Gratitude

Monday, October 8, 2012


What I anticipated would be a run of the mill Monday turned out to be much more entertaining and irritating that I could have imagined.

1. The car would not come out of Park.  I kicked the car a few times as I got out- already slightly late for work. My big toe hurts- not only from the kick, but because I forgot about the ingrown toenail on the right big toe. (I know, a bit of an over share.)

2. I high tailed it to the nearest Enterprise Rental Car location.  I run fast even with a toe problem.

3. Thirty minutes later I fly down the freeway in a zippy Ford rental car.  I didn't get the extra insurance so am hoping on a whim and a prayer that there are no stray rocks flying toward the windshield or any hung over drivers crossing my path this morning. Though I question my own driving ability. This car has every bell, whistle and gadget known to mankind.  Plus also, there are three digital screens in the cockpit.  PLENTY TO LOOK at and touch. I have always been a button pusher.  So, this car is perfect for me.  Further, I have  the moon roof open all the way so I can have cold air blasting me!  Good fun.

4. I fly into the school house a mere 8 minutes before the students arrive. The copy machine has a line which doesn't fit well with my 8 minute schedule.  At least for the next three hours I can take a break from my irritating morning and enjoy the kids. As usual, they are entertaining and I am reminded why I took this job in the first place. There is nothing like a crew of five year olds to cure what ails you.

5. My doctor's office called late Friday to say that my doctor wants to see me on Monday in person for a "visit".  So, at high noon I fly out the school door and zoom out of the school parking lot toward the freeway.  This rental car does really well on two wheels. Sorry boys and girls, you will have a guest teacher this afternoon.  Maybe they will like the guest teacher better.  That is always a fear I have.  No time to dwell on that.  I have to get to the doctor's office for whatever news he has for me. I start imagining the worst on the thirty minute drive to his office.

6. My doctor visit is interesting to say the least.  I am not dying.  So, I should be appreciative of his concern for me and wanting to see me in person.  Yet, I am not.  Why?  After we have blood drawn, I pee in a cup and some other unpleasant things are done to me I am all done.  Just then, as a parting gift, my doctor invites me to schedule a colonoscopy since I am 40 now.  WHAT?  Hold the phone!  Only the over 50 crowd are supposed to be "invited" to have this terrifying opportunity.  According to my doctor, that is not the case.  I settle for the "flu shot up sell: instead an decline the colonoscopy at this time. He seems satisfied that he talked me into the fly shot.  I, on the other hand do not.  Now, I should be thinking how fortunate I am to have insurance to pay for the shot, blood work, doctor visit, etc.  Yet, once again I am a selfish pig and don't focus on all of the privileged I have in my life. I am a slob, by all accounts. Even though I have recently lost some weight, it is a different kind of a slob.  Anyone who is ungrateful is a slob in my mind.  I fit the stereotype. During the exam before the shot my doctor asks me what is new?  Of course I seize this opportunity to tell him about my car not coming out of park, how this has happened a dozen or so times in the last two years, how much it has cost to fix each time, etc.  As I ramble on I can tell by his face that he really didn't want to know and that I should have said, "Oh, nothing much new on this end." - Surely you have done the same thing?

7. I stomp back to the rental car with all of my post flu shot paperwork, blood work order,
"Everything you need to know about a Colonoscopy" pamphlet and drive home, on all four wheels this time.

8.  I go over to my own car when I get home and kick the car a few more times and try the gear shift once again for good measure.  It is a miracle.  The car is once again operational.  I can shift the gear shift into any gear I desire.  Though, I am not fooled this time.  This has happened before.  In fact, just Tuesday of last week I lived nearly the same scenario...running to Enterprise Rental Car to get a car, late for school, zooming down the freeway on two wheels because the Hot Tamale won't come out of park.  It is becoming a bit of a pattern over here.

8.  I text a colleague to see if she would be willing to pick me up from the car repair joint in the morning on the way to the school house.   She is.  Whew!  I hate being vulnerable and asking anyone for any kind of help. EVER!  My recent therapist, who I had to fire because she knew me too well and called me out on all of my crap too easily, would say this is a grand opportunity to lean into the discomfort of needing others in my life to help.  Her advice, while solid, got her fired.  (It was like the time I fired my dentist for a host of reasons.  None of which I told him, I just cancelled and found a new one.  Very mature, I know.)

9. I fear the car won't come out of gear in the morning.  So, I drive it to the repair shop in West Seattle tonight.  I have the grand idea of making a night of it.  I will take mass transit home.  It only costs $2.25.  Why not?  So, I dump the car and catch the Route 21 to downtown Seattle.  This is where the night gets interesting.  I should mention it is dusk now.  About three stops into the route a family gets on.  A guy, his wife and young daughter of maybe 16 months.  Within a matter of 5 minutes I am privy to much of what has gone on in their life since 2005.  Apparently the guy was in a car accident in June, no July, of 2005.  His parts "down there" were crushed in the accident. Yep, you heard me correctly.  He wasn't supposed to be able to have kids.  the doctor gave him a 2% chance of impregnating a woman after that.  He pointed to his daughter and said, "Meet 2 %."  I smiled.  What's more?  His lady is expecting yet another child in 4 months.  Fantastic.  They are newcomers to Seattle as they had to leave Texas.  That's nice.  I didn't want to know why, but I heard anyway.  The girl they were staying with had a house that belonged to her grandmother.  The grandmother said this guy, his wife and their young daughter were freeloaders and kicked them out.  So, they headed for the hills. (a.k.a - Seattle.) - Now, I should appreciate my privileged again.  I have a home.  I am not living with friends. Yet, I don't appreciate it at this very moment.  I think it is because of the very strong odor coming from the man sitting right in front of me.  It is an enticing mix of alcohol and body odor.  Great fun........ I am a loser.

10. I make the transfer to the 358 Route downtown in Seattle by Benaroya Hall.  I am new to taking the bus.  Apparently I can use my transfer ticket from the Route 21.  This I am grateful for.  I save $2.25.  I plop down and am en capsuled by yet another crew of strong body odor emitting people.
One guy introduced himself to the guy across from him.  Good news!  Apparently he is selling flat screen TV's out of a hotel room just down the road if any of us are interested in stopping by for a deal.  Of course my level of concern escalates to an all time high, but I remain silent and listen as one fellow bus rider takes an interest in a new boob tube.  I learn, by listening in, that they really aren't running a  "legal" business per say, but if the purchaser doesn't mind, it won't be a problem.  He doesn't mind.  In fact, he gives his cell number to the salesman.  A deal is in the works.  At last I am a block from my stop.  I stomp to the front of the bus and high tail it home.

I am glad to be home. Yet the day is picking at me. I reflect on how ungrateful I am for what I have.  In the scheme of life- the inconvenience of the car not working is small. I have health, a home, a job, friends, a car that works....sometimes, a groovy class at school, insurance, etc. Yet, being thrown out of my comfort zone brings out the worst in me.  I can only wonder what tomorrow will bring.  With any luck it will bring a better attitude and more gratitude!

Pink Pearl Erasers

A five year old assigned to my charge apparently used an eraser for the first time on Friday.  After some vigorous erasing, a tear in the paper and observable satisfaction at a job well done he proclaimed, "Hey! Why are there hairs all over my paper now!?"

Poodles

I'm at a resort in Arizona.  I stumbled up to the breakfast restaurant, settled in to a slice of toast and oatmeal when all of my attention was drawn to the entrance of the joint.  In walked a woman with a sun visor pushing a baby buggy.  I am usually up for checking out a newborn.  There is something about the promise of a new life that catches my attention.  Maybe  it is because I pipe dream that I would make better of my life than I have if I were, somehow, given the chance to do it all over. 

I should have known this woman was operating on a different plane when she sat herself at a table and whipped around the baby buggy to reveal that there was no infant inside.  Rather, two fluffy dogs popped their heads out.  My untrained eye tells me that they are poodles.  This is unprecedented.  Never have I seen someone wheel two poodles into a restaurant in a baby buggy.  My drooped jaw caught the attention of the couple at the table next to me.  We exchanged looks with each other which indicated that the three of us agreed we were superior to this baby buggy pushing dog lover. I like those kind of instant connections with people when you can tell that you are on the same level of intelligence with one another, albeit a low level.

I push my chin back up so my lower teeth can reunite with my upper teeth just as this woman wheels the dogs over to another table.  This was a good move in my mind because now I could have an even closer look at the goings on.  It is so much easier to make fun of people when they are in plain sight with unobstructed views.  Do you agree?

The baby buggy driver hopped up and helped herself to the breakfast buffet as the dogs  began what I can only assume was salivating. Mama came back to the table with bacon, eggs, etc.  She gave several hand signals to the dogs before preparing them each a breakfast sandwich of sorts.  Egg, bacon and a slice of bread.  They gobbled it up as she settled into an omelet.

I managed to capture a few pictures of the action on the sly, or so I thought.  The server walked up to me and said, 'That is a bit odd, isn't it?"  just as I was aiming the camera to capture a shot. - Another person on my level.

Vacation are fun!  Not because you get to relax, but because you get to see that there are a few people crazier than yourself out there.

The Stent

I’d never thought of myself as someone who is shy, but then again I had never had a ureter stent.  Oh, the unpleasant overtone of it all. I bounded through life until my early thirties without a real care in the world.  Until the day I had a ureter stent put in.  Rather, I should say the day the ureter stent was removed is the day I was confident of my shyness.  Well, removed makes it sound like a surgical procedure that was done to remove this apparatus.  A more accurate description of the event would include the words yanked and pulled with great force to expel the contraption from my nether region.  

Apparently a ureter stent is all the rage for those who have kidney stones blasted.  Or, in my case, one who had the stones blasted, but because of some bad karma from the first thirty two years of my life the pulverized stones clogged the exit of my kidney and thus created a firestorm of procedures which included the stent. Bad karma is unpleasant. 

I vaguely remember my urologist explaining that a stent would be in place, but didn’t think too much about it because of the pain from the kidney stone and my eye on the prize of getting that thing out.  Nothing could compare to the back slicing pain of a kidney stone.  How bad could a ureter stent be I thought to myself as I lay on the hospital bed looking over at the odd looking bed pan that I was to be using to collect my urine?  A mere 10 ccs had been expelled into the contraption.  I feel smart, as in doctor smart when I can throw ccs into the conversation. There really is nothing like having your own urine in a clear plastic bedpan like thing on your bedside table in the hospital to humble a guy.  Well, it wasn’t so bad until day two of my hospital stay when I got a roommate.  I thought Blue Cross allowed for single rooms, but apparently not.

It wasn’t immediately after awaking from surgery the second time for kidney stones that week that I noticed my new friend the ureter stent. You would have thought it would have been at the top of the list of things on my mind, but it wasn’t.  It wasn’t until after I took off the gown that was too short and not wide enough around to completely cover all of me and put on street clothes that I was met with the realization that I had a new dangling friend down there.  A long clear string was hanging out of my ureter, the likes of which was fishing line.  I wondered if somehow something had been left inside of me after the surgery.  Would I be the next interview on an upcoming episode of 20/20? “Patients Who Left the Hospital with an Unintended Souvenir”.  I pulled on it a little just to see what it might be, though in the back of my mind all I could envision was me without my good friend down there and didn’t want to pull too hard.  Was there money attached to the other end?  Would there be some kind of a protocol for what to do with this string that hadn’t yet been shared with me?  Did I need to pull it two short tugs and one long one before going pee?  What were the details surrounding this fishing line? I needed to know.

The horror of it all was explained to me upon asking one of the post op nurses.  Apparently the clear string served one purpose.  My urologist would use it to expel the stint after seven days.  This was not good news.  Would he hook it up to some kind of contraption that would pull it?  Would he use his own hand?  Always one for needing more details I pressed for further clarification.  The red and pink in my face washed away as the nurse explained that my doctor would pull swiftly on the string to remove the ureter stint.  There would be no Novocain.  There would be no anesthesiologist present to put me under.  There would be no topical anesthetic.  She could have simply said it would be an experience in terror, because that what it would be.

I had seven days to ponder and work myself into a full-fledged panic about the stent removal.  Each day I wondered if there would be some other magical way to remove this thing without any tugging and yanking.  Alas, I was resolved to swallow my pride and hope for the best.  The big day arrived.  There was no fanfare.  There were no well wishes from friends.  There wasn’t even a “good luck” from the receptionist at the urologist’s office.  I was simply to go in and wait for the doctor to come in and yank this contraption out of me.  Those six minutes of waiting in the little room under a paper gown are by far the worst six minutes in a man’s life.  I stood there waiting for what I knew was going to be perhaps the most unpleasant experience of my life.  It was one that may even scar me not only mentally, but physically if the procedure was carried out incorrectly.  I did a quick Hail Mary, even though I am not Catholic.  I had seen this act done in a number of movies and though there was no need to leave anything to chance on this particular day.  I said a quick, “Please forgive me, Jesus, for all of my sins to date” prayer.  Then my heart skipped a few beats and soared when the urologist walked in the door. It was as horrific as I had imagined.  A tiny plastic blue tube attached to a fishing line was yanked from my ureter followed by my audible sounds of pain.

I remember leaving his office a humbled and free man.  Though the humility of it was extraordinary, the freedom had me vowing never to do anything wrong for the rest of my living days.  Trust me; you don’t want a ureter stent.

Flashers

This story is WILDLY inappropriate, but I can't help but share it because it had me in laughing out loud and holding my side mid-day today.

I wheeled my chair up to a table of five and six year old students assigned to my charge who were feverishly working on a myriad of literacy activities late this morning. I arrived mid-conversation to hear the following....  It is a good thing I had a scrap of paper and a pen in my pocket so I could scribble down the conversation verbatim.

Student 1: " When I was in Las Vegas for Spring Break we saw four guys in skirts that were showing people their butts."  (My interest peaked wondering what in the world he was taking about.  It was probably a couple of college kids wearing kilts or something.  Yes, I've always been good at making connections.)

Student 2: "They didn't have on any underwear?!?" - Said with disbelief.

Student 1:" No and one guy had writing on his butt."

Me: Not able to wait for the details to unfold.. "What did it say?"

Student 1: " I don't know it only had a few letters.  I couldn't read it." - He went on... "It was really inappropriate what they were doing." (He has heard me coin that phrase a time or two so it is nice to hear it used in a context that makes sense.)

Me: "What did your mom and dad think?"

Student 1: "They just ignored them.  It was out in public!  They were out in public!" - Emphatic emphasis noted

Me: "Oh."  (I know, quite the clever response, eh?)

Then I had to go on account of someone had "accidentally" taken a marker out of someone elses hand. - So, I missed the conclusion of the Las Vegas Flasher story.

Tinker Toy

I flew in an airplane today.  Well, if you can call it that.  I should have known that things were looking grim when I rounded the corner to Concourse E at the Portland International Airport around 10:30 this morning.  There is nothing quite like killing three hours in the Portland airport waiting for your connecting flight, by the way.  The flight from Portland to Seattle is a mere twenty-nine minutes. Now, let me tell you about Concourse E.  There isn't much to it.  Gate after gate of abandoned chairs and people-less spaces.  My level of concern crept up as I approached the end of the Concourse to find one lone United Airlines employee manning the gate and the check in booth.  He was busier than a one armed paper hanger, as the saying goes.

All seemed well until I heard some whizzing noise growing louder outside.  I expended the energy to turn and see what the commotion was.  I saw this Tinker Toy like airplane bouncing up to Gate E-7.  Hmmm, Gate E-7 was my gate.  I have lived to the ripe old age of nearly forty and have been to college a number of times, hold a few different degrees and still it isn't registering that low and behold the crew sitting at E-7, who apparently also were going to Seattle, were about to climb aboard the Tinker Toy "airplane" with me and make our way, hopefully, to Seattle.  I like jets.  I like the force and whirl of the Pratt & Whitney engines on a jet.  I like being able to stand all the way up in a plane.  I like a full beverage service on a flight...and the list goes on.

As we carried our bags down the stairs and out the door to meet the Tinker Toy airplane on the tarmac it was only then that I realized what was ahead of me. A man was taking nearly every carry on and wheelie bag, tagging it and throwing it on a cart next to the airplane.  Now I am the first to admit that I am not much of a quick study.  However, I did manage to put it all together that my stuffed to the brim, olive green Samsonite was also going to be hurled into the cart of bags.  So, I stopped right there on the tarmac and opened up Greenie to take out the laptop, e-reader and i-Pod so that they would survive the flight.  A pair of my skivvies managed to flap out during the re-packing. It was at that very moment that I decided I would switch to boxers.  They would be less embarrassing than tighty-whities blowing down the tarmac in the future.  Nice, I know.  I think I managed to capture them and put them back in the suitcase before too many of my fellow travelers realized what was happening. Crisis averted.

Well, we climbed on the airplane and b y climbed I mean, literally climbed up the steps that magically pop out of the door that flips upside down when opened.  Who knew?  I wondered if this tinker Toy door could hold my weight, but threw caution to the wind as a large girl in front of me and I took to the stairs.  Let's see what this thing is made of I thought.  Worse case scenario, the door would pop off and they would have to pull around one of the real airplanes to cart the twenty-seven of us up to Seattle.

I hunched over and stumbled to seat 5A.  I stuffed all 6'5" of me into the seat and hoped for the best.  Donna was the flight attendant.  It took me a few minutes to figure out what all of the commotion was in the back of the "airplane". Donna was going row by row and rearranging passengers, reassigning seats.  This was new to me.  When Donna got to my row she eyed me up and down and then paused.  Apparently I was well suited for seat 6A and was directed to move back a row.  I stood up.  Well, stood up is an overstatement.  I sort of hunchbacked it up and moved back a row.  In doing so my rear end grazed the arm of the rather large woman sitting across the aisle.  Apparently this was pleasing to her because I heard, "Oooo, Thanks!"  Sort of shocked and half in disbelief that she was thanking me for such a move I instantly thought, "I am not giving away freebies today! Pay up!"

 Some other idiot who was flying with me asked, "Why all the moving people around?"  Good!  Someone else asked the pressing question that I needed an answer to. Hold on to your hats, kids.  She was moving people around to ensure an even distribution of weight.  Not only were we going to bounce through the sky in this wanna be airplane, the flight attendant was charged with distributing passengers evenly so the thing didn't fly sideways all the way up to Seattle. 

Well, everything was settled and we were ready to bound toward the runway.  The door closed, Donna gave the safety speech.  I paid full attention this time.  I was sure this thing wasn't getting off the ground.  If it did, it surely wasn't going to stay aloft for more than thirty seconds.  I did familiarize myself with my surrounding and located the two nearest exits to me, one of which was behind me, just like they say.

The pilots fired up the whirly gig propellers and Tinker Toy shook like one of those vibrating exercise belts from the past. We bounced out to the runway where the engines whirled up to a whine and we were tearing down the runway.  I prayed hard and fast that she would get airborne.  I also said a few Hail Marys even though I am not Catholic.  I did stop for a brief second and wondered if I had selected the wrong religion.  So, a few Hail Marys seemed necessary for good measure just in case.  The front of Tinker Toy tipped up and we were in the sky on the way to Seattle....

Octopus Week

My Friday morning commute has long been one of my favorites on account of traffic has always seemed light.  I can sleep an extra 12 minutes and make it to the job site in record time.  This past Friday was a different story of course.  Perhaps it was because I pushed the limits of "sleeping in" and slept until 7:22 a.m.  My fear is that it was because of the unkind things I thought of the United States Postal worker who seemed less than eager to help me mail a big box the afternoon before.  Bad karma can destroy a good commute.

I take Hwy 99 south through downtown Seattle to work.  My least favorite part of this commute is when I am on the stretch of this highway that is a Double Decker viaduct.  Southbound is sandwiched between the pavement below and the northbound lanes above.  Though I am not Catholic I often wonder if a Hail Mary would be appropriate when I enter this contraption each day.  There have been years of controversy in Seattle over how to replace this decrepit piece of highway that will surely collapse if the right person just blows on one of the posts too hard. Thus, we keep driving on it on a hope and a prayer that today isn't the day it will tumble down.

Well, this past Friday traffic was at a standstill on the viaduct.  (Insert racing heart and irritation here.)  I always wonder if today will be the day the thing crumbles and my red car is flattened into a pancake.  Because traffic was crawling I had the opportunity to read every sign and billboard on the boardwalk to Elliott Bay down below.  In the midst of my irritation with traffic I was elated to learn that Octopus Week is fast approaching at the Seattle Aquarium.  For starters, my mind was taken off the traffic for about thirty seconds as I searched my memory banks to see if I had any prior knowledge of an Octopus Week.  Nope.  This was new learning for me, people.  So, as I pondered what it meant I crawled my way to work on the viaduct.

Late Friday afternoon I posted on my Facebook page that Octopus Week was fast approaching.  A smart colleague of mine posted back that indeed it was true and that two octopi are united during this week and have a sort of frisky encounter on February 14th, if you catch my drift. - This was a jaw dropper.  Who knew that octopi were having scheduled "play dates" for an audience to see?  I couldn't wrap my mind around how octopi even engage in this adult activity, but I was ever curious.  A quick Google search later and I had more information than necessary.  What was most alarming was that the male octopus often just gobbles up the female octopus after the fun is done!  Who knew?

At any rate, here is to a successful encounter on February 14th at the Seattle Aquarium.  I hope the lady octopus doesn't get gobbled up.

An Airport Run, Candy Cane Lane & A Fender Bender~

2:40 p.m. - I stomped out to the "Hot Tamale" (a.k.a - my red car that is nearly on its last legs but I am too cheap to buy a new one).  A fine time awaits me on an airport run to pick up a colleague who was flying back into town after a weekend in sunny San Diego.  I piloted the red rig to Sea-Tac to meet my bouncy colleague who was ramped up and ready to grab a bite.  So, we scooted over to The Cheesecake Factory for some grub and a de-brief of the trip.  We took cheesecake slices to go, of course.

The afternoon was young and my colleage suggested we hit IKEA since we were in that part of town.  OK by me.  I like to look at the Scandinavian wares with wordless directions for how to assemble anything you buy there.

6:30 p.m. As we careen out of the IKEA parking lot and head north on Interstate 5 my colleage said, "Hey, have you been to Candy Cane Lane?"  I haven't ever been. Candy Cane Lane is one circle drive in Seattle where each house rigs up their lawn with oodles of lights, signs, blow up characters, etc. to celebrate the holiday season.  You can throw a few cans of non-perishable goods in a box at the end of the lane as a thank you.  Since we were sans any canned goods, we took the tour for free.

7:05 p.m. As we waited in what felt like a nine mile long line of cars waiting to hit candy Cane Lane I suggested we pop open the cheesecake containers and have a light snack while we crawl along waiting to enter the lane.  We did just that.  Mouth fulls of cheesecake and whip cream are just what you need to get sugared up before a trip down Candy Cane Lane.  We were about half way through the slices when it happened.  Ding- Dong - Bam - The car behind us ran into the Hot Tamale.  This has happened to me before and I am getting used to people running into the car.  My colleague said, "Do you want me to act like my neck is injured?"  We both laughed and I declined the thoughtful invitation. We pulled over and hopped out to have what turned out to be an entertaining and slightly concerning experience.

The white car behind me that left its calling card on my red bumper came to a stop and out hopped the driver.  Rumor has it that everyone has a twin out there in the world.  This guy was the twin of Charles Manson.  I kid you not.

After ensuring we were all OK he said, "Well there is no damage."  The damage was minimal.  So, I did find it as my civic duty to point out the scrapes on the red bumper to ensure that he realized his car had given my car a kiss. "Oh," Charles Manson replied.  I asked if he had a piece of paper so we could exchange information.  He scurried back to the car and came back with a book and opened it to the first page.  I asked, "Can I rip this page out?"
"Yeah, I guess." - I wondered what he expected me to do?  Make a photo copy here on the side of the road of whatever I wrote down on the first page of his book.

As I recorded his Driver license info. I asked if he had an insurance card. He produced a card from USAA Insurance company that was expired.  I shared this info with him and he dug around some more in the car and produced three more insurance cards that were also all expired.  He proclaimed, "I am current on my insurance.  I always pay, man.  Don't worry."  OK, I wasn't too worried until my colleague got out of the car and stomped back to give him the evil eye.  I appreciated that.

Charles Manson proceeded to tell us that his girlfriend has just dumped him and that it had been a really bad day.  He lives a mere block from where we bumped into each other, though his license gave a Tacoma, Washington address.  He then laid the most interesting news of all on us.  "This is the second fender bender I have had today."  Yes, you read that correctly.  Word of advice: If you have a series of fender benders in one day it is advisable not to tell the next person you bump into that they are not the first of the day.  It is sort of like being told by a girlfriend that you aren't the only one. 

He went on,  " The lady I ran into earlier said it was OK since there was no damage.  Can you please, please, please not call my insurance company.  I am getting to the age where my rates are supposed to drop."  Now, here we stood, Charles Manson, my colleague and I on the side of Ravenna Blvd. with a mere two hundred automobiles in line next to us dumping exhaust in our faces waiting for their turn down Candy Cane Lane.  I wanted to think clearly, but the exhaust was fogging my thinking.  We were at a crossroads of Ethical Dilemma and Sock it to Him.  So, I repleid, "How about I find out how much this will cost to repair and you can just pay it yourself and we don't have to go through insurance."  Charles Manson thought that was a splendid idea.

Thinking this was ready to be wrapped up I ripped the page out of the book he game me and closed the cover.  The book title was "ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS".  I am all for people getting a grip on their addictions.  I thought for a moment how nice it was for Charles Manson to be getting the help he needed. My colleague caught a glimpse of the cover of the book and her face told a horrible story.  She asked him, "Have you been drinking?" - I cringed with fear that this would turn into a street brawl on Candy cane Lane, but had an ever dying curiosity to know the answer to this question myself.  (More props for my colleague.)

"No! No!  I am clean and sober.  I am clean and sober.  My insurance rates are going to go up.  Can I just give you my car.  It is a piece of crap, but it is an offer."  Ummmm, give us your car?  Why? Because you bumped into the Hot Tamale? - I have one hunk of junk. I don't want another.  This is the first point that I realized something is amiss here with Charlie. We don't simply offer our car to people we bump into.  This isn't the 1800's where you barter.  I declined the offer and said I would give him a call and let him know how much it costs to repair.  He waltzed back to the white heap and got back in the line to Candy Cane Lane.

It was an eventful evening and one that made me appreciate having my rock solid colleague with me.  She gets a shout out- Always calm under pressure.  Thanks, Heidi!

Watercolor Bonanza

It was an ordinary Thursday in Kindergarten.  The five and six year olds assigned to my tutelage bounded in the door at 9:00 a.m. ready to crank out the rigor!  I was in good spirits, better than usual, which lead me to believe that it would be a fantastic morning of “shaping” lives.

We soared into the first activity of the morning….Art!  (My favorite)  The project taught the budding artists about how to show depth in a two-dimensional drawing.  So, we were off!  The kids were armed with Sharpie ™ markers to draw the outline of their pictures.  The hum in the room was remarkable.  I stood back for a few seconds and took note of how every one of the twenty-five Kindergarten learners were actively engaged.  This rarely happens.  Typically you have at least one child who is whoopin’ it up with a peer by trying to antagonize a table-mate or spinning around on their chair.  Neither was the case at this moment in time.  I marveled at how independent this crew was and smiled. It’s only mid-December and these five and six year olds are whipped into shape.  They are independent and can handle multiple step directions, or so it seemed.

I am not sure what time things turned sour.  If memory serves me correctly it must have been around 10:13 a.m.  It was as if the water color painting God’s had teamed up to pay me back for all of the times I had misbehaved as a child.  I looked over to the sink and saw one of my charges holding a bowl of water over his head and pouring it down into the sink.  We literally had a waterfall as the water splashed toward the sink, mostly missing the basin and splashing on the counter.  Water then proceeded to pour down the front of the cabinets.  It may have gone un-noticed by me, the supposed teacher of this group, had the youngster not been howling with laughter.  Disappointed doesn’t even begin to express how I felt given that we had just come off of the “please keep the water in the sink when you pour out your bowl” speech. Just as I took a step in the direction of the sink I heard a ruckus from the other side of the room.

I did an about face and looked at the students who sit at the basketball table.  (All of the tables in the room are labeled by sport. Basketball, Baseball, Football, Soccer and Refs.) A second Kindergarten child was smashing her paint brush deep into the tray of watercolors and laughing with glee as the paint splattered out with the velocity of your typical projective vomit experience.  She had just re-loaded her brush with water and slammed it into the red paint tray. Red paint splattered on the table, the girl’s paper, her shirt and on the paper of those seated nearest to her.  This caused a chain reaction of revolt from those who now had red droplets of paint on their projects. “Stop it!”  “HEY!” and a host of other reactive statements were being shouted from her tablemates.  I managed to get there just in the nick of time before blue was added to the rainbow shower of drops being projected across the basketball table.

It got worse.  Just as I am confident that I am losing my touch as I near forty years old I happen to catch a boy out of my peripheral vision.  What was he doing?  I can’t be for sure, but it seemed he was a Bloodhound.  He had his nose to the ground while he was on all fours with his rear high up in the air.  He looked to be hot on the trail of some scent.  I heard one of his tablemates exclaim, “He’s a dog!  He’s a dog!”  I was glad that there was at least one other person in the room who had come to the same conclusion about this behavior.

When Kindergarten falls apart like this I find myself taking back control, reeling them in and bringing the circus to a halt to “encourage” folks to step back into line.  This is known as a “Come to Jesus” speech. Typically it involves the teacher (me) clearly laying out what went wrong and what I can do to help folks re-align with “how we do things here.”  The teacher paints such a clear picture of how unpleasant it will be if you don’t “come to Jesus” that you quickly see that there are no other options but to do just that.

There is never a dull moment…

Spasm & Reflection

Four days ago my spine went out of alignment.  This is nothing new for me.  It seems to happen once or twice a year when I get overly confident on the limits of what my body can lift, do, or perform.  So, for the past three days the pain has intensified.  I have tried nearly every position known to man to try and get comfortable.  I have sat cross legged on the floor with my back against the wall.  I have laid flat on my back on the hard wood floor in the kitchen staring up at the recessed lighting and wondered why the builder of my house chose to install the can lights asymmetrical in the ceiling.  (Disappointing to discover this five years after the house was built.)  I also noticed a few cob webs, but they only serve as a reminder about how much I don’t like cleaning.  I have laid on my back with both knees brought up to my chest for cycles of three minutes up and two minutes down over the course of an hour. I have lain on top of a swimming pool noodle on my bedroom floor hoping to relieve the pain.  I learned this trick from a physical therapist a number of years ago.  Her claim is that this noodle provides enough resistance to your spine so that your shoulders will fall back to touch the floor, thus stretching your core. I always hope it works, but end up feeling like I am five because I start rolling back and forth on the noodle until the spasms are so intense I howl out in pain.  Laying and being still has never been one of my strong suits.

Last night I feverishly searched the Internet while lying on my stomach on the floor propping my head up with one hand in an effort to “stretch” my spine.  I was looking for any video, article or suggestion for how to alleviate the intense spasms and the sciatica that has joined the intense spasms that jolt through my body like 240 volts of electricity.  I found an interesting technique which didn’t seem to come with any endorsement from a physician.  I threw caution to the wind and tried it out anyway.  It calls for you to get into an empty bathtub and slowly move your back up and down the edge of the bathtub.  It looked twice as strange it sounds.  I didn’t know if you were supposed to have your clothes on or off.  So, I opted for on since there wasn’t any water in the tub. Why would I need to disrobe? Getting into the tub was a fifteen minute expedition.  Raising your leg high enough to get over the edge of the tub sent waves of spasms throughout my back.  I howled some more with the hopes that noise will somehow lessen the pain. It doesn’t.

After the less than miraculous tub experience I realize how thirsty I am.  So, I slide down the stairs on my bum step by step.  I don’t recommend this on hard wood steps, sans carpet. I arrived on the main floor of my house and rustled up a glass- staring out the window as I pour a glass of cranberry juice.  Refreshing!  The spasms began and I took the cue to lay down on the floor again.  I stared up at the ceiling for who knows how long watching the smoke detector blink every few seconds.  I wondered if my dragon breath could set the alarm off if I blew upward hard enough to send the fire-like breath upward to the sensor.  It did not.

So, in between all of my efforts to quiet the physical pain I am forced to be here with my thoughts.  Driving has been out of the question because getting in and out of the car would require an act by Houdini.  Here I am, stuck at home.  I’ve pondered a lot of things this weekend.  I can’t busy myself enough to stop the flow of thoughts I have had the past three days.  With reluctance I’ve worked on answering some questions that I typically manage to push aside when I have the freedom of easy mobility.  You know, things along the lines of “What really matters to you in life?” and “Where are you going?  What goals do you have?” – None of those questions should be asked when you have nothing but time on your hands. Trust me. You’ll end up hating yourself.

After three days I am confident of these things… The cob webs need to be knocked down in the kitchen, the hard wood steps in my house are not comfortable to slide down on and I am sure that nobody in the world has ever realigned their spine using the edge of the bathtub.   The light in the smoke detectors in my house blink 8 times per minute and they truly must only detect smoke, not dragon breath.

Looking forward to joining the work world again tomorrow provided the Motrin and heat pads will get me through!  Here’s to personal reflection time.  Do whatever you can to avoid it.  J

Maybe I Should Do Something Nice For Someone?

God only knows why I think I can achieve a state of physical fitness and good health.  I have yet to achieve such a state in my thirty-nine plus years on Earth.  Yet, for the last seven months I have stomped into the fitness center close to my home in an effort to achieve this goal.

I waltzed into the center this afternoon and hopped on the treadmill.  This part has become routine.  I flip the channels on the connected TV, punch the wide range of hieroglyphic picture buttons and await the magic of when the treadmill begins to move.  Often times it tips backwards to provide a more rigorous workout with an incline.  Those aren’t my favorite runs when this giant contraption of metal, plastic and hieroglyphics tips backwards, but I am dealing with it as I can’t quite figure out how to make the thing operate with a more level plane.  Of course I could ask someone for help, but at the age of nearly forty I figure I should be able to figure this stuff out.  Seven months into this quest I still haven’t managed to master the buttons.  All in good time, right?

After my run I stomped over to the weight machine and free weight area.  This is where the real show begins.  I weave between the muscle heads and yoga girls to take my turn at a variety of machines, the likes of which remind me of some space-age looking contraption that could transform into a robot at any second.  I am convinced that my carefree operation of these machines brings much amusement for the other gym goers.  Am I a gym-goer?  I am not sure I can technically fall into that category as my time there is spent attempting to look like I know what I am doing, but none the less I am there, I go there. So, maybe I am a gym-goer.

This afternoon had plenty of humor evoking moments.  Take for example my time on the leg press machine.  I hurl myself aboard the contraption, select the weight and heave my body backwards to move the weight off of the floor.  Audible sounds of exerted energy fill the air and ears of those around me. – It is on the first set and eighth repetition that I feel it happening.  My body temperature rises instantly.  I begin to sweat profusely.  Then it is confirmed with the narrowing of my field of vision.  I am on the verge of passing out.  It is by some stroke of luck that I manage to throw my self off of this machine and onto the floor.  By now I am crawling to the pillar in the middle of the area so I can lean against the thing and put my head between my knees in a weak attempt to regain my faculties.  Sweat is running down my face, neck and back.  At least I look like I have been working out hard.  Nobody needs to know it is the physical response to my lack of physical fitness and overdoing it.  My field of vision has nearly closed completely by this time and I see a large object moving toward me.  Yep, one of the muscle heads comes over and says, “Dude, are you gonna be alright, buddy?”  Now, I should be appreciative that someone gives a rip enough to check in on the tall, lanky, clearly ill prepared gym goer who is in a heap on the floor.  Oh, no.  Instead I am embarrassed and muster a thumbs up sign and say, “Oh, yeah, I’m cool here.” – I’m cool here?  Who says that? – Apparently I do.  The guy stood there for a minute.  It is at this time that a cute yoga girl slid over to check on the goings on.  Maybe she is his girlfriend.  I think they look like a good couple, but I am taken off guard by this growing group of gym goers who is focusing on my clear inability to manage the workload.  It is only by a whim and a prayer that my tunnel vision begins to widen, my breathing slows and color comes back to my face.  The yoga/muscle head couple smiles at me and ask for assurance that I am really going to be OK.  I am.  Yet, they continue to keep a close eye on me for the rest of my time at the gym.  As I scurry through the remaining exercises I am sort of appreciative that some one- actually some two- took time to notice me in my hour of need.  Chivalry is not dead, people…. It inspired me to be on the lookout for someone else in need.  Now let’s see if I do just that.  With any luck there will be someone in need that I can pay the kindness forward to this week.

Memory Lane

I remember the time my mom, my brother, Heidi our Yellow Lab, and I drove to the Popcorn Stand in the middle of our town square.  I must have been all of ten years old.  My mom pushed the accelerator of the blue Cadillac Sedan Deville to the floor.  We all sunk into the seat backs and howled with excitement.  My mum is the WORST driver, as is evidenced by her countless fender benders.  Yet, we love the anticipation of wondering if today's adventure will result in the Cadillac having any rearranged parts.

We whizzed by the Dairy Queen - another of our favorite hot spots for a mid-summer night treat with fixed determination to get to the Popcorn Stand before they close for the evening.

My mum squeals the tires of the Cadillac around the corner of the parking entrance to the town square.  It feels like we might have been two wheeling it, but who really knows.  We flee the car and stomp up to the Popcorn Stand window.  The aroma of the freshly popped corn makes me feel like I am in the movie theater.  We all start salivating.  Rounds of snow cones and buttered popcorn are ordered for all, including Heidi our Yellow Lab.

We sat barefoot in the grass in the town square sucking down hand fulls of popcorn and snow cones.  The feeling of satisfaction overpowers us as we have beat the clock once again with my mother's crazy white knuckle driving.

Yet, as I take this walk down memory lane I smile and wish that as an adult, all these years later, I still had some sort of connection with all of the core members of our family.  I have a connection with my oldest brother who sees things similarly to the way I do when it comes to some of the members of our family.  For that I am grateful, but for an instant I wonder how the desire to be close to the other members of the family has faded away.  Though I believe it is healthy to distance yourself from some people, even if they are family, it still strikes me as odd that I feel so disconnected from some of them.  Then I am reminded that you don't owe anyone anything, even if they are a family member.  Trust, respect and unwavering love are earned, aren't they?  Or is it that they have clipped me and I am under a false illusion that I am the one who has clipped them?  Too deep of a topic to ponder now..... I need lunch.

Digital Age

A student came in from recess one day this week sobbing.  I swung into action thinking there must have been an altercation on the playground.  I was ready to take this on and seize that teachable moment to help these young learners resolve conflict by arming them with a few strategies for how to handle frustration. 

Too soon! - When I inquired as to what all the hub-bub was about I couldn't help but smile.  The child in tears managed to say the following through the sobbing.  "My cousin went to Washington D.C. and now we can't Skype."

We are living in the digital age.. How do I know this?  When a five year old is stressed out over when they are going to be able to Skype a relative you know it is for sure. :)

You Know School is Back in Session When....

You know you are back at school with Kindergarteners when….

-          You need toothpicks to keep your eyes open at 7:45 p.m. on a Tuesday night.

-          You come home with Scotch ™ tape stuck to your rear end.

-          You think a bug is climbing up your leg but look down to realize a five year old is “petting” your leg while sitting at your feet during a read-aloud.

-          You have indigestion mid-afternoon because you crammed down half of a cantaloupe, an apple, a few slices of chicken and a bottle of water for lunch in the span of 6 minutes.

A Nibble



It was the summer of 2004.  I flew back to the Midwest to see my family. (Who knows why?  The only member of my family that I like is my oldest brother. He is worth the effort, though.)  It seemed a necessary evil to go spend time with these people.  It was my duty.  I checked into my brother's house upon arrival. (The one I like).  Staying at his house is like staying at the Hyatt.  He always wants to make sure they have your favorite things on hand.  What soda do you want?  Any special snacks you prefer, etc? There are near nightly invitations to take a ride to the Dairy Queen. - Yes, thank you I will go!   I do like good hospitality and thus he wins the Gold Standard award for hosting family members.

It was July.  It was hot.  My oldest niece has been booted out of her room so I could have her bed for my stay.  I think she and my other two nieces like my visit.  They like to do risky things when I am around. (Insert - crack the lock on the bathroom door when I am in the shower and then scream, shove things under the bedroom door to rouse my attention, jump out and scare me as I come around the corner, etc.)

It must have been the second night of my stay when the following occurred.  I awoke in the morning feeling hot.  I wrote this off to the humidity and stomped to the bathroom to get ready.  What to my wondering eyes should appear?  A huge red bump on my bum!  It was the size of a quarter or so and hard like cement.  Where does such a thing come from I wondered.  Two days later it was the size of a baseball, bright red and extremely painful.  If you want to be knocked down a few pegs and humbled, this is what you do: Waltz into the emergency room and tell the agent behind the desk that you have a problem with your bum.  There must be some special training for hospital workers so that they know how to curb their laughter when people like me stumble in with a red bum.  It gets worse...

After swallowing every last shred of dignity and pride that I had by telling the intake desk personnel about my troubles I was then whisked away to a triage area.  I proceeded to tell the nurse assigned to my case the trouble.  She wanted a look.  The next level of humility happens here.  I drop my drawers and show her my bum.  It has a protruding red ball from the right cheek.  Her look of horror told me everything.  She rescinded into the hallway and rounded up a doctor.  Soon the doctor zipped in with a Sharpie in hand.  Mmm Hmmm.... You know where this is going, don't you?  Circles were drawn on my bum by the doctor while the nurse and some other people, who I assumed were emergency room personnel, looked on.  I don't mind helping the world of science and letting people examine my ailments, but there is something about having your ailment be on your bum that makes this cooperative attitude die instantly. He wanted his colleagues to see the fang marks in my bum so as to have confirmation that it was in fact a spider bite.  There was much concurring by the small crew of professionals gathered around and hunkered over my bum.  I was craning my neck as best I could to look back there behind me to see what they were seeing.  Try it. It's hard to lay on your stomach and see your own bum- You'll be surprised.

For the next four days I was to receive IV anti-biotics to fight this infection, which turned out to be a spider bite from a Brown Recluse. - Apparently some hungry Brown  Recluse slid up my boxer shorts and took a nibble of my rear end during my sleep in my niece's bed. - (I had no interest in hopping back in that bed I tell you.) - Each day the doctors and nurses would want to examine the "progress" on my backside.  They always had a Sharpie in hand and drew circles around the area as it grew larger and larger. By day three I had shown nearly every person in the hospital my bum and thought nothing of it when a new nurse or doctor would stop in to have a look.  Why not?  It's only a free show, right?  Finally the infection began to subside.  Visions of a rump-ectomy flashed through my head from time to time during these few days and wondered if such a procedure had been attempted before now.

So, when I told my brother and his wife what had happened we had to make an agreement not to tell my niece or she would never sleep in her room again.  Though we did tell her in time. 

You can imagine the number of "Spider Man" and "Spidey" names I was called for the duration of my stay.

My Mother is Rollin' Into Town

You know that feeling.  It’s a mix of dread with some sort of whimsical anticipation?  Yes, of course you do.  It is when one or both of your parents are rollin’ into town to pay you a visit.  Even though you are an adult who has lived on your own, or made your own family, for years you still find yourself reverting back to that ‘ I hope I don’t get caught” feeling from childhood.  Not that you are hiding anything or that you have done something wrong.  No, not at all.  It is just that as you have matured and experienced much in your adult life there is still an element of your mom or dad being omnipotent. Remember being a kid and getting caught doing who knows what. (Insert stealing a buck from your mom’s purse to load up on some candy at the Quik Trip, or for forging his or her signature on a letter from school that needed to be returned to the school principal, etc.) See…..You feel the memory yet?  Good.

So, my mum is rollin’ into town on Thursday of this week.  All I can think is, “Lord, give us strength.”  The flight of the bumble bee will begin Wednesday evening around 9 pm.  I will reacquaint myself with the vacuum. (God only knows where I last put it) I will do a thorough inventory of the linen closet and kitchen cabinets to be sure that I haven’t left anything in there that might be incriminating.  You know, copies of my work evaluations, letters from a long lost love or anything else that would give her any glimmer of ammunition to launch into a full on ambush of questioning.  Oh, your mum does that too?  Yes, the questions come fast and furious when a parental unit come to town.   I will wash the linens on the guest bed, which is really a futon.  (It is fun to feel like you are still in college.)  I have already bought plenty of caffeinated beverages for her.  We don’t want her any more cantankerous than necessary.  Long bouts of absence from caffeine tend to do this to people.  I will alert the neighbors that my mum is storming the city this weekend and invite them to go into lock down mode. She would surely hold them captive with her line of questioning to try and keep tabs on my “goings on” since the last time she flew across the country to visit.  It feels like only yesterday that she was here, but as I crunch the numbers I am shocked that it has been over two years.  I resign to the fact that I am due for a visit and convince myself that it is easier for her to come here than it is for me to go to the Midwest to see her. Your own turf makes it easier to tolerate your “loved” ones. Further, it is quite satisfying to leave as many lights on in my own home as I want.  This action is satisfying because I am using that tried and true strategy of passive aggressiveness to refute what my mom used to announce when coming home to a house with nearly every light burning.  “We are not supporting IE!” (IE: Iowa Electric Company) – Well, we WILL be supporting Seattle City Light this weekend!

The fury of Internet searches has begun! What can I cook up to do with her to keep the action moving and avoid as much down time as possible?  I congratulate myself that I have cooked up a full 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper (college ruled) with ideas.  I am good.  We will hit the ground running from the airport Thursday afternoon.  The agenda includes a casino stop, lunch in downtown, a concert in a local park and a movie. (Movies are always good because you can’t talk without getting kicked out of the theater.  That coupled with shoveling massive amounts of popcorn in your pie-hole guarantee a conversation-less evening out.) 

As I cleaned off the top of the refrigerator this afternoon to be sure she doesn’t sift through any of the last year’s paperwork up there I was thrilled to find several gift certificates. These are ones students have given me in the last year for the holidays, teacher appreciation and the end of the year gifts.  We will be going out to eat for every meal thanks to the generosity of the students who have been assigned to my tutelage.  I hope mum likes Italian.

So, as I gear up for a weekend of dodging any deep conversation with my mum I can feel my blood pressure rising and the desire to put up the emotional walls so that I can deflect any and all uncomfortable conversations that will inevitably creep in during the tightly planned, action packed weekend………Though I suppose this only reflects my own immaturity.  Wish me luck!

Casino Tournament~

I am pleased to write and inform you of my good fortune last night.  A friend of mine is in town and wanted to do some "investing".  Naturally, I agreed and took a C note with me.  I was playing, playing, playing slots.  It seemed as though there was nary a bonus round to be won last night on any of these slot machines.  I was down to less than half of my allotted gambling dollars for the evening when I heard them call my name over the loud speaker.  "Please come to the main entrance for the Slot Tournament!"  This was unprecedented, people!  Never had I been called via a loud speaker for any prizes.  So, I stomped up to the front. They verified my identity and told me to wait to the right until the 12 members who had been called had all assembled.  Naturally, you can imagine the buzz of the 11 others and myself as we discussed the excitement of being called out of ALL of the peeps at the casino at that time.  It was simply something to behold.

Then they gave us the instructions.  You sat down at the slot machine that had your name flashing on the screen.  You hit the MAX bet button repeatedly with vigor and tenacity.  There would also be balloons that came up on the screen that you had to tap with your other hand.  Each balloon you popped gave you extra points.  Whomever had the highest point score at the end of 3 minutes would be awarded $300.  2nd place was $200 and 3rd place was $100.  The other 9 contestants would leave empty handed.  You can imagine that I was longing to be a winner in 1st, 2nd or 3rd place.  After all I was down $70 and needed to re-coop my cash so I could leave and be made whole.

The game began and I was pushing the MAX BET with vigor, people!  I pounded it over and over while simultaneously popping balloons all over the screen getting these extra points!  Then my screen would flash "BIG WIN!" every now and then because of what I had rolled on the screen. (Yes, I am amazing.)  From time to time it would say "2nd place!"  "1st Place"  "3rd Place"  I surmised that this was to entice the players to play harder and with more fury.  I rose to the occasion with grace and humility. -

 The three minutes felt like a half an hour as the crowd behind the 12 contestants grew.  People were cheering, shouting. Obviously these were gestures that signified simply jealousy that they had not been called for this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Then, as quick as it started the game was over.  I sat at my slot machine and wondered how we would know who the winners were.  Then I saw a message on my screen "CONGRATULATIONS!"  There was also a live camera feed of my ugly mug on not only my screen, but every slot machine in the tournament area and on the BIG screen above the bank of slots.  Still, it is not registering in my pea sized brain what is going on here.  A woman behind me said, "You won!" and poked my shoulder.  I say, "I did? - Oh, this is fantastic!" 

Then the workers descended on me with much fan fare and "Congratulations!"  I imagined this is what it would be like to have Ed McMahon show up at your door with the prize patrol!  Then she produced a voucher for $300 and asked if I had fun playing in the tournament to which I replied, "Oh, yes great fun!  Thank you!"  I then scoobied off to find my friend who was at the Cheetah slot machine.  Apparently when he heard my name called he didn't want to uproot and come check out my master playing at the tournament! -  I stomped up to the cash cage and they cashed in my ticket for 3 fresh C notes!  We then high tailed it out of there!

It was nothing short of a miracle, people.  I tell you it was great fun!

That's all for now.... Just deciding what I will blow the $300 on.

Inquiring Minds

People have said, “You are private.”  Yes! Yes I am!  I pride myself on it for some reason.  I have mastered the skill (insert synonym: strategy) of avoidance by asking lots of questions about situations and not revealing anything about my own experience when weighing in on something with someone.  I perceive that people, friends and colleagues don’t really know much about my past, where I have been or what I have experienced except for the minuscule tidbits that I carefully expose. (No doubt I would be surprised to know what people really did know about me.  It is all about the illusion of thinking I have them all at bay.)  I like it that way. It gives the illusion of control, which is something we all need, whether we think we do or not.  The pickle is that some of us hold onto control like grim death. (Guilty)

It wasn’t until recently that I had an understanding of why it is that I maintain so much privacy.  If you are private you don’t run the risk of others getting to know you and therefore save yourself any risk of being rejected, disappointing someone else and being exposed.  It makes sense.  So, the question I was faced with a few days ago was “What is this privacy costing you?”  I didn’t like that question.  So, I pretended not to hear it.  You know that move….We all use it.

Unluckily (Is that even a word?) for me,  the counselor I see pulled her usual move and ignored what I was rambling on about to avoid the topic and reiterated her question. “What is it costing you?”  (Is she crazy, I wondered?  I don’t like to be pushed.)  I furrowed my brow with a few extra crinkles and wrinkles up there.  This is how I let her know I am not interested in exploring the topic she has laid on the table.  She just stared back at me. She has those piercing kind of eyes that are like lasers, burning holes in your skin.  It isn’t my favorite look from her.  She knows this ritual and is no longer moved to try another angle when I implement such a strategy. We sit in silence for a while, which is me maintaining the illusion of control again.  (I am good at it, if I do say so myself.) 

Then she starts on this quest to have me link experiences from the past and my childhood that would have led me to this highly sophisticated strategy of protecting myself via privacy.  I don’t like all of this “linking” today’s behavior with the past. I remember vividly feeling my heart begin to pick up the pace of beats and knew that I was being asked to venture out into the crocodile infested waters.  No thank you!  The “tick-tock” of the clock on the table next to me was drowning out the silence in the room.  That irritates me too.  So, I caved in and began to identify experiences from childhood that may have a connection to today’s rigorous strategy of maintaining privacy.  She noded, concured and pressed for more details.  Of course this is not how I like the sessions to go.  She wants every dripping detail of every moment of my life. The details of my life really aren't all that exciting and so I am compelled to know how anyone could really want to know all the ins and outs of my past.  I tell her as much and how I am a little irritated with her “need to know”.  Again, she ignores my push back and skillfully asks more detail oriented questions.  She must have gotten a “E” for Excellent in perseverance and tenacity on her report card in grade school. After I begrudgingly dole out some details I am relieved to see that the ticking time bomb clock on the table next to me indicates the session is over.  Hallelujah! I stomped out of there quicker than a jackrabbit.  “Buh, Bye.  I’ll see you next time,” flies out of my mouth as I scurry around the corner. Free at last.

So, I have made some connections from the past to the present day.  Sometimes that old saying that “Ignorance is Bliss” really is true.  Now I am faced with a new dilemma.  What does one do with these connections?  Where do you go from this place of awareness?  - The good news is I have a whole week to figure that out before I stomp back in there and have to face the “inquiring mind”.

Guilty Pleasures

Every so often you hear people talk about “guilty pleasures”.  I have been putting myself first and giving in to guilty pleasures my entire adult life.  I highly recommend it!  I have gobbled down half a flat of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in one sitting.  (Guilty, but delicious)  I have often passed up the skim milk at the market and stocked up on 2% chocolate milk.  It tastes great with Honey Nut Cheerios and the sugar buzz from this mix isn’t one to be missed.  I nap nearly every day in the summer.  Why not let the rest of the world crank out the hard work? Yet, the one guilty pleasure that stands out the most in my mind once I hit adulthood was to order dessert first before my meal when out at a restaurant.  There are two reasons why this guilty pleasure is just what the doctor ordered to keep the blues away.

1. You have earned this right as an adult.  For your entire childhood, and for some of you even during your courtship or marriage, you were told that you had to eat ALL of your dinner before you could have dessert.  This is not true. As an adult I say throw caution to the wind, people.  Order up that Crème brûlée and gobble it down before the appetizer hits the table.  You’ll be glad you did.
2. If you don’t order dessert first it is likely you won’t have room for it after the meal and who doesn’t want to imbibe a delicious piece of Vanilla Bean Cheesesecake and suck it down like water? Not me. Extra whipped cream, please.

Try it.  You’ll be glad you did.  Once you get past the second look from the server and sometimes your table mates, you will be a trend setter.  We can turn this convoluted and long standing practice of eating dessert last around with some determination.  Who is with me?

Up Sell Me!

This has been happening forever, but for some reason I am recently more "in-tune" to it.  This thing is "up selling".  It seems like it started in the fast food industry many years ago.  At the time you could get a jumbo Coke for 25 cents more.  A bargain at even twice the price, right?  Then it included french fry up sells.  For 59 more cents you could have a jumbo Coke AND jumbo fries with the sandwich.  Why not pack on the pounds with jumbo sized sides, right?

Somewhere along the line up selling began to take over nearly every purchasing opportunity known to man.  I bought a new car some years ago and for $990 more I could have the car rust proofed and the seats stain guarded.  SOLD!

I bought a laptop at a retail store a year or so ago and was asked a minimum of four times between selecting the model and checking out if I wanted to have any number of the offered "protection plans".  They varied in price and of course had varying degrees of protection.  I managed to decline this up sell, but wondered for months afterwards if I did the right thing.

Then when cell phones became the rage it was only a mere $5 more a month for unlimited texting. For $15 more a month you could make your phone Internet accessible.  Why not? You can completely ignore every other living person in your presence so you can "check your email" and check the stock quotes and make a reservation on your mobile phone.  I gladly plunged into the world of technology savvy consumers lock, stock and barrel.  The iPhone was the start of the end for me.

When you go to the car wash you can get the "PRIMO" car wash for $4 more than the "REGULAR" car wash.  It includes an under carriage wash, which every car must have, right?

A few weeks ago I had dinner with a friend at a restaurant where the server attempted to up sell us a half a dozen times.  Did we want bottled or that nasty tap water?  Tap.  Did we want to have a delicious appetizer?  No thank you.  Did we want to have the steak that was 6 ounces larger for only $5 more?  Maybe.  Would you like to change the order from two glasses of wine to a whole bottle of wine for only $12 more?  No thank you.  Would we like to have the lobster tail added to our steak dinners for only $9 more each?  No.  (I claimed to have a seafood allergy which is a sure way to quiet the seafood up sells.)  Would we be interested in a torte for dessert?  Of course!  Would we be interested in each having one.  There was a two for $3 more special.  But of course!

Then today at the optometrist I nearly had a violent reaction when the clerk attempted to up sell me an additional 10 boxes of contacts for only $150.  10 boxes?  I can't remember a year that I have ever used 10 boxes of contact lenses, let alone 10 additional boxes at any price.

In this quest to help people save more by buying in larger quantities there is an element of panic.  More doesn't necessarily mean better.  Or does it?  I am a mass consumer.  I love to consume.  I am a sucker for any new gadget.  So, I can't proclaim to be a minimalist, but I do wonder what these subtle hints of encouragement to consume more mean.

So, why is it so irritating to have someone up sell you....repeatedly in one transaction?  Aren't employees just doing what is asked by their employer?  Aren't they encouraged to generate as much revenue for a company as possible?  Yes, I suppose that is true.  At what cost, I ask? Or is this just guilt for saying, "No."?