Gracie may be nearly a year old now, but she’ll always be Baby Gracie. Hoover has finally gotten used to her and her ways, for the most part, but the Baby has one toy that still drives him nuts. (For Hoover, being driven nuts means that he raises his head, looks at her, looks at me, looks back at her and snorts disgustedly, as if to say, “Do you see what she’s up to? Honestly!”) It’s her pink squeaky dumbbell. She loves that toy. She hasn’t put so much as a tooth through it because she loves to run around squeaking it at everyone.
Shortly after we’d first adopted her, and she’d worn out poor old Hoover, she’d grab her pink squeaky, walk over to him, lay the toy on his EAR, and then squeak it like mad. This was a game to her. To Hoover, it was possibly cause for deafness. I only saw him show irritation once – he sat up and growled at her. She peed in submission, put her tail between her legs, and went to hide with her squeaky in her crate. Hoover looked ashamed of himself.
As a result of squeaky overload, we have to ration Baby Gracie’s squeaky time, or we’d all growl at her. When she’s particularly bored (read “dumpster diving and gnawing dishtowels”) I give her back the beloved toy for a few hours.
Last week, after the kids had gotten home from school, Baby Gracie was showing all of us her wonderful squeaky. Hoover was sick to death of it, but he just snorted a couple of times at her. Bunny got tired of the squeaky and diverted Gracie with a tennis ball and a game of indoor fetch. While Gracie was off getting the tennis ball from another room, Hoover ambled over to the squeaky, carefully picked it up and ambled into the den. He was gone a couple of minutes. When he came back, he sat down near me, looked at me, and laughed. He also looked smug. I looked at Bunny and said, “I think he just hid Gracie’s squeaky!”
Bunny went to check and found that Hoover had not just taken it into the den, he had put it behind a box, where it would be hard to find. She giggled with laughter as she was telling me about Hoover’s craftiness, and gave him a big hug and a scratch. I was going to put it down to mere luck that the squeaky toy wound up behind a box, but later than evening, Gracie found it again.
She came leaping and bounding through the living room, flying around the room, squeaking for all she was worth. After about 20 minutes of loud squeaking, hubs got a little tired of it and tried to take it away from her, but she stayed just out of range. Hoover had been lying on the couch, watching her in disgust. He finally oozed off the couch and ambled out of the room. I said to hubs “Guess he couldn’t take the squeaking any more.”
About 3 minutes later, with Gracie still on the squeaky warpath, Hoover came back into the living room and sidled up to hubs. He dropped a tennis ball next to his foot and, clearly not intending to play fetch, went back to his couch and lay back down. I was a little surprised, and told Hubs about the tennis ball diverting Baby Gracie from her squeaky earlier, and what Hoover had done with it. He said, “I think I can take a hint!” and the next time she dashed by him, he chucked a tennis ball for her. She dropped her pink squeaky and went for the ball. Hubs grabbed the squeaky and hid it behind a couch cushion. Hoover let out a sigh of relief and went to sleep.
I’m pretty sure our old dog has taught us a new trick.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Oddball Word of the Day
feckless (FEK-lis): adj. reckless; inefficient, incompetent; without worth or spirit; indifferent
(from the dictionary of MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
(from the dictionary of MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
Thursday, February 28, 2008
SpEd Tip #1: Stay Frosty
This is the first piece of advice I offer anyone about to enter the labyrinth of special education, related services, and 504 plans. Most every parent who gets to the point where their child is getting in trouble, getting poor grades, clearly not able to do grade level work, and admits to themselves that the kid might need special ed, gets mad. They’re mad because they think, rightly, that the school should have spotted it, should have done something about it, should have taken steps.
Maybe the parent is mad because they’ve been asking, year after year, for help for their child, and the school district has been delaying, dallying, denying, and generally dinking around, while the child is falling further and further behind. Maybe the school district has lied outright to them on any number of issues.
You’re mad because of a betrayal of expectations. We expect schools to know what they’re doing, know what they’re supposed to do, and then we expect them to do it, by gum! We expect them to be knowledgeable professionals with the best interests of our children as a priority.
We don’t expect them to lie, be incompetent, refuse to help a child in need of assistance, or to make excuses for why it’s OUR fault and not theirs. We don’t expect them to squirm like snakes to get out of providing necessary services. We don’t expect them to complain that they can’t afford help for our children because there are so many other children with greater needs. We don’t expect them to be stupid or malicious.
But they are. And that is why parents get mad; normal expectations have been betrayed, and we are hurt, hyper-alert, and angry.
So, my advice is to “stay frosty”, in other words, get cooled down and stay there while I fill you in on the reality of school districts. There are some good ones who know what they’re supposed to do and do it without even blinking. If your child were in one of those districts, he’d already be in SpEd, and you’d be reasonably well-informed and engaged in the process of getting services for him. Many school districts are not like that.
The problem is rarely malice. It’s usually a combination of ignorance and inappropriate gatekeeping. There are very few people in schools, administrators, teachers, nurses, or others who actually know more than a thimbleful about special education and the law. They only know what they’ve been told, and that’s not much.
Administrators have next to nothing to do with your children. They are the logistical planners for schools – they arrange transportation, days off, negotiate for supplies, review bills from utilities, manage office staff, call for substitute teachers, and deal with similar things. They prepare reports for the school board, report to the superintendent, and are supposed to be well-versed in the general laws regarding schools. The assistant principal may be in charge of the mechanics and procedures of formal discipline. Administrators tend to be fixated on cost containment and will do their gatekeeping (preventing your child access to special services) on that basis.
Teachers are used to dealing with “average” students. The average student acts up occasionally, responds reasonably well to consequences, gets reasonable grades, and is kind of predictable. Teachers feel themselves to be primarily responsible for teaching average students, the middle 80% of children – they rarely know what to do for a gifted child or a child with special needs. They can get belligerent if they feel they’re being blamed for your child’s poor performance (and they always feel that way). They don’t like having to do extra stuff, or complicated stuff, or things that are “more” than what they’re doing for the 80% because they feel like they’re shortchanging their “real” students. Fortunately, they can be very cooperative if the parent knows this and accommodates the TEACHER’S needs, too. Teachers will resist and gatekeep if they think you’re asking too much of them.
The only people in the whole school system who have even a moderate understanding of special needs, disabilities, and services and programs are the people in the Special Education department. Therefore, it’s important to get through the other gatekeepers, the teachers and administrators, and get to the SpEd folks. They will be gatekeepers, too, in kind of a microcosmic reflection of the regular administrators and teachers. They are always understaffed, underfunded, overworked, and you’re always asking for too much for no good reason. Oh, woe is me.
However, it is their job, and their responsibility to know the laws, to follow them, and to get your child the services required. And, eventually, they will, God willing, and with the help of research, good friends and sound advice.
Now that you know that, you need to blow off all the steam that built up while dealing with the gatekeepers in regular education. If you take your anger with you into the SpEd department, it’s only going to make you look hysterical and unreasonable. Stay frosty, because for the SpEdders, special services are their everyday business. Asking for appropriate programs should be done the same way you’d ask the butcher for a pound of good, fresh pork chops, or the greengrocer for oranges from the latest shipment. It’s really no big deal, they have to follow the law, and this group of people knows that.
Then, as legal requirements click along at a pre-determined pace, like a train on the tracks, it’s easy to get frustrated and let all that residual frustration and anger come back again. Don’t do it. Let the process flow; remain frosty.
Remember, as long as you are the coolest cucumber in the room, you’ll last the longest.
Maybe the parent is mad because they’ve been asking, year after year, for help for their child, and the school district has been delaying, dallying, denying, and generally dinking around, while the child is falling further and further behind. Maybe the school district has lied outright to them on any number of issues.
You’re mad because of a betrayal of expectations. We expect schools to know what they’re doing, know what they’re supposed to do, and then we expect them to do it, by gum! We expect them to be knowledgeable professionals with the best interests of our children as a priority.
We don’t expect them to lie, be incompetent, refuse to help a child in need of assistance, or to make excuses for why it’s OUR fault and not theirs. We don’t expect them to squirm like snakes to get out of providing necessary services. We don’t expect them to complain that they can’t afford help for our children because there are so many other children with greater needs. We don’t expect them to be stupid or malicious.
But they are. And that is why parents get mad; normal expectations have been betrayed, and we are hurt, hyper-alert, and angry.
So, my advice is to “stay frosty”, in other words, get cooled down and stay there while I fill you in on the reality of school districts. There are some good ones who know what they’re supposed to do and do it without even blinking. If your child were in one of those districts, he’d already be in SpEd, and you’d be reasonably well-informed and engaged in the process of getting services for him. Many school districts are not like that.
The problem is rarely malice. It’s usually a combination of ignorance and inappropriate gatekeeping. There are very few people in schools, administrators, teachers, nurses, or others who actually know more than a thimbleful about special education and the law. They only know what they’ve been told, and that’s not much.
Administrators have next to nothing to do with your children. They are the logistical planners for schools – they arrange transportation, days off, negotiate for supplies, review bills from utilities, manage office staff, call for substitute teachers, and deal with similar things. They prepare reports for the school board, report to the superintendent, and are supposed to be well-versed in the general laws regarding schools. The assistant principal may be in charge of the mechanics and procedures of formal discipline. Administrators tend to be fixated on cost containment and will do their gatekeeping (preventing your child access to special services) on that basis.
Teachers are used to dealing with “average” students. The average student acts up occasionally, responds reasonably well to consequences, gets reasonable grades, and is kind of predictable. Teachers feel themselves to be primarily responsible for teaching average students, the middle 80% of children – they rarely know what to do for a gifted child or a child with special needs. They can get belligerent if they feel they’re being blamed for your child’s poor performance (and they always feel that way). They don’t like having to do extra stuff, or complicated stuff, or things that are “more” than what they’re doing for the 80% because they feel like they’re shortchanging their “real” students. Fortunately, they can be very cooperative if the parent knows this and accommodates the TEACHER’S needs, too. Teachers will resist and gatekeep if they think you’re asking too much of them.
The only people in the whole school system who have even a moderate understanding of special needs, disabilities, and services and programs are the people in the Special Education department. Therefore, it’s important to get through the other gatekeepers, the teachers and administrators, and get to the SpEd folks. They will be gatekeepers, too, in kind of a microcosmic reflection of the regular administrators and teachers. They are always understaffed, underfunded, overworked, and you’re always asking for too much for no good reason. Oh, woe is me.
However, it is their job, and their responsibility to know the laws, to follow them, and to get your child the services required. And, eventually, they will, God willing, and with the help of research, good friends and sound advice.
Now that you know that, you need to blow off all the steam that built up while dealing with the gatekeepers in regular education. If you take your anger with you into the SpEd department, it’s only going to make you look hysterical and unreasonable. Stay frosty, because for the SpEdders, special services are their everyday business. Asking for appropriate programs should be done the same way you’d ask the butcher for a pound of good, fresh pork chops, or the greengrocer for oranges from the latest shipment. It’s really no big deal, they have to follow the law, and this group of people knows that.
Then, as legal requirements click along at a pre-determined pace, like a train on the tracks, it’s easy to get frustrated and let all that residual frustration and anger come back again. Don’t do it. Let the process flow; remain frosty.
Remember, as long as you are the coolest cucumber in the room, you’ll last the longest.
Oddball Word of the Day
caduceus (Kuh-DOO-see-ehs) n. the symbolic staff carried by Mercury as herald of the gods, now used as a symbol for medicine
(from the guide to MMMW edicted by Laurence Urdang)
(from the guide to MMMW edicted by Laurence Urdang)
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Startitis
Every knitter knows it, and lots of us suffer from it. It’s the uncontrollable urge to put down whatever project you’re working on right now and start something new. Maybe you want to get your hands on a different color, yarn weight, texture, something sparkly, something not-sparkly, something bland you can knit in the dark, or just something NEW. Even knitters of extraordinary character and will power may hear the siren call of Startitis – they’ll hang onto their current projects like moray eels until they’re finished, but they hear the wilding call nonetheless.
I kind of gave up fighting Startitis a decade or so ago and decided to call it either Knitting BiPolar Disorder or Seasonal Affective Knitting Disorder. Mine cycles, and, fortunately for me, while I don’t spin fleece, and can spin words and ideas. My KBPD/SAKD (see, it’s official – it has an acronym!) goes like this…
September: It’s still warmish out, but the leaves are starting to change color, so it must be time to knit. I start and finish sweaters in September. I finish up leftover projects from earlier in the year.
October and November: I start thicker sweaters, the kids start asking for them, and then I want to knit them. I think about knitting myself a sweater and may even go buy some faboo yarn for one. (Years later, it will wind up being a sweater for someone else.) I knit hats and scarves and work on trickier sweaters. I get a Great Idea for using up oddball yarn in Yet Another Afghan. I finish up the last of the hangover projects, but I still have four or five things on the needles.
December: I knit things that are not for Christmas, but that I can put down easily without forgetting what I was doing, such as socks for myself, mittens, hats, and Knit for Kids sweaters for donations. I do not take requests for knitting during the month because it’s already completely knuts around here.
January: I start hating all my works in progress. The scarf is bulgier than I like and doesn’t show off the yarn right. The thick sweater p*sses me off because the yarn is color pooling or I found twigs in it, or I’m running short. I have so many pairs of socks that I don’t want to start another pair, but then I find really excellent yarn that I’ve been looking for all my life, buy it, and cast on a sock. I’m tired of the afghan for some reason – too heavy, too random, the stitch is too fussy for my short attention span, something. I don’t like any of my yarn and start window shopping on Ebay and online yarn stores.
February: I’m depressed. I have all these projects and nothing’s really DONE. I’m still convinced they’re worthy, so I don’t frog them all, but I can’t stand to work another stitch on any of them. I buy another skein of sock yarn, just to look at and touch. I eat too much chocolate and cook comfort food. My whole family sleeps too much from carbohydrate overload. Right about the end of the month, I’ll pick up some project I sidelined last fall and finish it.
March and April: I realize I need to finish the heavy, winter stuff before it gets too warm, so the mojo kicks in and I knit like a bat outta hell to get the afghan, scarf, sweater, and fancy patterned thing done. I set aside lighter weight projects to work on later. I might buy more needles, “to complete my set of…”
May: I’m depressed. I still have at least one project that I know I won’t get to until the thermometer dips into the 30’s, so I put it in the Naughty Closet. Sometimes projects go there because they were naughty and ticked me off; sometimes projects go there because I was naughty and didn’t finish them during the “right” season. I notice I have too much yarn and way too many patterns. I sort through the yarn and match it up with patterns. I throw out a few patterns. I think really hard about getting rid of some pattern books. I rummage through all the rest of my yarn and realize I have some nice stuff, so I move it to the front or top of its storage zone.
June and July: Mornings are mindless knitting. I knit things from cotton or non-wool – dishcloths, coasters, mini afghans of washable fiber for my dogs, small clothes for Bunny’s beloved Theodora bear, and maybe a couple hats from sock wool.
August: I’m out of cotton, which is good because I hate it now. I can’t stand the sight of another hat, another mitten, or another sock. I cast on a shawl to work on because by the time it gets heavy, it’ll be cold out, or so I tell myself. I box up donations and ship them out.
And then it’s September again....
My family thinks I have wooly caterpillar DNA because they watch what I knit and when. If I’m already starting a sweater in late August, they start airing out their parkas and checking felted hats and mittens for pest damage because they know there’s a cold winter coming. They want to get their requests for repairs or replacements in early.
Me, I’m just glad I’ve learned to find a way to make my KBPD/SAKD work for me – stuff does actually get finished before people grow out of its size, and I do cycle through my yarn pretty well.
I’ll be posting pictures of what got knitted after it gets washed and blocked. We already wore most of it since this has been a right nippy winter so far.
I kind of gave up fighting Startitis a decade or so ago and decided to call it either Knitting BiPolar Disorder or Seasonal Affective Knitting Disorder. Mine cycles, and, fortunately for me, while I don’t spin fleece, and can spin words and ideas. My KBPD/SAKD (see, it’s official – it has an acronym!) goes like this…
September: It’s still warmish out, but the leaves are starting to change color, so it must be time to knit. I start and finish sweaters in September. I finish up leftover projects from earlier in the year.
October and November: I start thicker sweaters, the kids start asking for them, and then I want to knit them. I think about knitting myself a sweater and may even go buy some faboo yarn for one. (Years later, it will wind up being a sweater for someone else.) I knit hats and scarves and work on trickier sweaters. I get a Great Idea for using up oddball yarn in Yet Another Afghan. I finish up the last of the hangover projects, but I still have four or five things on the needles.
December: I knit things that are not for Christmas, but that I can put down easily without forgetting what I was doing, such as socks for myself, mittens, hats, and Knit for Kids sweaters for donations. I do not take requests for knitting during the month because it’s already completely knuts around here.
January: I start hating all my works in progress. The scarf is bulgier than I like and doesn’t show off the yarn right. The thick sweater p*sses me off because the yarn is color pooling or I found twigs in it, or I’m running short. I have so many pairs of socks that I don’t want to start another pair, but then I find really excellent yarn that I’ve been looking for all my life, buy it, and cast on a sock. I’m tired of the afghan for some reason – too heavy, too random, the stitch is too fussy for my short attention span, something. I don’t like any of my yarn and start window shopping on Ebay and online yarn stores.
February: I’m depressed. I have all these projects and nothing’s really DONE. I’m still convinced they’re worthy, so I don’t frog them all, but I can’t stand to work another stitch on any of them. I buy another skein of sock yarn, just to look at and touch. I eat too much chocolate and cook comfort food. My whole family sleeps too much from carbohydrate overload. Right about the end of the month, I’ll pick up some project I sidelined last fall and finish it.
March and April: I realize I need to finish the heavy, winter stuff before it gets too warm, so the mojo kicks in and I knit like a bat outta hell to get the afghan, scarf, sweater, and fancy patterned thing done. I set aside lighter weight projects to work on later. I might buy more needles, “to complete my set of…”
May: I’m depressed. I still have at least one project that I know I won’t get to until the thermometer dips into the 30’s, so I put it in the Naughty Closet. Sometimes projects go there because they were naughty and ticked me off; sometimes projects go there because I was naughty and didn’t finish them during the “right” season. I notice I have too much yarn and way too many patterns. I sort through the yarn and match it up with patterns. I throw out a few patterns. I think really hard about getting rid of some pattern books. I rummage through all the rest of my yarn and realize I have some nice stuff, so I move it to the front or top of its storage zone.
June and July: Mornings are mindless knitting. I knit things from cotton or non-wool – dishcloths, coasters, mini afghans of washable fiber for my dogs, small clothes for Bunny’s beloved Theodora bear, and maybe a couple hats from sock wool.
August: I’m out of cotton, which is good because I hate it now. I can’t stand the sight of another hat, another mitten, or another sock. I cast on a shawl to work on because by the time it gets heavy, it’ll be cold out, or so I tell myself. I box up donations and ship them out.
And then it’s September again....
My family thinks I have wooly caterpillar DNA because they watch what I knit and when. If I’m already starting a sweater in late August, they start airing out their parkas and checking felted hats and mittens for pest damage because they know there’s a cold winter coming. They want to get their requests for repairs or replacements in early.
Me, I’m just glad I’ve learned to find a way to make my KBPD/SAKD work for me – stuff does actually get finished before people grow out of its size, and I do cycle through my yarn pretty well.
I’ll be posting pictures of what got knitted after it gets washed and blocked. We already wore most of it since this has been a right nippy winter so far.
Oddball Word of the Day
zygodactyl (zii-guh-DAK-till): adj. with the toes of each foot arranged in pairs, one pair pointing forward and one pair backward, as in a parrot
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Unbearable Whiteness of Being...
...in my backyard. We had another 6 inch snow last night, and it was even prettier, although harder to photograph, while coming down in big, fat flakes. Yes, that is our tacky above-ground pool.
Oddball Word of the Day
therblig (THUR blig): n. any element in an operation or procedure that can be subjected to time and motion study
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
Monday, February 25, 2008
My Ding Dong
My kids, especially the two ADHD boys, are night owls. If you know ADHD people, you know that an alarm clock just doesn’t do the job, and for the last 20 years, I’ve had to learn a thousand, million ways to wake them up and get them dressed, fed, medicated, cleaned up, and out the door for school.
I’ve tried hollering, banging on their bedroom doors with wooden spoons, metal pots, and my flat hand. I’ve bounced cheerfully on their beds until they’re queasy and roll out of bed before they barf. I’ve tried tickling, letting other family members tickle them, and I have sent dogs into their rooms to bark, whine, slobber, and frolic them awake. My favorite method involving the dogs has been to stand at the doorway with the dog nearby and throw bits of dog treats onto the sleeping night owl, so that the dog bounds energetically to and fro around on the sleeper. My oldest son still refers to this tactic as the “wet biscuit” method.
I’m kind of tired of finding ways to wake them up in a timely manner. My creative juices are not really flowing in that direction any more. I’ve managed to turn myself into the biggest lark in the house, getting up around 5 am, if not earlier, every day of the week, and I have no more patience for waking the comatose.
Well, over my hiatus, my husband was working on my mother-in-law’s First Alert clone alarm system. Since her husband died and she moved into a quad home area with other seniors, we all agreed that a pendant she could push for help would be a good thing. This one phones my husband’s cell phone first, and she can then speak or just keep mashing the button. If someone else is in the house, but maybe not right where they could see her, she can also push a button to make a heinously loud alarm sound from the main unit, and then the other person would have to find her and turn off the alarm from the pendant. Something went wrong with it, and my techie spouse brought it home to fiddle with. It did make an ear-splitting racket, no doubt about it.
He couldn’t seem to get it to dial the phone again, and in disgust said, “well, it would make a good alarm bell for in the house, I guess, but she really needs one that will dial out.” I nodded in agreement, and then called for Doodle to come and do one of his chores. He didn’t show up. I called again. Still no Doodle. I was cranky and got up to go find him and give him a good glaring-at, when a light bulb appeared over hubby’s head.
“Hey,” he said, “why don’t I put the alarm box in his room and give you the pendant? Then you can just press the button and not have to yell?” I looked at him with wonder. “Can you do that? He might unplug it,” I said. “I’ll hide it,” he replied, and he went off, sent the Doodle in my direction, and installed the alarm. We didn’t tell Doodle about it because we are sneaky, evil parents.
Later on, Doodle was sloughing off on another chore, and I opened my mouth to holler for him, spotted the pendant and pushed the alarm button. A sound like the spaceship from that “Klaatu-Barada-Nicktu” movie went off in his room, and he came dashing out of his room yelling, “HEY! WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?” I pushed the “off” button, which generates a two tone sound like the elevator in a posh department store, and said, “It’s my Doodle Call. I don’t have to yell for you any more,” and a wide, wide grin spread across my face.
“Holy Crap,” said Doodle, “well, what do you need me for?” “Dish chore,” I replied, and went back to the living room enveloped in a feeling of bliss I haven’t experienced since my last encounter with a chocolate-raspberry truffle.
The next day, my daughter decided to ignore me when I called for her, and I wound up banging on her door after the third call, opening it up, and finding her in front of her computer with a pair of headphones on, be-bopping to heaven only knows what. “Hey,” I said, “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“Well, kind of,” she replied, “but I was really enjoying this song.”
“Why didn’t you just say so? I could have waited,” I said.
“Ummmm,” was her response.
“Ah, I see,” I said.
That evening, I asked my husband if he could find another buzzer and put it in her room. I asked that it be loud enough to be heard through headphones and rock music. “No problem,” he said, “I love home improvement stuff,” and he winked at me and headed off to the hardware store.
When he came back, he had a remote doorbell, which generates a different, tinny kind of two-tone chime, and he snuck into her room when she wasn’t looking and installed it. He came back into the living room, and we grinned evilly at one another. “Need her to do anything?” I asked. He thought for a minute. “I’ll bet the dogs are in need of food and water,” he said. “I’m on it,” I replied, and pushed the bell. “HEY!” we heard, “NOT ME, TOO!” and she came into the living room looking very cranky and said, “WHAT?!” in that very special way teenaged girls have.
Hubs said, “I think your poor puppies are hungry and thirsty. Please feed and water them,” and he smiled innocently at her. “Oh, GOD,” she said and stumped off, grumbling the entire time she was filling their bowls.
“Two down,” I said, looking at hubby and quirking an eyebrow, “do we dare go for a three-fer? It’ll have to be the loudest one made, Spot sleeps pretty deeply.”
“I can do that,” replied hubs, “I love a challenge.”
He had to hit three hardware stores before finding an alarm just a few decibels below the “illegal noise level” range. It’s been hard-wired into Spot’s room. I have a little key chain now, with four alarm buttons on it (we decided not to let them hide in the basement, pretending they couldn’t hear any alarms). Each one gives a different tone, and I can choose among eight different tunes for the one in the basement.
I don’t have to yell anymore at all. I just gently push a button and wait. If no one shows up, I push it again, and again, and again. Someone always shows up. They may not be happy, but they are all getting to school on time, and I don’t have to yell until I’m cranky, or get up from whatever else I’m doing to hunt them down to remind them of chores.
I don’t think I’ve been this happy since I first discovered orgasms.
I’ve tried hollering, banging on their bedroom doors with wooden spoons, metal pots, and my flat hand. I’ve bounced cheerfully on their beds until they’re queasy and roll out of bed before they barf. I’ve tried tickling, letting other family members tickle them, and I have sent dogs into their rooms to bark, whine, slobber, and frolic them awake. My favorite method involving the dogs has been to stand at the doorway with the dog nearby and throw bits of dog treats onto the sleeping night owl, so that the dog bounds energetically to and fro around on the sleeper. My oldest son still refers to this tactic as the “wet biscuit” method.
I’m kind of tired of finding ways to wake them up in a timely manner. My creative juices are not really flowing in that direction any more. I’ve managed to turn myself into the biggest lark in the house, getting up around 5 am, if not earlier, every day of the week, and I have no more patience for waking the comatose.
Well, over my hiatus, my husband was working on my mother-in-law’s First Alert clone alarm system. Since her husband died and she moved into a quad home area with other seniors, we all agreed that a pendant she could push for help would be a good thing. This one phones my husband’s cell phone first, and she can then speak or just keep mashing the button. If someone else is in the house, but maybe not right where they could see her, she can also push a button to make a heinously loud alarm sound from the main unit, and then the other person would have to find her and turn off the alarm from the pendant. Something went wrong with it, and my techie spouse brought it home to fiddle with. It did make an ear-splitting racket, no doubt about it.
He couldn’t seem to get it to dial the phone again, and in disgust said, “well, it would make a good alarm bell for in the house, I guess, but she really needs one that will dial out.” I nodded in agreement, and then called for Doodle to come and do one of his chores. He didn’t show up. I called again. Still no Doodle. I was cranky and got up to go find him and give him a good glaring-at, when a light bulb appeared over hubby’s head.
“Hey,” he said, “why don’t I put the alarm box in his room and give you the pendant? Then you can just press the button and not have to yell?” I looked at him with wonder. “Can you do that? He might unplug it,” I said. “I’ll hide it,” he replied, and he went off, sent the Doodle in my direction, and installed the alarm. We didn’t tell Doodle about it because we are sneaky, evil parents.
Later on, Doodle was sloughing off on another chore, and I opened my mouth to holler for him, spotted the pendant and pushed the alarm button. A sound like the spaceship from that “Klaatu-Barada-Nicktu” movie went off in his room, and he came dashing out of his room yelling, “HEY! WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?” I pushed the “off” button, which generates a two tone sound like the elevator in a posh department store, and said, “It’s my Doodle Call. I don’t have to yell for you any more,” and a wide, wide grin spread across my face.
“Holy Crap,” said Doodle, “well, what do you need me for?” “Dish chore,” I replied, and went back to the living room enveloped in a feeling of bliss I haven’t experienced since my last encounter with a chocolate-raspberry truffle.
The next day, my daughter decided to ignore me when I called for her, and I wound up banging on her door after the third call, opening it up, and finding her in front of her computer with a pair of headphones on, be-bopping to heaven only knows what. “Hey,” I said, “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“Well, kind of,” she replied, “but I was really enjoying this song.”
“Why didn’t you just say so? I could have waited,” I said.
“Ummmm,” was her response.
“Ah, I see,” I said.
That evening, I asked my husband if he could find another buzzer and put it in her room. I asked that it be loud enough to be heard through headphones and rock music. “No problem,” he said, “I love home improvement stuff,” and he winked at me and headed off to the hardware store.
When he came back, he had a remote doorbell, which generates a different, tinny kind of two-tone chime, and he snuck into her room when she wasn’t looking and installed it. He came back into the living room, and we grinned evilly at one another. “Need her to do anything?” I asked. He thought for a minute. “I’ll bet the dogs are in need of food and water,” he said. “I’m on it,” I replied, and pushed the bell. “HEY!” we heard, “NOT ME, TOO!” and she came into the living room looking very cranky and said, “WHAT?!” in that very special way teenaged girls have.
Hubs said, “I think your poor puppies are hungry and thirsty. Please feed and water them,” and he smiled innocently at her. “Oh, GOD,” she said and stumped off, grumbling the entire time she was filling their bowls.
“Two down,” I said, looking at hubby and quirking an eyebrow, “do we dare go for a three-fer? It’ll have to be the loudest one made, Spot sleeps pretty deeply.”
“I can do that,” replied hubs, “I love a challenge.”
He had to hit three hardware stores before finding an alarm just a few decibels below the “illegal noise level” range. It’s been hard-wired into Spot’s room. I have a little key chain now, with four alarm buttons on it (we decided not to let them hide in the basement, pretending they couldn’t hear any alarms). Each one gives a different tone, and I can choose among eight different tunes for the one in the basement.
I don’t have to yell anymore at all. I just gently push a button and wait. If no one shows up, I push it again, and again, and again. Someone always shows up. They may not be happy, but they are all getting to school on time, and I don’t have to yell until I’m cranky, or get up from whatever else I’m doing to hunt them down to remind them of chores.
I don’t think I’ve been this happy since I first discovered orgasms.
Oddball Word of the Day
Dead Man's Hand: (in poker) a hand containing two aces and two eights
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
Friday, February 22, 2008
Fiddle Dee Dee
Well, it’s taken me longer to return than I expected, but here I am, in all my winter glory – snow-covered and chilly, but hanging in there. The short list of what’s been going on since I last posted looks like this:
Dad’s not dead.
Neither is anyone else in the family.
After two 24-hour + power outages in extremely cold weather, we now have a new refrigerator and a new range.
The septic field is fine, but we were nearly too late getting the tank pumped.
We have a new appreciation for phones that work consistently.
And garage doors that are not too heavy to manually lift.
I’ve made a half dozen pairs of wool socks for myself.
Two of my kids are older.
We survived the holidays more easily than I expected.
I’m at the leading edge of a “new” career.
It’s very time-consuming, but cool.
The baby dog, Gracie, is calmer, spayed, and seems to have given up shoe-hunting in favor of digging holes through the snow and permafrost and into the vicinity of telephone lines.
Urk. I want to thank (picture me in a modest evening gown at the podium) everyone who kept stopping by during my long hiatus, everyone who sent me a note, and everyone who didn’t publicly lambaste me as a totally useless wiener. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get back on a fairly regular schedule for writing.
So, the new career… Well, as you may remember, I have advocated for my own children because of their ADHD over the years – with school districts. I’ve also volunteered time and scarce brain cells to assist others lost in the morass of special education law and procedures. I’ve done some of it entirely by remote, over the computer, some of it in person, hunched over tables in the library, chairs in the doctor’s office, or while knitting at Chix with Stix.
A few months ago, another lady briefly joined the women’s group, and she has a child with profound disabilities. The table discussion that day concerned a variety of special education issues, and some of the other ladies are teachers, substitute teachers, or just have concerns about themselves, loved ones, or offspring. Apparently, without realizing it, I came off as being a real whiz kid on special ed issues. The moderator recommended that I consider becoming a paid advocate.
I pondered it and discarded the idea, feeling insecure and inadequate. She brought it up again in another group, so I pondered it again, did some research, and set my subconscious to the task of grinding away at the idea. I got closer to the precipice labeled “OK”.
Once again, in mid-January, the moderator, a clinical psychologist, brought it up, and I said, “yes”. She promptly handed me a referral. Tough case, too. It set my juices flowing, got blood pumping through my brain again, and I reached down into the dark, damp dungeon of my insecurities and examined them more critically.
I’ve spent twelve years advocating on an on-going basis for my own children. I’ve done a bang-up job of it, and I’ve had success with the assistance I’ve given other people. I checked state law and requirements, joined some support lists, and realized that I actually do have a clue about how to do this. I’ve surprised myself by feeling reasonably confident, competent and enthusiastic.
It’s that last feeling that really surprises me the most. Over the years as a stay-at-home mom, I’ve lost enthusiasm for rejoining the work world. I know how much it would take away from my ability to be a good mom to my kids, to keep my household running without lots of stress, and to maintain basic standards. I’ve learned to value myself and my needs, and they can sometimes be time-consuming. It’s been hard to try to figure out a way to put all of that in a framework so that nothing gets so badly neglected that it becomes an “issue” unto itself.
I tried signing up for at-home work, and that was a bust for several reasons. I tried signing up to be a secret shopper type person, and, really, there’s nothing intellectually fulfilling about it, and it felt more like tedious busywork. I’m not the sort to sell real estate, and other things just don’t generate enough income to make them more than a hobby. I am, however, a relentless researcher, and that’s a fine trait indeed for a special education advocate.
So, anyway, I decided on a fee schedule, checked the market, checked my conscience, and heard the “Click”. Everything fell into a place that felt like it fit. I met with my new (first) clients, and, more “click”-ing. Then, I let the data-mining juggernaut within loose. I roared through stacks of special education law, paperwork, historical data, case law, due process decisions, educational files going back nearly a decade, descriptions of applicable disorders and conditions, and felt… invigorated. Taller. Like I was breathing easier. Engaged. Focused.
I kept my clients’ butts covered and set loose the twin dogs of strategy and salesmanship. And we won. Everything the clients wanted. And everyone is still happy, the child is protected and in the right place with the right program in place, the clients can sleep at night, the school district was guided to the appropriate decisions and does not appear to feel steamrolled, and I can sleep, too.
It worked. I did it right, and fate smiled. I can, in fact, do this.
I’ve gotten two more referrals since then, and we’ll see how those go. Sometimes people are not going to really need me, they’ll just need someone to adjust their compasses. Other times, folks may have unreasonable expectations and it might not be a good fit for us to work together. But this does feel right for me at this point in time. I can make some measurable money and still be a mom and wife. I can say “no” if that’s the right choice. My brains are turning back into brains instead of being motherhood haggis, and I can take pride in doing a hard job to the best of my ability.
Wish me luck.
Dad’s not dead.
Neither is anyone else in the family.
After two 24-hour + power outages in extremely cold weather, we now have a new refrigerator and a new range.
The septic field is fine, but we were nearly too late getting the tank pumped.
We have a new appreciation for phones that work consistently.
And garage doors that are not too heavy to manually lift.
I’ve made a half dozen pairs of wool socks for myself.
Two of my kids are older.
We survived the holidays more easily than I expected.
I’m at the leading edge of a “new” career.
It’s very time-consuming, but cool.
The baby dog, Gracie, is calmer, spayed, and seems to have given up shoe-hunting in favor of digging holes through the snow and permafrost and into the vicinity of telephone lines.
Urk. I want to thank (picture me in a modest evening gown at the podium) everyone who kept stopping by during my long hiatus, everyone who sent me a note, and everyone who didn’t publicly lambaste me as a totally useless wiener. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get back on a fairly regular schedule for writing.
So, the new career… Well, as you may remember, I have advocated for my own children because of their ADHD over the years – with school districts. I’ve also volunteered time and scarce brain cells to assist others lost in the morass of special education law and procedures. I’ve done some of it entirely by remote, over the computer, some of it in person, hunched over tables in the library, chairs in the doctor’s office, or while knitting at Chix with Stix.
A few months ago, another lady briefly joined the women’s group, and she has a child with profound disabilities. The table discussion that day concerned a variety of special education issues, and some of the other ladies are teachers, substitute teachers, or just have concerns about themselves, loved ones, or offspring. Apparently, without realizing it, I came off as being a real whiz kid on special ed issues. The moderator recommended that I consider becoming a paid advocate.
I pondered it and discarded the idea, feeling insecure and inadequate. She brought it up again in another group, so I pondered it again, did some research, and set my subconscious to the task of grinding away at the idea. I got closer to the precipice labeled “OK”.
Once again, in mid-January, the moderator, a clinical psychologist, brought it up, and I said, “yes”. She promptly handed me a referral. Tough case, too. It set my juices flowing, got blood pumping through my brain again, and I reached down into the dark, damp dungeon of my insecurities and examined them more critically.
I’ve spent twelve years advocating on an on-going basis for my own children. I’ve done a bang-up job of it, and I’ve had success with the assistance I’ve given other people. I checked state law and requirements, joined some support lists, and realized that I actually do have a clue about how to do this. I’ve surprised myself by feeling reasonably confident, competent and enthusiastic.
It’s that last feeling that really surprises me the most. Over the years as a stay-at-home mom, I’ve lost enthusiasm for rejoining the work world. I know how much it would take away from my ability to be a good mom to my kids, to keep my household running without lots of stress, and to maintain basic standards. I’ve learned to value myself and my needs, and they can sometimes be time-consuming. It’s been hard to try to figure out a way to put all of that in a framework so that nothing gets so badly neglected that it becomes an “issue” unto itself.
I tried signing up for at-home work, and that was a bust for several reasons. I tried signing up to be a secret shopper type person, and, really, there’s nothing intellectually fulfilling about it, and it felt more like tedious busywork. I’m not the sort to sell real estate, and other things just don’t generate enough income to make them more than a hobby. I am, however, a relentless researcher, and that’s a fine trait indeed for a special education advocate.
So, anyway, I decided on a fee schedule, checked the market, checked my conscience, and heard the “Click”. Everything fell into a place that felt like it fit. I met with my new (first) clients, and, more “click”-ing. Then, I let the data-mining juggernaut within loose. I roared through stacks of special education law, paperwork, historical data, case law, due process decisions, educational files going back nearly a decade, descriptions of applicable disorders and conditions, and felt… invigorated. Taller. Like I was breathing easier. Engaged. Focused.
I kept my clients’ butts covered and set loose the twin dogs of strategy and salesmanship. And we won. Everything the clients wanted. And everyone is still happy, the child is protected and in the right place with the right program in place, the clients can sleep at night, the school district was guided to the appropriate decisions and does not appear to feel steamrolled, and I can sleep, too.
It worked. I did it right, and fate smiled. I can, in fact, do this.
I’ve gotten two more referrals since then, and we’ll see how those go. Sometimes people are not going to really need me, they’ll just need someone to adjust their compasses. Other times, folks may have unreasonable expectations and it might not be a good fit for us to work together. But this does feel right for me at this point in time. I can make some measurable money and still be a mom and wife. I can say “no” if that’s the right choice. My brains are turning back into brains instead of being motherhood haggis, and I can take pride in doing a hard job to the best of my ability.
Wish me luck.
Oddball Word of the Day
anneal: (uh-NEEL) v. to toughen (as glass or metal) by heating and gradually cooling
(from the Dictionary of Misunderstood, Misused, Mispronounced Words edited by Laurence Urdang)
(from the Dictionary of Misunderstood, Misused, Mispronounced Words edited by Laurence Urdang)
German Idiom for Friday
die Gelegenheit beim Schopf packen: to jump at the opportunity
zB: Sein Opa packte die Gelegenheit beim Schopf, zum ersten Mal eine Flugreise machen zu koennen.
auf Englisch: His grandad jumped at the opportunity of being able to travel by air for the first time.
(from a Guide to German Idioms by JP Lupson)
zB: Sein Opa packte die Gelegenheit beim Schopf, zum ersten Mal eine Flugreise machen zu koennen.
auf Englisch: His grandad jumped at the opportunity of being able to travel by air for the first time.
(from a Guide to German Idioms by JP Lupson)
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Things That Weren’t
There were a lot of things I was going to share with you last week – when I got stuck waiting for a train to pass through town and got fascinated by the “urban art” – how beautiful some of it was and wondering how the graffiti-ists ever found all the time to do it; how every household, especially mine, needs an alpha mom more often than they think; how Spawn (hereafter to be called “Spot” – if I remember) has gone ahead with his legal name change; a sweater I’m knitting; cool stuff from my women’s group and my knitting group, but…
There’d come a call from the nursing home and then from the hospital, and everything extra had to stop. “Your Dad fell and seems fine,” “Your Dad fell and has a cut on his forehead, so we’re sending him to the hospital,” “Your Dad’s temperature is elevated and his breathing is congested and he’s groggy, so we’re sending him to the hospital.” And, “his leg is swollen, hot, and red, so we’re sending him for a Doppler.” On and on. He’s still alive, and doesn’t seem as bad as so many calls would indicate, but there are small signs.
He’s stopped being aware of where he is geographically – doesn’t realize we’re in the same city and state and keeps thanking me for making the long trip to see him. He doesn’t like his nursing home because they have too many rules and he can’t go bike-riding or out for a walk (which he hasn’t done for over 15 years anyway, since he can’t even walk); he forgets that my sister hasn’t visited for some time and talks about the last time they spoke as if it were yesterday. Time and distance and reality have collided and combined into an alternate reality for him, which is more obvious and sadly disturbing than ever. He has slipped another mile down the tunnel towards the end.
I am trying to figure out if now is the time to call my sister and tell her to come back for the last good bye before he passes. His health, fragile though it is, is comparatively stable, but his mind is leaving. I’d hate to wait until he was no longer able to recognize her and enjoy her company.
I was able, this weekend, to spend a few hours with Bunny at the mall, buying far too many good-smelling things at Bath and Body Works, and sharing a fruit smoothie with her before we assaulted Linens N Things for a turkey lifter and some bathroom refurbishments. Unfortunately, I seem to have subsequently come down with stomach flu and am taking the hint from God and Nature to lie down and rest.
So, I’m just going to have to admit to and take a hiatus for a while from blogging. If I get a chance, I’ll post the little things, and I’ll certainly keep you posted on the big things.
Wish me well.
There’d come a call from the nursing home and then from the hospital, and everything extra had to stop. “Your Dad fell and seems fine,” “Your Dad fell and has a cut on his forehead, so we’re sending him to the hospital,” “Your Dad’s temperature is elevated and his breathing is congested and he’s groggy, so we’re sending him to the hospital.” And, “his leg is swollen, hot, and red, so we’re sending him for a Doppler.” On and on. He’s still alive, and doesn’t seem as bad as so many calls would indicate, but there are small signs.
He’s stopped being aware of where he is geographically – doesn’t realize we’re in the same city and state and keeps thanking me for making the long trip to see him. He doesn’t like his nursing home because they have too many rules and he can’t go bike-riding or out for a walk (which he hasn’t done for over 15 years anyway, since he can’t even walk); he forgets that my sister hasn’t visited for some time and talks about the last time they spoke as if it were yesterday. Time and distance and reality have collided and combined into an alternate reality for him, which is more obvious and sadly disturbing than ever. He has slipped another mile down the tunnel towards the end.
I am trying to figure out if now is the time to call my sister and tell her to come back for the last good bye before he passes. His health, fragile though it is, is comparatively stable, but his mind is leaving. I’d hate to wait until he was no longer able to recognize her and enjoy her company.
I was able, this weekend, to spend a few hours with Bunny at the mall, buying far too many good-smelling things at Bath and Body Works, and sharing a fruit smoothie with her before we assaulted Linens N Things for a turkey lifter and some bathroom refurbishments. Unfortunately, I seem to have subsequently come down with stomach flu and am taking the hint from God and Nature to lie down and rest.
So, I’m just going to have to admit to and take a hiatus for a while from blogging. If I get a chance, I’ll post the little things, and I’ll certainly keep you posted on the big things.
Wish me well.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Sharing Middle Age
My neighbor lady friend and I went out the other day. She’s a few years older than I am, but my family goes through menopause early, so we’re about even on the hot-flash-o-meter. We were enjoying our cranberry scones and raspberry flavored coffee (it’s the ONLY added flavor I can stand in coffee), and I said, “I hate being middle aged.”
“Why?” she asked. “You get to be cranky, curse in public, and rearrange the furniture on a daily basis and blame it all on menopause!”
“Hair. In. The. Wrong. Places.” I responded with a corresponding grimace.
She nodded wisely. “Oh, I know what you mean. I had one on my chin that was not there when I went to bed, and when I woke up it had grown enough to have a CURL in it!”
“I hate those,” I sympathized.
“Oh, and when I pulled that bad boy out, I swear the root was 18 inches long! I felt the back of my HEAD sink in a fraction of an inch when it finally came out!” she said. “Where was yours?”
“I woke up yesterday morning and went to brush my teeth,” I said, “and when I looked in the mirror, it looked like Tufty the Nose Mouse had nested in my nostrils. I was so shocked I screamed, and then I couldn’t bring myself to explain why to my husband.”
“Has he started sprouting that gnome like ear hair men get?” she asked. “My husband has, and on those days when I decide I hate him, I have a really mean urge to put hair gel on it while he’s snoring and freak him out. Of course, he’d probably never notice.”
“Not so much, mostly it’s either end of the alimentary system that’s getting him,” I said.
She rolled her eyeballs and said, “In English, Wordsworth.”
“Teeth and hemorrhoids,” I responded.
“HEY!” yelled the guy in the booth behind us, who had been hidden by the back of the seat. “Enough already! I’m only 32, and I really, really don’t want a reason to drive off a cliff before I have kids!”
My friend and I looked sagely at each other, and she told him, “Oh, it’s the kids that will put you on THAT edge. Grandkids are the reason to stick around.”
I’m pretty sure he said a nasty word before turning back to his blueberry muffin.
“Why?” she asked. “You get to be cranky, curse in public, and rearrange the furniture on a daily basis and blame it all on menopause!”
“Hair. In. The. Wrong. Places.” I responded with a corresponding grimace.
She nodded wisely. “Oh, I know what you mean. I had one on my chin that was not there when I went to bed, and when I woke up it had grown enough to have a CURL in it!”
“I hate those,” I sympathized.
“Oh, and when I pulled that bad boy out, I swear the root was 18 inches long! I felt the back of my HEAD sink in a fraction of an inch when it finally came out!” she said. “Where was yours?”
“I woke up yesterday morning and went to brush my teeth,” I said, “and when I looked in the mirror, it looked like Tufty the Nose Mouse had nested in my nostrils. I was so shocked I screamed, and then I couldn’t bring myself to explain why to my husband.”
“Has he started sprouting that gnome like ear hair men get?” she asked. “My husband has, and on those days when I decide I hate him, I have a really mean urge to put hair gel on it while he’s snoring and freak him out. Of course, he’d probably never notice.”
“Not so much, mostly it’s either end of the alimentary system that’s getting him,” I said.
She rolled her eyeballs and said, “In English, Wordsworth.”
“Teeth and hemorrhoids,” I responded.
“HEY!” yelled the guy in the booth behind us, who had been hidden by the back of the seat. “Enough already! I’m only 32, and I really, really don’t want a reason to drive off a cliff before I have kids!”
My friend and I looked sagely at each other, and she told him, “Oh, it’s the kids that will put you on THAT edge. Grandkids are the reason to stick around.”
I’m pretty sure he said a nasty word before turning back to his blueberry muffin.
Oddball Word of the Day
amaranth (AM-uh-ranth) n. an imaginary flower that never fades or withers
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
Monday, October 29, 2007
WeeMed Out
Oooh, that sounds a little nasty. Anyway, it was lots of fun this year – some of the same programs and some new ones, basically the same food menu with more bounteous and more chocolaty sweets this time around (last year I was late and wound up confronted by what looked like an angry blanc mange as the sole remaining treat). It was nice having my daughter with me because I got to see some things through fresh eyes. Some of her observations:
1. No one bothers you if you’re reading, even if you’re doing it during dinner at a full table. They respect your love of reading.
2. Very few shirts for sports teams – mostly smart aleck remarks or puns or clever quips. She even spotted an IMSA t-shirt. (My favorite: I don’t think much, so I might not be.)
3. Puns and smarty-pants remarks on the posters – “Free Soda: Exact Change Required” or a sign under the quiche, “Vegetarian, not Vegan…Duh!”
4. We missed some programs because we were too busy talking with interesting people.
5. Everyone is nice, and (ahem) Mom is popular (grin).
6. The souvenir shirts are cool. So are squirrels.
Some things I noticed:
1. Many people expressed a sense of relief or joy at being with other Mensans – two memorable remarks: “I haven’t spoken that deeply on a topic in MONTHS” and “It’s so nice to be somewhere where I don’t have to explain what a Klein bottle is.”
2. Even if I don’t care about a topic, listening to the selected programs is always interesting. Being me, a total goober, I walked into a conference room to attend a meet and greet for online Mensans. Turns out, the last program was still going on – on foreskin restoration. It took me a couple of minutes to figure that out, since there were no explicit pictures or language for those couple of minutes (although the large pink florescent penis and partial balls on the table should have clued me in, but I don’t like to assume…), and by then, I was moderately interested, even though I can’t imagine a topic I’d be less likely to seek out. It was very scientific and clinical, the speaker read testimonial letters, and I could tell he felt very sincere and earnest about his topic. Twenty minutes later he finished up, redirected a lot of people looking for a speaker on ghosts, and then the online thing started.
3. The hugs were even better this year.
4. It’s fine, even normal, to skip all the programs and just hang out and snork up beer and/or broccoli and chat with other Ms.
5. I’m not the only person who gets a little ferocious when the caffeinated coffee runs low.
6. Even the inexplicable costumes were funny.
7. No one b*tch slapped me for knitting all over the place. I even knit during the Saturday evening show and tried Very Hard not to clank like a member of a chain gang.
8. Hi, Bill! It was nice to finally meet you in real life!
OK, so I have to go catch up on laundry and get dinner started. I’m still smiling, though, which is nice.
1. No one bothers you if you’re reading, even if you’re doing it during dinner at a full table. They respect your love of reading.
2. Very few shirts for sports teams – mostly smart aleck remarks or puns or clever quips. She even spotted an IMSA t-shirt. (My favorite: I don’t think much, so I might not be.)
3. Puns and smarty-pants remarks on the posters – “Free Soda: Exact Change Required” or a sign under the quiche, “Vegetarian, not Vegan…Duh!”
4. We missed some programs because we were too busy talking with interesting people.
5. Everyone is nice, and (ahem) Mom is popular (grin).
6. The souvenir shirts are cool. So are squirrels.
Some things I noticed:
1. Many people expressed a sense of relief or joy at being with other Mensans – two memorable remarks: “I haven’t spoken that deeply on a topic in MONTHS” and “It’s so nice to be somewhere where I don’t have to explain what a Klein bottle is.”
2. Even if I don’t care about a topic, listening to the selected programs is always interesting. Being me, a total goober, I walked into a conference room to attend a meet and greet for online Mensans. Turns out, the last program was still going on – on foreskin restoration. It took me a couple of minutes to figure that out, since there were no explicit pictures or language for those couple of minutes (although the large pink florescent penis and partial balls on the table should have clued me in, but I don’t like to assume…), and by then, I was moderately interested, even though I can’t imagine a topic I’d be less likely to seek out. It was very scientific and clinical, the speaker read testimonial letters, and I could tell he felt very sincere and earnest about his topic. Twenty minutes later he finished up, redirected a lot of people looking for a speaker on ghosts, and then the online thing started.
3. The hugs were even better this year.
4. It’s fine, even normal, to skip all the programs and just hang out and snork up beer and/or broccoli and chat with other Ms.
5. I’m not the only person who gets a little ferocious when the caffeinated coffee runs low.
6. Even the inexplicable costumes were funny.
7. No one b*tch slapped me for knitting all over the place. I even knit during the Saturday evening show and tried Very Hard not to clank like a member of a chain gang.
8. Hi, Bill! It was nice to finally meet you in real life!
OK, so I have to go catch up on laundry and get dinner started. I’m still smiling, though, which is nice.
Oddball Word of the Day
intelligensia (in-TELL-ih-JENT-see-uh): n. pl. intellectuals, considered as an educated, influential class, esp. as an elite.
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
Also, dang tasty coffee.
(from the guide to MMMW edited by Laurence Urdang)
Also, dang tasty coffee.
Friday, October 26, 2007
WEEM…Plus
I’m off to WeeM today – that’s the Chicago Area Mensa Regional Gathering. I’ll be taking my daughter, since I use WeeM as a senior year treat. We’re both looking forward to it – if nothing else, one of my favorite things about staying in a hotel is the unlimited supply of very hot water – I can have a hot bath that lasts a full day (with periodic reheating) if I want! Oh, the luxury. Plus, someone else worries about the cooking.
Anyway, I’ve been a naughty blogger. Here are some of the things that have been going on since I last posted:
My dad went into the hospital twice – the first time was when his blood pressure dropped really low and he was even more confused and tired than usual, plus the congestion in his chest got worse. Once he was checked in and poked and prodded, he and his blood pressure perked back up, but they still kept him for three days. Then, a day after he got back to the nursing home, he tried to get out of his wheelchair and fell and broke open the skin on his forehead, so he had to go get scanned, checked out, and sewn up.
Then, my dear knitting friend had a partial knee replacement, the “Oxford Knee” (Name brand surgery!). I had to go up to Fringe to pick up some special order yarn, and I decided I’d pick up several skeins in autumn colors for her, too. Then, while in traffic on the way there, I had a brainstorm – a yarn bouquet. The yarn store owners looked at me like they were wondering where I was hiding my third eye, so, as I sat in traffic on the way home, I decided to try my local florist. I know the owner there, and she’s wonderfully creative.
I stopped in, showed her the yarn, and asked if she could combine it, safely, with some autumn toned flowers in a basket for a unique bouquet. She looked thrilled at the chance to do something new, and said sure. I left it in her hands, and toddled home. I got a call from my knitting friend (OK, it’s Irene. I’ve outed your first name. Be afraid!) who was overwhelmed at the lovely bouquet. I couldn’t resist, so I went over and took a picture of it:
Anyway, I’ve been a naughty blogger. Here are some of the things that have been going on since I last posted:
My dad went into the hospital twice – the first time was when his blood pressure dropped really low and he was even more confused and tired than usual, plus the congestion in his chest got worse. Once he was checked in and poked and prodded, he and his blood pressure perked back up, but they still kept him for three days. Then, a day after he got back to the nursing home, he tried to get out of his wheelchair and fell and broke open the skin on his forehead, so he had to go get scanned, checked out, and sewn up.
Then, my dear knitting friend had a partial knee replacement, the “Oxford Knee” (Name brand surgery!). I had to go up to Fringe to pick up some special order yarn, and I decided I’d pick up several skeins in autumn colors for her, too. Then, while in traffic on the way there, I had a brainstorm – a yarn bouquet. The yarn store owners looked at me like they were wondering where I was hiding my third eye, so, as I sat in traffic on the way home, I decided to try my local florist. I know the owner there, and she’s wonderfully creative.
I stopped in, showed her the yarn, and asked if she could combine it, safely, with some autumn toned flowers in a basket for a unique bouquet. She looked thrilled at the chance to do something new, and said sure. I left it in her hands, and toddled home. I got a call from my knitting friend (OK, it’s Irene. I’ve outed your first name. Be afraid!) who was overwhelmed at the lovely bouquet. I couldn’t resist, so I went over and took a picture of it:
Faboo, eh? (I have it on good authority that the yarn was severely fondled before I took the picture, so It's not necessarily in its original state.)
Then, let’s see, it was let the dog out every two hours so she didn’t pizzle in my house, I had another 504 meeting for my youngest, and he had a dentist’s appointment and a med. Management appointment; I had four bouts of volunteer tutoring, two rounds of extended length private tutoring in German (excellent adult learner, though, which is cool), and one afternoon Spawn came home to announce that he was going to legally change his first name.
I could have gotten all worked up about it, but I decided that it was probably better than getting a strange piercing or obscene tattoo, so I smiled and asked what his new name would be. He wouldn’t tell me. So, I’ve been calling him “Spot” or “Fluffy” or “Lars” in the hopes of irking him into telling me. So far, no luck. My husband has not reacted calmly, even though Spawn fully intends on keeping the family name. Being a whimsical teenaged boy, Spawn didn’t do his homework and found out it would take six weeks to legally change his name, would involve a lawyer, a fee, and publication in the newspaper. We haven’t heard much about it since then.
And then there’s knit stuff:
About 10 years ago, I made my daughter a “hot damn” afghan from a pattern on the Knitlist. It involved multiple strands of thin yarn, size 35 needles, and muscles like Conan in order to tame the yarn and needles and wrassle them into compliance. I swore, silently, that I would never make another one, and, of course, it’s Bunny’s cherished blankie. Well, between 10 years of daily use and one new dogette, the afghan developed a huge, scary, tangled hole in the middle, and then somewhere midway between middle and end, in each direction, the yarn failed and there were two splits. Bunny wanted the afghan fixed. She moped; she stuck out her lip, she said encouraging words.
I bit my tongue, yet still managed to offer to make her a brand new one. She cried and said she just wanted the old one fixed. I pointed out there was no way I could ever hope to match the yarns again, showed her the only possible yarn I have which I could use to fix it, in the hopes of getting her to agree to a new afghan instead. She perked up and said they’d be fine; that she didn’t mind if her blankie had battle scars. So, I gave in.
And I began darning, and darning, and darning. The two splits weren’t a problem, but that big danged hole in the middle took me, well, several days to build up the courage to deal with it, then four days to – a) untangle the mess and find out what was split, missing, etc., b) knit back what had unraveled, as best as possible, and c) two days to darn the 12 inch by 6 inch remaining hole. The craftsmanship is fine, but, boy, oh, boy does the darn stick out like a thick, sore thumb. Bunny, however, is delighted. I may finally be over the throbbing headache that accompanied it.
Then the Doodle came to me after dinner one night, as I was meditating over a new sock, and announced (I think I have a family of budding Walter Kronkites – they announce stuff rather than just casually mentioning it) that he needed a new sweater. I asked him about the two sweaters I made him two years ago, which were very handsome -- made with doubled sock yarn for warmth and durability, and in masculine variegated blues, which he had been wearing quite happily up until his announcement. He said they didn’t fit any more, and I made him try one on.
He was right. He looked like Pappy Yoakum, with his belly showing and most of his lower arms sticking out. The width was still fine, though. I said, “Holy Crap! When did you grow so much?” He laughed and said he didn’t know and could he please take off the sweater since it made his armpits feel funny. Aaargh. So, he got measured up for a new sweater. The durned kid has pretty much grown three inches beyond the limits of the previous sweater in all vertical zones. We picked out a yarn, and I swatched and cast on. And, no, he doesn’t want any fancy stitches or stripes or patterns, he just wants a plain John Doe sweater made by Mom. That’s OK, everyone needs a little mindless TV knitting.
Then there’s Being On Hold, which should be a paid job. Or, I should at least get extremely valuable discount coupons because I think I’ve spent 24 solid hours either talking to people in India or touch-toning my way through corporate phone labyrinths over the last two weeks in order to: update two Tracfones, get a monstrously wrong electric bill straightened out, make a consumer complaint on a product, and making an inquiry on one of my Dad’s bills. I dozed off at the dining room table twice while waiting on hold, lulled to sleep by the sound of an electronic female telling me how important my call was.
Last night, I woke up from my unintentional nap on the couch, at 8:30, to the startling realization that the only clean pants I had were the ones I was wearing, so I headed down to the laundry room, where there was another startling discovery. My family decided to show me how much they’ll miss me by saving up all their laundry until the night before my departure. It’s piled on a waist high counter to a height over my head, and stretching about 7 feet wide. There were throw rugs, robes, uncountable towels, and, of course, all of my pants in there. I quirked an eyebrow at the mountain of pong, fished out a couple pairs of my and Bunny’s pants, and threw them in the wash. I did the same thing with underwear and shirts this morning. The rest of it can wait for me to get back, or for the weight of the laundry to turn the socks into diamonds; I don’t care. They all know where to find the soap and turn the dials.
So, I’m off to WeeM. I may never leave the room because I’ll be enjoying the hot water, the lack of phone duty, and the laundry being someone else’s business. Hope to see some of you there, and, if not, have a hot bath and a great weekend on my behalf!
Then, let’s see, it was let the dog out every two hours so she didn’t pizzle in my house, I had another 504 meeting for my youngest, and he had a dentist’s appointment and a med. Management appointment; I had four bouts of volunteer tutoring, two rounds of extended length private tutoring in German (excellent adult learner, though, which is cool), and one afternoon Spawn came home to announce that he was going to legally change his first name.
I could have gotten all worked up about it, but I decided that it was probably better than getting a strange piercing or obscene tattoo, so I smiled and asked what his new name would be. He wouldn’t tell me. So, I’ve been calling him “Spot” or “Fluffy” or “Lars” in the hopes of irking him into telling me. So far, no luck. My husband has not reacted calmly, even though Spawn fully intends on keeping the family name. Being a whimsical teenaged boy, Spawn didn’t do his homework and found out it would take six weeks to legally change his name, would involve a lawyer, a fee, and publication in the newspaper. We haven’t heard much about it since then.
And then there’s knit stuff:
About 10 years ago, I made my daughter a “hot damn” afghan from a pattern on the Knitlist. It involved multiple strands of thin yarn, size 35 needles, and muscles like Conan in order to tame the yarn and needles and wrassle them into compliance. I swore, silently, that I would never make another one, and, of course, it’s Bunny’s cherished blankie. Well, between 10 years of daily use and one new dogette, the afghan developed a huge, scary, tangled hole in the middle, and then somewhere midway between middle and end, in each direction, the yarn failed and there were two splits. Bunny wanted the afghan fixed. She moped; she stuck out her lip, she said encouraging words.
I bit my tongue, yet still managed to offer to make her a brand new one. She cried and said she just wanted the old one fixed. I pointed out there was no way I could ever hope to match the yarns again, showed her the only possible yarn I have which I could use to fix it, in the hopes of getting her to agree to a new afghan instead. She perked up and said they’d be fine; that she didn’t mind if her blankie had battle scars. So, I gave in.
And I began darning, and darning, and darning. The two splits weren’t a problem, but that big danged hole in the middle took me, well, several days to build up the courage to deal with it, then four days to – a) untangle the mess and find out what was split, missing, etc., b) knit back what had unraveled, as best as possible, and c) two days to darn the 12 inch by 6 inch remaining hole. The craftsmanship is fine, but, boy, oh, boy does the darn stick out like a thick, sore thumb. Bunny, however, is delighted. I may finally be over the throbbing headache that accompanied it.
Then the Doodle came to me after dinner one night, as I was meditating over a new sock, and announced (I think I have a family of budding Walter Kronkites – they announce stuff rather than just casually mentioning it) that he needed a new sweater. I asked him about the two sweaters I made him two years ago, which were very handsome -- made with doubled sock yarn for warmth and durability, and in masculine variegated blues, which he had been wearing quite happily up until his announcement. He said they didn’t fit any more, and I made him try one on.
He was right. He looked like Pappy Yoakum, with his belly showing and most of his lower arms sticking out. The width was still fine, though. I said, “Holy Crap! When did you grow so much?” He laughed and said he didn’t know and could he please take off the sweater since it made his armpits feel funny. Aaargh. So, he got measured up for a new sweater. The durned kid has pretty much grown three inches beyond the limits of the previous sweater in all vertical zones. We picked out a yarn, and I swatched and cast on. And, no, he doesn’t want any fancy stitches or stripes or patterns, he just wants a plain John Doe sweater made by Mom. That’s OK, everyone needs a little mindless TV knitting.
Then there’s Being On Hold, which should be a paid job. Or, I should at least get extremely valuable discount coupons because I think I’ve spent 24 solid hours either talking to people in India or touch-toning my way through corporate phone labyrinths over the last two weeks in order to: update two Tracfones, get a monstrously wrong electric bill straightened out, make a consumer complaint on a product, and making an inquiry on one of my Dad’s bills. I dozed off at the dining room table twice while waiting on hold, lulled to sleep by the sound of an electronic female telling me how important my call was.
Last night, I woke up from my unintentional nap on the couch, at 8:30, to the startling realization that the only clean pants I had were the ones I was wearing, so I headed down to the laundry room, where there was another startling discovery. My family decided to show me how much they’ll miss me by saving up all their laundry until the night before my departure. It’s piled on a waist high counter to a height over my head, and stretching about 7 feet wide. There were throw rugs, robes, uncountable towels, and, of course, all of my pants in there. I quirked an eyebrow at the mountain of pong, fished out a couple pairs of my and Bunny’s pants, and threw them in the wash. I did the same thing with underwear and shirts this morning. The rest of it can wait for me to get back, or for the weight of the laundry to turn the socks into diamonds; I don’t care. They all know where to find the soap and turn the dials.
So, I’m off to WeeM. I may never leave the room because I’ll be enjoying the hot water, the lack of phone duty, and the laundry being someone else’s business. Hope to see some of you there, and, if not, have a hot bath and a great weekend on my behalf!
Friday, October 12, 2007
Five Completely Dumb Things I’ve Done...
…in no particular order
1. When I was a kid, despite knowing I should stay away from electrical outlets, I still tried to plug my plastic iron’s plastic cord in, just in case (also, don’t put me near signs that say “Wet Paint”). When I got up off the floor, with my hair sticking straight up and a snootful of electrically fried plastic smell, I decided that maybe staying away from electrical outlets would be a good general principle after all.
2. I took a driving test in a car that was really amazingly awful. The horn didn’t work, so I had a rubber ducky that I used as a horn. My three-point turn, because of stiff steering bits, was more of a five point and big smile at the examiner turn. It wouldn’t go over 45 miles per hour without shimmying and making scary clunking noises. The headlights chose their own brightness, pretty whimsically, which made night driving extra spicy. I passed the test, though. Maybe the examiner just wanted to get the hell out of the scary car with the dangerously perky (it was a sham; I was embarrassed and scared shitless) driver.
3. I sat in a train station in Paris and pelted pigeons with dried chunks of baguette. I was frustrated and hungry, and the damned baguette was inedibly hard. Even the Parisian pigeons snubbed it. I beaned one big b*stard pretty hard in its tiny head and got cussed at (in lovely French) by an old lady.
4. In high school, my best friend and I went to see a sci-fi movie. When we bought our tickets, the clerk looked at us funny, and pointed us to the correct theater (one of three). We were a little late, so we squinched into some seats in the back so we wouldn’t disturb people. We watched the screen for a few minutes and realized that a whole lot of people were having a lot of sloppy sex. My friend poked me and said, “I thought this was going to be a sci-fi movie”. I said, “Maybe it’s alien sex. Maybe it’ll be over soon.” We decided to tough out the alien sex until a few seats away we heard a guy, well, you know, doing the Pee Wee Herman thing. We looked at each other in embarrassment and left. We checked the marquee; it was supposed to be the sci-fi movie. We asked the clerk, and he said we’d gone in the wrong theater, but we hadn’t – the sci-fi movie was listed on the sex movie theater. So, in the spirit of adventure, my friend and I went back in and watched the porn. It was yucky, and we were the only girls in there, which was also yucky. The sci-fi movie was next, but we left halfway through because we were still stunned and kind of numb from the porn, so we headed for a coffee shop and spent a lot of time looking at each other in VERY BRIGHT LIGHT, drinking coffee and saying, “Well…Holy shit.”
5. I got very, very drunk in my late teens, and spent the night at my stepbrother’s house. His wife took in stray animals, and I woke up covered in cats. I thought I was hallucinating, or having the dt’s or something. I got up to go wee and had to pry cats off my head, my neck and my arms. When I sat down on the throne, thinking I was in a fur-free zone, the window clicked. I looked up, and there was a cat, sitting in the window, watching me wee. I had to scrape cats off my pillow to get back in bed, and the sound of all that purring and scratching totally freaked out my still-drunk self. I have not gotten snockered since, and I don’t have any cats. I wonder why?
Here’s to a wiser weekend!
1. When I was a kid, despite knowing I should stay away from electrical outlets, I still tried to plug my plastic iron’s plastic cord in, just in case (also, don’t put me near signs that say “Wet Paint”). When I got up off the floor, with my hair sticking straight up and a snootful of electrically fried plastic smell, I decided that maybe staying away from electrical outlets would be a good general principle after all.
2. I took a driving test in a car that was really amazingly awful. The horn didn’t work, so I had a rubber ducky that I used as a horn. My three-point turn, because of stiff steering bits, was more of a five point and big smile at the examiner turn. It wouldn’t go over 45 miles per hour without shimmying and making scary clunking noises. The headlights chose their own brightness, pretty whimsically, which made night driving extra spicy. I passed the test, though. Maybe the examiner just wanted to get the hell out of the scary car with the dangerously perky (it was a sham; I was embarrassed and scared shitless) driver.
3. I sat in a train station in Paris and pelted pigeons with dried chunks of baguette. I was frustrated and hungry, and the damned baguette was inedibly hard. Even the Parisian pigeons snubbed it. I beaned one big b*stard pretty hard in its tiny head and got cussed at (in lovely French) by an old lady.
4. In high school, my best friend and I went to see a sci-fi movie. When we bought our tickets, the clerk looked at us funny, and pointed us to the correct theater (one of three). We were a little late, so we squinched into some seats in the back so we wouldn’t disturb people. We watched the screen for a few minutes and realized that a whole lot of people were having a lot of sloppy sex. My friend poked me and said, “I thought this was going to be a sci-fi movie”. I said, “Maybe it’s alien sex. Maybe it’ll be over soon.” We decided to tough out the alien sex until a few seats away we heard a guy, well, you know, doing the Pee Wee Herman thing. We looked at each other in embarrassment and left. We checked the marquee; it was supposed to be the sci-fi movie. We asked the clerk, and he said we’d gone in the wrong theater, but we hadn’t – the sci-fi movie was listed on the sex movie theater. So, in the spirit of adventure, my friend and I went back in and watched the porn. It was yucky, and we were the only girls in there, which was also yucky. The sci-fi movie was next, but we left halfway through because we were still stunned and kind of numb from the porn, so we headed for a coffee shop and spent a lot of time looking at each other in VERY BRIGHT LIGHT, drinking coffee and saying, “Well…Holy shit.”
5. I got very, very drunk in my late teens, and spent the night at my stepbrother’s house. His wife took in stray animals, and I woke up covered in cats. I thought I was hallucinating, or having the dt’s or something. I got up to go wee and had to pry cats off my head, my neck and my arms. When I sat down on the throne, thinking I was in a fur-free zone, the window clicked. I looked up, and there was a cat, sitting in the window, watching me wee. I had to scrape cats off my pillow to get back in bed, and the sound of all that purring and scratching totally freaked out my still-drunk self. I have not gotten snockered since, and I don’t have any cats. I wonder why?
Here’s to a wiser weekend!
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