A Three-legged Dog

This is Oliver. He's a three-legged dog with one blue eye. He's shy, but friendly and today we shared our tennis ball with him. He was very interested, but was not very interested in playing fetch. We liked him very much and hope to see him again soon.

But now we're listening to the Seattle School Board meeting which is very much like a three-legged dog with one blue eye only this dog is neither friendly nor interesting. Rather, it is nasty and ugly with people shouting out obscenities and chanting in the background. It shows, I dare say, the wrong-headedness of the school board as they dig themselves into a deeper and deeper hole of bigotry and poor judgment.

Why do I watch? Ann wants to know what's going to happen with her school and the program in which she teaches. I'm trying to busy myself with other things, but like a bad accident in the highway, it's hard to look away.

Change is constant, that's for damn sure, but some do not adapt well. Ann is good at it. She's remained positive throughout the ups and downs of the threats and rumors of closures and changes. Ann is like Oliver -- good at getting around on three legs, looking handsome with one blue eye.

All of this makes me even more happy I am no longer teaching. It's a mobocracy.

And still, I am signing up for a class to retain my teaching certificate. Why, I wonder? I suppose it's fear...this economy makes me fearful and a teaching certification seems like a good fall back position. "If anything," I tell myself, "I can substitute."

But why would I want to? Seattle Public Schools is in a mess and you, too, can watch it LIVE on your television.

I'd rather play fetch with Oliver.

On a bright side, I've doubled my income this month! It was never much to begin with, but now it's double and well, that's something. My one website is finished (www.wagsnwords.com) and I'm working on my other. I will advertise soon and see if I can attract more full-paying doggy clients. Or writing clients or soon, once I get my ducks in a row, some tutoring clients.

Someone asked me today if I enjoyed working for myself. I have yet to pay taxes, so perhaps my enthusiasm is premature, but even though I'm working very hard (and have a cold to prove it), the work feels oddly rewarding. Obviously NOT in a financial way, but in a way that feels creative and reinvigorating.

Leah (who recently passed) always encouraged me to do two things -- dream and work to my potential. At her memorial service, her brother said that he learned important lessons from his sister, chief among them that he may not achieve all of his dreams, but he will always achieve his potential. I feel as if I am now doing both. In teaching, I worked to my potential, yes, but I lost my ability to truly dream. It's hard to explain, but charting my own course each and every day has rejuvenated my belief in my dreams.

Okay, this is getting way out of hand. The point is, I think, that I like what Oliver represents -- he embodies his dreams in his potential.

(Go to bed...the cold medications are talking again!)

Blog Overload

This is crazy Rubin. We all went skiing today (Ann had the day off) and in our adventure to the mountains, we ran into some pesky, persistent birds. Gray Jays. They wanted our lunch. Rubin wanted them for lunch. Here he is staring up at one of the birds (you can't see it) who has propped itself up on the tip of my ski (planted into the snow).

It was a beautiful day. Blue ski, crispy cold, and warm sun (whenever we got in the sun). I'm tired tonight and yet here I sit posting yet another blog about my life. I now have three blogs I keep track of -- this one, Rubinations, and my business blog -- Wags n' Words. Often I'm double posting, which I'm realizing is not the best use of my time, but somehow I think it keeps my life compartmentalized so that business does not cross with personal.

Silly notion.

Until I figure a way out of it, I will maintain all three blogs and just blur the lines when I post Rubin stuff on this one and business stuff on his.

Today was truly beautiful. It was great to have time to spend with Ann (and Rubin, though I spend most of my time with him). I wanted to clean the house this weekend, but Ann said I had to do it when she was at work, that when she was home was a time to be together. Of course that means I'm the one cleaning the house and she's not...funny how that works...but she was right today. Today was a perfect day to go skiing.

We had the place to ourselves, amazingly. Usually this spot is swarming with people and their dogs -- skiing, snowshoeing, walking -- but today we saw no one but the birds. I'm assuming this was for a number of reasons: 1) It was a Monday and everyone had to work 2) the snow was kind of cruddy -- it hasn't really snowed since Christmas and 3) well, I can't think of a third, but that snow was more ice and very difficult to ski on. Even the ski resort up the street where the downhillers fly like maniacs was sparsely populated.
Regardless, we had the place to ourselves and we all had a great time. Included in this great time was a good lunch -- it always tastes better outdoors, doesn't it? Rubin partook and did his best to keep those pesky, persistent birds at bay.

What are you doing with your hand, Ann?

Many Thoughts

Lessons in relaxation...

I woke in a panic this morning after dreams of poverty and an inability to get a job. In my dream, I was sobbing in the office of my former school begging for a teaching job all the while knowing 1) there weren't any jobs and 2) going back to teaching was a desperate move on my part. But in my dream I knew I had to calm myself down and as if I were in a movie and not a dream, my body split in two. Not literally, but one whole me moved out of the other whole me and standing in the room were two mes -- one sobbing for a job and the other giving herself a pep talk.

I'm not sure what spurred on the panic, though there are many contributing factors, few of which I can control. I watch and listen to way too much news. The radio reports all day long offering in-depth analysis about financial crises and our inability to figure out how to solve it and the television at night offers more analysis and heavy doses of doubt.

Chief among those doubts is the chase-your-tail kind of logic I find myself consumed by: The CEO of Starbucks made millions of dollars last year and yet, they are laying off employees. The same, I'm certain can be said for Microsoft and Google and Sony and all those other corporations by which we measure our economic success. We are encouraged to "buy things" as it will stimulate the economy, but we've had 2 decades of buying things and somehow we ended up in what is called a "credit crisis." I have always believed we should consume less, which makes me some kind of defeatist in this capitalistic world since my job in retail (along with everyone at Starbucks and Microsoft and Google) is dependent upon people consuming more and more and more so the CEO's can make a killing and I can earn a minimum wage with which I can go out and consume things.

Speaking of which, I have no hours scheduled for my retail job as the store is cutting back to the "essentials" though I am still to be "reviewed" the first week in February. I filled out my self-evaluation form yesterday and found myself unable to take the statements I must rate myself on seriously. "Creates a welcoming environment through acknowledging, approaching, and engaging customers in a timely fashion" to which I am to provide examples. "No, I stand at the back of the store and busy myself with the task of dusting hidden shelves." This isn't rocket science people. I work for minimum wage less than 10 hours a week (if that) and at the same time am expected to "take personal initiative to develop and increase knowledge and skills to improve job performance..." Sorry, I don't have time...I'm trying to make a living.

Next, I got my business license yesterday, which means I must now work on advertising myself prolifically to increase my client base. And the more I increase my business, the more I wonder if I should keep my retail job???? Being a "business owner" carries a weight I had not expected and my shoulders ached this morning as if the weight were measured in tons and not in metaphor.

And lastly, I have an idea for a book that requires me to interview a lot of people. When will that happen? Oh and let's not forget my freelance job. I must put out the newsletter by the end of the month and I have yet to write one word.

This then is stress, a kind of stress of which I am unfamiliar. I am used to the stress of teaching, the stress of the classroom, the stress of having to email a worried parent, attend a meeting with co-workers, and plan a lesson with a community partner. While both jobs (my previous and my current) carry expectations, those of teaching are made by others and those now are made by me. No wonder I found myself sobbing in the office of my former school begging for a job. It was as if I were asking my two selves -- the two who split apart in my dream -- which do you want -- this stress or that stress?

(...and in the background on the radio right now, the stock market just dropped to a number we have not seen in years. Oh my poor portfolio...one among the millions diving head first into the unknown.)

But would I trade the stress of now for the stress of then? This is what I worked out in my dream: I would not. I distinctly remember in the dream last night that my biggest panic was NOT not having a job, but was a deep and devastating worry that Rubin, our dog, would have to stay at home alone if I went back to work -- that we would no longer spend our days outside with other dogs walking and playing. That thought was the fuel for my tears and so this morning, when I woke with a pounding headache I reassured myself that as stressful and scary as the future of being a "small business owner" is, I wouldn't trade it for the world...even if that world is crumbling under the stress of stress.

Sleepy Optimism

The alarm went off four times before I realized Ann was hitting snooze again and again. Technically, I don't need to get up until later, but in support of Ann's bread-winning position in my life, I get up early to make coffee and breakfast. We are both tired this morning after sitting in front of the TV way to long watching one more analysis of Obama's inauguration. (If there is one thing I've learned from all of this it's how to spell inauguration.)

His words were moving. I keep reading in this morning's papers the word "somber" as if everyone had a different expectation. These are somber times, aren't they? Was he supposed to come out and say, "Ain't life great?" I mean, what must the guy be thinking about late at night when he can't sleep? "Shit! What have I done? I could have been a cushy lawyer in some high paying law firm or a tweed-coated professor at Yale. Why this?"

And what does his wife tell him? "You screw this up and it's grounds for divorce, sugar!"

Still, even though I know it's awful in the world right now, even though I worry myself about finances and the future and all that falderall (which I'm uncertain how to spell and the dictionary is offering no help at all!)...I am feeling optimistic these days. Sure, when the bank lost my deposit the other day and another bank shows a debit I had never recorded for the same amount the previous bank lost (too confusing to explain, but it's eerie) I feel hopeful (though I'm trying not to get tired of the word "hope") and optimistic.

Maybe it's because Bush is finally gone. Maybe it's because I don't have to listen to his slurry, slushy speech anymore. Maybe it's because, as a country, we're looking more critically at the crazy values of our economy. Maybe it's because people seem somehow nicer these days, kinder and more gentle with each other. Maybe it's something more personal -- like turning 50 and realizing this is it, baby, and the more I whine and worry the more whine and worry hover around me.

Who knows. This is a new day and oddly I'm carrying with me the voice of Aretha Franklin singing My Country tis of Thee. That's a pretty good start for a day, for a week, for a month, for a new country and a new world.

My favorite moment:

"...we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right." Rev. Joseph Lowery

Defining My Work

Employment has always been, for me, a matter of getting a job and then showing up at the time it began and performing the tasks at hand to the best of my ability. This was true when I worked at a bike shop in my college days and all through my teaching career. Someone else set the time, and day in and day out it rarely changed. Sure, what happened during those 8 hours (or 10 or 14) was often determined by outside forces and fluctuated, but when I went to bed the night before, I knew the expectations.

Now, well, now it's different though when I try to describe the differences, they are hard to really see. What is clear is that every week has the potential for being different...perhaps every day, too, but for now, I'll just try to explain the week thing. Take, for instance, the latest email from my most current client -- Gemma and her two worried fathers. Unlike my weekly commitments to Lucy (Mondays and Wednesdays) or Monty (Wednesdays and Fridays), Gemma's schedule is dependent upon her one father's work schedule. Since he often must travel out of state for his work, he is gone on an irregular schedule.

This week I was called up for a 3-times-a-week visit and now, it seems, I am asked for a different 3 days next week. Then a week of no visits followed by 2 days the next week. I'm not complaining. I make more money walking their dog than I do at my retail job (which is on an economic downturn hiatus it appears), but it makes for a kind of schedule I am unaccustomed to. There is no clear beginning and no clear ending. Add in my freelance writing obligations and a new, temporary contract advising the yearbook students at my former place of employment every Wednesday, and well, the days can be busily crowded or deadly silent.

So I sit in front of my iCalendar and try to map it out. The other day, with 7 dogs to walk, I literally had to time it out -- these dogs at 9:30, these dogs at 11:30, these dogs at 12:30. Often I am left with little bits of time in between, which are always awkward. I've made a commitment, now that I technically work from home, to not turn on the furnace unless I am here for more than an hour and the thermostat reads less than 58 degrees. (I don't want to spend more money than I make.) On the day of 7 dogs, there were times when I was home for 30 minutes until I had to head out for the next walk. Often sweaty and a bit overdressed for my walks, I cool down quickly and can feel a chill building even with the thermostat hovering at 59 degrees. So I've taken to warming up by doing busy tasks -- organizing the laundry requiring me to run up and down the stairs from the second floor to the basement (27 steps in total) to get my blood flowing or sweeping the hardwood floors of the first floor, requiring me to move rugs and furniture and literally jogging while I push the broom. I can stay warm in a cold house if I work at it -- a kind of sacrafice akin to walking on one's knees or wearing a shirt of hair.

Trying to plan meal prep and cooking time in 15 minutes intervals has been fascinating as well. Yesterday I made Indian curry butternut squash soup. In 15 minute intervals I chopped onions, peeled and chopped the squash, and set out the spices. Pause -- off for a walk with Gemma and Rubin -- and then back at home to cook up the onions, saute the garlic and spices, and set out the chicken broth for my return. Pause -- off for a walk with Chole -- and back in time to set the whole thing boiling. Pause -- off to a meeting at the school to learn about advising yearbook -- and back home to puree the soup in the blender and mix up the cornbread ingredients, place them in an oiled pan, and top with cheese and frozen corn. Set aside to allow the corn and chees to sink into the batter. Pause -- out the door again to shoot photos at the school for both yearbook and my upcoming newsletter article -- then back again to put in the cornbread just in time for Ann's arrival home from her day of teaching.

But that was just yesterday and rereading what I've just written I realize I forgot the exact order of things, but am too lazy to rewrite it all. The point is made. Each day has a schedule, but each schedule is influenced by commitments that can be continuous (some dogs, the laundry, making dinner) while others are a one-time event (like the advisory meeting or the photo shoot or unexpected errands).

Again, I'm not complaining. In fact, this kind of scheduling taps into my slightly OCD tendencies (like counting the number of steps from basement to second floor) and I can feel the order of my life during those focused moments. But it's also very different than how I've lived the first 50 years of my life (god, is it really 50?).

And now I look at the clock and realize I must begin today's schedule -- which includes Monty, Oshi and Perdito, another photo shoot at the school, a writing meeting with my friend, Laurie, finishing the laundry I started yesterday, a stop at the grocery store for some essentials like milk and finding time for my own workout (weights and cycling).

Let it begin.

Leah

Yesterday, when I was thinking about my employment options, I thought about Leah, a life coach and consultant I worked with a few months back. I met Leah during my last years as a teacher. She was hired to help the faculty and staff communicate more effectively with the administration. We had numerous meetings both as a group and individually and they were always difficult -- not because of Leah, but because the issues were straining everyone, creating a very low morale at the school.

Leah was a perfect choice for a mediator. Her presence in the middle of the difficult mess calmed us all. She articulated the issues, listened intently, and made us all feel that she was on our side even when those sides disagreed. When I "retired" my co-workers gifted me three sessions with Leah and last summer, Leah and I talked about my transition from teaching to something else. It helped me tremendously because she always had an important insight, she always said just the right thing, she gave me so much to think about, and she laughed in a way that made me feel confident in myself.

So yesterday, when I felt uncertain about my future decisions, I thought to myself call Leah because I knew she'd offer some needed guidance.

But I didn't call her. Instead, I went about my day, which included stopping by school, my former workplace, to pick up a dog I walk for a staff member there. Rafael, the Assistant Head of School, called me into this office and I thought he wanted to talk with me more about the Dean of Faculty position, but no. He wanted to tell me that Leah had passed away over the weekend.

Shock is an interesting feeling. All the air went out of my lungs and I sat stunned. I kept waiting for tears, but there weren't any. Instead, there was a hole inside of me and outside of me that felt vast and swirling. I fought all these feelings. In the measure of things, I barely new Leah. I was not her friend though we were always friendly. I was not a confidante though I felt as if she were always honest with me. In the past 3 years I've known Leah, I've spent possibly 15 hours with her in total and most of that time was in large group setting.

But when I heard the news, I felt as if I'd lost something personally significant -- a dear friend, a loving relative, a hopeful symbol. After I heard the news, I walked the dogs for an hour and it gave me time to reflect on Leah, on how amazing she was. This must be how some would feel if Oprah were to die, I thought to myself trying to measure the loss in a way some might understand. Only I'm not a huge fan of Oprah's and I don't mean to suggest in anyway that Leah had celebrity status, it's just that for some, Oprah changed their lives and her loss would reverberate.

Leah changed lives. She changed mine and when I think about all the people and organizations she worked with, the people and organizations she helped and improved, I realize just how many people she's influenced with her intelligence, wisdom, and wit. Leah not being here leaves a huge hole in the fabric of all that is good and positive and optimistic. Only those who worked with her, as well as her family and friends, realize the magnitude of her passing, but somehow I want everyone to know and even as I write it, I know everyone won't know what's been lost.

At one point in my walk yesterday I ran into my friend Laurie who'd just returned from a month in Mexico. She smiled her tan at me and we hugged. Laurie worked with Leah too and when I told her, the same look of shock crossed her face; the same suck of air escaping her lungs. "Oh my god," she said, "I was just going to call her this morning for some advice!"

Death is like this for everyone, I suppose. Everyone feels that gap in the world when someone of significance leaves us. I've felt it before, yet every time it surprises me. When Laurie told me she had thought of Leah that morning, I realized again how many lives Leah had influenced, how exponential her life was.

This morning, I'm still trying to hold the magnitude of that loss in my hands and no matter how hard I try, I can't.

Dilemmas/Decisions

A posting for a Dean of Faculty position at my previous place of work came across my email this weekend. It's not the position for which I hoped -- part-time, no teaching, flexible hours -- but rather a full-time position, including a teaching assignment. Ann and I have been talking and there are the usual lists of pros and cons developing in my head. I have two meetings this week with people involved to discuss exactly what this position will look like, but in my gut I have doubts.

To complicate it all, I had an epiphany this weekend. Since I quit teaching I have had this gnawing feeling that I should be doing something, that what I was doing in that moment was just a task to be completed before the next something came along. Sometimes that next something was defined -- an appointment, an errand, and a job -- but often, there was this nagging feeling without anything clear and coherent ahead of me.

For instance, Ann wanted to visit with a friend of hers who has recently been in the hospital, but who is now home. Since the visit was in another part of town, a part we enjoy walking through with the dog, we decided to visit the friend and then head for a walk around the neighborhood. After that, there were a few shopping errands to run and Ann had some schoolwork she needed to complete or at least, begin completing that afternoon.

The whole time we were visiting the friend -- an elderly, kind woman who stands barely 4 feet 8 inches in height, but whose heart is as big as the moon -- the gnawing, nagging feeling that we needed to get going chewed at my conscience. In my head, I was meting out the day in minutes -- so much time for this visit, so much time for errands, so much time for the walk, so much time to travel between places -- and feeling as if we were way behind schedule. While I fought the feelings, they tugged at me mightily. As we walked through the neighborhood, I wrestled the urge to walk faster racing to the end of the journey so we could get to the next task.

The next day, yesterday, we woke lazily and ate a nice breakfast before heading out to play with the dog. That nagging pull was still there and by the time we got home, I had created a list in my head of all the things I wanted to get done. Top of the list -- cleaning out and reorganizing the kitchen cupboards and drawers. This was no small task and when we returned from our romp with the dog, I positioned myself to jump right in. The voice in my head chattered with a buzz fueled by adrenaline and necessity...this is a big task, get started now, it's going to take a long time, you can get it done, set a time limit...I will be finished in 3 hours...that's the goal...three hours...get ready...go...

Only I didn't go. All the sudden I thought, This is a much bigger job than I have time for! Which was followed by another thought...Wait...what do I have to do after this?

Enter epiphany: There wasn't anything I had to do after the kitchen cleaning. Sure, there were things I could do, but nothing had a deadline. This is the exact moment I'd wanted my entire teaching career -- the moment of no obligations just choices. I had no papers to grade. I had no emails to parents to answer. I had no field trips to plan or lessons to lay out for the week. I had no administrative paperwork to complete. There was nothing accept that which I chose to do.

Hell yes I had time to reorganize the kitchen. Hell yes, I could take my time completing the job and better yet, I could enjoy each minute because I'd chosen the endeavor and there was no time limit imposed by the what-I-had-to-do-next feeling. Throughout my teaching career, I'd felt as if I could never fully breathe. I've written about it a million times and there I was, standing in the middle of the kitchen, breathing and deciding and finally relaxing into the moment -- a moment unencumbered by the moments that were to follow.

I liked the feeling very much so when I read my email and saw the posting for the Dean of Faculty job I felt a conundrum: IF I ventured back into the world of teaching (albeit part time) and take on the new administrative tasks outlined in the job description, would I lose this feeling?

"I don't want you to work full time," Ann said to me yesterday afternoon.

"Why?" I asked.

"I like that you cook and clean," she smiled.

We have an on-going joke about my current role as stay-at-home wife and mother, but I knew this was her way of saying I was a nicer, less stressed out person.

"You're just getting started," she added.

This was reference to my business as a freelance writer and a dog walker. I love Ann's perspective. I don't feel at all that I've just gotten started. I feel like it's taken a long time to get this business off the ground and only recently has it even shown signs of possibly lifting one heel off the ground. "I think you need to give yourself more time to see how it goes," Ann suggested.

"But what about money?" I asked, for this is ALWAYS my concern, but I didn't give her time to answer. "I could always tutor on top of the writing and dog walking. I'm certain I could get some clients if I offered myself as a tutor."

Ann is both pragmatic and encouraging. "I don't think you've really given yourself enough time to really know if you could make a living outside of teaching."

She's right, of course, and frankly I haven't done much to promote myself. So yesterday, after reorganizing the kitchen and discussing my options with Ann, I went on a long walk with the dog. Walking clears my head. Walking gives me ideas. Walking is the best way I know of meditating, something I'm never able to do if I'm asked to just sit and breathe. And this is what I decided:

I will not make a decision until I've gathered together more information. I will talk with the Assistant Head of School and see if he can give me a better feeling for exactly what the job is all about. I will talk with my former teaching partner about the possibility of sharing the job. I will work on advertising myself as a dog walker, a tutor, and a freelance writer. I will let the decision come to me naturally and not out of some panicked desire to get to the next thing. I will not worry about money until there is no money available -- then I will worry, but only then.

So today I am printing out more business cards. I will make the rounds this week to all the pet stores, vet clinics, schools, and even post an ad on Craig's List advertising myself as a dog walker, tutor, and freelance writer. I will finally fill out the business license. I will work on my book idea and begin interviewing people for the stories I have in mind.

IF the job as Dean of Faculty works out, so be it, but I will not hold my breath. Not again.

I like this breathing thing. I'm not about to let it go.

Bacon

Not my bottom...trust me...my love of bacon has not produced something so trim and firm.

I am trying not to cook up the bacon sitting in the fridge. I am trying to lose weight along with millions of others who faced the new year with more than they expected. But I love bacon and that says a lot about me since for years and years I would not eat meat. I still avoid red meat like steak or roast beef fearing what it will do to my digestion after not eating it for so long as well as worrying about things like mad cow and injected hormones.

I eat chicken and do my best to purchase organic, free-range chicken though economic times make that difficult. I avoid seafood, unless it's served to me, because of my knowledge of the sea's depletion (years of teaching environmental science) and I spend time combing through vegetarian recipes trying to find something meat-like that can fulfill my craving for a sink-your-teeth-into meal.

But bacon...I could eat a whole package of crispy, chewy bacon. I could make quiche with an overabundance of bacon in it. I could eat BLT's all day with more B and limited L and Ts. Oddly, though, I will not eat a pork loin or pork sausage nor a pork chop. I bought a pork loin for Ann the other day because I know it's one of the foods she loves the most and misses the most now that I do the cooking. But I will not cook it for her since I have no knowledge of how to cook meat other than chicken, fish, and strips of bacon.

Yesterday, while I emptied the groceries into the fridge, I saw the bacon in the meat drawer and realized I needed to do something with it or it would go bad. This morning, that thought is still with me although it's no longer a thought -- it's a craving. Perhaps this craving is due to my impending menstrual cycle -- the elusive, sneaky, and uncertain beast that either floods my life or saber-rattles with out much bloody warfare.

I crave chocolate, too, but more than anything, I crave meat. Since bacon is the only "true" meat I allow myself to eat, the package in the fridge is like a drug begging me to consume it. Scrambled eggs with cream cheese rolled into a tortilla with three strips of bacon -- that's the kind of thing I think about when I hear the impassioned cry of the bacon. Or a zucchini bacon quiche with tart Swiss cheese and a golden brown, slightly crispy crust.

The planned menu for this evening is Oaxaxa Tacos -- a vegetarian dish made with black beans and potatoes. It's low-fat. It's filling. While it's a complicated recipe, the end result is a beautiful dish -- tasty and slightly decadent.

Still, it might rise to the level of extraordinary with crispy bacon mixed into the black beans or strips of bacon atop the potato-filled tacos.

Come on...I get let that bacon go to waste.

My only question: Who the hell bought the bacon in the first place?

Please note: The above photo comes from a series of "Bacon Clothing" found at the following blog...yikes!
4.bp.blogspot.com/.../s400/bacon+panties.jpg

Blind Shots

Ann took the camera today. We have three cameras, so it shouldn't have been a problem it's just that the camera she took is the one I love to use the most. It's a video camera, but it has the capability of shooting still photos. What makes it great are...

1. It has a mighty zoom and I can shoot good photos from a great distance
2. It has a HUGE card and long lasting battery. I can take almost 200 photos with the battery barely depleted.
3. It has great resolution. The pictures are clear and detailed.
4. It has a flip view screen so I can hold the camera low and still see the display by adjusting the view screen. Nice. Really nice, especially when shooting dogs who are below knee high
5. And it doesn't have that horrible digital delay of most digital cameras. You know, snap and the shot is gone before the camera actually takes the photo. Not with the video camera. I still miss shots, but nothing like...well, nothing like the camera I had to use today.

So what did I do? I shot blind. This meant I didn't look into any view finder. I just pointed the camera in the direction of what I thought would be good shots and crossed my fingers. The end result is that I got pictures like the one of Rubin above and then some like this:

Not bad, but not great. Mostly fur and butts and ears. When I downloaded the photos it made me laugh. Still, it was frustrating, though I got kind of good at it. Take these, for instance...

Someday, when I'm rich and famous (or maybe just rich) I'll buy myself one of those super duper digital numbers that can do all the things I want it to do...

...like the clean the dirty dishes =-)

It's Friday...whew!

Water

Before I became a teacher, my friends gave me the gift of a horoscope reading. I was skeptical, but interested so I visited an astrologist in her home and gave her the algebraic details of my birth. Weeks later, she prepared an elaborate chart with beautifully designed planets encased in artistically sketched wheel.

I don't remember much. Her office in the loft of an enormous house. Her quiet and kind voice. The parchment of the chart. Her acknowledgment of my doubt. And these three "readings."

1. Most of my planets were in the family house. This meant I was deeply connected to family -- biological or not -- and I was a person of integrity and loyalty, she said.

2. While I was venturing into the correct profession (according to her interpretation), I should focus my attention on younger students, not high school students.

3. I had very little water in my chart. I can't remember what that meant for me, but I remember the astrologer saying, "You will need to surround yourself with water in one way or another to help you feel balanced."

I'm not sure if what she shared with me was "true" or if it has reflected my past 23 years correctly, but these three remembered points have offered some remarkable clarity.

1. While I struggled for a long time with my family (the biological one), I have never felt as close to them as I do now. It took some work -- especially on my part -- but I not only love my family, I enjoy them for the most part. I couldn't have said that 25 years ago. The therapy work I did around my family did make me feel balanced and understanding that "family" is more than genetics has also offered me an expansion of my familial circle. My logical family is as important as my biological one.

2. I started my teaching career teaching 8th grade. I moved to the high school grades within 6 years and while I spent another 6 years there, I headed back to the middle school age because it felt more comfortable. For the last 4 years of my career, I taught 5th grade and that felt like the perfect age.

3. And this is the point that has astounded me the most: I need water. I crave water. Not just to consume, but I need to be around it, immersed in it, and not too distant from it. When I think of my "happy place" water is always there generally in the form of a river though I can find peace by the ocean or a lake just as easily. When I am feeling out of balance, I need only expand my access to water to lift my spirits even slightly.

Today, as the water levels crest above their flood stage, as the rain falls like water poured from a bucket, as the ground squishes like a drenched sponge I am not unhappy. I feel balanced.

"I have a scientific question about water," I told Ann last night before we headed to bed. She studied science, I did not. "If you weighed all the water in the world, no matter the form -- gas, liquid, or solid -- it would weigh the same over time, right?"

"Yep," she yawned. Rain makes her sleepy.

"Like for thousands of years?" I asked. "It just recycles again and again over time, right?"

"Millions of years," she mumbled and then paused. "We could be drinking the sweat of Elvis or bathing in the urine of dinosaurs," she added.

"Ew!" I whispered. "Too much information."

But it wasn't really. When I try to hold the concept of water in its entirety, I sit in awe.

Record amounts of rain are falling on us right now. The once heavy snows in the mountains are melting. Our rivers from north to south and east to west are all flooding. The water of the world is focused on us right now. This means that somewhere else, somewhere continents away, there is a record-breaking drought. The sponge of the atmosphere is squeezing above us and not over other areas of the world.

Yesterday, while walking my assigned dogs for the day, the water on the sidewalks came up over the sole of my waterproof boots. The small dogs I walked were soaked on their underbellies from their fur sloshing through the running water. I had to leap over clogged street drains where lakes of water pooled and stagnated.

"What's a cubit?" a co-worker joked last night referring to the Bill Cosby routine about Noah and his arc.

"It feels like that doesn't it?" I laughed.

Ann went off to work this morning, tired and grumpy. "It's the rain," she said. "Indoor recess again and the kids are wacky."

"Take them outside," I suggested. "They aren't made of sugar. They'll survive."

And, I think, perhaps they are like me needing to surround themselves in water to feel balanced.

"I wish I could," she grumbled, "but the principal makes the call, not me."

It's not raining as hard right now. In fact, I think the rain has stopped as I can't hear its patter on the windows or the roof. It will make my life easier today if the weather dries out a bit and it will help all those people forced to evacuate their river homes. Still, I find a strange comfort surrounded by water determined, I suppose, by my birth under constellations aligned in algebraic equations.

5 Manner Reminders for the Privileged

1. Please and Thank You
A man approached me last night at work. He was well-dressed in pressed slacks and a heavy wool coat. His beard was trimmed and neat with flecks of gray. His wool hat set precisely on his head. His wife, or what I assumed to be his wife, walked three paces behind him looking shy and unassuming. I was stacking sleeping bags. The store was busy, but not hectic. He walked up to me and stood approximately 5 inches from my face. Standing in between two display bins, I felt a bit trapped. He held a rolled map in his right hand, lifted it to my face, and asked, "Where do they laminate maps now?"

There was an urgency to his request, the kind of urgency I recognized. Customers are often befuddled by how often the store "moves" around -- ski shop in one corner, the next time the customer comes in, the ski shop is moved into an opposite corner. This customer had searched for the laminating machine where he once remembered it only it wasn't there. In fact, it hasn't been there for years as the store discontinued offering the service. "I'm sorry," I responded, "We no longer have a laminator." He rolled his eyes. I saw the arc since I was still "trapped" between two display bins, a wall at my back, and his well-groomed beard 5 inches from my face. He turned and walked away. Not a word, just a huff. His wife spun hesitantly on her sheepish heels and looked at me quickly before bowing her head and staring at her husband's fast-paced feet walking out of the store.

2. Wait your turn
I helped a very nice young man choose a sleeping bag for his girlfriend. He had questions about length of the bags, loft of the down, durability of the fabric. I answered each in detail and deliberately while he worried about cost versus quality.

A woman approached carrying an expensive backpack and carrying a shopping bag filled with clothes she'd selected from upstairs. Behind her, her tall, teenage daughter talked on her cell phone and curled her ponytail around her long fingers. "Does this come in a better color?"

At first, I didn't realize she was talking to me. I'd been in mid-sentence with the young man, explaining the advantages of a down sleeping bag over a synthetic one. He looked at the woman and then at me, taking a step back to give her room. I stuttered. "Uh, I'm not certain. Which pack do you have?"

The pack department sits on the opposite side of the store from sleeping bags. While I work in packs on occasion, I had no idea about the colors we offered in the various bags. My head spun on the details and then I caught myself. "I'd be happy to help you as soon as I finish helping this customer," I said to the woman, but the man shook his head and said, "Oh no, go ahead and help her." He deferred and I let him.

I walked across the store and checked the computer. "It only comes in that color," I told the woman. "Well, what else do you have that she could use?" She nodded to her daughter who was still on her phone. "Uh, what does she need the pack for?" I asked and for the next half hour I helped them select a pack, fitted it to the daughter who refused to get off her phone, and all the while worried about the man who waited by the sleeping bags.

In the end, the mother bought a $400 pack for her daughter along with two expensive down coats, three pair of exercise pants, endless shirts and sweaters, and two pairs of shoes. After ringing her up, I headed back to the sleeping bags where the man still stood looking at some choices. "I'm so sorry," I said, "I didn't expect that to take so long." He smiled. "It's okay. Some people are very demanding. What can you do?"

Yeah, what can you do?

3. The most expensive is not always the best choice
I love working in the travel department. Customers who shop there are often on their way to somewhere interesting. Thailand, Cambodia, Kenya, Guatemala -- their stories are often colorful and they have very specific needs. There are many options for the world traveler -- an assortment of luggage from the standard carry-on to wheeled bags that turn into backpacks. Most customers want to know the options, though a few come in wanting a certain brand name.

A man came in last night and asked, "Do you have the Victory (fake name) line of luggage?" I showed him what we had, the red line of expensive options. He opened each bag, looked inside, and pulled on the handles. "Yes, this is what I want." Five different bags sat before him. "You want them all?" I asked. "Yes."

I was shocked. We had other options on the floor, options more than half the price and just as good if not better. The total for the 5 bags was well over a thousand dollars. Surely he wanted to look at comparable luggage -- luggage that was, frankly, better made and far less expensive. "Are you sure you don't want to look at some other options?" He pushed one of the bags toward me, "No. I only buy Victory bags." And then he turned and walked toward the cash register.

The bags he'd examined laid splayed and open on the counter and the floor. I realized after a bit of hesitation, he wanted me to close them up and haul them to the register. I did it, of course, what else was I to do? He paid with a platinum credit card and asked if I could carry the bags to the garage. I did, of course, what else was I to do? I loaded them all into his Lexus SUV (he didn't offer to help, he just watched) and I closed the hatch of his car. He drove off without a nod of any appreciation.

When I returned to the sales floor Dave, who has a witty sense of humor smiled, "Take solace in the fact that he just purchased the crappiest luggage for the highest price and it will most likely fall apart on his next trip to Paris and all of his silk underwear will fall out in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton." I laughed.

4. Clean up after yourself
For a half hour after the store closes, the employees are to "zone" their departments. In other words, straighten things up. This can be particularly important after a busy day when items are scattered about and half open. In the Travel department, it means placing bags back on their hooks, zipping up open zippers, and restocking the traveling knick knacks. In Optics, we must straighten the items in the display cases and wipe the glass of those cases clean with a wet cloth. In Packs we restack the packs against the wall and hang the displays on the appropriate hooks. We're given a half hour, but it rarely takes that long so often the supervisors will come by and ask us to help out in another department.

A few weeks ago on a closing shift, my supervisor came by before we closed and asked if I could "zone" the hats and gloves at the front of the store for the last half hour of my shift. There weren't any customers in my department (Travel), but at the front of the store there were customers aplenty searching for a warm hat and warm gloves for the changing weather.

We carry a wide variety of hats and gloves. Too many in my opinion, and their organization is random. Typically, they are organized by brand, but there are at least 50 different brands and the categories are blurry on their displays. By the time I got to the section, most of the hats sat on the bottom shelf of the display, scattered about like forgotten children. Even the top of the displays were covered in hats, stacked in precarious piles.

I gathered up all the randoms and put them in a shopping basket and began the tedious task of finding a home for each of them. Customers shopped around me and as I muddled through the arranging, customers pulled more hats from the display, tried them on, and then put them back...not at all where they got them from. I followed one woman around for more than 15 minutes and watched her try on hat after hat, pulling it from it's hook and then tossing it onto the bottom shelf of the display or stacking it on top.

At one point I said, "Are you still interested in these hats?" holding a pile in my hand.

"Oh," she mumbled, "No," and tried on another hat, looked in the mirror, and threw the hat onto the bottom shelf.

I picked it up, put it in my basket and bit my tongue.

I went back to shelving the hats in their proper place, working my way down each aisle only to find more hats randomly tossed along the shelves and on top of the displays. It was a losing battle.

I returned to my department after my half hour of "organizing" and said goodbye to my co-worker, Jeanett. "You look frazzled," she said.

"I've become the mad hatter," I laughed. "Never agree to zone the hat section when they ask."

"Oh, you haven't learned to run the other way when they come looking for you at the end of your shift? Trust me, it's worse in clothing. Those dressing rooms are a nightmare." We smiled at each other as I headed to the time clock to check out.

5. Not everyone needs to know your business
A couple looked at new packs last week. Both young, the woman was very, very thin and the man, rather short and pudgy. She tried on packs while he sat off to the side talking on his cell phone. She was determined to fit into a large pack measured by the length of one's torso even though it clearly did not fit her. Marion, a co-worker, did her best to help. "That's a really wonderful pack, but it's not quite your size."

"Why not?" the skinny woman asked. Marion did her best to explain how packs were fitted -- how the length of the torso mattered and how, despite how it might feel, a pack should sit on the hips, which contrary to the current lo-slung pants style, was significantly higher than one might imagine. Marion flashed me a few looks, rolling her eyes and shaking her head slightly whenever I looked over. Eventually, I joined her to see if I could help.

"We leave tomorrow," I heard the man on the cell phone state. "Yeah, she's getting her pack now."

Marion, always pleasant asks, "Where are you headed?"

"My boyfriend works for Bill Gates and he's giving us a trip to Asia as a gift for all the work he's done for Microsoft," explained Ms. Skinny.

"Oh, that's cool." Marion was clearly faking her enthusiasm.

"Last year," Ms. Skinny continued unprompted, "He took us on his personal boat to the Caribbean. He's such a wonderful person."

I busily arranged scattered packs on the floor and tried my best not to look at Marion lest I break out laughing.

"We've traveled all over the world," Ms. Skinny continued, forcing the waist belt of the pack as far down on her hips as she could possibly push it. "We're going to meet Bono next month and have trip planned this summer to float the Grand Canyon with Steven Spielberg."

"And you leave tomorrow for Asia?" Marion asked.

"Yes, that's why I need a pack." Ms. Skinny looked over at her boyfriend who was still on his phone and tipped her head in search of approval.

He moved the phone away from his mouth and said, "Whatever you want, honey. Bill's paying for it all."

At this point, Marion's loaded the pack with weighted bean bags and sent Ms. Skinny on a walk around the store to see how the pack felt. Ms. Skinny walked away pushing the waist belt down way past where Marion had fitted it.

"Do you really think they're going with Bill Gates?" I asked.

"Hell no," Marion responded. "And if I didn't have any integrity, I'd fit that pack so it hurt like hell 10 minutes after she started hiking."

It took over an hour to sell a pack to Ms. Skinny and her cell phone boyfriend. In that hour, names were dropped like pennies. There wasn't a celebrity they didn't know or a fancy or exotic place they hadn't been to or were going to within the next few months. I hung around for most of the fitting to support Marion in her efforts to fit the pack properly, but in the end, Ms. Skinny purchased the largest pack and insisted it felt better strapped below her hips.

"I really like this pack," she kept saying, "I just wish it came in a blue. Do you have it in blue?"

"No," we both chimed in. "They don't give color choices with packs like these."

"That's too bad," she said, "I'll have my boyfriend call the company and complain."

You do that, Ms. Skinny, you do that.

TWOOO9

We survived New Year's Eve. It's always a question -- our survival -- since we live in a neighborhood where the event is celebrated not only with fireworks, but with guns. When I lived in a more rural area, guns were also a popular choice of celebration, but the distances between my house and my neighbor's was measured not in feet, but in miles.

Not so now. I can hit at last 9 houses from mine with a hurled rock, if I so chose to and my propulsion capabilities are nothing compared to the guns brought out on New Year's Eve. The guns, though, aren't my biggest worry. It's the sound. Loud, explosive, cracking, whistling, and booming -- it is the dog who bares the brunt of celebration. So we take necessary precautions.

First, we exercised him more than usual yesterday. After long walks and a few play times (fetch, chase, tug of war) we went out one more time last night for a short walk and a romp with Monty, his best dog friend. By the time we got home, he crashed under our outstretched legs as we watched Amelie and drank a celebratory Mexican hot chocolate. By 9 o' clock, we all went to bed and crossed our fingers that midnight would be short and relatively uneventful.

Surprisingly, I was the one who woke at midnight to the sound of distance fireworks. I waited, expecting to hear the neighbors at the end of the block igniting their arsenal, but before long I fell back to sleep. The dog slept. Ann slept. And even I slept.

Until 1:30 when a "drive by fireworks" attack motored and exploded down the street. The dog raced off the bed in a fit of barking and I shuffled off to the bathroom for my nightly visit. But five minutes later, the fireworks faded into the distance and we were back to sleep again. Until 2:30, but again, only one or two bangs, a few barks, and finally we were asleep for the rest of the night.

Now, Rubin sleeps curled on his bed in the study, we're still in our pajamas, and rain dampens the already soggy streets. Oddly, all of this feels like a good omen for the coming new year.