If I were rich...

If I were rich, I wouldn't do those normal things newly rich do.
I wouldn't buy a house so large I couldn't find my shoelaces.
I wouldn't buy a boat or an expensive car or take a trip around the world.
Don't get me wrong.
As much as I'd like to think I would, I wouldn't give most of my money away to a charity either (some, but certainly not as much as I say I would when I didn't have the money in hand).

I would, however, quit my job. If only temporarily, but not because I don't like it or because it's drudgery or because I'm unappreciated and underpaid.

I'd quit my job so I could enroll in classes at the University or even a Community College or even just the Fine Arts Center in my neighborhood.

I'd take classes in glass blowing and carpentry. I'd sign up for philosophy classes and political science. I'd take classes in literature and writing, but also in molecular biology and introductory classes in zoology. I'd take cooking classes and bread making classes and even classes in dress making, though I truly hate to sew.

I'd take music classes -- lessons on the mandolin that now sits on a shelf unplayed for over a year.

If I were rich, I'd just give as much money as it would take to permanently be in class, not having to teach the class or grade the papers, but still be in the presence of people thinking and doing and sharing.

And if the classes weren't good, I'd drop out and find something else to enroll in. Automotive classes even. Or classes in computer science.

Definitely photography classes. And a painting class. I'd try knitting, but I think I would be impatient, that the knitting would get boring despite all the colors and textures I find appealing in the yarn shop.

I'd hire a personal trainer. I'd take a class in me. (Perhaps that's therapy, but nonetheless...) I'd take classes in massage, though I'd only touch bodies I found appealing. No hairy men. Perhaps no men at all.

I'd take classes in rowing and lacrosse and skating with those nifty new skates called Landrollers. I'd certainly take a swimming class...while I'm a strong swimmer, I would want to learn how to make it effortless like those people at the pool who fly past me even when I'm wearing my zoomer fins.

If I were rich, I'd put all the money into my mind and my body. I might buy a few new gadgets, but I actually think I'd pare down my life and just ride my bike to the next class where I could learn about kayaking or skate skiing or astronomy.

I wouldn't take up scuba diving. Too confining and I don't do well on boats.

I wouldn't mind learning some circus routines. And rock climbing.

And I'd love to learn about rocks in general...geology, but not minerology.

I'd definitely take a botany class and practice saying the names of plants using their scientific names.

If I were rich, I'd even start a scholarship fund for people like me who just want to learn. Perhaps a scholarship for teachers who are tired of teaching and who want to spend more time learning what they skim over in classes.

I'd take classes from the Dog Whisperer. I wonder how much he'd charge?

It's selfish, I know, but if I were rich I'd try to soak up as much as I could as fast as I could for no other reason than it makes me feel alive.

I'd eventually go back to teaching, but only part time because teaching really is about learning and when you give your energy to teaching, there's not much left over for yourself or all the classes you wanted to take.

And I'd keep writing, because I have this belief that money will buy me time and with that time I can fill it up however I choose.

It's probably a myth. I probably wouldn't have anymore time nor would I know what to do with it, but I'd like to think I would. I'd like to think I'd be more motivated.

I'd even take a math class...several, though I'd have to hire a tutor to help me understand it all.

But that's the beauty of being rich...at least I think it is...you wouldn't have to figure out what to eliminate. Especially if you didn't buy the gi-normous house or the expensive yacht or the pricey luxury car or take extravagant trips to Italy every month.

You'd just buy knowledge, or access to knowledge, which probably isn't the wisest investment...not really sustainable...but oh what a ride while you had the money!

Food OR Exercise

Pedaling my bike past hospitals and bakeries every day, there is always this internal struggle inside my head: At what age do I get to stop being so competitive?

Throughout my younger years, I was a competitive athlete. I ran, I jumped, I played team sports, I sweated, and I injured myself (it goes hand in hand with competition). Consequently, I never worried about my weight. I ate everything, ice cream and buttered popcorn top on the list.

Now, in my late 40's I find I am left with this choice: Either I stop eating so much or I excerise ten times harder because the rate at which I used to exercise just doesn't burn the calories anymore.

Or

And this thought has only recently entered my thinking...

Or

I accept my current weight and excerise like any other normal middle-aged woman. In other words, be happy with a day off or two or even three...in a week or in a row.

But I can't. Or at least I haven't been able to because whenever I get on my bike or head to the gym, I compete. "I can make it up the big hill I climb every morning in 7 minutes and not 8," I say to myself or "If I pedal at a higher gear, I can catch that guy up ahead on the fancy bike and in the tight shorts."

These thoughts run through my head constantly. Most of the time I am unaware of them except later on in the week when my legs are tired from work and from commuting on a bike and then I just push myself up the hill at whatever rate I can muster.

But other times I catch myself, forgetting that I'm almost 50, thinking I can go faster, be stronger, stretch the ride out a bit longer because, well, that's what "real" athletes do, they push themselves to the next level. And I have always seen myself as a "real" athlete.

These thoughts even invade my dreams.

Like the other night, I woke up in a sweat because I was sitting on the sidelines of another volleyball game and the coach wouldn't put me in and I kept screaming at him that I was much more mature and ready to play than I was in my 20's and that he should substitute me in, but he'd just ignore me or worse, look my direction and shake his head in disgust like I was too old or too fat or too too and there was no way in hell he'd put me in the game.

But in my head in the dream, I was strong, I was smart, I was game ready -- my body was still 20 years old, it was just my head that wasn't, but that was okay because age meant experience and experience meant I wouldn't make the same mistakes I did when my head was 20 and my body was 20, too.

I have these dreams all the time. Mostly they are volleyball dreams, but sometimes I'm playing basketball and occasionally I'm running a race, but it's always the same dilemma -- I'm fit in body (20 years old and strong and ripped and talented) and even more savvy in mind because I'm mature, experienced, thoughtful...none of which I was when I was 20.

But when I wake up, I find that I have a 47 year old body and a 20 year old sensibility. My mind wants to do what my body can't.

And what I can't do is eat like a 20 year old anymore.

Or I can, but I have to stop beating myself up about it.

And I know that that, the beating myself up about it, is the real issue -- forgiveness and patience and knowing I'm good enough -- but somewhere I just feel like there's a switch in my brain and if I could find it, I could turn off the competitiveness and just pedal my bike at a leisure pace or go on a walk slow enough that my friends could keep up with me or not feel shitty about myself when I lay around all day Saturday not doing anything but watching 20 year olds play basketball on TV while I eat cheese and crackers and two bowls of chocolate pudding.

So, I guess the real question isn't at what age can I stop being so competitive, but at what age can I fully and completely like myself no matter the weight, no matter the muscles, no matter the speed at which I pedal a bike?

Imagine...

Imagine, for a moment, that you have an older sister (which I do, but I'm talking about an imaginary one for now)...

Imagine this older sister just turned 50
and when you look at her life you are proud
and slightly envious because all your life
you've really wanted to be like your sister...

you've idolized her in many ways, looked up to her
for advice
for support
for guidance

Imagine she's in a stable marriage to a man who
is a good father to two or three children
...and not married to someone who is still married
to someone else
or married to someone who is a crackhead
or a porn producer
or a swindler
or a liar

Imagine she's financially stable, with a good
job -- a consultant, perhaps, or
a sales rep or even a doctor or a nurse --
and that she's held this job or one like it for years
and her colleagues admire her
and her family is proud of her
and she's never once had to file for bankruptcy
or borrowed large sums of money from
her parents
or her older brother
or her younger sister

Imagine she's confident and self-assured
And responsible
And when she talks to you on the phone
She speaks clearly and passionately
about her life, never giggling excessively, never
focusing solely on herself, never admitting to you in
mumbled phrases about her affairs with
married men
or her sex with her client on the massage table

Imagine she has integrity, that she's
reliable and truthful
And she'd never not pay a bill
or lie to her landlord
or ask her brother or sister to
keep secrets
or blame others for her poor choices

Imagine she's a full-bodied woman
a bit overweight, but healthy and active
not obsessive about what she eats
never asking the waiters to check the oils
used in her meal
or if there are meat products in the salad

Imagine she runs four days a week
but never far enough to get rid of
the belly or the butt or the peasant calves
Imagine she likes herself
when she looks in the mirror
and doesn't see just elbows and knees
and ankles and ribs
Imagine she knows when enough
is enough and doesn't ride her bike
for 20 miles after she's run for
two hours
or then jump in the pool
because she needs to burn off her lunch

Imagine she feels a part of the
family and visits on a regular
basis and is never an
imposition, never upset
because the vacation schedule isn't
exactly what she planned or how she
wants it to be
And at Christmas, she doesn't
drink too much
or call you from a bedroom
at your brother's house
crying that her father is an
asshole
that her brother called her a drunk
that no one loves her
that she's not a part of the family

Imagine she always stays calm
Except on occasions
Like all of us
When the repairman is late
Or the car doesn't work
Or the plane is behind schedule
Or work is particularly stressful

Imagine she has patience
and good judgment
and is able to stand up for herself
when wronged
but let go of it once it's
resolved

Imagine she feels a part of the
world and not
excluded from it
That she contributes to good causes
and does not feel
the world is out to get her

Imagine she's lived in the same house
in the same town
in the same state
all her adult life
and never had to leave
because she owed money
or burned too many bridges
or felt unsettled
or thought it would be
different somewhere else

Imagine she knows how to
love her parents
who are proud of her
because she's claimed positive
space in the world
and not sucked all the energy
from her friends
or her family
or her co-workers
And that her parents can
sleep peacefully at night
knowing she's safe and
financially sound
with a solid job
and a family of her own
and they don't have to wake
up in the middle of the night
sweating with worry or
answering phones

Imagine she's kind
and when you need a familiar
voice you call her up
and she hugs you with her words
and doesn't splatter you with anger
like bacon grease from a hot pan

Imagine you love her
even when you're mad at her
even when she's a bit selfish
or impatient
or difficult

Imagine you love her
because she's solid and whole and
not stuck in some place
you'll never understand
never be able to kick her out of
never be able to convince her she's in

Imagine you feel connected to her
in ways that they write about
in Hallmark Cards
But it's not corny or trite
or laced in pink

Imagine you have an older sister...
whom you love...
I have one
though
Not the one
I imagined...

Inside my head ...or a stream of...

...random thoughts that swirl around me. I've been up, basically since 4:30 this morning. Chester is sleeping more only waking up at 3, 4:30, 5 and 5:30. Ann and I tag team it. I get up at 3 and 5:30 since 5:30 is my time to get up and make coffee and figure out what breakfast we should have (oatmeal, bagels, or cold cereal). Ann gets up at 4:30 and 5 and then sleeps while I putz in the kitchen, Chester begging at my side. This morning at 3 I realized I hadn't put my bike away, so I fell out of bed, put on my rubber clogs, and shalumped my way to the backyard where my bike sat in the rain. Chester peed, long and hot, steam rising from the grass like something from the moors of Sherlock Holmes. I heard Ann get up at 4:30 and then shalump back into bed, but from 4:30 to 5:30 I couldn't fall back to sleep. I kept thinking about crazy things all starting with "what if..." What if there aren't enough students next year and I have to teach alone? What if Chester has a seizure Thursday night and Ann and I both have big events on Friday that we really can't miss? What if I can't get the lightbulb on the back porch (that broke off while I was trying to change it) out of the socket using a potato like the neighbor suggested? What if my broken toe NEVER heals? What if the 10 pounds I've gained this year stays, just like the 10 pounds I gained when I turned 40 never left? What if I'm manic and this not sleeping is the first sign?

And Ann kept snoring, like a bear, against my back. And I kept whacking her gently on the shoulder though by the tenth time it wasn't so gentle. And finally, just as I started to let my mind stop drilling the same questions over and over, I fell asleep to the sound of the classical music on the alarm clock radio.

But I wasn't grumpy. Tired, but not grumpy. I even rode my bike though the moment I clicked into the pedals the sprinkle became rain and then the rain became a downpour and by the time I got to work I was soaked. But I didn't care because it's Wednesday and I don't really teach on Wednesday since the kids are in art class or in health and fitness class and my teaching partner and I get to work and plan and get semi-organized. We even had time to take our Dean of Faculty for coffee, though we walked in the rain and my hair got all curly and my shoes got all wet...still, I wasn't grumpy.

Am I manic? No, I'm just tired, I kept telling myself, and when I'm tired I try to will myself through the day on a manic breeze.

And when we got back into the classroom where the kids were making these amazing pieces of art I hear floating through the air, "I love you, Gretchen" and I mouth to the art teacher, "Who said that?" but I know who it is and she says, "D." which is exactly who I thought it was since she's had a crush on me since the beginning of the year and tells me on a daily basis how funny I am and asks "can I have a hug?" though I've limited her to one a day, which is so fun to watch as she tries to decide exactly when to ask for it, stalking my desk like a vulture waiting for rotten meat and then backing away because it's just not time, not yet. But the spontaneous "I love yous" have increased and I giggle and my teaching partner giggles and the art teacher giggles because she's not really in love with me, she's just got a crush and it's harmless and meaningful all at the same time.

And then we sit through a faculty meeting while the kids attend their internships--learning to bake bread, making pizza, cleaning up the local park, hip-hop dancing, mastering karate -- and even the faculty meeting can't overwhelm me or grump me out. And D. another teacher, makes me cookies to say thank you for helping her out and I eat three, trying not to be rude at the same time I'm trying not to feel guilty because three cookies means more calories and more calories means the ten extra pounds might be permanent. Still, they are the best homemade cookies and I pass them around to the faculty and staff and 10 minutes into the meeting the 2 dozen cookies are gone and someone breaks out yet another box of Girl Scout Cookies, though I don't have any of those because D's are so much better and I've already had 3 though I could've eaten 10.

At the end of the day, the kids return, some muddy from their park trip in the rain others covered in flour from their baking adventures. And the hallway smells like garlic and the parents are waiting by the front office and I see A. the 7 year old sister of one of my favorite students and she squeals with delight because I always tease her and then I see her mother, recently diagnosed with MS, looking healthy and positive and I give her a hug and then hug her again because she's alive. "What a ride," she tells me and I say, "Nothing like an illness to make you live in the now." And she says, "Ain't that the truth," and A, her young daugter repeats the phrase "Ain't that the truth" and then says, "But you said ain't mommy" and D. the student who has a crush on my comes up and asks, "Can I have my hug?" and I grab her tight and say, "You bet!" and then she asks, "Can I just have one more?" and I say yes, not because she needs to get it, but because I need to give it and she smiles and grabs her mom's hand and heads out into the rain.

I put on my soggy bike clothes, strap up my shoes and booties, and climb on my bike feeling not manic but tired, which is probably more the cookies than the lack of sleep, so I decide to forgo the gym and just ride home in the rain, full throttle in the stream of the now.

A Day Off...

The school where I teach calls this day the "Head's Holiday"...she (the Head of School) felt that it was important to have a day off in March since there aren't presidents or civil rights leaders in this month.

Ahhhhhhh...how nice it feels...even though I woke at 5:15 with Mr. Pajama Pants. I let Ann sleep in as she has a math workshop to attend to today.

So, I'm doing laundry, did the dishes, paid the bills and when it stops raining for a moment, I shall take Chester (aka: Mr. Pajama Pants) on a walk through the neighborhood, past the mailbox where we shall mail the bills I just paid.

Then a haircut...much needed as I look like Elvis or perhaps Roy Orbison this day. Then I'll pick up Ann and we'll go for an obligatory workout, walk Chester again (in our old neighborhood) and take a gander at the remodel, which as of yesterday, has all new windows. Wow, did that change everthing. As did the new front door. It's amazing what new and clean can do to spruce up a house built in 1900.

Things are moving fast -- new appliances on Tuesday afternoon, cabinetry the week after, and siding as an on-going process. I feel so decadent, though I know our abode is still humble by some standards...then again, a mansion by others. Perspective. It's all about perspective.

My parents and Bookworm and Fossilguy are at the beach and I wish them well. I hope there is no rain, a stiff wind for kites, and lots of leisure time to work on puzzles, read books, and discuss whatever it is that Bookworm brings up about the Sopranos.

I know my parents read this blog, but I must say, they are active "elderly"...yes, mom, 78/79 is elderly...hell, it's past the life expectancy of most Americans. While I'm proud of them for living such rich and full lives, I worry about them so far away at the ocean. Though I think, and don't take this the wrong way folks, but I think, what better place for them to "pass on" if it is their time -- at the beach house where they've spent a yearly expedition with their dear friends eating amazing food and laughing through the most awful weather.

But my mother is too stubborn to "pass on" and my dad needs my mom so I'm certain they'll be flying kites again next year at this time.

Meanwhile, there's a dog to walk and a mound of hair to cut and laundry to fold and a partner to meet and a house to watch grow and a day to spend not thinking about 11 year olds.

Nice. Very. Very. Nice.

Our house...

What our house once looked like...640 square feet of purplish pink tar shingles...and what it looks like now...more room, no shingles, just orange paint on rotten wood...

This is a long process...I can hardly wait for it to be done as I am ready to make my own mess in my own house once again!

The best black dog...

Ann took this photo. We have many good ones of the boy, but this is by far my favorite. I often say he looks professorial, but this one, with the shadowed eye, the wisps of hair across his muzzle...this is more like a Hollywood photo. Carey Grant.

What a guy...of course, he got me up at 4:30, but hell, I still love him. As my brother reminded me on the phone, "Dogs live in the now. He doesn't know he's dying so why should we focus on it."

Omens

Searching for omens is something humans must do consiously or unconsciously all the time.

Or maybe it's just me.

Last night, after Chester's second seizure in two hours, the cresent moon stared blindly into the cup of the empty Big Dipper. Chester struggled to urinate, circling the small yard like a prisoner taking advantage of his daily hour of exercise. I watched the sky as the breeze from the south pushed a curtain of clouds first over the moon and then the stars, inching out their performance one star at a time.

I sat squat against myself, hugging my last bit of warmth waiting for Chester to release the gallon of water he always drinks after his seizures. To no avail. It would take at least 10 more trips out to the backyard before he finally settled down on his bed and we slept, one ear open, waiting for the possibility of one more seizure.

He had three this weekend. Another omen, I'm sure.

Today the breeze is a gusting wind shaking off the early blooms of the cherry tree and sending clouds racing across a tattered blue sky. The rain comes in fits, never enough to get anything wet, and then passes to make way for blasts of sunshine and filtered shadows.

I went to work for the morning. With a field trip planned to the Aquarium, I didn't feel it was fair to leave my teaching partner in the lurch, so I pulled myself into work just in time to board the city bus and make our way to the waterfront.

On the bus, two old men sat in the last seats across the aisle from each other. With 22 students, everyone seat was used and some of us held on precariously to the straps above our heads, swaying in the middle of the aisle. Our youngest student (not in age, but spirit...she still wears jumpers...something you don't see much in a 5th grader anymore), stood between the two old men. They were drunk and one held a paperbag with the tall label of the beer can protruding from the top. He drank then spit then glared at me while I glared momma cub eyes back at him. He spit again and said loudly, "Ya gonna tell on me, bitch?"

R., the student, looked cautiously at him, then stared panic stricken back at me. I tried, with my eyes, to tell her all would be okay. I tried to manuver my way back to them, to position my body in such a way that the beer man would not be so close to the jumper-clad child. The bus was too full and all I could do was send reassuring messages with one eye while I sent threatening signals with the other.

Finally, we got off the bus. Of course, beer man and his friend did, too. The students waited patiently on the sidewalk as the men walked past them, spitting and laughing. Four girls huddled around R, wrapping their arms around her tiny shoulders.

"You okay, R?" I asked.
"He called you the b-word," she gasped, astonished.
"It's okay, sweetie," I reassured her. "He's not the first and he won't be the last."
Some students laughed, others looked at me in wonder.

I wanted to tell her -- there are constants in the world. Stars, drunks, dying dogs, and sleepy teachers.

Somewhere in there are omens.

A little brain power

Found a way to post Chester/Dash's pictures...just required a bit of READING THE INSTRUCTIONS (and I call myself a teacher!)...

The top picture is of the Dashboard wonder begging from beneath the Thanksgiving table at Fossilguy and Bookworm's house..."Any scrap will do!"

And to the side, the cute boy lying on the couch at our housesitting gig...don't worry, the people who own the house said it was okay to do so, IF the blue sheet was on the couch...which you can see it is!

More later, now that I've figured this picture thing out!

Dashboard Love

"The dog wags his tail, not for you, but for your bread." ~Portuguese Proverb

So, here's my first confession. We own an SUV -- a big, green Toyota 4-Runner. It gets about 18-20 miles to the gallon. My only consolation is that we only own one car and we don't use it that often (we ride our bikes, carpool, or walk to work). But still. It's a blemish on my environmentalist personna.

Oh, and it has a leather interior.

Next confession. Ann and I have no sense of style or fashion. I believe this is because we are lesbians and I realize this smacks of stereotyping, but so be it. We are dykes who purchase a hodge-podge of things simply because they are functional, gifts, or we like them (we pay no attention to trends, brand names, or sticking to a theme). Because of our lack of decorating sense, we've hired a designer to help us with our remodel. It feels very chic and expensive, but it's not really. The designer is very nice and works well within the limited budget we've proposed. We're hoping with her help that our paint colors won't scream middle-aged lesbian anymore.

Okay, with all that in mind, I've been thinking a lot about love these days. Perhaps it's a leftover from Valentine's Day (where Ann and I just gave each other stools for the soon to be kitchen island in the new remodel!), but love has been on my mind because of Chester.

Chester is our 12 and 1/2 year old dog. He's adorable, loveable, and loyal. Everyone who knows Chester loves Chester. Unfortunately, he suffers from seizures, brought on (the vets think) by a brain tumor. To stop the seizures...actually to limit them because he still has them (about every 3-5 weeks), we give him pheno-barbital. We started at 2 pills a day and are now up to 7, increasing the dose with every series of seizures he suffers. For his size and weight, his limit will be 13 a day. So, as we see it, we're about half way there to making the tough decision of putting him down.

The drugs make him a little loopy at first, but the biggest side effect is that he thinks he is starving all the time and spends every night before he goes to sleep, whining and begging for just one more morsel of something, anything. His moans and groans are so loud and long at times, that we have to turn the volume up on the TV just to drown him out.

We've talking a lot about when is the right time to put him down, wondering when we'll know for certain if the time comes. I've done this before, put a dog down, and I knew it was right and felt good about the decision I made, but still, it doesn't get any clearer or easier with the second dog.

Meanwhile, a colleague of Ann's has announced her retirement recently, stating that she wants to go out on a good year. This, she feels has been a good year.

Our discussion last night was, Do we let Chester go out on a good day or do we wait for the inevitable down turn and suffering that's bound to come?

There have been a lot of tears. There has been a lot of discussion about quality of life -- his AND ours as he gets up about 5-7 times a night to go out and relieve himself...this is despite the "diaper" (which we call a Speedo) he must wear while in the house.

We're tired...very tired.

And yet, every time we look at his amber eyes, his pensive smile, and watch his wagging tail flag a breeze, we know we could never put him to sleep while he is in this state.

So, we sleep less, try to catch up on the weekends, and wait for the next round of seizures, which are not only painful to watch, but require one of us to take a day off of work to make certain he doesn't have anymore.

The other night, we went to visit our designer at her house (this way we don't have to pay her travel costs) and had a nice time looking at cabinets and fixtures and laughing about the rich clients she's working with in Medina (a posh suburb of Seattle).

Chester waited for us in the car -- the big, expensive, gas-guzzling SUV dog house --and Ann went out to check on him and give him his medication once during our 2 hour meeting with the designer. At the end of the evening, Ann and I climbed into the over-sized and environmentally damaging car and realized there was something all over the seat and floor on the front passenger side.

After a moment of fear (Oh my god, he's had a seizure while in the car!), we realized that Chester, in his ferocious desire to eat, had tried to eat his way through the dashboard to get to the dog treats in the glove compartment. The dashboard was mangled and torn with bits and chunks of plastic and foam everywhere.

I turned to Ann: So, how do we react to this?
Ann: (long, long pause)...Brown duct tape?

We laughed.

Which do we love more our expensive SUV or our dog? Our dog, of course, but it was a humbling moment, a brief pause when we had to take stock of all we had of value in our lives-- our paid-for expensive car, our new remodel with its fancy kitchen, the money dwindling in our bank accounts -- and weigh it against all we valued in our lives -- each other, our health, a nice home, families who are intact and still all alive, and most importantly our dog, Chester who proved to us that he's not close to being put down with the amount of energy he exerted for the taste of just one more cookie.

Chester has many nicknames -- Boo Boo, Chester-man, Chester One -leaf (leaves cling to him like white on rice), and now DASH, the dog who'd risk plastic and airbags, steel and foam, the possibility of another seizure for the tiniest morsel of food.



Do they even make brown duct tape?