Yesterday, Jon got a taste of synchronicity in action & perhaps a little of the supernatural (who knows?). He was reading his hand held & chuckling, so I asked him what was so funny. He told me a very roundabout story, but the bare bones is this: someone who manages all of the offices mentioned to a friend's mother (she has to be very old) that Jon's family is from Whidby Island. It's a small place, so when Jon asks people who say they're from Whidby, "Do you know Wanamaker Road?" there's always a spark in their eye & a resounding yes. He then tells them that was named after his mom's family.
Apparently, this woman (the friend's mother) had missed the school bus as a little girl and one of the Wanamakers had given her a ride home on his horse. Can you imagine?! Clearly, that was a while back. At any rate, it's crazy that someone from AZ can know someone from a remote island in WA and know the connecting person to that story (however distant Jon is to the actual story). The craziest part? It was Jon's mother's birthday yesterday. It seemed to give him a little pause. I told him his mom was "talking" to him. What do you think?
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
Early Black Market Lessons
Stuart was so excited about his new guitar & lessons, initially. I tried to get him to keep his music book, pics & tuner in one place so things wouldn't get lost or separated. The guitar hangs on his wall, but there are times when it doesn't make it to its home, either. When we bought the guitar the salesman gave us a whole handful of pics, which Stuart either lost or left about so Flanders got a hold of them. Flanders loves to chew everything up. The tuner was an early goner, too.
In order to preserve a small sliver of my sanity & try to teach a lesson in responsibility, I started charging money for replacement pics. I had to do this after Stuart blew through the whole lot after just a couple of lessons. Ben, the music teacher, told me to buy nylon pics because they are more sturdy. They are also more expensive. Not tremendously so, but when we use a pic & immediately lose it, yes--expensive. They are $0.25 (and by the way, where in the hell is the cent sign on computers these days?!). I buy a couple of dollars worth & dole them out now. Stuart loses one, he has to fork over $1 per pic. The music teacher thought that was genius (I've been needing a ticker tape parade, so I decided to add that--but it is true.). This capitalistic exchange did slow the pic bleed--Stuart kept much better track of them.
When Max decided he wanted to take lessons, I took them both to the guitar store & bought them a couple of dollars worth of pics. I reminded them that was it, for now; they lose them it's back to $1 per pic. Stuart's reaction was so funny when he realized they were only $0.25 & he was being charged a whole dollar. So, I tell him: "I'm trying to teach you that everything has a home and that everything costs something. You weren't learning the lesson, hence the inflated cost." He didn't have much in the way of a response, but I could tell he was mulling that one over for future reference. That child has a big file, I can tell.
The other day I was thinking about the pic situation (it's now time to replenish) & realized that they may take this lesson all the wrong way. In my mind it became less a lesson of "responsibility" and more of a darker lesson in the seedier side of "finance." All I could think about was the Russian mafia doling out supplies and selling old military equipment to those who are fortunate to have money. I suppose it doesn't help that I give them grief about it every time they have to "buy" another pic--I tell that if they keep this up I'll be able to retire on the pic money...fuel to the fire, fuel to the fire.
In order to preserve a small sliver of my sanity & try to teach a lesson in responsibility, I started charging money for replacement pics. I had to do this after Stuart blew through the whole lot after just a couple of lessons. Ben, the music teacher, told me to buy nylon pics because they are more sturdy. They are also more expensive. Not tremendously so, but when we use a pic & immediately lose it, yes--expensive. They are $0.25 (and by the way, where in the hell is the cent sign on computers these days?!). I buy a couple of dollars worth & dole them out now. Stuart loses one, he has to fork over $1 per pic. The music teacher thought that was genius (I've been needing a ticker tape parade, so I decided to add that--but it is true.). This capitalistic exchange did slow the pic bleed--Stuart kept much better track of them.
When Max decided he wanted to take lessons, I took them both to the guitar store & bought them a couple of dollars worth of pics. I reminded them that was it, for now; they lose them it's back to $1 per pic. Stuart's reaction was so funny when he realized they were only $0.25 & he was being charged a whole dollar. So, I tell him: "I'm trying to teach you that everything has a home and that everything costs something. You weren't learning the lesson, hence the inflated cost." He didn't have much in the way of a response, but I could tell he was mulling that one over for future reference. That child has a big file, I can tell.
The other day I was thinking about the pic situation (it's now time to replenish) & realized that they may take this lesson all the wrong way. In my mind it became less a lesson of "responsibility" and more of a darker lesson in the seedier side of "finance." All I could think about was the Russian mafia doling out supplies and selling old military equipment to those who are fortunate to have money. I suppose it doesn't help that I give them grief about it every time they have to "buy" another pic--I tell that if they keep this up I'll be able to retire on the pic money...fuel to the fire, fuel to the fire.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Driving Dogs & Mini
This video totally made my day. I love Mini. I love dogs, especially rescue dogs. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWAK0J8Uhzk&list=PLr8Ol3z5fRqoCemaCS2-sFm6c87mAAV05
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWAK0J8Uhzk&list=PLr8Ol3z5fRqoCemaCS2-sFm6c87mAAV05
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
The Half-Way House of "Things"
It's finally become winter here. It was so warm for so long, but just in the past few days the temps are in the 30s & 40s at night & evening & sometimes when we are driving off to go to school. It's nice. It's not so nice when you are running late & have a child who cannot find his jacket. A jacket that has a clearly marked & repeatedly announced home. Perhaps it's the constant reminders that cause him to tune out--next time I'll send a "We're Moving" card & see if that does the trick. Either way, he seems to think that his things are itinerant, gypsy-like. I do not. Right there is where the clash begins.
To remedy the homework, water bottle, backpack & jacket issues, I've created homes for these things, along with a ritual. In theory, this is how it works: we come home from school & the water bottles, snack bags & lunch bags (if we use them that day) go to the kitchen for cleaning; the backpacks go on a hook; and the homework comes to the kitchen table to be worked on, after hand washing & snackage. Yes, it sounds regimented but the boys & I are easily side-tracked--once I lose them they don't want to come back. I get back on track because I don't want to be cracking the proverbial whip all evening nor herding cats. I also don't want to be doing homework right before bedtime. Not. At. All. Relaxing. I can think of a dozen "better" things to do than that, like clean toilets. At least that would show some immediate results due to my efforts. Running around half-crazed trying to get little boys to do homework, not so much.
This morning, is also the morning that said little boy wore short sleeves & no socks--at least he wore jeans, which is more than I can say for the other one. At any rate, off we went to school. I felt bad because here I am with an undershirt, a long sleeved shirt, a wool sweater, scarf, vest & boots up to my knees, walking with a little, chilly boy in short sleeves, jeans & converse with no socks. At least they weren't the jeans that make him looked washed ashore, these reached the tops of his shoes. The other one had a hoodie on with shorts:( who also kvetched the whole way in that the other one always made us late...
It's still only 53 degrees out & it's nearing pick up time. My hope is that the jacket will be found & put back in its home, not a half-way house. I also hope that Little Man didn't suffer all day but also didn't thaw out enough to get amnesia, forgetting the whole episode ever happened. He seems to think that everything is "home" just where he happens to drop, leave or forget them. These half-way homes will no longer do for me, although it's sometimes difficult to blame a child who has been raised by a woman who either thinks in stacks & piles or needs an absolutely clear space, depending on the stage of her thought process & work progress. He's hosed. I try to be consistent & that's the best I can do. Sometimes, my thoughts are scattered as are my tables, counter & desk. But, in all fairness he knows that putting specific items in their real homes is essential & necessary, especially when it means getting to school on time (even more so when he can't seem to get out of bed very well now that it's dark).
I'll work on my counter, tables & desk & I hope he does the same. I don't know how much longer I can live in a half-way house.
To remedy the homework, water bottle, backpack & jacket issues, I've created homes for these things, along with a ritual. In theory, this is how it works: we come home from school & the water bottles, snack bags & lunch bags (if we use them that day) go to the kitchen for cleaning; the backpacks go on a hook; and the homework comes to the kitchen table to be worked on, after hand washing & snackage. Yes, it sounds regimented but the boys & I are easily side-tracked--once I lose them they don't want to come back. I get back on track because I don't want to be cracking the proverbial whip all evening nor herding cats. I also don't want to be doing homework right before bedtime. Not. At. All. Relaxing. I can think of a dozen "better" things to do than that, like clean toilets. At least that would show some immediate results due to my efforts. Running around half-crazed trying to get little boys to do homework, not so much.
This morning, is also the morning that said little boy wore short sleeves & no socks--at least he wore jeans, which is more than I can say for the other one. At any rate, off we went to school. I felt bad because here I am with an undershirt, a long sleeved shirt, a wool sweater, scarf, vest & boots up to my knees, walking with a little, chilly boy in short sleeves, jeans & converse with no socks. At least they weren't the jeans that make him looked washed ashore, these reached the tops of his shoes. The other one had a hoodie on with shorts:( who also kvetched the whole way in that the other one always made us late...
It's still only 53 degrees out & it's nearing pick up time. My hope is that the jacket will be found & put back in its home, not a half-way house. I also hope that Little Man didn't suffer all day but also didn't thaw out enough to get amnesia, forgetting the whole episode ever happened. He seems to think that everything is "home" just where he happens to drop, leave or forget them. These half-way homes will no longer do for me, although it's sometimes difficult to blame a child who has been raised by a woman who either thinks in stacks & piles or needs an absolutely clear space, depending on the stage of her thought process & work progress. He's hosed. I try to be consistent & that's the best I can do. Sometimes, my thoughts are scattered as are my tables, counter & desk. But, in all fairness he knows that putting specific items in their real homes is essential & necessary, especially when it means getting to school on time (even more so when he can't seem to get out of bed very well now that it's dark).
I'll work on my counter, tables & desk & I hope he does the same. I don't know how much longer I can live in a half-way house.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
B Horror Movie Star
I've always joked that I was the star in my own B horror film. The one where the protagonist has been telling everyone there's danger afoot or disaster's on its way but no one will listen. Can you picture it? The black & white film depicting a woman standing in the middle of the screen, screaming for help, eyes bulging, bent arms tucked in tightly at her sides while her hands move to the sides of her face, claw-like--camera pans to where her gaze is fixed, to show the horror that only she sees & understands? Yup, story of my life. I say something & I get poo-pooed about my silliness or exaggeration (I'm sure you're prone to agree after that last bit) and then, it comes true! The horror. I suppose mostly horror just for me because often others have select memories. They forget that I mentioned it in the first place. In any case, I had a different kind of B horror movie experience last Friday--in an elevator, no less! Yes--the twist was that I was the horrible monster.
When I get in the elevator at work (I usually take the stairs; but, sometimes, in the morning, juggling heavy, heavy bags & coffee & the elevator always waiting--no real excuse--but, I take it) I always get asked, "3?" sometimes I get, "...4?" immediately thereafter. Admin is on 3 & another institution is on 4. That morning I chuckled and said to the woman, No, 2. For some reason I get that a lot. I'd like to think that it's because I look like a person who wouldn't take the elevator to the 2nd floor (shameful, I know--at least she was going to the 2nd floor, as well). In reality, I probably look like someone in admin. I don't look like a student. Eyeing me, she asked if I'm a student or a teacher. I said teacher. Looking at me full-on she asks, "Fashion Design?" I laugh & tell her no, English. Yes, here's where the horror comes in. The look on her face was priceless--she looked at me as if she were trapped in the elevator with some sort of flesh-eating space creature (to stick with the 50s B horror movie theme). I laughed. She mumbled something--because many kids her age seem to mumble or maybe I'm just getting old & don't hear very well anymore--and then says, "I wish you were my English teacher. I hate my English teacher." Wow. I then became the lesser of two evils--of the "I voted for him because I really didn't want the other one to win" variety. Just kidding; actually, it was simultaneously odd & sad. She sounded so dejected by the thought of her English teacher that I felt bad for her. These students really don't like their general education classes & those of us who teach them are pretty much horrors to them (or so I'm told). At any rate, her reaction to me being an English teacher still makes me chuckle & the look on her face was too much. I thought she was going to jump out of her skin. I've had people look at me in a lot of different ways, but that one was entirely new to me. As I tell my students, you learn something every day, right?
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Tinker Bell, Strawberry Shortcake & Santa Aren't Real
I didn't say it, Conner's coworker did...
Conner offered to write out gifts tags from Santa for a coworker, so her daughter wouldn't recognize her handwriting. This woman told Conner that she told her daughter that Santa isn't real. Yes, she has a nearly 4 year old whom she told that Santa isn't real, just like Tinker Bell & Strawberry Shortcake aren't real. Now how these three were lumped together, I don't know. This woman's reasoning for it is that she doesn't want her daughter to be disappointed when she's 7 & figures out that Santa isn't real. Seriously? I think that Max figured out something was up with Santa earlier than that. When he was 2 he noticed that Santa's block printing is just like mine. I countered with the commonality of that kind of printing--So common! Really? Santa's printing looks like mine? How nice! The following year he noticed that Santa used the same kind of wrapping paper that we did. I responded with, Santa likes things to match the individual homes--it looks better that way. While I had thought about disguising these things, I thought I had a year more than I really did to do it. How wrong was I!
So, Conner & I discussed why the Tooth Fairy doesn't live with this group. We are supposing that since the Tooth Fairy doesn't interrupt any Christian holidays, she's off the hook. Conner & this woman didn't even make it to the Easter Bunny, because that was my next question, as I'm sure it is yours. I'm supposing he lives with them, too. We had a big laugh because there are so many other things our parents lied to us about that Santa, the Tooth Fairy & the Easter Bunny were really the lesser of the so-called lies. Yes, she felt she was lying to her daughter. Yes, she's Christian but not in an overly proselytizing way.
My response was & is that I'm pretty sure that Max suspects, if not knows, that the Tooth Fairy isn't real but doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything because of his Santa Claus suspicions. He openly & directly questioned the existence of Santa Claus when he was in Kindergarten. We had a long talk about believing and even if we didn't think that he was a real person (he's analytical and the logistics, among so many other things, really made no sense whatsoever to him) it was about the spirit of Christmas and the love and the magic. If he wasn't buying that, I added (for good measure) that if he didn't believe, Santa wouldn't come. That's just how we roll around here. A good dose of reality mixed in with fiction never really hurts, does it? He even went so far as to ask if Stuart believed but he didn't, would Santa bring both of them presents? No. No he wouldn't. Stuart would receive and Max would not. That discussion, despite the fact that both boys both try to wait up for the Tooth Fairy, has stilled any voiced doubts about her existence.
I suppose that on some level I'm not a whole lot different in my fantasy/reality sort of dealings with these mystical figures than this woman. It's just I won't get jumped in the daycare parking lot when everyone figures out it's her daughter who's spreading the word that Santa isn't real!
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Retirement and the Dude
Once upon a time, we lived in an older home (wait, we still do...) that had older (actually, darn near archaic) equipment. We had an air conditioning unit that was so old, the younger repairmen (yes, they were all men) did not know what to do when they saw it. Essentially, the scenario went a little like this:
I show them the closet where the unit resided. They look at it and don't say anything or do anything. Well? I think to myself as I look askance at them. I repeat the story and they always responds with, "I need to call my boss/office/supervisor." A sigh inevitably escapes my lips as I walk away so he can "talk." More like describe the dinosaur he's looking at and beg for help. The story always ends with, "My boss/the owner/my supervisor needs to come out and look at your unit. Can he come tomorrow?" No fail. No kidding. Actually, once the owner was tooling around town and was able to swing by a few hours later the same afternoon. No, never mind, I just didn't want Dude in my whatever closet if you get my drift.
I was in my early 20s and I wanted the man who was over 40 looking at whatever needed fixing in that house. Seriously, he's seen it; worked on it; and/or is familiar with it. He was schooled at a time when things were hands-on and computers didn't do the thinking for you. It doesn't shock him like it shocks Dude, as if I had something illicit tucked away and he just happened upon it. The older man looks at it and gets cracking. Dude makes a lot of phone calls and a series of excuses. Plus, I was forced to spend a lot of unproductive time with Dude. No matter how nice Dude was I just wanted my archaic home equipment repaired and to be left in peace. I know I sound less than charitable but when a repair situation turns into something from a sitcom I really no longer want to be a part of it. Especially when that event was consistent.
As I was pulling out of my drive some 20 years later, the drive of a different house but nearly as old, I realized that all of the repairmen I generally want in my home (a.k.a. "the older guy") are probably heading for retirement and that Dude is now just as middle aged as I am. At least our "new" home has newer equipment and I have age as a leverage. Imagine trying to tell Dude about how the ancient equipment works and what's going on with it when he's a) male and b) roughly the same age or barely older than you, a mere woman and a young one at that.
I show them the closet where the unit resided. They look at it and don't say anything or do anything. Well? I think to myself as I look askance at them. I repeat the story and they always responds with, "I need to call my boss/office/supervisor." A sigh inevitably escapes my lips as I walk away so he can "talk." More like describe the dinosaur he's looking at and beg for help. The story always ends with, "My boss/the owner/my supervisor needs to come out and look at your unit. Can he come tomorrow?" No fail. No kidding. Actually, once the owner was tooling around town and was able to swing by a few hours later the same afternoon. No, never mind, I just didn't want Dude in my whatever closet if you get my drift.
I was in my early 20s and I wanted the man who was over 40 looking at whatever needed fixing in that house. Seriously, he's seen it; worked on it; and/or is familiar with it. He was schooled at a time when things were hands-on and computers didn't do the thinking for you. It doesn't shock him like it shocks Dude, as if I had something illicit tucked away and he just happened upon it. The older man looks at it and gets cracking. Dude makes a lot of phone calls and a series of excuses. Plus, I was forced to spend a lot of unproductive time with Dude. No matter how nice Dude was I just wanted my archaic home equipment repaired and to be left in peace. I know I sound less than charitable but when a repair situation turns into something from a sitcom I really no longer want to be a part of it. Especially when that event was consistent.
As I was pulling out of my drive some 20 years later, the drive of a different house but nearly as old, I realized that all of the repairmen I generally want in my home (a.k.a. "the older guy") are probably heading for retirement and that Dude is now just as middle aged as I am. At least our "new" home has newer equipment and I have age as a leverage. Imagine trying to tell Dude about how the ancient equipment works and what's going on with it when he's a) male and b) roughly the same age or barely older than you, a mere woman and a young one at that.
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