Phone as Friend

While I don't travel much, I have to say I learn so many new things when I do.  Yesterday I peeled my middle school students off of me and walked out halfway through the day (after the substitute came, I mean) to embark on a quick visit to my sister in Ohio.  The trip is long overdue; my nephew has had some major health challenges, and I wanted to give family support.  ANYWAY, as I mentioned, yours truly doesn't step off the hamster wheel of work-kids-home very often.

So there I was, connecting through the Atlanta airport, and it seemed that everyone around me was talking to him or herself.  It used to be this was a sign of mental aberration, a natural reaction being that others might give you a wide berth (as in the excellent advice I once received growing up in NYC to "pick a fight with your jacket" if stuck on a subway platform with unsavory people).   On closer inspection, though, I realized that most of the people in the airport actually had cell phones stuck to their heads or earpieces jammed in their ears.

In fact, all the different high tech phones and high end conversations (I overhead one man saying "That will be worth $750K to 1.5 million to us...") made me feel a little self-conscious when I pulled out my prepaid flip phone to check the time.  I am the only person I know who is actually going backwards, technology-wise, but my Android phone drove me crazy and cost $80 per month: Too much for someone who doesn't like Facebook, follow hot stocks, or want the latest apps.

(My husband teased me that the flip phone might only allow me to connect to the 14 people who still use MySpace, and in fact we almost died laughing when I realized a MySpace icon really is on my flip phone's internet menu.)

What interests me, though, is how much some of us have come to see phones as companions, even friends.  This notion is only reinforced by commercials I've seen in which people have conversations with their phones, apparently not wanting to face the fact that they are just rattling around in their own minds.
If that weren't enough, when I looked through the SkyMall catalog a special bracelet caught my eye.  "Communicate discreetly with your phone" it advertised, because it displays the number of your caller on the bracelet.  This, combined with the feature that makes the bracelet vibrate anytime you are more than 16 feet from your phone, ensure that you will "never be separated from your phone."

At this point we are past friendship and into full blown infatuation.

So I thought I would attempt to find this level of emotional satisfaction with my little flip phone.  "You mean so much to me" I told the little black flip phone  "I never want to be more than 16  feet away from you."

I waited, but perhaps in keeping with its understated appearance, the little black flip phone never responded.


*******If you think this blog is funny, read an excerpt of my book here: "Horsewomen in Foal and Other Equestrian Adventures" -- this makes a GREAT gift and comes with my exclusive Laugh Until You Pee Guarantee (certain exclusions apply: guarantee only good for women who have had at least two children)

If I Didn't Need it Yesterday...

...then I probably don't need it today.  At any rate, that is what I kept telling myself on Black Friday, and in fact during this whole weekend.  In the end, I did do a tiny bit to stimulate the economy:  I bought some dog biscuits at Dollar General, along with two boxes of flower fertilizer (on clearance at 10 cents each).  I poured some of the fertilizer into the pots on the front porch that hold the 'mums, hoping they might still bloom one more time this season.  The rest of the fertilizer I put in the barn to use on the blueberry bushes in spring.

I did poke around the internet for a good deal on a combination record player (yes, actual vinyl)/DVD/iPod docking station.  This is something I've thought about to surprise my husband, who still has his record albums, but I didn't find an attractive one at a good price yet.  I'll wait for retailers to get a little antsy and start cutting prices even more.

Nevertheless, even with feeling so conservative about purchasing things, our house is FULL of stuff.  I'm trying not to get dragged down, trying just to clean one room at a time and convince my kids and husband to give some things away.

Then there is the small matter of my husband's habit of hiding things for safekeeping, but then sometimes he forgets where he hid them.  It's like living with a chipmunk.  Just today we found this year's school pictures tucked into a box that held a family portrait we haven't looked at in five years.  Theoretically, it made sense... in practice, I was wondering where those school pictures were, since they cost a lot and I wanted to send copies to family BEFORE the boys leave for college.

I have a bad habit of keeping papers, books, vintage photos, and other things related to my writing and film projects.  My husband, on the other hand, keeps... just about everything else.  What can we say?  We are children of Depression-era parents.  I admit it:  I reuse paper towels and bread bags.  Never thought I'd be here, but the downhill slide was so effortless, between being a perpetually broke teacher/mom and trying to feel good about producing less trash.

We also have an incredible talent, in my family, for covering any floor with small sharp objects.  Usually these objects are Legos, although occasionally there might be something else mixed in.  In fact, we are so good at this that I have considered starting a home decor business, for clients who want a colorful floor.  The only downside is the occasional twisted ankle.  However, on the whole I have had to make peace with their Lego habit.  It was either that or go crazy.

Building with Legos is actually pretty innocuous, even beneficial,  when I compare it to some of the other 'hobbies' I have witnessed during my time as a teacher.  At least my boys aren't tattooing themselves with sharpened paper clips and ball point pens!

Off to tackle folding the clean laundry mountain!  I am really good at chores... the ones that involve turning a machine on, I mean.

Any Given Mom Featured on Mom Blogger

My mind is a little addled because we had four preteen boys over for a 'sleep'over last night in celebration of my older son's birthday (there was no actual sleeping...)  anyway, I am tickled to see this blog featured on Mom Blogger:

http://mommycommunity.com/2012/11/16/mom-blogger-interview-claudia-from-any-given-mom/

Hurtful Questions

My husband just said this to my younger son:  "Isn't your time on the computer up yet?"

"That is a hurtful question!" Jack responded.  (Meanwhile, the kitchen timer started beeping...)

This made me laugh, but it also made me think about other times when hurtful questions arise.   Specifically, one hurtful question:  ARE YOU HIGH????  I'm a pretty easygoing person, but here is one instance when this particular hurtful question came to my mind.

One morning, I thought I was doing a good job of multitasking.  It was a little before 7am, I was packing my sons' lunches, and I thought I would just take a moment to RSVP to one of those electronic invitations for a birthday party.  I thought it would be so easy.  I patted myself on the back for being efficient.  After opening the invitation, I thought I could just click a simple "Yes" and go on about the morning routine.  However, it really wasn't that easy.  I clicked "Yes", but before it would allow me to submit that answer all kinds of other questions popped up.

Did I want to send  a picture?  No.  A comment?  No.  View the guest list?  No.  Chat with the other guests? No.  Then came the kicker:  An advertisement popped up that asked me whether I wanted to follow a certain brand of fish sticks on Twitter.   My entire morning ground to a halt because I had to stop and ponder how empty my life would have to be, for me to follow the fish sticks on Twitter.   ARE YOU HIGH????

What do the fish sticks have to say, anyway?  I could only imagine it would be depressing, something like this:  "Swimming along today, minding my own business, when I got caught up in a gill net.  I was hauled over the side of a factory boat, beheaded, scaled, gutted, pressed into paste and frozen.  When we reached land they sliced me into a stick shape, breaded me and sent out to a big box store.  Once someone purchased me, I hoped for some appreciation, but I ended up on the tray of a toddler.  When the mom wasn't looking, the toddler tossed me over his shoulder.  Their cat swallowed me in two bites, but yakked me up later into the mom's purse."

Other hurtful questions at our house include:

Quinoia again?

Isn't that the puppy you had to have, that you said you would walk?

Why aren't you in bed yet?

Why aren't you up yet?

But where did all the money go????

Human Being Seeks Same

An unanticipated benefit of having an Ivy league Master's degree is the alumni magazine (hey, something needs to offset the student debt).  The erudite yet timely articles, the incisive letters readers send to correct fine points from previous erudite articles, the art photography... it's all wonderful, yet for entertainment value nothing beats the personal ads in the back.

Now, I know what you're thinking:  People still bother to put their personal ads in print?  When you can find any stripe of person online?  I know, I know, but it's true: For some people there is apparently a certain cachet associated with print classifieds in this alumni magazine.  The claims are nothing short of breathtaking.  The typical personal ad goes something like these:

Accomplished world traveler-  (speaks 72 languages), athletic (Olympic qualifier in college) sense of humor compared to Katharine Hepburn, equally at home in Paris and the Hamptons, wit and warmth, easygoing yet driven, three Ivy degrees, financially independent, slender, 50s but looks 35, seeks accomplished man for companionship/marriage.

Not that I'm looking, because my husband and I are committed (read: exhausted), mature (read: we now know what a total crapshoot relationships are, and we each feel fortunate not to have married a serial killer) and happy (read: happy)... BUT, sometimes I think about what my ad would look like if I were to write one.  I think it might go something like this:

Human Being Seeks Same-  Stumbling through life by the grace of God, compulsive educator, accidental filmmaker (see www.underthekudzu.org), never been compared to Hepburn but cute enough in the right light, outdoorsy but won't sleep in a tent, well traveled (over a half dozen states), Ivy degree (still can't remember what day it is), 46 but looks 45, seeks male human being for misunderstandings and banter.

Staying Humble

Whenever I start to feel overly pleased with myself, or maybe that I don't have an immediate agenda and can kick back, something happens to humble me.   I have noticed this over the years-- it isn't necessarily anything earth-shattering, but (for example) there's nothing like stepping in a puddle of puppy pee at 5:30 in the morning to keep you humble.  In order to keep my sanity I have come to view these little events just as gentle reminders not to become too self-satisfied.

My sons provide endless opportunities for me to embrace humility.  This was especially true when they were little.   One time, when we were all home sick, I thought I was being a good mom by serving them a lunch of chicken soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.  At that time my younger son was two years old, and he used to love to play with pots and pans.  He had a saucepan near him on the kitchen counter, the same counter where I was serving lunch.  This did not pose an obvious problem to me, that is, not until I leaned across the counter to help my older son.  In a flash that sweet little toddler picked up the saucepan and klonked me on the head with it.

Of course, teaching is a close second to parenting when it comes to keeping one humble.  A few years ago, a sweet child was talking to me about his birthday.  He was turning 12.  That got him started thinking about the future, including getting his driver's license.  We discussed the fact that he would probably get his learner's permit at age 16.

"Will you still be alive in four years?"  He asked me earnestly "Because I'll want to show you my car."

Of course, we never know what will happen on any given day, but I was only 43 at that time.  It was a little humbling to realize that this child thought that I might keel over at any moment.

When we're feeling a little low, a casual remark can seem like a belly blow to our self-esteem.  Some years back, when I worked for a university, my office was given to a new professor and I was moved downstairs into the AV control closet.  When I say "AV control closet", I mean there actually were bundles of wires hanging out of the ceiling in that tiny, windowless room.  From that day until the day I left I threatened to macrame something for the chancellor out of those wires.  (Ultimately, that plan failed, as I never had the patience to learn macrame.)

Anyway, there was a student worker assigned to help me that day.  "Where do you want me to put these certificates?" She asked, picking up some framed documents.

"I prefer to think of those as diplomas" I mumbled, but it was no use.  That day, I was already on the way down.

Phases of Life... As Experienced at the OB/GYN

Some years back, when I was having my first son, I had an OB/GYN who was just... so... (as we say around here) country.  When the exam was finished he would have the patient dress and meet him in his office to discuss the findings.  This part was quite civil, although sitting in his office and looking at the duck hunting diorama gave one a little bit of a feeling of being at a country veterinarian's office.  At the end of the visit he would smile and say "Good for another 20,000 miles."  (I am not kidding.)  However, he was an expert OB and likely saved my son, whose cord got wrapped around his neck during delivery.

Soon after my first son was born, that doctor retired and I had to find a new OB/GYN.  My second doctor was a petite, energetic woman with a cloud of unruly red hair.  She would blow up rubber gloves for my older son to play with while we talked about how son #2 was developing.  I had a lot of confidence in her, but soon after the birth of my second son the practice dropped its OB services and replaced them with a skin-care clinic.

So now when I visit the GYN, there are binders full of women's before and after pictures, showing their transformation through chemical peels or injections of various sorts.  I miss the seriousness of the OB mission, but I do understand that rising insurance costs and being on call 24/7 for OB emergencies could wear on anyone.  What I didn't expect was how fully their new services would mesh with where I am in my life.  I know it's vain, but I WANT that chemical peel.   Things that used to make me scoff, such as dermabrasion, now seem worthy of consideration.  I haven't made the leap yet, mostly because the skin clinic only stays open until 4pm and I am usually still working at school at that time, but maybe... just maybe...

There's no shortage of 40-something women like me who want to look a little better, so their skin care clinic will probably continue to thrive.  Yet one thing I wouldn't recommend is that the people running the practice go into the clothing design business.  A few years back they created tee shirts and drink cozies that said "V****** are Way Cool."  The shirts weren't exactly flying off the shelf, even when they forced the staff to wear them.  I think they quit that after the second workman's comp claim related to REI (Repetitive Embarrassment Injury).   Some things are very popular, and yet a tee shirt about them sill won't catch on.

Please Stop Helping Me

Have you ever had experiences that left you wishing you had a little less help?  I was thinking about this the other day as I tried to navigate yet another new software program that I am required to use in my teaching job.  I have lost count of the number of user names and passwords I have for work; I have programs for communication, a program for IEP records, accounts for accessing online teaching resources, a half dozen programs for testing/assessment, and a wiki that tells me how to log onto online modules about the Common Core.  A fuse blew in my brain today when I got an email informing me I needed to use one account to register for an online training about a wiki that teaches us how to utilize yet another new program... at that point the line started blurring between process and goal.

All of these programs are supposed to help me in my work, but just let me share for a moment that I work in a middle school BECAUSE I LIKE TO TEACH.   Despite the fact that I have made one documentary film (about historic African American schools, see www.underthekudzu.org) and I am working on another, in actuality I am not a very technically oriented person.  In fact, one anxiety I have is that in another ten years or so I'll be unable to communicate with anyone anymore, because the technology will have gotten completely away from me.   Then I'll spend my twilight years just sitting in a corner, starting into space.

Another instance of this is something that happened with AT&T (I am old enough to remember when we used to call it "Ma Bell").  I still have a landline, but it's supposed to be a bare bones, local calling account only.  I use my cell phone for long distance.

Anyhow, one weekend when my sister was visiting she used the landline to call my other sister in Ohio.  It was an innocent mistake, she didn't know my phone service arrangements, so I didn't mind having to pay the extra $5 or so for that call.  What I didn't realize is that Ma Bell (Big Brother Bell seems more apropos) would automatically add a long distance plan to my bill.  After two months I caught on to what they were doing and called them.  After twenty minutes on hold the rep informed me that they were "helping" me by responding to my obvious desire to use my landline for long distance (this decision was based on one long distance call in two years, mind you).  PLEASE STOP HELPING ME!!!

The last thing that comes to mind is health-related.  I have gut troubles that come and go, and I have been to the GI doctor a few times.  This time, though, I don't think I'll go.  Both times that I went to the GI specialist it went something like this:  Lot of questions, painful test, and, they discovered I have "collagenous colitis."  That means "Your guts are inflamed, but we don't really know why.  Would you like a prescription for something that may or may not send you into kidney failure?  That will be $360, please."  PLEASE STOP HELPING ME!!  I could have told you my guts were inflamed going into this deal.

But, you know, Katie Couric's warnings and all, had to check it out.  Now I'm just going to go back to acupuncturist who really DID help me, without the risk of kidney failure...