Junk

     It's odd how I find a "junk drawer" (or basket in this case) such a comfort. It's this happy mix of memories, an embracing of the messy nature of life, and a truly great place to throw all that...well....junk...that just can't seem to find a home. So here is my junk basket. What's in this treasure trove?
     An old ski pass to Winter Park. Boy, what a goofy picture. We skied a lot that year and I actually started getting better at the bumps. On the Mary Jane side, when it's got some fresh snow, I meander through the trees near the top. There's not too much of a slope so the fresh snow slows me down just the right amount. And why the heck is there a whistle attached to the ring it's on?
     A pair of martini sunglasses. Why, every self respecting party-going girl needs a pair of these. I really like the lemon that hangs off one lens and the cherry off the other. Where's the olive, by jove? I wore these to a New Year's Eve party a few years back.
     To go along with the martini sunglasses, there's the impossible-to-find pair of snagglepuss fake teeth. Slip these in and you're a dead ringer for a cousin of the Clampetts. These were worn by my brother, John, at Noelia's graduation party. He dressed up as a cowboy (she was headed to U of Wyoming) and sang her a shady version of the school fight song, "Ragtime Cowboy Joe". Yeah, of course he did. He's my brother.
     And I know you're not gonna believe it, but I swear, it's true...there's also a potato gun in there. No, not a huge potato launcher. Silly. That's out in my garage. This is a "spud gun". You cram the front end of the gun into a potato. It takes a small chunk of potato into the barrel and upon pulling the trigger, it launches this tiny spudlet through the air to its certain victim. Louis and I bought them (yes, I have more than one, somewhere else, in another junk drawer in my house) to entertain a bunch of high school boys that were going to spend the night. They ran around in the dark, potato in one hand, spud gun in the other. In reality, they could be called "spud duds" as the piece of potato, at maximum launching distance, reached no more than a few feet. But it doesn't take much to entertain a bunch of goofy high school boys as long as there is lots in the fridge and they can fart with abandon.
     There are some CO2 cartridges that go with a fancy bike pump I used to have that fell off my bike one ride down the backside of Lookout Mountain. There's a few abandoned coins, an old phone charger, and three of Noelia's leftover senior pictures. There's even a Beverly Hills library card that I absconded from a friend that lived in Beverly Hills for a short while. I saw it in her purse one night when we were out. For some reason, the idea of going to the library in Beverly Hills made me laugh and snort and carry-on something fierce. Perhaps a few beers lubricated the situation, but I begged and begged her for it until finally she relented and let me have it.
     I've been digging down, pulling out one thing after another. And then I spot it. The most treasured thing of all in my junk basket. I know, the potato gun and martini glasses are pretty spectacular, but this, well this is truly unusual. In the bottom of my junk basket is.....drumroll please.....a remote control mouse!! It's a fuzzy, rather life like mouse on wheels. It has little beady eyes, some squat brown felt ears, and a tail that's a little too erect and too stubby to truly fool any self-respecting feline. But the real kicker is the remote. It's in the shape of a giant piece of cheese, the antenna sneaking out from the underside. The buttons are cute little circles with ridges that look exactly like....ritz bitz! Too cute for words! Delilah, my cat, is half entertained, half insulted for hours by this fake rodent, especially by high school boys who get bored with spud guns.
      So that's it. I guess as the saying goes, "What's one man's junk is another man's treasure." Or maybe, "What is one woman's junk, when looked at anew, becomes that same woman's treasure." Heck yeah!

Out of the Mouths of Babes

This post is in response to the Tootsie post by a fellow blogger. While in her classroom today, we got talking with the kids about how writers get ideas from other writers for ideas...so, point made!

I am always in a quandary about nail polish. On my fingers, I rarely wear it. On my toes, almost always. But it's a quandary because my feet, well.... they don't look so good. They are runner's feet. They've been abused by all the miles put on them. They are, simply put, not my best feature. So this is where the quandary comes in. If you polish the toenails of ugly feet, does it make them look better? Or does it simply draw more attention to those ugly feet so more people notice how ugly those ugly feet really are? This has always been the debate in my head. One day, I happen to share this internal debate with my first graders.

While reading aloud one day late in the year, I told the children to scoochie up close so they could really see the pictures. It was a warm spring day and I had some sassy capris and a new pair of black sandals, my toenails freshly painted. As the children came closer to hear the story, cute little Peyton was practically sitting in my lap. I start reading the book to the kids, encouraging them to read along, asking probing questions, doing all sorts of good teacherly strategies, when I look down and notice Peyton hasn't been paying attention at all. She's been sitting right there, front row seat, and has been completely distracted the entire time. What has she been looking at? My toes! My freshly pedicured cherry red toenails! I attempt to redirect her by dropping her name in the middle of the book. Momentarily it works and then, once again, her gaze drops down to my toes. After another attempt or two, I finally pause the book, my finger as a bookmark holding the page we were on.
I ask her, "Peyton, what on earth is so fascinating that you are looking at."
"Your toes. Your red, red toes."
I told her of my dilemma, about whether or not my battered dogs could really handle cherry red nail polish. I told her (and the rest of the class, now all of them also starring at my feet!) about how running was a great way to stay in shape but it was rough on my feet.
She looked up at me with her saucer brown eyes, and with all the love in her heart, she said in her slight lisp, "Mrs. A, your feet might look like hell, but the rest of your body looks faaaaa-buuuuu-lous!"
So there you go. Out of the mouths of babes. My feet do look like hell. Painted toenails or not. But for now, I'll just keep painting.

I've Been Thinking....

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about aging. This is hard. Our world revolves around youth. And I am aging. My children have gone off to college, one is ready to graduate. I see wrinkles and age spots where they never were before. I can't sleep. Me, who has "always been a good sleeper" wakes up now for hours in the middle of the night. Though I workout almost daily, I have a little inner tube around my middle I've never had before. And my skin...it just h-a-n-g-s in places. I'm more distracted and easily forget and have to write lists for everything! It's not very glamorous getting older.

Surely, if our bodies and minds are slowly decaying, surely, surely, there has to be some benefits. I just can't buy into a God that would create us only to have vibrancy in our youth. So I've been doing a lot of thinking. I think we are created to have vibrancy in our bodies in our youth. Walking around proctoring tests these last two weeks has made me notice how absolutely beautiful children are. Their smooth unmarked skin, the satin shine of their hair, their sweet round faces. They grow up a bit to become juicy and curved young women or muscled, strong young men. But then life passes. We go to college, get married, have children. We tend to them instead of to ourselves. We worry. We have a little more money and eat a little better. We drink. A lot of beer but not enough water. Our metabolism changes. We get promotions and make more money which means more responsibilities. Not only are we now tending to our children, we are tending to increased demands at work and have even less time to tend to ourselves. It takes a toll. Life takes a toll on our bodies. 

But there has to be a flip side. Someone once asked me if I could go back to any time in my life and just relive it exactly the same way again, where would I go? After lots of thinking, I decided I'd rather just stay right here. In the present. In the learning of the day to day. I know so much more about being a human being now than I ever have in my entire life. I know more about being joyful, accepting my frailties, being kinder both to myself and others, about forgiveness and pleasure, how to really laugh at myself, how to yell a little less but embrace conflict a little more. I can appreciate the small things better than ever before. 

There is a sweet sadness about aging. I can never have that 'before time' again. But I can also embrace the journey that is life--all the learning still to do and all the ways it's so. much. easier. When you have the youth, the beauty, the physical strength, you lack the wisdom to appreciate it. When you lack the beauty, the strength, the youth, you gain the ability to see the how good it really all is--even in it's aged state. 

So, I've been thinking and I think it's really all about just savoring the moment, wherever in life that may be. 

A Limerick

Inspired by a limerick revolution happening at Thomson Elementary in celebration of St. Patty's Day....

There once was a girl that was spent.
Her get-up-and-go got up and just went,
With the best of intentions
To pen some inventions
To her bed she considered herself sent.

Distractions

Seeing that it is that time of year again...the season of testing, I thought I'd offer a few distractions for the weary test proctor:

How about a little manicure? 

Rub lotion all over your hands. Heavy, oily lotion. Rub your fingernails each individually, into the cuticle and the emerging hang nails. Give yourself a little hand massage, rubbing the fatty part of your palm and the outer fleshy part by the pinky. Squeeze each finger like a tube of toothpaste but give them a quick snap! at the end. Sneak a little lotion onto your wrists or even elbows. They'll thank you. Do this throughout the test. 

What students see? You wringing your hands with worry. They love and respect you and don't want you to worry. Result? They'll work harder. 

Try some balancing and core exercises to strength your abdomen and back. Stand on one foot and tighten all the muscles in that leg. The other leg appears to still be bearing weight but in reality is a few millimeters off the ground. Or how about little pliets to engage your glutes and inner thighs? It's all about small movements. Focus. Tighten. Release. Some tiptoe walking also is beneficial. It's almost skirt season, ladies. Those calf muscles will be toned and sculpted to look your summer best! 

What students see? Robotic movements that emphasize your inability to engage during the testing cycle. Students will become critical thinkers realizing that in no way can you answer any questions during the test.  

Could you make a list? Of chores to do? Ways to improve your house? Ways to improve your husband? Groceries to buy? Or how about reasons to go to therapy? Or avoid therapy? Or why you are who you are? Ponder and come up with lists. Gaze off and think deep and hard. Really reflect. A list (or two) is bound to makes it way around. 

What students see? A thoughtful teacher in a prayer-like stance wishing the very best from her students. A religious guilt will force students to go back and check their work IN THIS SESSION ONLY!

Consume large quantities of water. Take a sip. Wait ten seconds. Take a sip. Wait ten seconds. Take a long, slow mouthful and swish it around it your mouth until all the cold is gone. As the testing hour wanes, see if it takes less time for the water to go cold. Try this: see if you can get a bunch of water in your mouth, slowly lean your head back, and gargle but without making a sound. You have to be careful to only let one bubble up at a time. If you relax just a little too much, water will sneak down the back tube and a coughing fit will start. Which will then lead to a sneezing fit. Which will then lead to you having to blow your nose five or six times. Be careful if you decide to go with the water. 

What the students see? All that ruckus will be a sure signal to them to use all their test strategies like you practiced. All the clock checking and coughing will convince them you're sending them a covert message to hurry up--time's almost up!

This is a real win-win for students and proctors alike. Proctors are distracted during the monotony of testing and now have supple hands, strong core musculature, a list to make the world a better place, and are well hydrated. And students? Well, students work harder, become critical thinkers, go back and check their work, and manage their time better. Who can argue with that? 

A Yes-Girl

In the summer of 1979, I went on an adventure. I boarded a plane to Mexico City to live with a family for eight weeks. I was only fourteen. I didn't speak much Spanish, and I wanted more than anything to fit in. I decided right then and there, on that flight from Minneapolis to Mexico City, to be a yes girl. I would embrace adventure in whatever form it came!

When asked to go salsa dancing by the dorky cousin, I tried my best to keep my waist still and shake my non-existent hips. When offered a taste of sauteed caterpillars, I plugged my nose and chewed fast. When asked to sing "She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain" to my host sister, Monica's, English class, I belted one out. So, when Monica asked if I wanted to go to the Mexican Beauty Parlor, why would I say anything but, "Yes!" It was an adventure! 

After a hurried breakfast, we headed out to the busy streets of Mexico City. Monica and I had been heavy in the throws of a backgammon tournament over the last several days and at the time she was winning. She was taunting me with a devilish sort of grin in a Spanglish that I could mostly understand. "Ay, no te wooooory. Eet's jus' dat I am muy goood at Backgammo' and chu? Well, no tanto." 

Monica and I got along like spaghetti and meatballs. We just fit. We laughed about everything and never left each other's side all summer long. So there we were, bumbling down the sidewalk, the smell of diesel fuel bullying the air.  We meandered through broken sidewalks avoiding stray poles strangely broken off, street vendors selling baked goods or the famous chicle, little children singing, literally, for their supper, and of course, the sellers of the loteria, the state run lottery. We arrived noisily at the door of the beauty shop giggling and out of breath as only two fourteen year old girls can do. We were hushed as we entered by the stern matronly receptionist and after Monica chatted a moment with her in a Spanish I didn't understand, we were directed to some tattered, plastic covered chairs in a tiled-floor waiting area. Rancho music was playing a little too loudly for me to fully make out what Monica said except for the last part when she said, "Pero, no te preocupes. Lo hacen con mucho cuidado." (Don't worry. They do it carefully.) Whatever it was that they were gonna do, I remember my yes-girl motto and just smiled nervously. As long as I was with Monica, everything had to be okay. 

After a few minutes we were called to the back room behind the curtain. Behind the curtain. Why would we need to go behind a curtain? The beautician and Monica were having a conversation back and forth and then looked at me and said something about the "gringilla" (the little American girl). 

Monica said, "Si, ella tambien." (Yes, her too.) 

Monica took off her shirt and motioned for me to do the same. What in the heck were we doing? 

The woman started stirring a coffee can with a short wooden spoon and said, "Si, esta lista. A quien le toca primero?" (Who's going first?) 

I was relieved when Monica said she'd go first. The lady came over with the coffee can wrapped in a towel, dipped the wooden spoon in and came out with a thick sticky substance. I watched in complete fascination as the woman slid the hot substance over Monica's armpit. Monica winced a little at the heat. The woman smoothed the sticky substance out, blowing on it a bit. Then she patted a little, picked a little corner, said, "Uno, dos, y....tres!" At the moment of "tres", she ripped the substance off of Monica's now bright red armpit and a huge, "Yeooowwwww!" erupted from Monica, followed by a small smile. She proceeded to have the same done to the other armpit, the used wax making a little mound on a nearby table. 

"Don' woooorry, Leeeesa. Eet not hurt tooo bad." 

Waxing our pits? Is that what we're doing? I was just getting over the trauma of watching my friend scream in pain when I looked over to see the beautician getting ready for my turn. She simultaneously stirred the coffee can (which she had now put back on the heat) while pinching the used wax she had so mercilessly pulled from Monica carefully between the long painted fingernails on her middle finger and thumb. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Stirring, stirring, stirring. And then, quick as wink, she dropped the used wax back into the coffee can! My mind began to race. "Gross! Gross! Oh my goodness, if she dropped her wax back in, who else's has she dropped back in? What other person's armpit hair is in there mixed around and awaiting arrival on my virgin pits? I can't do this! I can't do this!" I look over at Monica hoping for a rescue. Surely she just saw what I saw and will figure a graceful way out of here. But instead, she just smiles and says, "Don't wooooorry, Leeesa." So, do I say no? No. I am the yes-girl. My motto was yes. So, I swallow hard, close my eyes, and feel the hot, dirty wax as it is smothered on my pits. 

It was adventure. A real adventure. I learned a lot. Especially to ask a few more questions before I said, "Yes." 

I Got Nothin'

I got nothin'.
Absolutely nothin'.
I don't wanna write about bike accidents or car accidents or accidents of the pee-pee kind.
I don't wanna write about stealing candy from the drug store or egging the neighbors or smoking in the backyard.
I don't wanna write about throwing crabapples at cars from my friend's roof or hiding from the police or skipping school to ride a bus downtown.
No stories about capturing baby raccoons and bringing them home or squeezing woodticks on the dog.
No stories about snowball fights ending in bloody noses or farting on siblings on long car trips or fish that died or escaped pet iguanas.
I just don't wanna write.
I can't think of nothin'.
Cause I got nothin'.
Nothin' at all.