Archive | September, 2009

Shoe In… Or Shoe Out?

30 Sep
Yeah, whatever, I know I'm too old for these.

Yeah, whatever, I know I'm too old for these.

 

I have a little bit of a weakness for unexpected shoes. Tonight, saw these Ed Hardy shoes. Wanted these. Dismissed these as “age inappropriate.” Went back to visit them on the shelf again. Tweeted. Weighed opinions.

Like Nicole, who said “don’t make me call you a douchebaguette.”

Jennifer first advised that I look for Stuart Weitzmann instead, then said “those are so you.”

Another tweeting friend asked where I got them and would I care if she copied me.

And Bren helpfully informed me,  ”You know there’s a whole song called “Eff Ed Hardy.”

Then I bought the shoes.

And now, because the audience participation is so much fun and I want to try a poll, why don’t you vote?

But guess what. Here’s what I’m figuring out about myself after 4 decades here. Regardless of your votes cast here today, I love the shoes. I will unapologetically wear the shoes. Be fine with that, or not. It’s cool either way.

Teacher Conference Translator

29 Sep

It’s that time of year again. The morning air begins to feel crisp with the coolness of fall. The lights of the football stadium shine like a beacon on Friday nights. Pumpkins start appearing on porches.

And of course, one day, you open your child’s backpack, and there it is. The scheduled time for your parent-teacher conference. Oh, the excitement. Time to squeeze into tiny children’s desks, sit across from the smiling teacher. You know, the one who has secretly already judged your parenting skills?

I’ve become somewhat of an expert in these, with one child completely through elementary school, and a second getting there. Oh please Lord, let him be getting there. Plus, in another year, I will be the one on the teacher side of the desk, and I’ve already had some of the top-secret teacher language classes.

So here, in plain English, is a simple teacher-to-parent translator for some of the common things you might hear.

1. “Your child is certainly very high-spirited!” Your child behaves like a Chihuahua whose morning breakfast routine consists of  drinking an entire case of Red Bull and then gobbling down a bowl of M&Ms. Seriously. I can’t mention ADD or medication, because that counts as a diagnosis and then the district would be on the hook for your kids’ treatment, but get some drugs.

2. “He/She does seem to have some focus problems.” Seriously. Ritalin, Concentra? Ever considered them?  Can you sign this waiver saying it’s OK for me to duct tape your child to the chair? Please?

3. “Tell me about your morning routine at home.” Are you guys eating crack for breakfast or what? My initial thought was that your child was being raised by wolves, but now that I see you’re human, I’m guessing illegal drugs may be the issue.

4. “Let’s go over some test scores.” Look, I wish I could get to know your child as an individual and focus on his or her specific talents and dreams. But let’s face it, because of this moronic ” No Child Left Behind” crap, at the end of the day, the issue that really matters is “Will your child pass the standardized test?”

5. ”We are not teaching to the test.”  Well, not the actual test, since the state testing board keeps those pretty secure. But we will be doing so many practice benchmarks that your child will go to sleep dreaming of filling in circles. When you go out for donuts, he will stuff his napkin in the center hole.

6. “Your child is certainly socially advanced.” You’re aware that your kid’s in a gang, right? Those bandanas are not for “Cowboy Day.”

7. “Your child certainly has an advanced vocabulary.” Not all children can conjugate the F-word into all its various verb forms. The added use of non-verbal hand motions to make meaning clear is also impressive.

8. “Little XXXX is one of the reasons I am thankful to be a teacher.” Every day, when he gets on the bus and drives home, I fall to my knees praising Jesus, Mohammed and Buddha that I have made it through another day and get 3 months off in the summer. Have a nice day.”

Shhh. It Happens

28 Sep

We were so close, weren’t we? The whole posting every day thing? On a veritable roll. Then, *woosh!*

So I need to closely examine the reasons for the derailment: fear of failure, fear of success, writer’s block, commitment phobia? I  wrestled with them all, and here’s what it comes down to:

Poop.

Lots and lots of poop. Please stop reading now if you’re of a delicate constitution. Poop in many forms, none of them welcoming. Poop in many places, none of them appropriate. Poop, poop, poop. And the contributing harmony of barf. Barf to be analyzed and discussed in detail as it was searched for clues.

You see, last Monday, our little Jack Russell terrier, Bailey, went in to have her girly parts removed. Now, we have owned many pets (or, if you are with PETA, have “shared our lives and hearts with many companion animals.”), and all of them have gone through the spay and/or neuter process.

But Bailey’s initial bloodwork showed some tricky liver enzyme levels, so we expected it might be a tougher ride than usual. The vet did all sorts of things to make it easier, but we still brought home one stoned little puppy Monday night. Tuesday, she seemed a little better. Wednesday morning, better still.

And then, I went to drop something off at my daughter’s school and left her crate door open.

I returned home 30 minutes later, and found, from foyer to back door, a veritable minefield of bodily fluids. It was if  someone had turned a poo-filled blender onto “liquefy” and then left the cap off.  Bailey stood, staring at me unblinkingly. Given her size in relation to the size of the disaster, I am certain she had to be completely hollow. Y’all, things happened to my floors that Dick Cheney wouldn’t approve for prisoners at Guatanamo Bay.

I gagged and cleaned and gagged and cleaned and called the vet and then gagged and cleaned some more.

The medicine they gave her Wednesday didn’t work, she went on a hunger strike, and by Thursday night, when I HAD A MID-TERM, I was completely frantic.

Finally, a second round of medicine kicked in, the poo-storm subsided, and now, she’s fine. My Bissell steamer and my psyche are recovering, albeit more slowly.

So the moral to this story? Sometimes crap really does get in the way of our best intentions.

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