I have, in the past, used some of the gift card money to make classroom purchases. I always wonder if that was the intent with which it was given. Regardless, this year I am grateful beyond words.
I work for a school that has a particularly generous family community. Every year that I teach, I am astounded by the number of gifts that I receive in December and again in June. Over the years, gift cards have become the item I receive the most. I don't remember whether I gave gifts to the teachers when my own children were in school. I don't think I had the financial resources to do so, and I hope those teachers didn't feel they were any less worthy of acknowledgement of the time, energy and love I know was expended to help my kids be the best they could be. This year, I was gifted with so many Amazon cards that I bought my husband a Fit Bit for Father's Day. Some of the families might have preferred that I spent the money on myself. I will; I have enough for the Fit Bit AND for a new pair of Danskos, which are the only brand that don't make my feet or back hurt when I am standing in the classroom all day. Giving my husband the Fit Bit is also a gift for me. He desperately needs to get his weight down, and this particular method of incentive works for him. Getting to a healthy size will take him several years, but if he is successful, it will be life-changing for both of us in many ways.
I have, in the past, used some of the gift card money to make classroom purchases. I always wonder if that was the intent with which it was given. Regardless, this year I am grateful beyond words.
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Today was get-the-emissions-tests-done day. My car and my daughter's are both listed with my name first on the registration; my husband's and my son's are listed with his first. That way we don't have to pay for all the registrations and emissions tests at one time. I made the mistake of offering to get the emissions done for the daughter since she is on her own timetable. I am not sure how to describe my reaction when I opened the door of her car to get in. It was filthy. I mean, yuck. She's not a tidy person by nature, so I'm not sure what I was expecting, but...yuck. This led me to wonder how people treat their cars differently. Mine is clean, no extraneous "stuff" at all has taken up residence since I graduated from the mini-van. I drove that car until it died. I would be driving it still if the transmission hadn't vacated the premises, metaphorically, I mean. When the kids were younger I kept a lot of "just in case" items. Food, water, toys, pre-electronic entertainment, wipes. I had containers to control the spread o' stuff. Cute netted bags hanging from the headrests, trash containers, front and back. I can't tolerate using the floorboard as a trash bin. If my father saw my daughter's car, he would shake his head and walk away. As it is, he's probably rolling over in his grave with embarrassment. "Not MY granddaughter!" I imagine him booming. My father was raised in Cleveland by my grandfather who sold used cars for a living. Living in Ohio mid-century cemented the automobile as a status symbol and work of art in Dad's mind. His series of vehicles was absolutely immaculate. Every Sunday, he washed and waxed them, treated the tires with some kind of spray to make them shiny, cleaned the interior, even though it was already clean. His vehicle of choice varied with his salary. As he was able to afford a "better" car, he would trade up. I think his favorite was the 98 Olds, but he also loved my mother's Gold Cutlass Supreme (2nd generation, for you car enthusiasts) soft-top convertible. It was used once in a parade, and they were able to purchase it as a used car as a result, but it was still new. It had a heck of an engine and drank gas like water. My mother held onto that car for years, even after it needed expensive repairs. She had planned to give it to my brother, but when he packed up and moved to Colorado without warning, she decided that he didn't need the car in the Rocky Mountains and sold it. She, too, is oddly obsessive about her cars. She frets when a bird finds her hood a suitable target, washing it as soon as she is able to get to water. There is not a speck of anything on the carpet or seats, with the exception of (roll your eyes here) her dog's hair. Teacup Malteses have beautiful silken hair, but she keeps her dog trimmed in a puppy cut, so the strands are minimal. My husband's car is packed full with everything he might need in the apocalypse. I'm not kidding. See for yourself: You might think some of this is work related. Nope. He works out of the house. Why does he have a hanging rod in the car? I know where you are going with this, but no, he doesn't spend the night in other places. He's at home EVERY NIGHT, unless he travels for work, but that usually requires packing and an airplane. I wonder where he puts his suitcase.
That little green container on the right? It contains all possible connectors you might need - USB, micro, mini. See the case of water in the plastic crate? He still takes a huge plastic cup of ice water with him every time he is in the car. What's with the blanket? WE LIVE IN THE SOUTH!!! Believe it or not, there is more (crap) stuff in the front and back seats. Any time we take his car somewhere, he has to move the ridiculous organizer he keeps on the front passenger seat. But the car is clean. It is a 13 year old car that is nearly spotless. So what is it about our personality types that makes us treat our cars differently? I will say that how my son and daughter keep their respective rooms is similar to how they care for their cars. I stopped fighting the "clean your room" battle long ago. We keep the doors closed for my sanity. My mother's house is clean, the bed always made. I don't think my kids will ever value cars the way my father did. They won't make the bed, either. To them, it a car is a necessary evil of living in a city with the world's worst public transportation. As long as it is reliable, they don't care much about it. I guess I just won't go anywhere with them unless they either get rid of the schmutz or hide it under a drop cloth so I can't see it. We could take my car, but I'd have to check their shoes first. I committed to myself and to the #TeachWrite community that I would provide an update on how I am doing with my daily writing habit. Because I had no intention other than to write daily, I'd say I've met my goal this week. Sometimes I wrote online, other times in a pocket notebook I carry with me everywhere as my adjunct hard drive, and also in a spiral notebook, which is how I used to complete my journaling years ago. I think I stopped when I got tired of venting. The stress in my life ratcheted up several notches, and has stayed at that level for the last five years. I'm not sure that I have adapted to it; I just take one day at a time. I remind myself that I wouldn't want someone else's troubles, and they wouldn't want mine. Writing, however, as well as painting, have been off the menu for some time. I am feeling the crunch of the economy's impact on the lower tax brackets and the effect of belonging to the sandwich generation simultaneously. But now it is summer, and the time that I typically need for keeping up with grading and schoolwork is mine again. So I can write. Today in my email was a teaser for Pinterest that included vintage lunch boxes. I think I know why the algorithm sent this to me, but the computer codes don't know me or my life very well. Several months ago, I attempted to make an articulated horse for my niece's birthday. What's an articulated horse, you ask? You can see one here: puppet . I think, when I was searching for the designs, Pinterest incorrectly assumed I have a love of nostalgia. One of the images in the teaser was a Barbie lunch box. If you are of a certain age, you would remember this. What struck me is that I didn't have the lunch box, but I did have a box for my dance shoes that was close in construction. Tap shoes in the top, ballet shoes in the side snap compartment. I think my color choices were black or pink. I'm pretty certain I had a pink one until it fell apart, then I switched to black. It is the size, shape, and strap that so closely resemble the Barbie lunch box of that time period. Then, as is so often the case, I fell down a rabbit hole looking at all the photos of kid-stuff from that era (thank you, Alice, for the metaphor -- or to be more accurate, thank you Lewis Carroll*). I had so much of what was on the page, from the little ballerina music box to the game Operation. My parents were social climbers. They did what everyone else did, especially when it came to their children. I took dance lessons because that's what one did, if one were a girl. My brother, of blessed memory, played baseball. My father bowled. Competitively. My mother was a housewife who played mah jongg. They both smoked incessantly.
I was a quirky, solitary kid. I didn't fit in anywhere. Many people say this, but for me it is truth. It is still truth. I danced for 18 years, but I was neither graceful nor particularly athletic. I danced because my mother tried to live her dream of being a Rockette through me. She was too short. I had no interest in being a professional dancer, but dance I did. I smiled, I twirled, I was en pointe. I hated it. I was raised to be compliant, and all the dancing kept my weight in check at a time when frozen TV dinners, dessert with every meal, and sugar-laden cereals for breakfast were America's diet. Eventually, I became a phenomenal tap dancer. I now know that the percussive nature of tap dancing is why I excelled. Once in a while, I think about going to adult tap classes for exercise. Then I see the price and think, "Maybe next year." Falling in line with my parent's expectations had a dramatic effect on my own style as a parent. I was determined to let my own children find their way in the world, to find their passion, to be authentic. I have succeeded. They are both young adults trying to make a living doing what brings them joy. It is both challenging and exasperating for all of us. The creative arts don't pay well. They are both trying to survive in a gig economy, without the safety net of a full time job that offers some semblance of health care. Who's dancing now? *Lewis Carroll's given name was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, for all you potential Jeopardy champions. I have made my summer goal (not that I need to have one) to write every day. So far, I have succeeded, but not in the way I anticipated. I imagined the only "authentic" way to be on a yellow legal pad, longhand. Of course, typing on a keyboard is more efficient, but I can't escape the desire for the romantic summer notion of pen and paper, light streaming in the dormer window of the writer's nook...that I don't have.
My life-long dream to publish a book remains elusive. I actually did self-publish a series of writings I completed over the course of several years. In the days before blogs and blog posts, I used to send a "Monday Message" to a lengthy list of friends and relatives. In it were my musings of life. Observations of daily survival in a first world country intertwined with my 'keep it positive' mentality seemed to resonate with others. Eventually, I compiled a large number of these into a volume and had it bound as a birthday gift for a dear friend who seemed to treasure the missives. I kept a copy for myself. I think it is in the bottom drawer of my nightstand, or maybe not. It didn't seem like a real book when I was the one who paid for it to be printed. It doesn't have an ISBN. I also have several children's book manuscripts somewhere. Or maybe I threw them out. I got tired of the rejection letters. At the same time, I am helping my daughter through the process of finding an agent for her fantasy YA novel. She spent over ten years writing and revising it. I edited. We had librarians read it. They were supportive. I found her a young first readers group. They loved it and want to know what happens next. Someday, the book will be published. I can feel it. Every author I have ever read or heard speak on the topic of publishing a book says, "Just write." So I am. Today I am just writing. I have no idea where my voice will lead me this summer, but you are welcome to follow along. Perhaps someday in the not-too-distant future, I will be able to say that on this day, I began the journey of a lifetime. |
Thinking Aloud/AllowedI am a thinker, an analyzer, a searcher of meaning. These are my musings as I piece together my understanding of the world I inhabit. Archives
July 2019
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