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Unknown's avatar

The Dog Ate my Homework

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“Let’s see everybody’s homework today.”

Uh oh… I did something. Something that I had never done before. “What could it possibly be?” you’re wondering. Snake handling? Speaking in tongues? Hamster juggling?

Well, it’s really more like something I didn’t do. My homework.

I DID NOT DO MY PHOTOGRAPHY HOMEWORK.

There. I said it.

Maybe this photography thing is going to me more difficult than I thought. The assignment was really difficult and my pictures sucked. What was the assignment? I had to take pictures of four different types of motion. It’s harder than it sounds.

No way was I going to share my suckiest-suck-that-ever-sucked pictures so they could be used as examples of ‘what not to do’.

When it was time for show and tell, my stomach twisted into knots and my heart pounded. Confession time. Once I laid my soul bare, the instructor moved on like it was no big deal. Huh. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. I paid for the class so why would she really care if some bored suburban housewife wanted to waste $130?

Why do I get myself so worked up? It’s a curse.

Then, the instructor turned to Mr. Picture-Perfect and said, “I’m sure you want to show us your pictures first.”

Background on Mr. PP: For our first class he shows up with a kick-ass camera, a camera backpack, multiple lenses, a tripod, etc. Either he’s an overachieving geek (like me – I was ALWAYS the kid that always showed up with all of my binders, books, pencils, erasers, rulers and protractor on the first day of school) or in the wrong class. This class is called Fundamentals of Photography which, I guess,  is better than Picture-taking for Idiots.  It’s designed for those that need help turning their cameras on. The first class is mainly devoted to labeling all of the buttons on your camera, including the ON/OFF button.

As the class progresses, I realize that he knows way more than he should for a Picture-taking for Idiots student. I’m starting to get suspicious. Then, the instructor gives us our homework assignment and she stresses that she does NOT want us to edit our pictures. We should “edit” our pictures as we are taking them. Basically editing = cheating. That seems fair.

Then, Mr. PP says, “I only take my pictures in RAW.”

Musings flying through my head at the speed of thought: Did I hear him correctly? He only takes in pictures in the nude? Why is he sharing that? It shouldn’t really have an impact on the assignment. Oh, wait. She does want three pictures taken outside – I guess taking his pictures in the RAW could be a stumbling block for this part of the assignment unless he has forgiving neighbors.

Observing the Say What? looks on our faces, the instructor proceeds to explain that RAW is a format setting on our cameras. Only professionals use this setting because when you take pictures in this format, each picture needs to be edited separately and you need to know what you’re doing. Okay, that’s cool. Hey, wait a doggone minute. What is this guy doing in our class and taking up precious class time on non-beginner stuff? Now I’m just irritated. At the least the instructor shut him down and told him that he would have to slum it with the rest of us and let the camera process his pictures. Take that Teacher’s Pet!

Now, back to the original story:  He blushed and shyly said, “Sure. I can go first.”

Whatever.

Okay, his pictures were awesome. Yes, he’s a good photographer. My point is why is he in our novice class? To make us feel even worse about our camera abilities? He should be in a couple of classes ahead of this one. He’s the fun-sucker. I know, I know. I need to just grow up, put my big girl panties on and act like I’m happy we have two instructors instead of one. More bang for the buck, so-to-speak. Yay!

Once the show and tell of the movement pictures was completed, our third lesson began. Aperture was the topic. We were going over the aperture setting on our cameras and I had trouble locating mine. She looked at my camera and found it for me. Then, I’m like “What’s this number four over here to the right? It doesn’t seem to change.” I offered her my camera, she studiously looked at it and then shrugged her shoulders. Without asking, she shared my camera with Mr. PP and he looked perplexed. Then, lightbulb! They conferred in secret and clearly uncovered the mystery. I looked at them searchingly and  they both blurted, “You don’t need to know that.” What? It’s my F@%$ing camera! Will you have to kill me if you tell me? Is the information over my head? Why does Mr. PP get a say in what I need to know?

Fine. Whatever. Uncharacteristically, I just let it go. It’s in the manual somewhere and I will find it.

The instructor may have been subliminally trying to convey to me that I needed to go back to using my awesome Kodak Disc Camera that I got in high school (and still own) because I will never be able to use a real camera. But, I’m going to ignore it.

Don’t worry. The fourth (and final) class is next week and I’m going to do my best to take some ass-kicking pictures. I will update my Flickr account with them so you can check out my awesomeness.

Take that, Mr. PP!

Unknown's avatar

No More Pretending

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I’m wallowing. I’m sad and I’m tired of pretending like I’m okay. Why do we have to pretend? I’m sick of it.

My firstborn, my baby is graduating high school this May (in about 6 weeks) and I feel like I’m drowning.

Oh, okay. I see how it is.  I’ve lost some of you already. I can tell by the sighing. Well, good riddance. I didn’t need you anyway.

For those of you that have chosen to stay, I’m tired of hearing:

“This is a part of life.”

You mean like dying and taxes?

“We all go through it.”

We all went through puberty and I don’t remember that life experience being all that great.”

“You will be fine once she leaves.”

Huh?

“It’s what you’ve been training her for her whole life.”

What? I don’t get this one. You train for a marathon, not life.

“You’ve done a great job with her, she will be fine.”

Again, what? She’s not a dog I’ve trained to win ‘Best in Show’.

I worked full-time outside the home until 2005, so I know the twisted torment of dropping off your kids to be cared for by others. That internal struggle of wanting a bigger life for myself while also wanting to do the best for my kids was a battle I fought every day. I had finally come to peace with it until Rachel entered first grade. Nothing prepared me for her first day of school.

She was so cute with her backpack, her bob haircut with bangs and her big, trusting blue eyes. The elementary stood there glaring at me – it was the very same elementary I had attended (better memories was my hope for her). We stormed through those doors with purpose looking for Mrs. Baker’s class. After a few minutes, we found it.  A little anxious for Rachel, I began to fawn over her by messing with her backpack and asking her if she was okay. Then, we found her classroom. Without pause, she looked at me and said, “Mommy, here is my class.”

And, off she went. She marched into that classroom and never looked back. She left me dangling in that hallway with my reassuring mommy wave and smile. It was wasted because she never turned around. No hugs, no kisses, no formal good-byes. She was ready and I was not.

Trying not to look devastated (I had braced myself for clinging and some drama), I gave a nod to the other parents hanging around Mrs. Baker’s door. This nod attempted to convey these thoughts:

“I meant for her to do that.”

“My parenting is clearly without equal.”

“Just look at her, she is so ready for school.”

“She will leave your kid in a dust cloud.”

I sobbed for the entire commute to my office. However, I eventually recovered and moved on because, well, I had to. She adjusted beautifully and there was really nothing I could do about it.

It seems we did a helluva job with this one because, in addition to being a mature and loving young lady, she is graduating with a 3.6 GPA and a sizeable scholarship from the college of her dreams.

Despite myself and because of my husband, we actually have raised three kids that like being near each other and have fun together. All five us eat dinner together at the table whenever humanly possible and it’s wonderful and very Cleaverish. Ray has the goofiest sense of humor, tells stories that are only funny to her and eats everything I cook no matter what. Like the front tooth that disappears from a child’s smile, she will leave big gap at the table. We don’t know how to be a family of four.

Chicago in August will be tough. When we drop her off at her at her freshman dorm, she will very likely say, ” Well, here’s my room” and confidently walk into that new life without looking back.

And, I will sob all the way home.

Unknown's avatar

Wishes for the Summer of 1980

by

The other evening, I was going through my junior high yearbook (our jr. high was 6th thru 9th) looking for a name for a story that I’m writing. Specifically, I was perusing my Freshman yearbook (1979-80). Going through the pages of this of brittle, worn and slightly discolored photo collection made me smile and cringe at the same time (if that’s possible). More cringe and less smile, really. If I was brave enough, I would show you my picture. It is the last official school picture of me in braces.

After I found the sought-after name, I just could not resist and had to read all of the yearbook scribblings. They were funny, sweet, purposeful, meaningless, generic, sincere and timeless. I also skimmed over many empty “Call me‘s” and “Let’s get together‘s” and “Good luck next year‘s” which are standard fare in any yearbook.

Just for you, dear readers, I have chosen a few personal messages written especially for me by my young, hopeful, Sophomore-to-be peers. These notes are “as written” for your unedited pleasure. The names are missing or bogus in order to protect the innocent and to prevent embarrassment (mostly mine). Here we go . . . .

Jenny, I wish I could have been better friends than last year or this year but theres always next year. Jenny, I seriously hope I see you this summer. I have to go but I’ll never forget you. Take it easy alright. Love,  Asswipe Smith (9th grade boy)

This entry is on the FRONT cover of my Freshman yearbook. What does it even mean? Where does he have to go? If you wanted me so badly, why didn’t you call me or send your friend over to find out if I liked you?! He didn’t even spell my name correctly (it’s Jenni). Did he write this same drivel in every girl’s yearbook? What a dickwad. Really.

Jenni, You’re a great person, student and friend! You’ll be sucessful in anything that you decide to do! I’m really gonna miss your cute face this summer, so keep in touch! Have a wonderful summer and freshman year! Love Always, Hope Sunshine! (9th grade girl)

Lots of exclaiming here! Oh, and by the way, we will all be Sophomores next year, not Freshmen! She must have been too excited for the summer to think straight because as I  recall, she was a very smart girl!

Jenni, We’ve had fun in Spanish. Really weird & crazy! Lots of Luck in the future & have gobs of fun this summer! Love, Fiesta Burrito (9th grade girl)

Gobs (tee, hee) – that word makes me giggle. When was the last time you heard it? You know, I wish I could remember that weird and crazy Spanish class. It must have been one helluva class since that’s all she could think of to comment on in my yearbook.

Jennifer, To the girl I thought was a boy. My 1st real romance. I’ll always remember you and I hope you’ll remember me. Hope I see ya’ this summer. Good Luck Next Year!!! Love Always, First Crush (9th grade boy)

In his defense, I didn’t get my bosoms until every other girl got hers first (it was touch and go for a while). And, when we first met, I had a rockin’ Dorothy Hamill haircut that was complemented by my tomboyish demeanor. It could explain the ‘boy’ thing. Oh, and I do still remember him.

Jenni, I don’t have much time. Math was pretty fun. Katerina’s bugging me. Good Luck next year + in everything you do. I know I will see you this summer. Love, Harry Hormone (9th grade boy)

This one just struck me as very strange. I guess I should just consider myself lucky that he had time to write anything at all. If it hadn’t been for that bitch, Katerina, he would have had time to pour his heart out to me in a long, well-written sonnet.

Last one,

Jenni, We only went out twice, (thanks to you) but I had a very nice time with you. Your such a sweet girl. I hope to see you alot this summer. Have a nice Summer and good luck next year. Love Always, Prisoner of Love (9th grade boy)

I’m pretty sure he’s in jail now, so it was a good thing we only had two dates, don’t you think?

Enough of my special notes and odes to a joyful summer. This trip down Puberty Lane makes you want to go get your yearbook, doesn’t it? What are your favorite ones?

Unknown's avatar

An Evening with a Critic

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A couple of nights ago, I attended a small gathering at a local university where we were treated to an evening with Maud Newton who happens to be a highly respected book critic, author and blogger. A friend of mine who is in the MFA program at this university invited me to attend and I was very delighted she did.

Being in the presence of actual* writers and MFA students is overwhelming and intimidating. Overwhelming because writers have a language all their own that I can’t understand. I suppose it’s not really a revelation since most professions have their secret languages with specialized acronyms and buzzwords. (I could mesmerize you with insurance jargon, but I’ll spare you.) Embarrassingly enough, I did accidentally discover that I had been using MFA incorrectly. It actually stands for Masters of Fine Arts and not Mother F@#$in’ Asshole. I’m a quick study though. I’ll get it.

Also, writers are really, really intelligent people. So, in addition to using their secret language, they can be intimidating by their effortless use of brain-scrambling words. Words that don’t come up in my daily life and would probably raise eyebrows at my dinner table. Words like hyperbolic and bucolic. I did make a mental note to look up bucolic as soon as I got home from the lecture. (It sounded like a terrible ailment. “Did you hear that Sharon is bucolic? Poor thing.”)

Maud was not what I had expected. She was maybe thirtyish (you don’t often hear the name Maud unless it’s shouted in a nursing home) and petite with a dark brown bob and smart-looking glasses. I found her to be interesting, witty, lovely, real, smart, impressive and introspective. She made me want to be a part of the literary world, to learn the secret language.

After her presentation was over, there was the usual Q&A session. She acknowledged someone in the back and he asked her the question, “What do you think the role of a book critic is?” Or maybe it was closer to, “What do you think your role is as a book reviewer?” It was something along those lines.

We all want to ask the brilliantly conceived question that makes the audience sigh with jealousy, but this was not that question. I’m not that knowledgeable of this new world that my friend has introduced me to, so maybe it was a good question (. . . nah, I still don’t think so). She gave it the old college try (a few times) only to leave the inquisitor dissatisfied. What did he really want from her?

In my mind, I stood up and provided this answer:

Begin scene, aaannndd. . . . . . ..  ACTION!

A review of a book or essay is, at its core, an opinion. It’s usually a well-informed opinion, but an opinion just the same. It’s like a movie review. I peruse the movie reviews in my local paper, listen to Bob Mondello and Kenneth Turan on NPR, and follow Roger Ebert on Twitter. Over time, I have discovered that my likes and dislikes of movies are similar to Mr. Ebert’s (not always, but mostly) so I tend to lean more on his reviews for insights. “Will I or won’t I plunk down my ten dollars for this movie? What does Ebert think?” (I really should have WDET bracelets made.)

Regarding books, I would think it’s a similar process. You start by reading the pans and praises of multiple critics to find the one or two that speak to you. You read the positive review by the critic, read said book the critic recommended, and like it. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. If these three actions frequently result in a happy reader (you), then you have successfully found a person that responds to the written word just as you do. (By the way, you can have more than one go-to critic.)

You may have to kiss a lot of frogs (or read a lot of drivel from both the critic and the author) in order to find your prince or princess. But, it will be worth it.

It’s a beautiful relationship because there are only so many reading hours in a day and who wants to spend them reading pure junk? Let your bookish better half do it (or multiple better-halves). Now, you are free to read only the good, the profound, the thrilling, and the poignant page-turner.

A book critic’s relationship to us as book consumers is not black and white nor should it be. Can they make us read a book of poetry or a novel? Of course not, but they can offer some sound guidance and then it’s up to us to either heed it or discard it.

[Standing ovation from the crowd and then Maud asks me and my friend to have coffee with her.]

End scene, aaannnnd….CUT!

The evening was fantastic and I’m glad that I’ve been introduced to this world of writers and avid readers.

Since I’m currently in the market for a personal book critic, I have gone to her website to investigate what she recommends in the way of authors and books. These are the books that I have added to my ever-growing list: The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark and A Childhood: The Biography of a Place by Harry Crews.

Only time will tell if it will be a good match.

*I make this distinction because I don’t consider myself an actual writer. I’m a poser. I was a math major for crying out loud.

Unknown's avatar

Letter Days

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Same shit. Different Day. Come home, pull in garage, lug in multiple bags like a pack mule, let dog out, go to mailbox to fetch the junk mail and the many money-sucking envelopes. . . .

Letter from IU confirming that we are not eligible for any financial aid (fine!)

Another letter from IU, no, wait. . . it’s a bill from IU for one of my daughter’s high school courses that counts as college credit

Doctor bill from one of multiple visits in an attempt to cure the many mokuses (moki ?) that invaded our abode

Then….a letter. A regular handwritten letter.

A handwritten gem – it’s been so long since I’ve seen or received a handwritten letter. Why had I received this little surprise?  Well, I had forgotten that I signed up to get weekly letters from the The Rumpus. (Score one for aging.)

My First Letter from The Rumpus

It was a funny, interesting glimpse into someone else’s life. It made me smile and the cool thing about these letters is that you can write the author a return letter if he/she provides an address. My letter came with a return address – should I write back?

What do I say? I haven’t written a real letter since probably high school or college.

Letter writing is a dead art, don’t you think? By the way, letters are art – the writer’s words transformed into images for us as we read those magical pages. A snapshot in time – what mood was the writer in that day? What was she thinking or doing?

Compared to instant communication, letters are delayed gratification. And, what’s wrong with anticipation and delayed gratification? Absolutely Nothing!

However, waiting for anything these days seems to be considered old-fashioned and obsolete. You know what? Who cares? We need to slow down a bit and write a letter. What do you think? Who would you write a letter to?

Click here to start receiving your own letters. (The monthly subscription is less than a couple of coffees and will make you smile. I promise.)

Unknown's avatar

Invisible Children

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If you haven’t seen this already, you must watch it.

Click on the picture below – it will link you to a compelling movie (30 min) on YouTube ®. Then check out the website to see what you can do – Invisible Children.

Pic of Joseph Kony c/o Twitter

Spread the word.

Unknown's avatar

A Spoonful of Nothin’

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I’m insane and I’ll be the first to admit it. To borrow an exclamation from Cam of Modern Family, “I can’t turn it off. It’s who I am!”

It will definitely be the inscription on my headstone. I’m cool with that.

To put a more accurate label on that, I’m a neurotic control freak. I’m not of the highest order, but I’m damn close. I’ve actually met a few freakier than moi. Hanging out with those nutjobs is really nice because they make me look easygoing and carefree.

Anyhoo, this installment of “What’s Your Crazy?” involves my kitchen. I am one with my cooking space. I know everything that is supposed to be in that space and exactly where to find it. Of course, items don’t always get returned to their proper spaces when others clean the kitchen.

My husband does like to screw with me in that he puts the drinking glasses and coffee mugs back willy nilly on purpose. It’s his little rebellion against law and order. What he doesn’t realize is that it’s really cruel. I could just let the cabinets be. I should just walk away. But. . . . . . .the obsession over the disarray and anarchy going on in my cabinets would eventually make me catatonic. And, what would that solve?

Being a master at regimen and structure is a blessing and a curse. I know he secretly likes having an orderly house, a good credit rating and his underwear folded just as requested (I do this because I love him – clearly, it does not go both ways).

Back to the kitchen – something very, very strange is going on in this room.

Our spoons are disappearing. Not just any spoons, our teaspoons. I’m seriously losing sleep over it. I think about the missing spoons as I go to sleep and as I wake.

The Flatware Tally - See anything strange???

You will notice the following:

Dinner Forks: All accounted for plus 1 (did I steal someone else’s?)

Salad Forks: Missing 2

Dinner Spoons (aka big spoons): Missing 2

TEASPOONS – missing 11

Knives: All accounted for.

[And, YES. I did take inventory today (just for this post) when my family was gone and couldn’t watch me! So what!??!?!?!]

I brought this heinous situation to my family’s attention this weekend and what response did I get?

The Hubs:

“What’s the big deal?” 

“What do you mean, ‘What’s the big deal?’ Where the freak are all of the spoons – the small ones? You don’t just misplace spoons. Your keys? Sure. Your favorite pen? Sure. Your shoes? Maybe. Your car? Temporarily in a parking lot maybe. Your children? No. Your spoons? NO.”

 “We never had that many spoons to the begin with.”

Now, he’s in denial (in the beginning, we had 12 big spoons and 12 little spoons). He just wants me to shut up about it and talk about something else (which, of course, I can’t because I’m obsessing at the moment).  LISTEN UP, PEOPLE! In the span of about 2 weeks, we’ve misplaced 16 spoons! Spoons that we’ve had for yeeaaarrs. Isn’t he the least bit curious? Doesn’t it make you wonder? Can’t he indulge me a bit? No wonder he doesn’t like mystery shows. He just doesn’t care. Cest la vie. Que sera sera. (If I ever go missing, I’m hoping that some of you will notice that I’m gone and come looking for me because I don’t think the hubs will. Cest. La. Vie.)

The Madster (my 15 yo):

“Mommy, (as I’m going to the computer to order more spoons) can’t you wait to see if they turn up? Why are you acting crazy? They’re just spoons.”

Huh? Turn up? Sixteen missing spoons are just going to turn up. Like. . . . . .in the car? In the office? In the freezer (we have found keys there before)? In the pantry? In your underwear drawer? In my closet? In your daddy’s gym bag (ewww, I’d have to buy new ones anyway)? In the couch cushions? Wait. I have found spoons there before (the hubs eats ice cream and somehow the spoon lands in the cushions without him noticing. Don’t ask me.)

Where? Where would they turn up? Seriously. I want to know. BTW, in answer to the question floating in your head, I have checked under all of the couch cushions.

Spoons don’t travel like keys or pens or phones or books, etc. Spoons leave the silverware drawer to be placed on the table when you are dining, get transported back to the kitchen to enter the dishwasher, and then leave the dishwasher to rest in peace in the silverware drawer until they are needed again at the table!!!!

Then, during my rant, Madster goes upstairs to her room just to placate me and get me to shut up. Then, she sheepishly comes downstairs with 3 of the 16 missing spoons (all big ones). [So, I’m not quite as loony as she pretends I am. HA!] She is a teenager after all. God knows what else is in there. I don’t look anymore.

So, the count is now 13 missing spoons instead of 16. Ok, that’s better. NOT!

Is there a black hole above our house? Are the spoons with the missing “other” sock that mysteriously disappears in the dryer? Maybe. IF I acually put my spoons in the dryer.

Since no one else cares but me, I guess I’ll have to shake this one off, let it go unsolved (I may need some Xanax to get me there).

I’m a little reluctant to order more – what will happen to them?

Unknown's avatar

Great Expectations

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Am I an indulgent parent? I really don’t think so, but I rarely say, “no” to a reasonable request. It sounds like a contradiction, doesn’t it?

We have worked  diligently on managing expectations – the kids have figured out what will and won’t fly. It’s not perfect though. The system still breaks down. They are children and they have an obligation to push back.

But, it breaks down more frequently with one of my children in particular. She talks like she gets it, but then……..Bam!

She understands: 

“Yes, you can have a stuffed giraffe. No, you cannot have a real giraffe.”

“Yes, you can have a pair of Converse in every color. If you want them, you buy them or ask for them as birthday/Christmas gifts.”

This and other similar examples are where we have successfully managed expectations.

Where has it broken down? She thinks I’m her personal chauffeur just sitting around awaiting her next instructions. (I have absolutely nothing else to do.)

In response to me saying, “no” to taking her to the mall at the last minute: “When you have kids, that’s your job.”

In response to me being agitated with her for not helping me find a lacrosse carpool (practice every day M-F during dinner):  “Why did you even have kids?”

After grabbing my head to stop it from spinning and separating from my body and after popping my eyes back into my skull, I mull over these statements of hers and determine that her sentiment can be summed up as such:

“In having kids, you are explicitly entering into a binding contract which means you will do the bidding of said kids and give up any chance of having a life of your own until such time said kids can manage on their own which could be until they’re in their late 20s.”

Holy crap! Why did I have kids? Now, I’m not sure. Maybe I was young and stupid (I clearly did not read the fine print). Damn you, biological clock and propagation of the species!

Regardless of the reason, we have them and we can’t send them back.

Where did I go wrong with this one? I’m befuddled. Maybe I should have encouraged her to join the Girls Scouts (see prior post) – she could use a healthy dose of feminism.

Then, I had a brainstorm when I was talking with one of my friends. When I’m at the age where I can’t tell the difference between the TV and microwave, who am I going to call for help? Yep, you’ve got it!

“Honey, I need you to come over and pick me up RIGHT NOW and take me to my hair appointment.”

“Can you drop what you’re doing right this second and take me to the grocery?’

“I need you cancel your schedule for today and take me to my bridge luncheon and then take me to the doctor so he can evaluate that mysterious rash I’ve been telling you about.”

“Will you come over and do my laundry? I need clean underwear TODAY.”

“I’m really hungry. Can you drive over and make me a sandwich?”

“I’m getting bedsores. You need to come over STAT and roll me over.”

“I can’t find my teeth and it’s your fault! You brushed them last.”

. . . . . . . .Oh, you’re still here. I’m sorry, I was daydreaming (maybe drifting off is a better phrase?).

Anyway, in the meantime, I suppose Mike and I have to get a little more creative in our lessons on “Reasonable Expectations”.

Onward and upward…