Good enough. It's been the mantra of my life. Am I good enough? Now, in a marriage to Ann, the most stable woman on the planet, I face a perplexing shift in perspective. "Good enough?" Ann says, "That's funny, I'm like always saying, 'I could probably do this better."
And then this:
Rubin, our 8 month old Labradoodle, has a tendency to bark. This is not necessarily good. 1) Because it's a loud, echoing bark and 2) I want to be a dog trainer -- having a dog that barks uncontrollably is like being a cobbler who has no shoes or a car mechanic without a functioning car...
His barking, I have assessed, comes from a bit of fear. He IS only a puppy and so some things do and will scare him. It took a bit of training to get him NOT to bark at the vacuum cleaner, but we have yet to overcome his fear of the furnace and the forced warm air through the big vent in the hallway. While he doesn't bark at the vent, he walks on the far, far side of a very narrow hallway to avoid it even when the furnace is not on.
He barks at sounds outside -- like the neighbor starting up his very old and loud Studebaker. He barks at the shadows of people who walk by the house. Early in the morning and and in the evening, when it's dark out, he barks at anyone, whether he knows them or not, because they look like dark shadows coming out of more dark shadows.
This is not good, so over the weekend I emailed the trainer with whom I am working and with whom we have been taking classes. He wrote a very long and wonderful email describing this "time" of Rubin's life -- his second phase of fear (his first being the first few months of his life) and how it's normal that certain things would startle him, but how we react will determine his ability to feel more emotionally balanced.
Okay, makes sense to me, so I keep reading this thoughtful email from the trainer.
Find a "treat" that is highly motivating for Rubin. When he barks, at the moment he takes a breath say, "Enough!" in a happy, positive voice, wave the highly motivating treat in front of his nose and then happily trot back to a designated "neutral" area saying "enough" all the way. Once he is quiet and in the neutral area focused on you (and the dandy little treat) praise him and give him the treat...and another...and another. The point: Have him associate those things that he usually fears with happiness and joy and the chance to eat his favorite treat. Soon (in about a month) he won't bark, he'll just run to his "happy place" and wait for a treat.
So this weekend we practiced. Ann rang the doorbell, he barked, I calmly said "enough" and trotted to the study, just down the hallway. He sat, stared at me in anticipation, I gave him the treats and he stopped barking.
Great! We practiced again and again. And then later, as we sat watching TV, he sprang up, barked at some noise from outside and I calmly said "enough" from my comfy place on the couch and lo and behold -- he ran his curly little bottom into the study, plopped into a sit, and looked at me like, "Okay, baby, cough up that treat!"
I was so startled I found myself saying, "Good enough, good enough!"
Jesus...it's all therapy isn't it? A canine conspiracy of some sort.
Good enough, good enough, we're all just good enough! Woo-hoo!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Mistakes
Does my mother make mistakes?
She's grinning right now. She's probably laughing out loud reading this.
"Of course I do," she'd guffaw. "I make mistakes all the time!"
So this morning I'm in the kitchen making breakfast for Ann and our friend, Laurie. French Toast with caramelized pears. I've never made caramelized pears before, but once I had them served on my French Toast at a fancy restaurant (I even think I was having breakfast with my mother...but no matter...) and they were delicious.
There I am carving out the guts of the nice ripe red pears, dipping the juicy halves into brown sugar, placing them gently into a cast-iron skillet and worrying that they will burn or turn mushy or taste awful.
Ann comes in. "Smells great! What are you doing?"
Me: Caramelizing pears.
Ann: Do you know how to do that?
God no! I'm thinking. Shit! What if I've made a big mistake?
And then I think of my mother who, in my eyes, rarely (if ever) makes mistakes and most certainly never does so in the kitchen.
She had to have made some mistakes, I tell myself. She's not perfect. Weren't their meals I couldn't stand? I search through my memories and while there were meals that I didn't like, everyone else ate them with enough platitudes of gratitude that the food must not have been awful.
No, I concluded, my mother does not make cooking mistakes.
My mother is not perfect either, but she does not make mistakes when it comes to food and the preparation thereof.
Okay, I buoyed myself, I am half of her...I mean, her genes are in me and while I've avoided admitting it, I like to cook. I may not like it as much as my mother, I may not be half as adventurous, but I like spending time in the kitchen preparing things. Hell, even she started out with basic stuff like brownies and grilled pork chops before she took on great feats of culinary wizardry like caramelized pears.
I poured the 1/2 cup of water on the browned pears and waited. Lid or no lid? Are they softening or mushening? Will they still be brown? Is the sauce at the bottom of the pan evaporating, thickening or getting even more watery with the juice of the pears? Is the flame up high enough or is it too high?
These must be all the questions my mother asks herself, I'm thinking. She probably even compares herself to her own mother who cooked for truckloads of people when she was alive and whipped up things like ice cream cakes on a moment's notice. Maybe my mother feels insignificant when she compares herself to her own mother just like I'm feeling now...right?
20 minutes later the pears are done. The sauce is thick and spreads evenly over the pears sitting beautifully on a white platter. The French Toast tasted great, the pears the perfect compliment to the measured vanilla and the sprinkled cinnamon.
Whew! No mistakes...
...this time.
She's grinning right now. She's probably laughing out loud reading this.
"Of course I do," she'd guffaw. "I make mistakes all the time!"
So this morning I'm in the kitchen making breakfast for Ann and our friend, Laurie. French Toast with caramelized pears. I've never made caramelized pears before, but once I had them served on my French Toast at a fancy restaurant (I even think I was having breakfast with my mother...but no matter...) and they were delicious.
There I am carving out the guts of the nice ripe red pears, dipping the juicy halves into brown sugar, placing them gently into a cast-iron skillet and worrying that they will burn or turn mushy or taste awful.
Ann comes in. "Smells great! What are you doing?"
Me: Caramelizing pears.
Ann: Do you know how to do that?
God no! I'm thinking. Shit! What if I've made a big mistake?
And then I think of my mother who, in my eyes, rarely (if ever) makes mistakes and most certainly never does so in the kitchen.
She had to have made some mistakes, I tell myself. She's not perfect. Weren't their meals I couldn't stand? I search through my memories and while there were meals that I didn't like, everyone else ate them with enough platitudes of gratitude that the food must not have been awful.
No, I concluded, my mother does not make cooking mistakes.
My mother is not perfect either, but she does not make mistakes when it comes to food and the preparation thereof.
Okay, I buoyed myself, I am half of her...I mean, her genes are in me and while I've avoided admitting it, I like to cook. I may not like it as much as my mother, I may not be half as adventurous, but I like spending time in the kitchen preparing things. Hell, even she started out with basic stuff like brownies and grilled pork chops before she took on great feats of culinary wizardry like caramelized pears.
I poured the 1/2 cup of water on the browned pears and waited. Lid or no lid? Are they softening or mushening? Will they still be brown? Is the sauce at the bottom of the pan evaporating, thickening or getting even more watery with the juice of the pears? Is the flame up high enough or is it too high?
These must be all the questions my mother asks herself, I'm thinking. She probably even compares herself to her own mother who cooked for truckloads of people when she was alive and whipped up things like ice cream cakes on a moment's notice. Maybe my mother feels insignificant when she compares herself to her own mother just like I'm feeling now...right?
20 minutes later the pears are done. The sauce is thick and spreads evenly over the pears sitting beautifully on a white platter. The French Toast tasted great, the pears the perfect compliment to the measured vanilla and the sprinkled cinnamon.
Whew! No mistakes...
...this time.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
My iPod
Like most people, when I walk there’s something in my ear. I avoid cell phones. I just want to listen. I don’t want to talk. So at first, it was my MP3 player pinned at my side, the black headphones in my ears. Now, it’s an iPod with white cords dangling, unless I feel “watched” and fear an iPod nabbing fast approaching.
There are times when I feel guilty walking around listening to something other than the sounds around me. I feel especially guilty when I’m out walking the dog because face it, this is the time I’m supposed to be “at one with the dog.” Still, I love my dog as much as I love music so it’s a toss up most days and inevitably I end up with something other than my dog’s clanging tags in my ears.
He doesn’t seem to mind. I still talk to him. “Good dog. Good right here. Good boy.” And his tail wags as much if my ears are free or if they’re not. He’s just happy to be heading somewhere. Preferably the lake. Preferably the green corner of the park where we play “chuck-it.” Preferably up the street to the neighbor’s house where his best dog-friend lives.
Years ago, when I used to ride the transit more and before MP3 players and iPods, boom boxes were popular. At the back of the bus, questionable youth would sling huge music players onto their shoulders and slide down the aisle on their way to their next stop. Everyone got to hear the music and sometimes musical selections competed with each other. Then the Walkman was born and headphones vibrated out the heavy beats of the Beastie Boys.
The headphones have gotten more elaborate and the “players” more inconspicuous, but now you can’t seem to travel anywhere without someone listening to something either on a cell phone or through their own personal listening device. Last summer, while stuck on a plane on an O’Hare runway I walked to the bathroom and counted only one person not on a phone or without headphones. Everyone, and I mean everyone was listening to something other than the pilot who was once again apologizing for the delay.
I worry sometimes that I’m disconnecting myself from the world around me by going on long walks plugged in, but I don’t worry enough to stop from doing it. I grew up in a musical family, my parents both music teachers so it only seems appropriate that music is a lifeblood of sorts for me. Yet here I am writing about something that seems as acceptable as it is ubiquitous.
What does it say about Americans that we have checked out, isolated ourselves from the sounds of the world with sounds from another world? It says a lot, of course, but I’m only concerned about what it says about me, another uniquely American quality I suppose.
So on my walks, the dog swinging his happy self at the end of the leash, this is what I think my iPod says about me:
I am well enough off that I can afford an iPod. In addition, I am well-enough off that walking for an hour or two is something I can afford. There are no kids to pick up from daycare, no second job to which I must attend, no bus I have to catch, no appointment I have to make.
I care about my dog. I’ve come to learn, after meeting many other dog owners that a lot of people don’t walk their dogs at least not for a long time. They may take Fido around the block for his daily constitutions, but they don’t just walk so the dog can get exercise. Some just throw the ball at a dog park or worse, just let the dog loose at the dog park and hope he or she gets enough exercise playing with other dogs or sniffing around off leash.
I care about my dog enough that if you were to watch me every day for a week you’d see that the dog walks (as do I) anywhere from 4-6 miles a day. Rain or shine. Furthermore, I care enough that when it’s raining my dog wears a raincoat. Another sign of my affluence or perhaps compulsion – either way, I care.
My iPod says I’m up on current pop culture. I own one where a lot of people my age (almost 50) may not or if they do, aren’t exactly sure how to use it. My iPod says I’m not living as a neo-Luddite. I know what an iPod is and I know how to use. Of course, if passersby could hear what’s on my iPod they would know a lot more about me than what just meets the eye.
I like folk music. There’s a lot of new young folk singers out there and I search, online at the iTunes store for quirky musicians that most iTuners don’t listen to. I know this because there’s nary a review about the CDs I download. Radio stations generally don’t play what I listen to so finding new music is a bit like searching for the Holy Grail – I may not find exactly what I’m looking for, but along the way I learn a whole lot about different artists.
My iPod says I have time. My iPod says I struggle with boredom. In the past, walking the dog was enough, but now walking must be entertaining, more entertaining that watching the dog chase leaves that blow by in windstorms.
My iPod says I can no longer run. I used to run with my iPod, but now my back aches and my knee is “crunchy” every time I go up or down stairs. I’ve given up running, which was very hard to do and the subsequent 20 pounds I’ve gained frustrates me to a raw nerve, a raw nerve that I soothe by listening to music or occasionally a recorded book I’ve downloaded temporarily on my iPod.
I never listen to my iPod while riding my bike, though I have a number of friends who do. I cringe when I see them. I don’t care how low the volume, you miss hearing certain sounds when you’re tuned in to music or even a story.
Some days I don’t listen to my iPod though and I suppose that says a lot about me too. Like I can be forgetful or that some days I need something other than music to bring me back to center. A walk in the rain will do that. A walk in the summer heat will do it as well.
While I may forget my iPod or choose not to take it, I never forget the dog. He could care less if I’m listening to music. He just loves to get out and my life seems all the more important when he’s at my side.
And what my dog says about me perhaps allows a more in-depth view of my psyche.
But I’ll leave it to him to tell that story.
There are times when I feel guilty walking around listening to something other than the sounds around me. I feel especially guilty when I’m out walking the dog because face it, this is the time I’m supposed to be “at one with the dog.” Still, I love my dog as much as I love music so it’s a toss up most days and inevitably I end up with something other than my dog’s clanging tags in my ears.
He doesn’t seem to mind. I still talk to him. “Good dog. Good right here. Good boy.” And his tail wags as much if my ears are free or if they’re not. He’s just happy to be heading somewhere. Preferably the lake. Preferably the green corner of the park where we play “chuck-it.” Preferably up the street to the neighbor’s house where his best dog-friend lives.
Years ago, when I used to ride the transit more and before MP3 players and iPods, boom boxes were popular. At the back of the bus, questionable youth would sling huge music players onto their shoulders and slide down the aisle on their way to their next stop. Everyone got to hear the music and sometimes musical selections competed with each other. Then the Walkman was born and headphones vibrated out the heavy beats of the Beastie Boys.
The headphones have gotten more elaborate and the “players” more inconspicuous, but now you can’t seem to travel anywhere without someone listening to something either on a cell phone or through their own personal listening device. Last summer, while stuck on a plane on an O’Hare runway I walked to the bathroom and counted only one person not on a phone or without headphones. Everyone, and I mean everyone was listening to something other than the pilot who was once again apologizing for the delay.
I worry sometimes that I’m disconnecting myself from the world around me by going on long walks plugged in, but I don’t worry enough to stop from doing it. I grew up in a musical family, my parents both music teachers so it only seems appropriate that music is a lifeblood of sorts for me. Yet here I am writing about something that seems as acceptable as it is ubiquitous.
What does it say about Americans that we have checked out, isolated ourselves from the sounds of the world with sounds from another world? It says a lot, of course, but I’m only concerned about what it says about me, another uniquely American quality I suppose.
So on my walks, the dog swinging his happy self at the end of the leash, this is what I think my iPod says about me:
I am well enough off that I can afford an iPod. In addition, I am well-enough off that walking for an hour or two is something I can afford. There are no kids to pick up from daycare, no second job to which I must attend, no bus I have to catch, no appointment I have to make.
I care about my dog. I’ve come to learn, after meeting many other dog owners that a lot of people don’t walk their dogs at least not for a long time. They may take Fido around the block for his daily constitutions, but they don’t just walk so the dog can get exercise. Some just throw the ball at a dog park or worse, just let the dog loose at the dog park and hope he or she gets enough exercise playing with other dogs or sniffing around off leash.
I care about my dog enough that if you were to watch me every day for a week you’d see that the dog walks (as do I) anywhere from 4-6 miles a day. Rain or shine. Furthermore, I care enough that when it’s raining my dog wears a raincoat. Another sign of my affluence or perhaps compulsion – either way, I care.
My iPod says I’m up on current pop culture. I own one where a lot of people my age (almost 50) may not or if they do, aren’t exactly sure how to use it. My iPod says I’m not living as a neo-Luddite. I know what an iPod is and I know how to use. Of course, if passersby could hear what’s on my iPod they would know a lot more about me than what just meets the eye.
I like folk music. There’s a lot of new young folk singers out there and I search, online at the iTunes store for quirky musicians that most iTuners don’t listen to. I know this because there’s nary a review about the CDs I download. Radio stations generally don’t play what I listen to so finding new music is a bit like searching for the Holy Grail – I may not find exactly what I’m looking for, but along the way I learn a whole lot about different artists.
My iPod says I have time. My iPod says I struggle with boredom. In the past, walking the dog was enough, but now walking must be entertaining, more entertaining that watching the dog chase leaves that blow by in windstorms.
My iPod says I can no longer run. I used to run with my iPod, but now my back aches and my knee is “crunchy” every time I go up or down stairs. I’ve given up running, which was very hard to do and the subsequent 20 pounds I’ve gained frustrates me to a raw nerve, a raw nerve that I soothe by listening to music or occasionally a recorded book I’ve downloaded temporarily on my iPod.
I never listen to my iPod while riding my bike, though I have a number of friends who do. I cringe when I see them. I don’t care how low the volume, you miss hearing certain sounds when you’re tuned in to music or even a story.
Some days I don’t listen to my iPod though and I suppose that says a lot about me too. Like I can be forgetful or that some days I need something other than music to bring me back to center. A walk in the rain will do that. A walk in the summer heat will do it as well.
While I may forget my iPod or choose not to take it, I never forget the dog. He could care less if I’m listening to music. He just loves to get out and my life seems all the more important when he’s at my side.
And what my dog says about me perhaps allows a more in-depth view of my psyche.
But I’ll leave it to him to tell that story.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Only Human
You'd think by now I'd learned that everyone is human, that everyone has a flaw or a quirk or more than one. You'd think that by now I'd realize no one is perfect and that all those little crushes I get on people who I think are perfect, melt away after just a bit of time with them.
It's not like a crush crush. It's more like a crush where you find someone really interesting and you want to know them better so that maybe a little bit of their sparkle (false as it may be) might sprinkle on you just enough to make you shimmer on occasion.
I spent yesterday traveling to a conference with someone I once thought perfect. I knew, when I got into the car, she wasn't perfect. Lots has happened to make me realize that simple though really complex reality. The details aren't important, but for the 2 hour car ride to the conference and back, I kept thinking, "No one is perfect so get over it."
I wasn't disappointed to figure out this person wasn't perfect. I wasn't even angry. I was almost philosophical about it. She talked about her two marriages, her struggle with bipolar disorder, her decision to stop her medications after 20 years of being on them, her dabbling into bio-resonance therapy, her indecisions about her career, her posting on Match.Com to find someone who'll make her feel less lonely...none of it surprised me, but her original image in my mind crumbled a bit.
"She's a good person," I kept saying to myself. "She's wrestling with some of the same demons. She's fully human and not some mold of perfection without flaws or warts."
But she was, to use an old cliche, the straw that broke my camel's perfection back. "No one's perfect," I concluded and I could feel myself not only projecting that thought backwards in my memory, but forward as well. "I have never known and will never know anyone who is perfect."
There was no judgment, but there was this revelation: I need to stop trying to achieve it.
It's not like I wake up in the morning and say, "Okay, what am I going to do today to be perfect?" It's more like I have this full glass of "perfect" and every mistake I make causes it to dribble out. That's really the wrong metaphor because it implies that I see myself as perfect. Instead, the glass of perfection is outside of me and my job is to carry it every day from the starting line of the morning to the finish line of bedtime. It's impossible. It spills to varying degrees every moment. Some days I end up with an empty glass by noon and other days I can't even get out of bed dry having spilled the whole thing just by sitting up.
Still, for 48 years I've been operating under the assumption that some people DO end up with a full glass by the time they crawl into bed and what's even more amazing is that they do it for more than one day in a row. They do it for weeks at a time, even a lifetime.
Nope, everyone is as wet as I am...or they're dry because they don't even try to pick up the glass of water. They have actually banished that glass from their lives, which you'd think would make them perfect, but it doesn't.
This is where I thought my friend was -- she was smart enough NOT to pick up the glass of perfection, to shatter the myth that she had to have such a glass in her life. She was perfect in her desire not to desire "perfect."
So yesterday, as we careened down the freeway in her expensive and speedy BMW sports car, I listened to her stories and her struggles, her frustrations and meditations and I realized we were no different. Almost 15 years older, I expected her age to offer me wisdom, the kind of wisdom that would make carrying that glass of water a bit easier or perhaps a bit more successful. Instead, the only wisdom I got was that she's balancing her own glass (or perhaps glasses) along a similiarly bumpy road.
I'm not sure where this leaves me. Does it make me more forgiving of other's imperfections? Does it make me more forgiving of my own? Does it make the glass of perfection sitting in front of me any less enticing or alluring? Will I stop kicking myself for my mistakes?
I can't imagine that it will, but perhaps it will give me a pause, a measured rest long enough where I can breathe in deeply and say something soothing or tempered, something zippy or hilarious, something spiritual or earthy.
But it's like chasing my tail. I shall stop my pursuit of perfection by saying the perfect phrase to pull me from my pursuit perfection only to stumble on the words tipping my glass ass over tea kettle dousing myself in my own ocean of faults.
It's hard to stop kicking yourself when you have such well-developed muscles for it.
Atrophy. A-trophy. Which shall I choose?
It's not like a crush crush. It's more like a crush where you find someone really interesting and you want to know them better so that maybe a little bit of their sparkle (false as it may be) might sprinkle on you just enough to make you shimmer on occasion.
I spent yesterday traveling to a conference with someone I once thought perfect. I knew, when I got into the car, she wasn't perfect. Lots has happened to make me realize that simple though really complex reality. The details aren't important, but for the 2 hour car ride to the conference and back, I kept thinking, "No one is perfect so get over it."
I wasn't disappointed to figure out this person wasn't perfect. I wasn't even angry. I was almost philosophical about it. She talked about her two marriages, her struggle with bipolar disorder, her decision to stop her medications after 20 years of being on them, her dabbling into bio-resonance therapy, her indecisions about her career, her posting on Match.Com to find someone who'll make her feel less lonely...none of it surprised me, but her original image in my mind crumbled a bit.
"She's a good person," I kept saying to myself. "She's wrestling with some of the same demons. She's fully human and not some mold of perfection without flaws or warts."
But she was, to use an old cliche, the straw that broke my camel's perfection back. "No one's perfect," I concluded and I could feel myself not only projecting that thought backwards in my memory, but forward as well. "I have never known and will never know anyone who is perfect."
There was no judgment, but there was this revelation: I need to stop trying to achieve it.
It's not like I wake up in the morning and say, "Okay, what am I going to do today to be perfect?" It's more like I have this full glass of "perfect" and every mistake I make causes it to dribble out. That's really the wrong metaphor because it implies that I see myself as perfect. Instead, the glass of perfection is outside of me and my job is to carry it every day from the starting line of the morning to the finish line of bedtime. It's impossible. It spills to varying degrees every moment. Some days I end up with an empty glass by noon and other days I can't even get out of bed dry having spilled the whole thing just by sitting up.
Still, for 48 years I've been operating under the assumption that some people DO end up with a full glass by the time they crawl into bed and what's even more amazing is that they do it for more than one day in a row. They do it for weeks at a time, even a lifetime.
Nope, everyone is as wet as I am...or they're dry because they don't even try to pick up the glass of water. They have actually banished that glass from their lives, which you'd think would make them perfect, but it doesn't.
This is where I thought my friend was -- she was smart enough NOT to pick up the glass of perfection, to shatter the myth that she had to have such a glass in her life. She was perfect in her desire not to desire "perfect."
So yesterday, as we careened down the freeway in her expensive and speedy BMW sports car, I listened to her stories and her struggles, her frustrations and meditations and I realized we were no different. Almost 15 years older, I expected her age to offer me wisdom, the kind of wisdom that would make carrying that glass of water a bit easier or perhaps a bit more successful. Instead, the only wisdom I got was that she's balancing her own glass (or perhaps glasses) along a similiarly bumpy road.
I'm not sure where this leaves me. Does it make me more forgiving of other's imperfections? Does it make me more forgiving of my own? Does it make the glass of perfection sitting in front of me any less enticing or alluring? Will I stop kicking myself for my mistakes?
I can't imagine that it will, but perhaps it will give me a pause, a measured rest long enough where I can breathe in deeply and say something soothing or tempered, something zippy or hilarious, something spiritual or earthy.
But it's like chasing my tail. I shall stop my pursuit of perfection by saying the perfect phrase to pull me from my pursuit perfection only to stumble on the words tipping my glass ass over tea kettle dousing myself in my own ocean of faults.
It's hard to stop kicking yourself when you have such well-developed muscles for it.
Atrophy. A-trophy. Which shall I choose?
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Cup O' Noodles
My teaching partner turned to me today and said, "I sure hope people show up for your presentation on Friday."
I've been worried sick that I'll walk into the school in Portland, set up my computer and projector, and then wait only to find that no one decided to come hear my presentation. I've been a bit worried these days and my teaching partner has had to hear it.
"Why do you hope that?" I asked her.
"I can't imagine, after all the work you've put into this what you'll be like if no one shows up!"
"Have I been an ass?"
"No, not an ass, but obsessed." She smiled. She's young and cute and has a great smile and I tried to focus on her smile as my stomach sank.
Obsessed. Yes, that pretty well sums it up.
Then at lunch we had a panel discussion on National Coming Out Day. Three other teachers sat with me in front of most of the school as they ate lunch and we were interviewed by two 8th graders. One of the teachers on the panel loves to talk. I mean, she loves to talk particularly when the subject is about herself. So she talked...at length after every question. The first question: When did you come out and what was that like?
Talkie teacher: ...forget it...I'm not even going to try to summarize her monologue...
Then the microphone comes to me. I sneak a peak at my teaching partner in the back of the room and she is smiling because we are both annoyed by talkie teacher's need to talk ad nauseum about herself.
Me: I was 19. It went great.
And then I handed the microphone to Sally sitting at my left. She handed it right back.
Obsessed. I am obsessed with people who have absolutely no regard for how anyone else feels.
During this discussion/presentation the girls are munching away on their lunches. Sandwiches to my right, a crunchy apple to my left, and a girl, slurping Cup O' Noodles directly in front of me.
I'm not sure what it is about Cup O' Noodles and me. Every slurp is an irritant. Grating. The noodle, wet and limp, flies up, hits the nose and then gets sucked in. Only it doesn't get completely sucked in. Bits fly to the left and right, drop into the lap of the slurper, and the broth, greasy and salty, dribbles down the front of the slurpers shirt.
"How has being gay changed your life?"
Slurp, slurp, slurp all the while I'm waiting for talkie teacher to finish her story.
I feel sick to my stomach. The Cup O' Noodles is being devoured in front of me. Slaughtered and sucked, dribbled and dissected noodle by noodle.
They hand the microphone to me. I can't think of anything to say.
"I think my being gay has changed other people's lives more than my own." It sounded snobbish, but it's true. I've known all my life. The only change was finding a name for what I was, for what I am and then there I was, out. Then back in again when I became a teacher and then out again when I decided to name it again.
"I've always been this. It's not news to me." My eyes are so focused on anything BUT the slurper at this point. "But every time I have to tell someone, which non-gay people don't have to do, there is a reaction. Sometimes it's a good reaction, sometimes it's not."
I can hear the slurper.
"My life isn't changed by their reaction. Theirs is...if only temporarily."
Then the talkie teacher asks for the microphone back and expands her original story. It's changed her life and she's about to share every detail with us.
Next question: What advice do you have for students who might be questioning?
I'm first. They hand the microphone to me.
"Be gentle with yourself. Take your time. Let all possibilities be possibilities. You'll know. Trust yourself on the inside and don't listen to the others on the outside. You're not alone. Find someone to talk to. Be patient. Forgive yourself for your doubts."
I kid you not, slurpy girl tips the Cup of the Cup O Noodles straight up to grasp the last slimey noodle with her tongue. Her lips do not touch the styrofoam rim of the cup. She taps the bottom of the inverted Cup. Her tongue works as if mining the air for diamonds. The teacher to my left has nothing more to add to my statement. She pats me on the back and says, "Nicely stated." The teacher to her left says, "Bravo. Well said." But then talkie teacher takes the microphone and begins a checklist of dos and don'ts.
The last noodle is dangling and the slurpy student's chin is covered in greasy broth, her tongue a flag in an unseen wind.
I will forever associate the sound of the talkie teacher to the slurp and slime of the Cup O Student.
I am obsessive. It is so true. So true.
I've been worried sick that I'll walk into the school in Portland, set up my computer and projector, and then wait only to find that no one decided to come hear my presentation. I've been a bit worried these days and my teaching partner has had to hear it.
"Why do you hope that?" I asked her.
"I can't imagine, after all the work you've put into this what you'll be like if no one shows up!"
"Have I been an ass?"
"No, not an ass, but obsessed." She smiled. She's young and cute and has a great smile and I tried to focus on her smile as my stomach sank.
Obsessed. Yes, that pretty well sums it up.
Then at lunch we had a panel discussion on National Coming Out Day. Three other teachers sat with me in front of most of the school as they ate lunch and we were interviewed by two 8th graders. One of the teachers on the panel loves to talk. I mean, she loves to talk particularly when the subject is about herself. So she talked...at length after every question. The first question: When did you come out and what was that like?
Talkie teacher: ...forget it...I'm not even going to try to summarize her monologue...
Then the microphone comes to me. I sneak a peak at my teaching partner in the back of the room and she is smiling because we are both annoyed by talkie teacher's need to talk ad nauseum about herself.
Me: I was 19. It went great.
And then I handed the microphone to Sally sitting at my left. She handed it right back.
Obsessed. I am obsessed with people who have absolutely no regard for how anyone else feels.
During this discussion/presentation the girls are munching away on their lunches. Sandwiches to my right, a crunchy apple to my left, and a girl, slurping Cup O' Noodles directly in front of me.
I'm not sure what it is about Cup O' Noodles and me. Every slurp is an irritant. Grating. The noodle, wet and limp, flies up, hits the nose and then gets sucked in. Only it doesn't get completely sucked in. Bits fly to the left and right, drop into the lap of the slurper, and the broth, greasy and salty, dribbles down the front of the slurpers shirt.
"How has being gay changed your life?"
Slurp, slurp, slurp all the while I'm waiting for talkie teacher to finish her story.
I feel sick to my stomach. The Cup O' Noodles is being devoured in front of me. Slaughtered and sucked, dribbled and dissected noodle by noodle.
They hand the microphone to me. I can't think of anything to say.
"I think my being gay has changed other people's lives more than my own." It sounded snobbish, but it's true. I've known all my life. The only change was finding a name for what I was, for what I am and then there I was, out. Then back in again when I became a teacher and then out again when I decided to name it again.
"I've always been this. It's not news to me." My eyes are so focused on anything BUT the slurper at this point. "But every time I have to tell someone, which non-gay people don't have to do, there is a reaction. Sometimes it's a good reaction, sometimes it's not."
I can hear the slurper.
"My life isn't changed by their reaction. Theirs is...if only temporarily."
Then the talkie teacher asks for the microphone back and expands her original story. It's changed her life and she's about to share every detail with us.
Next question: What advice do you have for students who might be questioning?
I'm first. They hand the microphone to me.
"Be gentle with yourself. Take your time. Let all possibilities be possibilities. You'll know. Trust yourself on the inside and don't listen to the others on the outside. You're not alone. Find someone to talk to. Be patient. Forgive yourself for your doubts."
I kid you not, slurpy girl tips the Cup of the Cup O Noodles straight up to grasp the last slimey noodle with her tongue. Her lips do not touch the styrofoam rim of the cup. She taps the bottom of the inverted Cup. Her tongue works as if mining the air for diamonds. The teacher to my left has nothing more to add to my statement. She pats me on the back and says, "Nicely stated." The teacher to her left says, "Bravo. Well said." But then talkie teacher takes the microphone and begins a checklist of dos and don'ts.
The last noodle is dangling and the slurpy student's chin is covered in greasy broth, her tongue a flag in an unseen wind.
I will forever associate the sound of the talkie teacher to the slurp and slime of the Cup O Student.
I am obsessive. It is so true. So true.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Same As It Ever Was
I have 19 students this year and 3 whacked parents out of the bunch. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being certifiably nuts, one is a 9 and two are 7's, though they scare me more because they're silent 7's. I don't know they're about to wig out until I receive an email from the Head of School, forwarding one of these parent emails to me.
I've dealt with whacked parents before and that's exactly what hit me the other day: Teaching is no longer new, it's no longer challenging. It's the same conversations, the same dilemmas to solve, the same kid issues and parent weirdness. The only challenge, and that's even the wrong word for it, is having a young teacher as my teaching partner. She's not had these conversations or issues or dilemmas that much so she struggles in dealing with them.
Jokingly, I call her "Grasshopper" like the blind Kung Fu master did with David Carridine back in the 70's. "Take the pebble from my hand, grasshopper." We laugh about this a lot, but underneath it all, it's sad that this is my biggest challenge.
I never realized how much I need to be tested in my life. I seek it though I'd never really noticed that I seek it until now. I changed jobs a lot in my 20s, but then settled on teaching. Even there, though I've switched the grades I've taught, subjects, and now even schools.
I laugh when I read my horoscope. As a Sagitarius, the classic line is always "you feel unsettled with life" and while it makes me laugh, it's actually true. I get unsettled at times, squirmy, and my itchiness has lead me to some interesting places, but it's also uncomfortable and if I'm not careful, it can throw me into a real funk.
I'm a bit funkish now. I'm trying to find excitement in my job. Having a "grasshopper" helps, but it hasn't cured the itch or the funk.
Last night I woke at 2 in a panic about something I needed to do or forgot to do and I started thinking about this section I read in Cesar Milan's new book (Be the Leader of Your Pack). It's all kind of woo-woo, but it also struck me how much what he had to say rang true for me. Basically it goes like this: Your dog senses everything. You can't lie to your dog. If you don't feel like the confident leader of your pack, your dog will know it.
I see it with Rubin. He gets when I'm in a funk. He gets when I'm weak inside. Last night I was feeling weak and funky and he was a monster -- pulling on the leash, not listening to commands, biting his leash. I got frustrated and then I felt guilty -- what kind of dog trainer am I going to make if I can't even train my dog?
Granted, he's only 7 1/2 months old. He's only been living with us for 5 1/2 months. 90% of the time he is great on the leash, follows every command, and wants to please. But the 10% of stubborn, puppy dog feels like my failure, like some god-dog is watching from above and saying, "Yep, you just aren't good enough!"
So last night, after reading a bit of Cesar's book, I went to sleep thinking and woke up in the middle of the night thinking about how many therapists I've paid to teach me this lesson -- YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH ---YOU MUST BELIEVE YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH -- and now I have this dog who sees right through me and can call me on my self-loathing bullshit with the tug of his leash or his racing around the house barking.
I am not the leader of my pack.
I am not the leader of my pack when I feel funky and itchy and weak.
I cannot lie to Rubin.
So this morning, I vowed to do all those self-talk rituals every therapist has given me and face my ultimate therapist once again.
Rubin was an angel today.
I hate it when it's that easy.
This probably has nothing to do with being unchallenged at work, but in my mind the two go together. I feel good about myself when I'm stretching -- physically, intellectually, emotionally. I haven't stretched in months -- figuratively or literally. Rubin's rambunctious puppy-ness made me realize this yesterday.
I think I need to schedule regular visits with my puppy therapist for awhile...
I've dealt with whacked parents before and that's exactly what hit me the other day: Teaching is no longer new, it's no longer challenging. It's the same conversations, the same dilemmas to solve, the same kid issues and parent weirdness. The only challenge, and that's even the wrong word for it, is having a young teacher as my teaching partner. She's not had these conversations or issues or dilemmas that much so she struggles in dealing with them.
Jokingly, I call her "Grasshopper" like the blind Kung Fu master did with David Carridine back in the 70's. "Take the pebble from my hand, grasshopper." We laugh about this a lot, but underneath it all, it's sad that this is my biggest challenge.
I never realized how much I need to be tested in my life. I seek it though I'd never really noticed that I seek it until now. I changed jobs a lot in my 20s, but then settled on teaching. Even there, though I've switched the grades I've taught, subjects, and now even schools.
I laugh when I read my horoscope. As a Sagitarius, the classic line is always "you feel unsettled with life" and while it makes me laugh, it's actually true. I get unsettled at times, squirmy, and my itchiness has lead me to some interesting places, but it's also uncomfortable and if I'm not careful, it can throw me into a real funk.
I'm a bit funkish now. I'm trying to find excitement in my job. Having a "grasshopper" helps, but it hasn't cured the itch or the funk.
Last night I woke at 2 in a panic about something I needed to do or forgot to do and I started thinking about this section I read in Cesar Milan's new book (Be the Leader of Your Pack). It's all kind of woo-woo, but it also struck me how much what he had to say rang true for me. Basically it goes like this: Your dog senses everything. You can't lie to your dog. If you don't feel like the confident leader of your pack, your dog will know it.
I see it with Rubin. He gets when I'm in a funk. He gets when I'm weak inside. Last night I was feeling weak and funky and he was a monster -- pulling on the leash, not listening to commands, biting his leash. I got frustrated and then I felt guilty -- what kind of dog trainer am I going to make if I can't even train my dog?
Granted, he's only 7 1/2 months old. He's only been living with us for 5 1/2 months. 90% of the time he is great on the leash, follows every command, and wants to please. But the 10% of stubborn, puppy dog feels like my failure, like some god-dog is watching from above and saying, "Yep, you just aren't good enough!"
So last night, after reading a bit of Cesar's book, I went to sleep thinking and woke up in the middle of the night thinking about how many therapists I've paid to teach me this lesson -- YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH ---YOU MUST BELIEVE YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH -- and now I have this dog who sees right through me and can call me on my self-loathing bullshit with the tug of his leash or his racing around the house barking.
I am not the leader of my pack.
I am not the leader of my pack when I feel funky and itchy and weak.
I cannot lie to Rubin.
So this morning, I vowed to do all those self-talk rituals every therapist has given me and face my ultimate therapist once again.
Rubin was an angel today.
I hate it when it's that easy.
This probably has nothing to do with being unchallenged at work, but in my mind the two go together. I feel good about myself when I'm stretching -- physically, intellectually, emotionally. I haven't stretched in months -- figuratively or literally. Rubin's rambunctious puppy-ness made me realize this yesterday.
I think I need to schedule regular visits with my puppy therapist for awhile...
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Vapor Rub
My mother just emailed and asked how I was feeling. We communicate via phone and email and now via this blog, which is kind of weird in one sense (my parents get to read about my life whether I want them to or not) and kind of nice in another sense (I get to share my life with my parents...something many of my friends don't get a chance to do). I guess it all depends on how you look at it.
Often when I am sick, I call my mother. I don't know why. I just like to tell her that I don't feel well and that I need my mother. I don't think I really DO need her, but it's nice to hear both their voices (my mom's and dad's) and though it doesn't cure what ails me, I feel a smidge better afterwards.
This cold has been a killer, but finally I'm on the mend. Halfway through the week I figured out that, while the cough syrup was helping, the thing I really needed was Vick's Vapor Rub...which ironically brings me back to my parents.
I don't know what's REALLY in that stuff, but as I stood in the bathroom staring at my sick and pathetic self in the mirror, just the thought of putting that greasy goop on my chesk made me feel better. I slept like a baby that night -- all 12 hours as I went to bed almost immediately after I got home from work. The next night I did the same routine...downed the metallic flavored cough syrup and lathered my chest with Vick's. I even dabbed a little under my nose, just like my parents used to do and once again slept through the night soundly.
It was the sleep that helped, but I really think it was the Vick's too. Maybe it doesn't really do anything, but for me, it brings back memories as well as comforts me when I'm sick. Much like the phone call to my mother, when I'm coughing up a lung or blowing my nose raw, calling her is soothing. I can remember my mother and her rough fingertips massaging the stuff into my chest when I was just a little kid or my dad gently applying a dab in the "V" of my unbuttoned nightshirt. "This will help," they'd both tell me and I believed them.
Maybe it's the Vick's. But maybe it's that I still believe they were right and that belief makes me feel better. Hard to say, but for me, there is nothing better than a scoop of Vapor Rub, a phone call home, and a long night's sleep to make me well again.
Often when I am sick, I call my mother. I don't know why. I just like to tell her that I don't feel well and that I need my mother. I don't think I really DO need her, but it's nice to hear both their voices (my mom's and dad's) and though it doesn't cure what ails me, I feel a smidge better afterwards.
This cold has been a killer, but finally I'm on the mend. Halfway through the week I figured out that, while the cough syrup was helping, the thing I really needed was Vick's Vapor Rub...which ironically brings me back to my parents.
I don't know what's REALLY in that stuff, but as I stood in the bathroom staring at my sick and pathetic self in the mirror, just the thought of putting that greasy goop on my chesk made me feel better. I slept like a baby that night -- all 12 hours as I went to bed almost immediately after I got home from work. The next night I did the same routine...downed the metallic flavored cough syrup and lathered my chest with Vick's. I even dabbed a little under my nose, just like my parents used to do and once again slept through the night soundly.
It was the sleep that helped, but I really think it was the Vick's too. Maybe it doesn't really do anything, but for me, it brings back memories as well as comforts me when I'm sick. Much like the phone call to my mother, when I'm coughing up a lung or blowing my nose raw, calling her is soothing. I can remember my mother and her rough fingertips massaging the stuff into my chest when I was just a little kid or my dad gently applying a dab in the "V" of my unbuttoned nightshirt. "This will help," they'd both tell me and I believed them.
Maybe it's the Vick's. But maybe it's that I still believe they were right and that belief makes me feel better. Hard to say, but for me, there is nothing better than a scoop of Vapor Rub, a phone call home, and a long night's sleep to make me well again.
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