs by Aretha Franklin—“Respect” and “Natural Woman”. And Helen Reddy gets a shout out, too. I think I can probably still sing every word of "I am Woman Hear me Roar." There were the songs that moved me, some I became aware of only as I became socially conscious and…well…liberal. If my life were a movie the soundtrack would have played What's Going On by Marvin Gaye, or Wake Up Everybody by Harold Melvin and the Bluenotes in the background as I took the T to Dorchester to the adolescent clinic at which I worked.
Lest you think I remain permanently ensconced in the 70s, I love to dance to Modern English, “Melt withYou”. When I want to hear passion and emotion in a voice who better to listen to than Eddy Vedder? Even with short hair. Pearl Jam makes me feel. Period. U2 does too. And Live. And others. From decades other than the 70s.
In all the places in between, in all the mixed tapes I made and shared or was given by friends, the songs I sang aloud made me feel like I had a good voice. I hung on to every word to tell me that I’d be okay, that my life would turn out okay. I would find love and be fine, and someday someone would sing a heartfelt song to me, soppy and sappy. Maybe [I] would bring [him] up or he would hold a boom box over his head to let me know how much he loved me. I could even break a heart if so inclined.
I did turn out okay; things are fine with me. I have found love. I’ve even been sung to in my life. And while music still moves me, transports me to times past and places I’ve been, I am okay with silence. I can sit in the moment, with my own thoughts and words in my head, writing my own song. But I still can't settle on the ten albums (well, CDs) I'd take to that deserted island, or download on my MP3 palyer, so I Gotta Feeling music will always be a part of my life.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Happy Birthday to Donna!
On this special day, when Donna both celebrates her birthday and begins chemotherapy anew, I unabashedly ask all of you who read to send positive thoughts and prayers her way.
As Donna says, "only good can come from positive energy."
Amen. And Happy Birthday.
As Donna says, "only good can come from positive energy."
Amen. And Happy Birthday.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Infomercials
I am not an infomercial person. I don't “set it and forget it!” nor have I contributed in any way to Ron Popeil’s fortune. I frankly still can’t understand why anyone would buy an appliance to whip an egg in its shell. I have no desire to make my own jerky or boil pasta in the microwave, but I do admit that I once owned a George Forman grill.
I loved it, and I used it fairly often. I think. At some point I draw a blank about my GFG. I don’t know why I stopped using it, or why—when I did—I threw it away. Or did I put it out on the street in one of several boxes I labeled FREE Please Take when I moved? I really have no idea. I hadn’t thought about it in years…until I saw my mother using hers the other day.
My GFG was good for fast and easy food, portioned for one. Since my GFG days I’ve been cooking more and experimenting in the kitchen, and taking more time to prepare meals. As you know, I don’t mind spending hours in the kitchen. Cooking is creating; creating is therapy. But when I saw my mother use hers it occurred to me that having the option to cook quick and easy for just myself once in a while is not a bad idea. Not everything I make has to be restaurant worthy, right? And I know I can just as easily throw a burger in a sauté pan as I can a GFG, but I do remember it being faster. And I remember liking the grill marks. I am all about the grill marks. Too bad I don’t have a grill.
This afternoon, I will have a new George Forman grill. I ordered one a couple of weeks ago (for a whopping $17!) and it’s in. Will it get a [heart] note, or another sharpie-scrawled FREE Please Take? Stay tuned. I'll be sure to let you know.
I loved it, and I used it fairly often. I think. At some point I draw a blank about my GFG. I don’t know why I stopped using it, or why—when I did—I threw it away. Or did I put it out on the street in one of several boxes I labeled FREE Please Take when I moved? I really have no idea. I hadn’t thought about it in years…until I saw my mother using hers the other day.
My GFG was good for fast and easy food, portioned for one. Since my GFG days I’ve been cooking more and experimenting in the kitchen, and taking more time to prepare meals. As you know, I don’t mind spending hours in the kitchen. Cooking is creating; creating is therapy. But when I saw my mother use hers it occurred to me that having the option to cook quick and easy for just myself once in a while is not a bad idea. Not everything I make has to be restaurant worthy, right? And I know I can just as easily throw a burger in a sauté pan as I can a GFG, but I do remember it being faster. And I remember liking the grill marks. I am all about the grill marks. Too bad I don’t have a grill.
This afternoon, I will have a new George Forman grill. I ordered one a couple of weeks ago (for a whopping $17!) and it’s in. Will it get a [heart] note, or another sharpie-scrawled FREE Please Take? Stay tuned. I'll be sure to let you know.
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