Leaving Perspectives

"I just can't imagine doing this work without you."

This is a comment I've heard a lot these past few weeks as the end of my teaching career approaches. I haven't figured out how to respond to such a comment. Inside I'm thinking, "I can imagine it!" but I know this would be perceived as harsh, as a slam against the person who said it. In actuality, my comment is more about my ability to see myself somewhere else, doing something else and has no reflection whatsoever on the person who is stating how much they will miss me.

Often I stumble out with something clumsy like "You'll be fine" or "It's not like we won't see each other." An awkward silence lands in the middle of the conversation after such comments, and I never know what to do with that silence either.

It happened again yesterday. We took the students on our annual end-of-the-year visit to Peggy at her horse farm. This field trip is a part of the reflection we ask the girls to do before we send them off to summer vacation and eventually to their 6th grade year.

The weather was perfect yesterday and the girls had a great time grooming horses, braiding their manes, and working with the horses in the arena with Peggy. At lunch, I snuck into the kitchen to grab another homemade cookie and to visit with Peggy who was sipping soup separate from the energy of the giddy girls. Nini, my teaching partner was there as well as Trina the art teacher who comes on the trip every year.

Peggy started, "I can't imagine your not being here next year."

"Me either," chimed in Nini who is very nervous about making her own way at the school without me.

"Yeah, it just won't be the same at school either," added Trina.

I stood mute, unable to say anything to soothe them. We moved on in our conversation, but on the way home I was uncertain why this comment is so difficult for me.

Today we went for a walk with our good friends Jeanne and Lisa and their two girls. Jeanne, like me, is often restless and has changed her job more in the six years that I've known her than I have in my lifetime. In the past, we've talked a lot about how people react to our leaving and so I told Jeanne about my conundrum.

"How would you respond?" I asked.

"It's tough, isn't it," she said. "No one who says it really sees that it's all about them and not about you."

"Exactly," I agreed. "I'd rather they say, 'That's so exciting!' but instead I'm left feeling guilty for making them feel bad."

"My favorite comment was 'We're going to miss you.' I would have preferred 'I'm going to miss you.' It would feel more genuine."

I know people are just letting me know they like me and that they respect me. I know people are really going to miss my daily presence in their lives, but I don't see myself as leaving them. I see myself as moving onto something different, something away from a school and the teaching of children. When I think of leaving I don't mourn who I won't see. In fact, it never really occurs to me because I'm assuming we'll stay in touch or at least, I'll stay in touch with those people who've meant a lot to me.

"I guess you just have to say," Jeanne continued, "'I imagine it will be different for you' and just acknowledge their difficulty with it."

It's not that I won't miss teaching. It's not that I won't miss most of my co-workers (dare I say not all of them) or the students or the school, but I'm at a point where when I think of them -- when I think of Trina or Peggy or Nini -- I think about all the work it takes to do what I've done for the past 22 years. My well is dry. To move on, to re-energize with a new direction feels exciting and exhilarating. To stay, to even think about staying, feels exhausting and overwhelming. All those people represent that for me and so leaving that, not them, but THAT feels like a relief not a sadness.

Maybe that should be my response: "Yeah, I imagine it will be difficult at first, but I'm really excited to know all of you in a different way. Not as co-workers and colleagues, but as friends."

The other thing I find interesting about leaving something I've done for so long, something everyone associates me with is that now everyone wants to fill my time.

"You could go with us to the Cedar River Watershed," Nini announced the other day. "We have lots of field trips you could help with and then we could have access to your expertise."

Peggy even invited me to come out to the farm and work with her during the days the schools are there working with the horses.

Ann even has me cleaning and cooking next year.

Carrie, a professor we work with at school from the University of Washington already contracted me for 40 hours worth of work this summer.

Not only do I have to learn how to respond to people saying they can't imagine not working with me, but I must also learn to say "no, thank you, my schedule is full."

Ann's been hinting that something will be "happening" at the end of the year -- a goodbye party or something -- and that it is a surprise. She's terrible with surprises, but she keeps trying to pin down my schedule in a way that she normally never would. "What time do you finish on Friday? What are you doing Thursday night?"

I know it's all a compliment. I know I've had a positive influence on peoples' lives. And I know I should learn to let them voice their loss, let them celebrate the goodbye how they need to celebrate it, but it's not the leaving I'll be celebrating. Rather it will be the beginning, the arriving of the next adventure in my life.

I guess others don't want to celebrate that yet, so I shall clumsily move through these next few weeks and practice the art of validating the feelings of others and keeping my schedule uncrowded enough to pursue my own interests and not the interests of others.

Every day is a lesson, isn't it?

Therapy Dog

I've known all along that my choosing to work with dogs was going to mean I had to face some dark corners of my psyche. I've known that dogs are therapist in a furry coat and to really understand them, to really learn how to "lead" them, I would have to understand myself in a way I've only glimpsed in my work with a human therapist.

Thus is the case with Rubin. Don't let the goofy demeanor fool you. Don't let that cocked head and awkward under bite make you think he is not wise or challenging. He may look at you like he is simply waiting to learn from your fount of knowledge when in actuality, like any great Buddha, he is simply asking you a question so you might find an answer you didn't know you needed.

For the past year, I've been "training" Rubin for his therapy dog test. Passing the test allows Rubin to visit hospital patients, schools, and nursing homes clad in his trim-fitting blue vest. The test requires Rubin to perform many tasks. Simple ones like sit and down and stay. And odd ones like a hug from a stranger, awkward petting from another stranger, and the ability to walk into a "large angry crowd" and allow himself to be petted.

Rubin can do many of the tasks required, but he is not a dog who allows strangers to touch him. He backs away. Once he knows you, once he's spent time with you, he'll let you do everything from petting the top of his head to scratching his speckled belly. But if you are a "stranger" forget about it.

Therefore, despite all the work, Rubin scored a "not ready" on his first attempt at passing his therapy dog test yesterday.

But don't think he is not a therapy dog. Far from it. He may never offer elders therapy nor children a reading companion, but he certainly has provided me with the kind of therapy I've had to pay a lot of money for in the past.

And all of it without words.

These are five (though there may be more) of the "issues" I'm working on in my therapy work with Rubin (I don't feel comfortable saying this is what I've learned because, like any good therapist, working with Rubin is a process not a goal):

1. Worry and stress do not lead to a calm life nor do they light a clear path. On the contrary, they just make everyone else around you worried and stressed. Worry and stress serve no other purpose than to cement you to an immovable position. You cannot "progress" when you walk through life with worry and stress. People don't like it, dogs really don't like it. And they will remind you of your worried/stressed energy every chance they get by disobeying you, running just out of reach from you, and barking hysterically. It may feel counterintuitive, but at the moment when your worry and stress are controlling every aspect of your life, a good therapy dog will ask you to breathe, to sit down, to let go, to simply stop and check in with yourself.

2. The word "failure" should be banished from our vocabulary, specifically the vocabulary of teachers and schools. Instead, we should be seen as "ready" or "not ready." Once you hold onto failure as an option, if you do not succeed, your sense of worthlessness can grow at an exponential rate. Failure digs holes that feel impossible to grow out of. Failure burdens while "not ready" offers hope of a next time. You aren't there yet. You aren't there yet, but you can still get there. To be ready requires work, hard work. It will require skills you may not think you have and some that you think you have, but aren't developed yet. Being "not ready" is not a detriment, it just means there's more work to do. Being "ready" is different for everyone. For some it may come naturally and within a few months, you're there. For others, "ready" may take years and many attempts, but once you slip into that feeling of failure, of seeing yourself as someone who can't, then no matter how much hard work you do, you're done for. You've defeated yourself and it's a defeat of the most debilitating kind.

3. Patience is an important virtue IN a teacher, but patience is also an important virtue FOR a teacher. I've known all of my teaching career that the more patient I am with my students, the more they learn, the more they grow. But I've often been unable to apply that kind of patience to my own life, to my own learning. I am hard on myself. I grow impatient with myself. When working with Rubin those dual needs for patience -- patience with him and patience with myself -- are a must. If I am impatient in only one of those areas, then Rubin struggles to learn. I struggle too. I know what I want Rubin to do and I know the unspoken time limits I have in my head for Rubin to do it. When he doesn't do it or doesn't do it within those time limits, I lose patience not just with him, but with myself. He is not a failure, I am and that kind of self-flagellation can kill you... slowly. When I am forgiving, when I am patient with myself, Rubin responds with that knowing smile, like the yogi whose known the answer all along but needed you to arrive at the answer by yourself.

4. The more you control a situation, the less control you really have. For me, this is an internal struggle. I lay out in my head exactly how I see a moment, an hour, a day progressing and any deviation from this plan raises my level of anxiety. Rubin is my constant reminder to live in the moment. It's a cliche, I know, but Rubin notices the world in a way that I have lost. The bird over his head, the smell of the grass, the desire to jump on a moth -- he notices it all and in his attentiveness he does not think about the next moment, the next hour, the next day. If I am not in that moment with him, we lose our connection. He does not respond to my commands. Often he will not even look at me when I say his name. At these moments he wants me to be in his moment and only then will he acknowledge my existence. How often have I been so wrapped up in what's next, my mind spinning around one worry or another and unaware of someone else's existence or even my own existence? He is of the body first, the mind second. I am often just a head, detached from my body and that body's existence in the sensory world. In my head, I swim in worry, thinking myself into the future and not living, full-bodied in the now.

5. In my quest to learn more about dogs, I've watched a lot of dog trainers via television and video, I've read a lot of articles and books, but nothing prepares me more than working with an actual dog. They are all different. In their differences I must be different. I can do this well with my human students -- they all require a different kind of teaching since they all learn in different ways -- but with a dog, my intuition is all off. I'm not sure what one dog needs versus another and in not knowing, I doubt myself. We watch a lot of Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, and he claims that doubt is perceived as weakness by a dog. Dogs do not respond positively to weakness. Instead, they search for a strong pack leader and if they do not perceive that strength, they take the role themselves. But how do I shed my weakness when it has been the skin I've worn most of my life? Sure, I can walk into a classroom filled with kids and exude leadership and strength because I've done it for over 20 years. Kids listen simply because I understand the lay of the land far better than they do, but dogs...well, dogs are in a different country. While taking the therapy dog test, Rubin instantly went into his insecure place. He tucked his tail, his ears folded back, the whites of his eyes got larger, and he walked with nervous hesitancy. He was a reflection of me. Even though I stood tall and walked confidently, inside I was everything Rubin was on the outside. I was nervous. I was hesitant. I was doubtful. I was without a shred of confidence. He needed me to be more than a mask of my fears, but I couldn't shake it. I couldn't breathe my way into self-assuredness and he knew it. When I look back on that moment, I realize that for much of my life, I have lived in that kind of fear -- a fear that I am not good enough to pull this off. The fear that if you pull on my facade, the whole of me would crumble into a ball of rubble. I'm a lot better than I was years ago, but that insecurity is still there, still running in my veins. Rubin is like a mirror. No, even more in-depth, he is an x-ray who reflects back to me not the facade, but the underlying image of my insecurity.

This may all seem ridiculous. This may all seem like new age hooey, but when I allow myself to believe it, when I allow myself to see myself through Rubin's eyes, I know he is one of the most gifted therapists I've ever worked with. At this point, we are working on our partnership. We're working on being in the moment together, walking confidently, and learning to be ready for the now. I was not ready the other day and therefore Rubin was not ready. He may never be a therapy dog for others. In fact, if I listen to him closely he would say, "I'd rather play than work," and so I'll pull out his agility equipment and learn better leadership skills by directing him through the tunnels and the jumps, the weave poles and the see-saws. "Play therapy," he'd say, "That's what will work best for you. Play therapy."

He's right, of course, I just need to listen not only to him, but to myself. In therapy I think they call that transference -- he lives the lessons until I can learn them myself.

I'm very lucky to have such a patient therapist. And one who can wiggle his tail with such love, I am slowly learning to love myself.

Where's My Pillow?

I have spent the past two days at a conference on Environmental Education. I have much to say, but tonight I am so tired even my typing fingers feel as if they are typing through oatmeal. My body feels as if it's moving through oatmeal. Slow and gooey, that's how I feel and there is still one more work day before a 3-day weekend.

The end of the school year is always like this. I hold on. I feel exhaustion in every breath. I neglect family and friends. I get up in the morning, pull myself through the day, and then crash at night. I thought that by having two days where I didn't work with kids would be relaxing, but instead it just added to my exhaustion.

And when I sleep, I sleep like the dead. It doesn't help that the weather is all wonky. 90 degrees on Saturday and 41 degrees yesterday. Now it's cloudy and windy and a tad warmer than yesterday, but still, that endlessly gray sky with an occasional patch of blue does little to lift my spirits or the blanket of weariness that hangs heavy on my shoulders.

One reason I signed up for this workshop was to receive 2 credits toward renewing my teaching certificate. The 2 credits require me to write a paper and right now, that's the last thing I want on my plate. Luckily, the "teacher" isn't too pushy about when the paper is due or the length the so-called paper needs to be. "A unit plan," he said, but there was no criteria, no specified requirements, no instructions beyond that.

I can BS with the best of them. I can pull a fantastic lesson plan out of my ass in no time, but the problem is that I have very little time and not so much motivation. This is my last year of teaching and while I'm trying to maintain my certification for another 5 years, I'm doing so only as a safety net in case I need to sign up as a substitute teacher to pay my portion of the bills.

But I'm kind of done with teaching and being in this workshop solidified my decision to leave. The presenter is an award-winning environmentalist with schools all around the world. He is an anthropologist by training, but has spent his life setting up environmental programs in Thailand, Bali, and the Queen Charlotte Islands (just to name a few). He was a walking factoid, spewing out statistics and dilemmas like a computer.

While some of his information was new, most of it I was familiar with since I've spent a lot of my career studying the implications of human impact on the planet. Most of the other teachers were quite young and many of them hadn't heard nor had they played many of the games the presenter shared with us. It felt simplistic in many ways until I realized that what we do in our classroom is not the norm for most classrooms around the state or even in the country.

So, while I didn't feel stretched in terms of my own learning, I did feel proud that the kind of work I've been doing is the kind of work that needs to be done in classrooms all around the world. Not to sound too arrogant, I realized that I was good at the work I've been doing for over 20 years and now it was time to pass the torch to others who have more energy than I seem to be able to muster these days.

There have been times on this journey to leave teaching when I've felt a twinge of regret. "Oh maybe I am good at this and should just keep going..." but today it felt great to leave knowing I was a good teacher. I'm not sure why it offered me so much peace, but today, while we mucked around in a stream and talked about the properties of willow trees, I said to myself, "Wow, I don't have to retain all this information and carry it back to my classroom to create a lesson. I can just revel in the knowledge and choose to live my own life differently, but the burden/responsibility of teaching others now falls to these young people." Right there in that stream I could feel the weight of my 22 year teaching burden fall off my shoulders.

Hey, maybe that's why I'm so tired...I've been carrying quite a load for quite some time. Not as long as others, but certainly longer than most and even in my weariness, I felt rather proud today to be at the end of something pretty astonishing.

Still, I have to write a "unit plan" as well as wrap up the last year of my career, which includes so many "last tasks" I can hardly think straight let alone keep my head from finding the nearest pillow and sleeping for 20 hours.

The Speed At Which

Yesterday was Saturday. It doesn't seem so long ago, but when I look at the clock this evening, Saturday is a whisper of memory. The speed at which this weekend has passed by me makes me dizzy. The week days walk to the weekend's flight. The week days crawl to the weekend's run.

When I try to count my accomplishments this weekend, I'm hard pressed to reach 10 items on my list. In fact, trying to remember all that I did yesterday feels like distant memory.

I am therefore wasting my time on this blog since every minute zooms by me and there must be more to do than what I'm doing.

There must...

A Dog Can Save Your Life

I was dreading many things today -- going into work, the heat of the first true summer day, my students and their need to be flakey on these last few weeks of school -- but the day provided me with some unexpected joy.

First, a girl in my class whose sister died last December finally shared the news with her two best friends AND wrote about it in a reflection letter on how she's grown and changed during the year. This is big because normally she avoids any mention of her sister's death, runs as far from us as she can if we show even the slightest affection (appropriate affection that is) towards her, and has yet to share her sorrow with anyone close to her including family. Her letter brought me to tears. "I have grown in this past year, but I can't exactly explain how. My sister died and that just put all these emotions in my belly and now I can't get them out."

Second, the play the kids are working on is finally, FINALLY coming together and their performance may actually be a success instead of the failure I kept envisioning in the wee morning hours.

Lastly, Mr. Rubin, the dog who teaches me something every day, frolicked raucously this afternoon, happy as a clam (though actually happy as a puppy) and made me smile with his many poses for the camera.

Silly dog.

Silly dog who saves my life in a million ways every five minutes.

Now I shall settle down into this Friday evening by watching "Juno," which Ann insists will lift my spirits even more.

More photos of Rubin on the Rubinations link...

Smatterings

For the past few days I've been "sequestered" in a jury room waiting to be called "to duty." Actually, I was called once to be in a jury pool and twice to be a potential juror, only I was excused both times. The first because I have a workshop I've paid to attend next week this particular trial required at least a week's service. The second because it was a child abuse case and I cannot, will not be impartial. If 22 years of teaching has provided any lessons it is that the kids, no matter how horrible they may behave, never deserve to be hit. And they never deserve to be hit with an "object" as the court reporter described it.

"I cannot be impartial," I told the judge. He asked me to elaborate. How could I begin to tell him of the numerous cases I've had to report, the 3 times I've served as a witness in three different cases and the bastards still walked away with their abused kids in tow, or the kids I've known who were terrified to testify against their abuser.

"It sounds like you've lost faith in the jury system," the rather arrogant judge told me.

"Absolutely not," I replied. "It's this system that will weed me out because I am biased."

I was excused.

But being excused just throws you back into the jury pool for the possibility of being selected again for a different judge and a different trial. It's like some form of modern-day medieval torture. "Back to the dungeon!"

It wasn't that bad. I enjoyed the silence of it. No classroom clamor, no end of the year stress, lots of time to go to the bathroom, an hour+ lunch...it was civilized. I practiced imagining having that kind of time to think, that kind of space in my head not to have to hold 7000 "to dos" in the air at once. I could get used to this, I thought.

But it's made it difficult to go back to work for these last 15 days.

15 days. It seems so short when I say it or write it, but I know that the next 15 days are their own form of medieval torture.

And this has been a difficult class. Very difficult. They have very little depth. Some of them do, but as a whole, they are meager of soul. I haven't had a class like this in a long time. It makes leaving odd. Kind of like a professional athlete going out on a bad year versus say Brett Farve who went out on a relatively good year.

With a bad year you kind of feel like it's time to go because you've overshot your effectiveness. With a good year you kind of leave it all out on the field.

I think I left it out on the field last year and this year is my professional embarrassment.

Well, it's not that bad, but let's just say I'm not going to win any award. Not that I ever have, but I have a sour taste in my mouth or at least I feel one coming on.

So 15 days feels in many regards like an eternity and in that eternity there is a lot to get done, none of which I feel motivated to do. It didn't help to spend the past 2 days watching how the rest of the world operates. Even at lunch, out in the courtyard of City Hall with busy traffic and lots of people and planes overhead and construction in the background, it was peaceful. The classroom is never that peaceful. No one ever takes their time like the judges did in their courtrooms.

Tomorrow is supposed to be in the mid-80s. I'm not sure what to do with that. It's been in the 30s and 40s for months now. Rainy, cloudy, chilly...even frosty. My bones have been damp for days and days. And now heat. It will make those last 15 days feel literally and figuratively like hell. No one can focus in that unexpected and sudden heat, least of all the kids.

These smatterings seem bleak. I'm not feeling bleak. I'm feeling...what's the word? I'm feeling...resigned. Like going to the dentist to have teeth drilled and filled. It's going to take as long as it takes and I must endure the drills and the shots and the forever opening of my mouth clogged with someone else's fingers and hands.

Space and Doubt

Our internet has been down for the past week. We needed a new modem, or so said the cable guy who replaced our old (6 years) one with a sleek new one. Now life is speedier and some bit of technology is off to a landfill.

I have 18 days left as a teacher. Actually, almost 17 days as this day is close to over. I am filled with a desire, an obsession to find space both in my head and in my life for doing nothing. Now my life is filled with too much. The end of the year is always like this -- projects, presentations, organizing, report cards -- but it feels particularly anxious as I know that after 18 days I will really not want to be here finishing up all the minutiae of this career.

I long for the day when I do not have to carry 7000 items in my head -- did I take attendance? Did I copy those assignments? Did I enter grades? Where did I put that file? Did I write that email to those parents? -- and on and on and on. I want to clear away the clutter in my brain and stretch out in the open space of nothing. Well, not of nothing really, but of less.

Last night, on my drive back from a dog training class, I thought about all the names in my head. There are the names of my 19 students and the names of all the past students who still walk these halls. There are the names of all my co-workers and the names of all the parents. There are the names of all the marine invertebrates we're studying and the names of their phyla -- arthropods and cnidarians and mollusks and echinoderms and on and on. There are the names of all our community partners who I must remember to put on the program for our final performance. My head is filled with names related to work and still there are names of my friends and family that must squeeze their way in there between the folds of my memory.

But it's not just names that elbow each other like an angry crowd. There are schedules and events, errands and appointments. There are lists for groceries and projects and little things I must remember, reminders I must hold for myself, or pass on to others. I should marvel at the capacity and brilliance of my brain, but instead my head feels heavy and tired and longing of wide open spaces.

Ironically though, when I am able to clear my mind for a moment -- like last night at the dog obedience class when I could solely focus on getting the dog to lie down, to stay, to walk right at my side without a leash -- the open spaces fill with doubt. Am I doing the right thing? Am I capable of making a shift from teaching to something else -- a dog trainer? A writer? A part-time employee?

Everyone around me says "yes." Everyone around me is supportive and understanding. Everyone around me is encouraging and positive.

It doesn't appease the doubts. They creep in, mostly at night, but occasionally when I least expect them.

I love the nights when I must take Rubin to dog class, but last night the doubts even crept in there. He was a monster. He was a clown. He was a goof-off. He was everything but obedient. At one point, we were to trot by all the other dogs in class leashless. All the other dogs were leashless, too. The first pass went great. Rubin trotting merrily by my side gazing up at me in that obedient, loyal way of his. The second pass was a disaster. With a huge smile on his face, he raced to the middle of the field and looked over his shoulder, an invitation to all the other leashless dogs to follow. The four German shepherds in class leaned in unison, tempted but obedient. The young black lab who never stops wiggling broke for the chase. The King Charles spaniel hid under his mother's legs. The aggressive mix lunged for Rubin. And I was left calling for my dog who would not come.

And I want to be a dog trainer?

"You're too hard on yourself," Ann laughs at the training story. "Think about all the mistakes you made in your first years of teaching."

And immediately I thought about all the mistakes I make every day while teaching.

How do I vanquish doubt? How do I walk with confidence into this next phase, set aside worry and allow myself to make mistakes and learn from them? If I am to make space in my life and in my head, how do I make certain that doubt doesn't flood the open spaces drowning me in ulcers?

I know I can't rid myself completely of doubt, but I do want to be "less" hard on myself, a bit more forgiving of myself and my dog as he romps out of control oblivious to my commands. I want to have patience and not allow worry to drive me away from these new life choices and back into the comfort of doing something I know how to do or requires little effort or thought.

I have 18 days left. I wonder what will happen on that 19th day when I can let it all go? Maybe I won't even feel the difference. Maybe the open space won't become apparent until late summer when I generally have to gear up for the new school year. Maybe then I'll notice a void. Maybe then I'll notice a pause in my life. Maybe then I'll breathe deeply not as a way to make it through the next few days or next few hours, but as a way to truly relax and revel in the emptiness of my mind.

The Gray as Matter

Okay, after reading Bookworm's list of what could happen, things I never thought of, I'm a little leery of getting behind the driver's seat. So...

...Rubin's in the driver's seat from now on!

Of course, he whined the whole time I was taking the picture, so maybe I should just leave it parked and ride my bike with a trailer on the back for Rubin.

While everyone LOVES a new car, I'm in the getting to know you phase at this point.

What I like:

1) The color. I've never had a charcoal gray car before. Ann wanted blue, but the blues were not the right kind of blue.

2) The size. It looks small, but it's got a lot of room inside for such a small outside. I also like driving on the highway passed the big SUVs, like the kind we owned and even though I worry a bit about getting crushed, I don't feel (as) guilty driving something small and fuel-efficient.

3) As for fuel efficient, I drove to Woodinville yesterday (about 25 miles away) and home again and the gas gauge didn't move. IT DIDN'T MOVE...like it was full and it was still on full this morning. Love that!

4) Rubin in the back seat. He's really close now and when I'm resting at a stop sign I can reach back and scratch his chin. I like that. He likes that.

5) Controls for the radio/CD player are on the steering wheel. I'm sure other cars have this feature, but it sure makes my life a lot easier and safer.

6) The versatility. Back seats go down and the back of them are a hard plastic. Not carpet. That is soooo much easier to clean especially with a dog. BUT the kicker is that the front passenger seat goes all the way down (forward) too and there's a lot more room if needed.

What I'm getting used to:

1) The size. Our SUV was a truck. It drove like a truck and felt like a truck. I've owned trucks more than I've owned cars and I'm not quite used to the car driving feeling. It's not completely natural for me. Yet.

2) Not sure how we're going to mount racks on the car. It's a 2009 and they actually don't make racks for it, though we can get some from Toyota, which might be the route we take. I'll have to research all of that before we figure it out.

3) The dashboard. It's RIGHT THERE, unlike the SUV that seemed farther away and well, how do I explain, reasonably sized. Things feel a bit oversized on this car, but I think I'll get used to that, too.

So, Bookworm, I shall now drive more cautiously and remember that it is just a car...but it still carries some prized possessions...Ann, Rubin, and yes, me.

More Grey Matter

It's too late now to take a picture, but sitting outside our house is our new car. Finally. And, of course, it isn't at all what we thought it would be.

It went like this:

Ann: We don't really need an SUV anymore.

Me: Really? Why not? (I'm stunned because Ann has always been the proponent of a larger car so we can "haul stuff" though mostly we just haul the dog.)

Ann: Well, we already have the furniture we need for the house and the deck and all the landscaping is in place. There's nothing big we really need to buy anymore.

Me: So, what do we want to buy?

Ann: I don't know let's just see.

First we went to the Toyota dealer as our SUV needed service. We dropped it off and decided to look at Toyotas primarily because we like the dealership and also we love the reliability of the car. We asked for a non-smoking car salesperson, as if they would be any less slimy, and ended up with Lawrence, a former NFL linebacker for the New England Patriots.

What we wanted: Mid-priced, fuel efficient wagonish car that could hold "stuff" and be versatile.

Lawrence showed us a Scion Xb. It looks like a toaster if that helps at all. Then he showed us a Toyota Matrix. Ann liked it, which made me laugh because a few weeks back, when our friend Laurie drove up in one, Ann said she thought it was ugly.

Go figure.

We drove the Matrix. Zippy, roomy, and a good mileage. Plus, all the Toyota's and Scion's have low emissions meeting the new standards, even California standards, for how much they pollute. I liked that.

Then we drove the Scion. Did I mention that it looks like toaster on wheels? Well, it drives like one too. Ann's first words, as she pulled out of the parking lot were, "I feel like a little person." Ann's not all that tall, so I just chuckled at her comment. Then I drove it and said, "God, I feel like a little person too!" I am a tall person so this meant something!

Toaster on wheels. Need I say more.

Then we discussed with Lawrence the difference between a hybrid and a regular gas guzzler. He was informative. Both cars put out the same emissions when emissions flow out. The advantages of the hybrid are that emissions don't flow out when it's running on electric, which only happens when you're going 25 mph or less OR when you run solely on electric, which you can do for about 30 miles and then you have to switch back to gas. The difference, according to Lawrence, is minimal. The price, according to Lawrence, is not.

$10,000-15,000 more for a hybrid.

That was the clencher. Yes, we want to be environmentally friendly, but since both cars get relatively the same gas mileage (the hybrid does a better job, but not substantially so) and they both "pollute" at the same rate (though that rate is substantially less than our 4Runner), we opted for paying less and going with the smaller car.

Two cars, two test drives, and there was no need to go anywhere else to look for a car.

And just like that, we came home with a 2009 (how do they do that?) Toyota Matrix S (one up from the standard model) in a charcoal gray (Ann wanted the dark blue, but the car has a dark interior and I wasn't into dark on dark as I'm prone to depression =-) so we went with a cheery gray...go figure!)

When we went to pick up the car we brought Rubin along. He was hesitant at first...the car is, after all, smaller than his 4-wheel drive truck/SUV and therefore not as roomy in the back, but soon he adjusted and now hops in and out of the car (a much more sustainable jump) like a champ.

Pictures tomorrow...