March roared in like a lion bringing record breaking temperature thru much of the state and I took advantage of the high temps to take my first swim of the year. As I’d invited a couple of the grandkids to go along, I went during visitors’ swim hours and found lots of young uns accompanying their grandparents, splashing around and having a good time. Amid the laughter, I did my 20 minutes, wrapped myself in a towel and headed to the car.
This week the temperatures are back to their normal low 70s, but as soon as the clouds passed over yesterday, I was off to the pool. And even tho I’d invited the youngest grandson to go with, he opted out, but I still found myself at the pool during visitors' swim time. Happily, though, this time I found myself alone.
I’m lucky to have two pools here, one is heated and one is not, and the unheated one doesn’t warm up until well into August in my mind, so I pretty much stick to the heated one and this was no exception. The only other folks were taking some sun near the water of the colder pool, which was separated from me by a concrete patio and a big storage box where the pool cover for “my” pool is kept. Thus, I couldn’t really see the older gent and the young woman was facing the other direction. Life, I thought to myself, really doesn’t get any better.
The water was clean. Last week, it hadn’t looked as nice and I’d fought with lots of bees for space in the deeper end. I explain to the creatures who invade us here that I don’t mind sharing space, but this is mine and that – somewhere, almost anywhere else - is theirs. But this week, the bees must have been busy elsewhere because I didn’t see a one.
One lap walking, one lap jogging, and yet another actually swimming. First the breast stroke, then the side stroke, and finally lazily the back stroke. Seriously, is there anything better that floating in warm water basking in the warm sun of a late spring morning?
As a beach person, I suppose there really is something better, but the water in the Pacific didn’t get the memo from the sun that it’s been hotter than hell on the ground, so it still feels frigid. So, for now, the heated pool. Thank you.
A few stretches at the wall, some more lazy laps – punch the arms down, swing them from side to side – get this full body thing going. And then the glorious lazy lap on my back. Wishing the pool was longer, although I think it’s regulation size, I could have floated on forever.
Not once did I think about my grueling schedule at work. Not once did I think about my impossible retirement situation. Not once did I think about my crazy ass husband and what he might be up to. I just let my mind drift along with my body and we sank ever so slightly into the womb of water.
After my 20 minutes, I admitted that I wasn’t even beginning to feel tired, so I opted for 5 minutes more. After 25 minutes, I decided to go for a half hour. And I was loving every minute. How could this be called exercise? How could this divine sensation actually be good for you?
OK! 30+ minutes, let’s get out. And I reluctantly floated over to the stairs and pulled myself out of the water, walked over to the lawn chair where I’d left my towel and wrapped it around me noticing as I did that the older fellow had moved into the shade off to my left.
A few minutes earlier, I had heard a loud splash and thought that either he or the young woman had decided to take a dip, but he looked dry and the woman was still prone face down. Putting on my glasses, I saw that we did have a guest and I said so to the older fellow. He didn’t hear me. He’s probably a bit hard of hearing. Many people are in this old folks community where I live. So, raised my voice and said again, “It looks like we have a guest.”
“Oh, you mean the duck?”
“Yes.” I replied although I wasn’t altogether sure it was a duck. We have a lot of bird species here on this bluff near the ocean and rabbits by the ton and coyotes in packs, but I’d never seen any ducks before. Hmmm.
“Well, he visited with you first, but as you ignored him, he left and went into the other pool.”
I looked again wishing I'd had my camera as he went gliding past the 8 foot marker. “Oh." I answered thinking that I hadn't even had to explain to him that this is my space.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
The Luck o’ the Irish
My mother was brought up in a Catholic boarding school and most of the kids went home for the holidays, and some didn’t. My mother and her sister, Alice, were two that stayed on throughout the year.
And despite her sadness my mother had some funny stories to tell that would make the “The Trouble of Angels” seem boring in contrast. One of my favorites is the story of going to confession. Apparently one of the older priests was very hard of hearing, and thus the privacy of the confessional was broken when he’d asked: You did what? With whom? My mother said she’d wait in much longer lines to avoid going to him, but sometimes the nuns would step in and redistribute the reticent sinners.
Apparently the nuns wore their rosary beads around their waists, so you could hear them coming from quite far off. That saved my mom’s neck a time or two from being caught in what I’m sure were venial sins.
Coming of age there as she did, she knew nothing about the facts of life. She only knew that the older girls were cloistered periodically. Of course, she later realized it must have been when they were having their periods, but at the time, she thought they’d done something awfully bad. When she herself started, she thought she was dying and had somehow brought it upon herself, so she was afraid to tell anyone.
My mother’s parents were both Portuguese. My grandmother was from the Azores and my grandfather was from Cape Verde. And given Cape Verde’s history, it is highly likely that he had a Black ancestor or two. Of course, when I was growing up in the 60s that would have been a taboo admission, so my mother never ever told me. In fact, she always emphasized the fact that he had blue eyes. Nonetheless, my two older sisters looked like pickaninny dolls. I inherited my father’s coloring, however, and as a result thought I must have been adopted.
Somehow, my mother was a great cook although she didn’t know anything about Portuguese food. She cooked Italian. She learned to cook Southern for my Dad who was from Texas, and because there were a fair share of Irish priests, she learned to cook a corned beef that was to die for. My Dad was Irish and he loved her Irish meals.
After I grew up, I figured I would be able to just wander into the kitchen as she had and wander out with a meal. But being a cook isn’t hereditary, and my exploits in the kitchen were often disasters.
Not long after I got married, I tried my hand with a corned beef brisket. I cut the potatoes and peeled the carrots and shredded the cabbage. And it smelled terrific, but by the time I thought it was done, it was harder than the blarney stone. You literally could not cut it with a knife. Nor was there any simply pulling off onto your plate.
My husband thought it was funny and would regale future guests for some time with the story of my St. Patrick’s Day disaster. He even went so far as to give it to the dog who wouldn’t eat it either. Of course, he shared that part of the story, too. The dog was named Kitty, though, so one can’t pay any attention to his tastes.
My husband and I were married for over 20 years, and separated for 10 or so more before he passed away at age 50. And in the nearly 20 years since, I have never again tried my hand at a St. Patrick’s Day meal.
As I am much smarter than any dog named Kitty, I have instead made friends with several folks of Irish descent who kindly invite me to share their lovely meals. And I had the good fortune to have a smart son who married an Irish lass who can cook a St. Patrick’s Day meal to die for.
Yesterday, on 3/16, one of my dearest friends, invited me to her house for an early St. Patrick’s Day dinner. And it was wonderful. Another Irish lass brought soda bread. Oh my. I was stuffed on my way home, but I woke up this morning with a taste for Ireland lingering.
So, I got up and went to the store and bought a brisket. I came home and found a recipe for a slow cooker that seemed similar to the one Ally used. She said the special flavor came from the Guiness. And perhaps it did.
I quartered the small red potatoes, cut the carrots into fairly uniform-sized pieces, and added the 4 cups of water. Then I placed the corned beef on top of the vegetables and poured six ounces of Imported Extra Stout Guiness over it. And then sprinkled the seasonings on top of that. I put the lid on and turned the slow cooker on high as the recipe suggested. I cooked it for 8 and a half hours only opening the pot an hour before to put in the shredded cabbage.
About an hour ago, I sat down to eat. And it was wonderful. After 50 some years, Danny Boy, I finally had the courage to try it again. Faith and Begorrah! I know there are Irish eyes smiling and I hear the bagpipes calling.
My mother was brought up in a Catholic boarding school and most of the kids went home for the holidays, and some didn’t. My mother and her sister, Alice, were two that stayed on throughout the year.
And despite her sadness my mother had some funny stories to tell that would make the “The Trouble of Angels” seem boring in contrast. One of my favorites is the story of going to confession. Apparently one of the older priests was very hard of hearing, and thus the privacy of the confessional was broken when he’d asked: You did what? With whom? My mother said she’d wait in much longer lines to avoid going to him, but sometimes the nuns would step in and redistribute the reticent sinners.
Apparently the nuns wore their rosary beads around their waists, so you could hear them coming from quite far off. That saved my mom’s neck a time or two from being caught in what I’m sure were venial sins.
Coming of age there as she did, she knew nothing about the facts of life. She only knew that the older girls were cloistered periodically. Of course, she later realized it must have been when they were having their periods, but at the time, she thought they’d done something awfully bad. When she herself started, she thought she was dying and had somehow brought it upon herself, so she was afraid to tell anyone.
My mother’s parents were both Portuguese. My grandmother was from the Azores and my grandfather was from Cape Verde. And given Cape Verde’s history, it is highly likely that he had a Black ancestor or two. Of course, when I was growing up in the 60s that would have been a taboo admission, so my mother never ever told me. In fact, she always emphasized the fact that he had blue eyes. Nonetheless, my two older sisters looked like pickaninny dolls. I inherited my father’s coloring, however, and as a result thought I must have been adopted.
Somehow, my mother was a great cook although she didn’t know anything about Portuguese food. She cooked Italian. She learned to cook Southern for my Dad who was from Texas, and because there were a fair share of Irish priests, she learned to cook a corned beef that was to die for. My Dad was Irish and he loved her Irish meals.
After I grew up, I figured I would be able to just wander into the kitchen as she had and wander out with a meal. But being a cook isn’t hereditary, and my exploits in the kitchen were often disasters.
Not long after I got married, I tried my hand with a corned beef brisket. I cut the potatoes and peeled the carrots and shredded the cabbage. And it smelled terrific, but by the time I thought it was done, it was harder than the blarney stone. You literally could not cut it with a knife. Nor was there any simply pulling off onto your plate.
My husband thought it was funny and would regale future guests for some time with the story of my St. Patrick’s Day disaster. He even went so far as to give it to the dog who wouldn’t eat it either. Of course, he shared that part of the story, too. The dog was named Kitty, though, so one can’t pay any attention to his tastes.
My husband and I were married for over 20 years, and separated for 10 or so more before he passed away at age 50. And in the nearly 20 years since, I have never again tried my hand at a St. Patrick’s Day meal.
As I am much smarter than any dog named Kitty, I have instead made friends with several folks of Irish descent who kindly invite me to share their lovely meals. And I had the good fortune to have a smart son who married an Irish lass who can cook a St. Patrick’s Day meal to die for.
Yesterday, on 3/16, one of my dearest friends, invited me to her house for an early St. Patrick’s Day dinner. And it was wonderful. Another Irish lass brought soda bread. Oh my. I was stuffed on my way home, but I woke up this morning with a taste for Ireland lingering.
So, I got up and went to the store and bought a brisket. I came home and found a recipe for a slow cooker that seemed similar to the one Ally used. She said the special flavor came from the Guiness. And perhaps it did.
I quartered the small red potatoes, cut the carrots into fairly uniform-sized pieces, and added the 4 cups of water. Then I placed the corned beef on top of the vegetables and poured six ounces of Imported Extra Stout Guiness over it. And then sprinkled the seasonings on top of that. I put the lid on and turned the slow cooker on high as the recipe suggested. I cooked it for 8 and a half hours only opening the pot an hour before to put in the shredded cabbage.
About an hour ago, I sat down to eat. And it was wonderful. After 50 some years, Danny Boy, I finally had the courage to try it again. Faith and Begorrah! I know there are Irish eyes smiling and I hear the bagpipes calling.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Taz's Escape
A few weeks ago, Sarah, my daughter, brought me a dog to “look after” for a bit. John, my grandson, is happy as a clam to have him here with us, but I have had my doubts.
Taz is an English bull dog that was given to Sarah by the owner because he had an eye problem that the vet wouldn’t work on because Taz has a hole in his heart making the eye surgery too risky. Indeed, the doctor didn’t give Taz long to live. Sarah, always an easy mark when it comes to four legged critters, took him in. That was over two years ago. And I’m happy to report that he’s doing well. And after only a few weeks, I want to get the sticker that says “Who rescued who?” and put it on my car.
His claim to fame is that he plays a mean game of soccer. He arrived here with one toy – a beat-up partially deflated soccer ball. And he is the original ball hog. No passing from him. It’s his ball by golly and if you try to take it, well, let’s just say he’s as stubborn a bulldog as you’ve ever meet.
I love to play soccer and wish I had a big yard so we could run around. As it is, I’ve wounded myself twice as we play in and around a picnic table, an antique Z, and two bicycles. It’s a little crowded, but it’s what we have. We make do.
Until the other day. Apparently, Taz decided to explore and poked his big fat head under the fence near my neighbor’s orange tree. And he snagged one that was growing on a branch quite low to the ground. It’s so big that I thought it must be a grapefruit, but its bright orange color gave it away. My Dad would have said it’s a Texas orange since, of course, they grow everything bigger and better in Texas than we do in CA. Regardless, Taz loves having two soccer balls and actually seems to prefer the organic one as he will let me have the old dirty rubber one if it looks like I might get close to the orange one.
Shortly after his escapade, which reminded me that his name is after all a short form of Tasmanian Devil, he decided to scoot all the way under the fence and go for a visit. Problem! My neighbor doesn’t have a gate, so Taz found himself FREE once he escaped from my enclosed area. Fortunately, my neighbor had company visiting who saw the escape and alerted me. I was able to coax Taz back into my tiny yard with his soccer ball. And then I had to barricade the fence line with trash cans and a fold out cot pending a trip to Home Depot for some more permanent means of keeping him in.
I wasn’t negligent. Really! If you could see the distance between the bottom of our wooden fence and the ground and compare it to Taz’s girth, you would say – any observant person – would say there’s no way that big Telly Tubby of a dog could get under there. But by looking at him, you’d also think he wouldn’t play soccer very well either, but I’m here to tell you differently. When I kick the ball, he can get from the back door, down the driveway, to the gate in little more than a split second – leaping over any obstacles like a gazelle before bracing himself to come to a screeching halt – ball back in mouth, looking at me with a victorious grin as if he’d just made a goal in the World Cup.
Sadly, though, he realized today that the organic soccer ball was indeed edible and decided to consume it. Interesting enough, he only ate the inside, the pulp, and left the rind as a souvenir, I guess.
Gotta get me a yard!
Taz is an English bull dog that was given to Sarah by the owner because he had an eye problem that the vet wouldn’t work on because Taz has a hole in his heart making the eye surgery too risky. Indeed, the doctor didn’t give Taz long to live. Sarah, always an easy mark when it comes to four legged critters, took him in. That was over two years ago. And I’m happy to report that he’s doing well. And after only a few weeks, I want to get the sticker that says “Who rescued who?” and put it on my car.
His claim to fame is that he plays a mean game of soccer. He arrived here with one toy – a beat-up partially deflated soccer ball. And he is the original ball hog. No passing from him. It’s his ball by golly and if you try to take it, well, let’s just say he’s as stubborn a bulldog as you’ve ever meet.
I love to play soccer and wish I had a big yard so we could run around. As it is, I’ve wounded myself twice as we play in and around a picnic table, an antique Z, and two bicycles. It’s a little crowded, but it’s what we have. We make do.
Until the other day. Apparently, Taz decided to explore and poked his big fat head under the fence near my neighbor’s orange tree. And he snagged one that was growing on a branch quite low to the ground. It’s so big that I thought it must be a grapefruit, but its bright orange color gave it away. My Dad would have said it’s a Texas orange since, of course, they grow everything bigger and better in Texas than we do in CA. Regardless, Taz loves having two soccer balls and actually seems to prefer the organic one as he will let me have the old dirty rubber one if it looks like I might get close to the orange one.
Shortly after his escapade, which reminded me that his name is after all a short form of Tasmanian Devil, he decided to scoot all the way under the fence and go for a visit. Problem! My neighbor doesn’t have a gate, so Taz found himself FREE once he escaped from my enclosed area. Fortunately, my neighbor had company visiting who saw the escape and alerted me. I was able to coax Taz back into my tiny yard with his soccer ball. And then I had to barricade the fence line with trash cans and a fold out cot pending a trip to Home Depot for some more permanent means of keeping him in.
I wasn’t negligent. Really! If you could see the distance between the bottom of our wooden fence and the ground and compare it to Taz’s girth, you would say – any observant person – would say there’s no way that big Telly Tubby of a dog could get under there. But by looking at him, you’d also think he wouldn’t play soccer very well either, but I’m here to tell you differently. When I kick the ball, he can get from the back door, down the driveway, to the gate in little more than a split second – leaping over any obstacles like a gazelle before bracing himself to come to a screeching halt – ball back in mouth, looking at me with a victorious grin as if he’d just made a goal in the World Cup.
Sadly, though, he realized today that the organic soccer ball was indeed edible and decided to consume it. Interesting enough, he only ate the inside, the pulp, and left the rind as a souvenir, I guess.
Gotta get me a yard!
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Drama with ESL
My journey to the world of ESL was a circuitous route that started when I began hosting international students. Back then, we called them foreign exchange students, but I guess the term “foreign” has become politically incorrect. Nonetheless, they came from “far away places with strange sounding names,” and the gypsy in me was intrigued: no – more than that – I was entranced.
My belief in the value of drama in the classroom, however, came directly via a non-stop do not pass go epiphany. But I get ahead of myself.
My very first exchange student was from Italy – Guiseppe, although he introduced himself as Joseph. He was shy and not at all what I’d expected. Nor was he much like the rest of his group who were flamboyant and outgoing. Years later, I had the pleasure of visiting him at his home in Turin – or Torino – where I was treated like long last family. He went with me to Rome where a friend of his, who introduced herself as a Roman, took us on the most amazing bicycle tour of the city where we saw all of the tourist sights and much that wasn’t in the guidebooks.
My very first female exchange student was from Japan – Kyoko. She was as fragile as a traditional Japanese doll, yet she was very high-spirited and fun to be around. I also had the pleasure of visiting with her in her home outside of Osaka. Her mother and a couple of sisters took me on a wonderful tour of the northern mountainous region of Honshu. There’s nothing quite like seeing a place with a native as your personal tour guide.
But it was another Japanese student who convinced me that drama was an effective teaching tools years before I knew anything about teaching. He was young, about 18, and his name was Hideaki. And he was terribly, terribly shy. By then I was volunteering in the classes, and I felt so bad for him. He never raised his hand. He almost seemed to cower in his seat always near the back. Even at home, he was reluctant to say much and hardly ever joined in any of our family activities even though my son, John, was almost the same age.
After a week or two on a hot July evening, I found myself not particularly excited about having to dress up three teen-agers and myself and go to the Halloween party the school was giving for the exchange students and their families. And I was getting impatient. My daughter and I were ready long before the two boys who were ensconced in the downstairs bathroom where – it turned out – John was busily transforming Hideaki into some kind of motor cycle tattooed gangster type. “Come on, you guys!” I said knocking on the door. And I had just turned away from the door when it flew open and someone jumped out with a karate kind of yell and landed in a grasshopper pose and darn near scared the daylights out of me. Brandishing a rubber knife he lunged at me and growled menacingly.
When we got to the party, Hideaki’s classmates did not recognize him – not because of the make-up job, but because he was in character. He was just not himself. When the music started, he was among the first to ask a girl to dance. Can one use the word vivacious for a boy? He was “ON.” And his classmates were stunned. No one could believe that this was the shy almost backward boy who’d been in class that very morning.
I was amazed. And the most amazing thing was that the change was permanent. The next morning at breakfast with the make-up off and the music only a memory, he was talkative and engaged. He spoke to everyone. He asked about making plans for the week-end. He was changed. And though I wouldn’t realized it for some time, I was changed, too.
For my colleagues:
Several years later, a former colleague of ours, Penny Bernal, and her friend, Lonny Hewitt, took four classic plays and rewrote them for the ESL student. And I ran into Penny this summer. It seems they’ve combined the four plays into one book Cool Classics and she graciously gave me a class set which I would like to share with you. They’ll be in the tutoring center later this week. And if you’d like any help getting started, just let me know.
My belief in the value of drama in the classroom, however, came directly via a non-stop do not pass go epiphany. But I get ahead of myself.
My very first exchange student was from Italy – Guiseppe, although he introduced himself as Joseph. He was shy and not at all what I’d expected. Nor was he much like the rest of his group who were flamboyant and outgoing. Years later, I had the pleasure of visiting him at his home in Turin – or Torino – where I was treated like long last family. He went with me to Rome where a friend of his, who introduced herself as a Roman, took us on the most amazing bicycle tour of the city where we saw all of the tourist sights and much that wasn’t in the guidebooks.
My very first female exchange student was from Japan – Kyoko. She was as fragile as a traditional Japanese doll, yet she was very high-spirited and fun to be around. I also had the pleasure of visiting with her in her home outside of Osaka. Her mother and a couple of sisters took me on a wonderful tour of the northern mountainous region of Honshu. There’s nothing quite like seeing a place with a native as your personal tour guide.
But it was another Japanese student who convinced me that drama was an effective teaching tools years before I knew anything about teaching. He was young, about 18, and his name was Hideaki. And he was terribly, terribly shy. By then I was volunteering in the classes, and I felt so bad for him. He never raised his hand. He almost seemed to cower in his seat always near the back. Even at home, he was reluctant to say much and hardly ever joined in any of our family activities even though my son, John, was almost the same age.
After a week or two on a hot July evening, I found myself not particularly excited about having to dress up three teen-agers and myself and go to the Halloween party the school was giving for the exchange students and their families. And I was getting impatient. My daughter and I were ready long before the two boys who were ensconced in the downstairs bathroom where – it turned out – John was busily transforming Hideaki into some kind of motor cycle tattooed gangster type. “Come on, you guys!” I said knocking on the door. And I had just turned away from the door when it flew open and someone jumped out with a karate kind of yell and landed in a grasshopper pose and darn near scared the daylights out of me. Brandishing a rubber knife he lunged at me and growled menacingly.
When we got to the party, Hideaki’s classmates did not recognize him – not because of the make-up job, but because he was in character. He was just not himself. When the music started, he was among the first to ask a girl to dance. Can one use the word vivacious for a boy? He was “ON.” And his classmates were stunned. No one could believe that this was the shy almost backward boy who’d been in class that very morning.
I was amazed. And the most amazing thing was that the change was permanent. The next morning at breakfast with the make-up off and the music only a memory, he was talkative and engaged. He spoke to everyone. He asked about making plans for the week-end. He was changed. And though I wouldn’t realized it for some time, I was changed, too.
For my colleagues:
Several years later, a former colleague of ours, Penny Bernal, and her friend, Lonny Hewitt, took four classic plays and rewrote them for the ESL student. And I ran into Penny this summer. It seems they’ve combined the four plays into one book Cool Classics and she graciously gave me a class set which I would like to share with you. They’ll be in the tutoring center later this week. And if you’d like any help getting started, just let me know.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Wardrobe Malfunction
In a bit of a hurry today, I grabbed a new bra, tore off the tag, threw away both of the little pieces of plastic that held it on cause I hate to find them lying around, put it on followed by a tank and a blouse and ran out the door. Before I got to the freeway I was thinking how uncomfortable I was. In the front, where the wires meet, it was digging into my chest. I’m sure that must be how a heart attack feels.
Not a stranger to heart issues or the acid reflux stuff that often mimics them, I tried to calm down. And I got on the freeway trying to tug at the offensive wires a bit to little avail. I don’t think I was paying much attention to the traffic cause I kept going over and over in my head trying to figure out what bra I had put on. It was a twin pack special deal from (I’m embarrassed to admit) Walmart. But, hey, it’s a name brand and getting two on the same hanger was a real deal. My point is, I’d worn the other one before and never felt like I was being embraced by a python.
By the time I reached my off ramp, I was seriously considering going braless for the day. I am, after all, nothing if not a child of the 60s. Still, now that I’m in my sixties I can’t quite imagine what my students would think. And, unfortunately, though I’d layered a couple of tops, neither one of them provided that much coverage. So, I tried to convince myself this was indigestion. And to help it out, I drove thru McD and bought a hot tea.
When the tea didn’t seem to help, I took a detour thru the local shopping area and ran into the drug store where I bought some Tums. I briefly looked around for a bra, but the closest bet I could find were tank tops with a skimpy kind of thing sewed in. I decided that might be worse than braless. So, I chewed up a couple of Tums and told myself I was feeling better. Not.
Got to school, parked nearby, snagged a big pile of books that I needed to return to our little library, and sprinted most of the way to the office hoping to find a female with a safety pin. Having already rummaged thru my trunk, I figured there must be a better Girl Scout amongst us who really would be prepared. I found a sewing kit, contact lens cleaner, and q-tips, but no safety pin.
Off the elevator at the 4th floor and down the hall only to find the office dark and a little note saying it would be closed until 11:45a. As my class meets at 11am that wasn’t going to work. And, of course, I had left my wad of keys in the car so I couldn’t even get into my office although I was fairly certain I have didn’t have a safety pin there either.
Knowing I couldn’t carry the bunch of books all over campus, I decided to leave them in a stack in the nearby ladies room and hope for the best. What can I say? I was so uncomfortable by now that I just didn’t care much.
Back down to the second floor, which, at Cal State, is ground level at one end of Academic Hall where I spied a friend teaching in one of the computer labs. Desperate, I opened the door, interrupted her lecture and motioned for her to come out. I must have looked awful because she didn’t hesitate. Sadly, she didn’t have a safety pin either. She offered to ask her female students, but as half the class were men, I opted out.
Not too far away, in the big courtyard, there’s a coffee cart and the woman who owns it and I have become friends over the years often running into each other at the nearby Nordstrom’s Rack while getting in some retail therapy. I knew she’d understand and her cart is not far from the little store on campus which I was 90% sure didn’t carry sundries, but… Eureka! She had 3. I grabbed them all and went in search of the nearest restroom
Cheap bras, for some reason, are made of thick material, so once I untangled myself from the lycra python I could hardly get the safety pen thru the fiber. My plan was to use two and sort of make an extension which ought to relieve the pressure in the front. Finally got both thru the fabric and hooked to the other side. My fix didn’t provide much of an extension, but an inch would have to do.
Of course, now that I’ve got this mickey mouse extension in place, I have to figure out a way to get the bra back on. So, I go over the head like a sweater. Wrong. That wasn’t going to work. In the process, one of the safety pens quickly came open and stabbed me.
Gently unhooking both of them, though I wanted to scream, I put the bra on conventionally except instead of closing it with hooks, I fastened it with safety pens. And adjusted the girls and – yes – it was possible to breathe. I could feel the color returning to my face. Whoops, one came undone again. Still calm, while wanting to scream bloody murder, I simply dug it out of my flesh and decided to go with one – the one that seemed to be the stronger of the two.
Finally on my way to class, I returned the smaller of the three pins along with the monster that kept attacking me and wouldn’t stay shut. After grabbing a folder I needed from my car I ran into a friend and shared a laugh. She knew I was on my way to teach my English thru Music class and suggested it probably wasn’t the day to demonstrate the bunny hop. After telling me to “hang in there,” she left and I walked carefully on to class looking much more confident than I felt.
Fortunately, the students were presenting today. So all I had to do was call names and make some notes as one group after another shared a bit about the musical that had been assigned to them: Les Miserables, The Sound of Music, Grease, Cats. If I recall, it was about halfway through Memories that I felt a sudden loosening and realized that the one and only remaining safety pen had given up the ghost.
Thanking Allah for my folder, as I have many Saudis in my music class, I clasped it to my chest while I reminded the students of their assignment for next week and shooed them out of the door. Of course, two or three wanted to gab and must have wondered why I wasn’t my usual talkative self.
Finally, when the last student had picked up the last book bag and sauntered out the door, I locked it, checked the shades which had been drawn so we could show videos, and tore my clothes off. Yanking the lycra python off, I discovered that the pin had not only come open, it had broken in two. And I stared at the pieces, my plan for a safety pin extension now completely thwarted.
So, I changed tactics. It’s a cheap bra, I figured I ought to be able to stretch it out a bit, so I tugged and pulled and twisted before bravely putting it back on. As I did, I loosened the straps as far as they would go. My tugging and this loosening seemed to help and I was able to get back out to my car and even get thru my next class, but not before I noticed that I’d drunk my McD tea without putting the teabag in the cup. Not that I was distraught or anything!!!
In a bit of a hurry today, I grabbed a new bra, tore off the tag, threw away both of the little pieces of plastic that held it on cause I hate to find them lying around, put it on followed by a tank and a blouse and ran out the door. Before I got to the freeway I was thinking how uncomfortable I was. In the front, where the wires meet, it was digging into my chest. I’m sure that must be how a heart attack feels.
Not a stranger to heart issues or the acid reflux stuff that often mimics them, I tried to calm down. And I got on the freeway trying to tug at the offensive wires a bit to little avail. I don’t think I was paying much attention to the traffic cause I kept going over and over in my head trying to figure out what bra I had put on. It was a twin pack special deal from (I’m embarrassed to admit) Walmart. But, hey, it’s a name brand and getting two on the same hanger was a real deal. My point is, I’d worn the other one before and never felt like I was being embraced by a python.
By the time I reached my off ramp, I was seriously considering going braless for the day. I am, after all, nothing if not a child of the 60s. Still, now that I’m in my sixties I can’t quite imagine what my students would think. And, unfortunately, though I’d layered a couple of tops, neither one of them provided that much coverage. So, I tried to convince myself this was indigestion. And to help it out, I drove thru McD and bought a hot tea.
When the tea didn’t seem to help, I took a detour thru the local shopping area and ran into the drug store where I bought some Tums. I briefly looked around for a bra, but the closest bet I could find were tank tops with a skimpy kind of thing sewed in. I decided that might be worse than braless. So, I chewed up a couple of Tums and told myself I was feeling better. Not.
Got to school, parked nearby, snagged a big pile of books that I needed to return to our little library, and sprinted most of the way to the office hoping to find a female with a safety pin. Having already rummaged thru my trunk, I figured there must be a better Girl Scout amongst us who really would be prepared. I found a sewing kit, contact lens cleaner, and q-tips, but no safety pin.
Off the elevator at the 4th floor and down the hall only to find the office dark and a little note saying it would be closed until 11:45a. As my class meets at 11am that wasn’t going to work. And, of course, I had left my wad of keys in the car so I couldn’t even get into my office although I was fairly certain I have didn’t have a safety pin there either.
Knowing I couldn’t carry the bunch of books all over campus, I decided to leave them in a stack in the nearby ladies room and hope for the best. What can I say? I was so uncomfortable by now that I just didn’t care much.
Back down to the second floor, which, at Cal State, is ground level at one end of Academic Hall where I spied a friend teaching in one of the computer labs. Desperate, I opened the door, interrupted her lecture and motioned for her to come out. I must have looked awful because she didn’t hesitate. Sadly, she didn’t have a safety pin either. She offered to ask her female students, but as half the class were men, I opted out.
Not too far away, in the big courtyard, there’s a coffee cart and the woman who owns it and I have become friends over the years often running into each other at the nearby Nordstrom’s Rack while getting in some retail therapy. I knew she’d understand and her cart is not far from the little store on campus which I was 90% sure didn’t carry sundries, but… Eureka! She had 3. I grabbed them all and went in search of the nearest restroom
Cheap bras, for some reason, are made of thick material, so once I untangled myself from the lycra python I could hardly get the safety pen thru the fiber. My plan was to use two and sort of make an extension which ought to relieve the pressure in the front. Finally got both thru the fabric and hooked to the other side. My fix didn’t provide much of an extension, but an inch would have to do.
Of course, now that I’ve got this mickey mouse extension in place, I have to figure out a way to get the bra back on. So, I go over the head like a sweater. Wrong. That wasn’t going to work. In the process, one of the safety pens quickly came open and stabbed me.
Gently unhooking both of them, though I wanted to scream, I put the bra on conventionally except instead of closing it with hooks, I fastened it with safety pens. And adjusted the girls and – yes – it was possible to breathe. I could feel the color returning to my face. Whoops, one came undone again. Still calm, while wanting to scream bloody murder, I simply dug it out of my flesh and decided to go with one – the one that seemed to be the stronger of the two.
Finally on my way to class, I returned the smaller of the three pins along with the monster that kept attacking me and wouldn’t stay shut. After grabbing a folder I needed from my car I ran into a friend and shared a laugh. She knew I was on my way to teach my English thru Music class and suggested it probably wasn’t the day to demonstrate the bunny hop. After telling me to “hang in there,” she left and I walked carefully on to class looking much more confident than I felt.
Fortunately, the students were presenting today. So all I had to do was call names and make some notes as one group after another shared a bit about the musical that had been assigned to them: Les Miserables, The Sound of Music, Grease, Cats. If I recall, it was about halfway through Memories that I felt a sudden loosening and realized that the one and only remaining safety pen had given up the ghost.
Thanking Allah for my folder, as I have many Saudis in my music class, I clasped it to my chest while I reminded the students of their assignment for next week and shooed them out of the door. Of course, two or three wanted to gab and must have wondered why I wasn’t my usual talkative self.
Finally, when the last student had picked up the last book bag and sauntered out the door, I locked it, checked the shades which had been drawn so we could show videos, and tore my clothes off. Yanking the lycra python off, I discovered that the pin had not only come open, it had broken in two. And I stared at the pieces, my plan for a safety pin extension now completely thwarted.
So, I changed tactics. It’s a cheap bra, I figured I ought to be able to stretch it out a bit, so I tugged and pulled and twisted before bravely putting it back on. As I did, I loosened the straps as far as they would go. My tugging and this loosening seemed to help and I was able to get back out to my car and even get thru my next class, but not before I noticed that I’d drunk my McD tea without putting the teabag in the cup. Not that I was distraught or anything!!!
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Awesome
As many of you know, I make my living teaching English as a Second Language. Teaching came about as a mid-life career change and it has been a joy. And my students never fail to amaze me. And when they’re not amazing, they are, at least, amusing.
At the moment, at CSUSM, we’re all getting ready for the International Fair, a day in which many groups showcase their talents and share their lives. Last year, my students decided to do body art and it was hugely popular. The line at our booth never let up as students waited to have some fancy Oriental calligraphy painted on them.
Being fairly wise, my students who were taking part, a mixed group of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean had decided it would make sense to make templates and then one could just fill them in, rather than having to create a new design for each person. So, they carefully designed and then cut out various words that they thought might appeal to the other students: happiness, luck, joy. Of course, they also decided we needed to be enthusiastic about our school, so they created a CSUSM template and a cougar which turned out to be one of the most popular patterns. They also decided they needed some modern themes.
Fast forward to this year. I dug out the templates I’d saved and encouraged this year’s group to come up with some others and, perhaps, reinforce the ones we had. After just a few minutes there was a low giggle going about the class. And when I asked to be let in on the funny, they showed me a template labeled “awesome.” Modern indeed. And I said, so what’s funny?
After some time, they stumbled around and tried to explain to me that “awesome” is a slang word and doesn’t exist in Chinese, so whoever originally drew this one had put two characters together which kind of translated into the idea of awesome, but read rather strangely. Sensing more was afoot, but somewhat satisfied I just let the class continue their efforts.
When the class met the next time, the same twittering went around the room when this card was shown to a fellow who’d been absent. Finally a couple of the Chinese women told me we couldn’t use it. The class chimed in – some pretty much in agreement and some who said it was fine. Still, I knew something more was going on and I pushed for an explanation. None was forthcoming. The young man who’d been absent, though, had something to say. He’d been in my class the year before and, apparently, had drawn this design. And he was prompt to defend it. As busy as we were, I let it go again.
Until the class met the third time to continue this project – the International Fair now less than a week away. And, somehow, the awesome template had made its way back into the stack of patterns we are going to use this year. When one of the young Japanese fellows noticed it, he pulled it out and gave it to me and said, somewhat solemnly, we can’t use this one. I’ve had him in one of my more academic courses and knew that he respected me, so I was really perplexed and I asked why – again.
He sort of looked down at his feet while that same giggling started again going around the room and bouncing off one another as some fought to hold back their laughter and others just couldn’t. Before much longer, one of the younger Chinese boys (technically a man, but barely) came close to me and mumbled under his breath, “It says “f*king awesome.” Before I could help myself I repeated what he had said which caused the entire class to just about roll on the floor. Afterwards I could truly report I was ROTFLMAO.
At the moment, at CSUSM, we’re all getting ready for the International Fair, a day in which many groups showcase their talents and share their lives. Last year, my students decided to do body art and it was hugely popular. The line at our booth never let up as students waited to have some fancy Oriental calligraphy painted on them.
Being fairly wise, my students who were taking part, a mixed group of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean had decided it would make sense to make templates and then one could just fill them in, rather than having to create a new design for each person. So, they carefully designed and then cut out various words that they thought might appeal to the other students: happiness, luck, joy. Of course, they also decided we needed to be enthusiastic about our school, so they created a CSUSM template and a cougar which turned out to be one of the most popular patterns. They also decided they needed some modern themes.
Fast forward to this year. I dug out the templates I’d saved and encouraged this year’s group to come up with some others and, perhaps, reinforce the ones we had. After just a few minutes there was a low giggle going about the class. And when I asked to be let in on the funny, they showed me a template labeled “awesome.” Modern indeed. And I said, so what’s funny?
After some time, they stumbled around and tried to explain to me that “awesome” is a slang word and doesn’t exist in Chinese, so whoever originally drew this one had put two characters together which kind of translated into the idea of awesome, but read rather strangely. Sensing more was afoot, but somewhat satisfied I just let the class continue their efforts.
When the class met the next time, the same twittering went around the room when this card was shown to a fellow who’d been absent. Finally a couple of the Chinese women told me we couldn’t use it. The class chimed in – some pretty much in agreement and some who said it was fine. Still, I knew something more was going on and I pushed for an explanation. None was forthcoming. The young man who’d been absent, though, had something to say. He’d been in my class the year before and, apparently, had drawn this design. And he was prompt to defend it. As busy as we were, I let it go again.
Until the class met the third time to continue this project – the International Fair now less than a week away. And, somehow, the awesome template had made its way back into the stack of patterns we are going to use this year. When one of the young Japanese fellows noticed it, he pulled it out and gave it to me and said, somewhat solemnly, we can’t use this one. I’ve had him in one of my more academic courses and knew that he respected me, so I was really perplexed and I asked why – again.
He sort of looked down at his feet while that same giggling started again going around the room and bouncing off one another as some fought to hold back their laughter and others just couldn’t. Before much longer, one of the younger Chinese boys (technically a man, but barely) came close to me and mumbled under his breath, “It says “f*king awesome.” Before I could help myself I repeated what he had said which caused the entire class to just about roll on the floor. Afterwards I could truly report I was ROTFLMAO.
Friday, April 4, 2014
BFF
Yesterday I went to brunch with my dear friend, Fran, and she brought some pictures of her first born's recent wedding which brought the conversation around to the "good ole days" when we first met and married and had our kids.
We met at work so it wasn't odd that our conversation went back and forth to the world of work and, at some point, I mentioned how jealous I used to be of my sister-in-law, Mary Lou, who watched my first born when I had to go back to work. I've often thought if I'd have stopped to figure out all of the costs, I probably wasn't very far ahead by working, but it was the choice I made. And it was one I regretted every single day when I had to drop him off.
And as I told Fran yesterday, I don't know how Mary Lou managed. She had a little boy just a few months older than mine. It was like having twins. I used to marvel at her. They were always fed and clean and dry, but more than that, they all seemed happy. Her oldest wss only about four and wasn't yet in school, so she really had her hands full. I can't even imagine.
She and I became close during our pregnancies - her second, my first. We were married to brothers and their family lived nearby and were quite close. Most of my family was around, too, but they were much younger and not into the "married with kids" thing yet, so it was logical, I guess, that this shared journey would bring us together. And Mary Lou didn't have any siblings, so that probably contributed. In fairly short order, then, we became BFF and though we'd drifted apart the last few years after I remarried and her husband retired, we managed to get in a "quick" phone call every now and then which inevitable turned into an hour long visit.
It would be safe to say that Mary Lou knows me as well as anyone on the planet and there is nothing that I couldn't and haven't shared with her. And vice versa.
So, this evening, I can hardly breathe. I don't know how to function. I don't know what to do. I want to talk with my best friend and tell her how awful I feel, but I can't.
When her husband called me this afternoon, I knew it was bad news, but I never dreamed would never have guessed what he'd called to say. Sadly, a mutual friend has been quite ill, and I thought he might be calling about him. No. Perhaps even more sad is the fact that one of his younger sister's is battling cancer. I thought he might be calling about her. No.
No. No.
No.
He was calling to tell me that his wife and my best friend had died this afternoon. OMG!
I want to call Mary Lou and tell her awful this feels, but I can't. She's gone. I want to scream. I want to throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum like a two year old. I want to hear her voice.
Please call someone you love today and tell them how much they mean to you.
We met at work so it wasn't odd that our conversation went back and forth to the world of work and, at some point, I mentioned how jealous I used to be of my sister-in-law, Mary Lou, who watched my first born when I had to go back to work. I've often thought if I'd have stopped to figure out all of the costs, I probably wasn't very far ahead by working, but it was the choice I made. And it was one I regretted every single day when I had to drop him off.
And as I told Fran yesterday, I don't know how Mary Lou managed. She had a little boy just a few months older than mine. It was like having twins. I used to marvel at her. They were always fed and clean and dry, but more than that, they all seemed happy. Her oldest wss only about four and wasn't yet in school, so she really had her hands full. I can't even imagine.
She and I became close during our pregnancies - her second, my first. We were married to brothers and their family lived nearby and were quite close. Most of my family was around, too, but they were much younger and not into the "married with kids" thing yet, so it was logical, I guess, that this shared journey would bring us together. And Mary Lou didn't have any siblings, so that probably contributed. In fairly short order, then, we became BFF and though we'd drifted apart the last few years after I remarried and her husband retired, we managed to get in a "quick" phone call every now and then which inevitable turned into an hour long visit.
It would be safe to say that Mary Lou knows me as well as anyone on the planet and there is nothing that I couldn't and haven't shared with her. And vice versa.
So, this evening, I can hardly breathe. I don't know how to function. I don't know what to do. I want to talk with my best friend and tell her how awful I feel, but I can't.
When her husband called me this afternoon, I knew it was bad news, but I never dreamed would never have guessed what he'd called to say. Sadly, a mutual friend has been quite ill, and I thought he might be calling about him. No. Perhaps even more sad is the fact that one of his younger sister's is battling cancer. I thought he might be calling about her. No.
No. No.
No.
He was calling to tell me that his wife and my best friend had died this afternoon. OMG!
I want to call Mary Lou and tell her awful this feels, but I can't. She's gone. I want to scream. I want to throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum like a two year old. I want to hear her voice.
Please call someone you love today and tell them how much they mean to you.
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