Promises, Promises

So, I think this has worked...our house...southside view. Trees are in full leaf so it's hard to see the front, but here it is...in it's glorious done-ness...though not quite done, really. There are still walls to paint, trim to finish, furniture to buy, and a mortgage to pay. But it's ours, all ours (and the bank's, too) and every morning we look up from our perch in the kitchen at the light through the large windows and marvel that we live in such a wonderful place. Ahhhhhh...

As promised...

My Internet connection is slow. I guess that's what happens when it's a free ride off someone else's wireless. But I shall attempt to post pictures of our "new" house...

...okay, so that didn't work...I'll have to make the attempt from school tomorrow where the connection is stronger, though still free...part of my wonderful teaching benefits! HA!

So, let me write about the sky as that is the glorious view I have out my bedroom window when propped up in bed on the second floor trying to access the free wireless of some neighbor.

As this morning, it is gray though now there is wind. The cherry tree, with its green leaves and ripening cherries, is swaying in the breeze. But this is not a gentle breeze. It's a taunting breeze. The color of the clouds to the east is threatening, ominously stretching their greyness across a darkening sky. The air smells of rain and lightning, heavy with the promise of thunder and splattering rain. And just as I write the last line, the sound of pelting drops thread their way through the leaves of the rustling cherry tree, hammering the shingles of my new roof.

When I was a child, my parents would drive 4 days straight to Iowa City where my father would continue to work on his perpetually unfinished doctoral thesis. I remember little of Iowa City, but I do remember the thunderstorms, the hot lightning storms that rattled me out of my bed late at night and the way I raced in uncertainty and panic in search of reassurance.

Our family house sat in different houses each summer. There is one house that I associate with the thunderstorms, though the details are difficult to quantify into words. I remember a marble staircase or perhaps just marble railings. Regardless, there was marble and a granduer to the stairs. Sweeping. My bedroom was at the top of those stairs, just to the left of a small hall. I remember gray and white and black streaks swirling on the floor as I raced from my bedroom in barefeet, my blood pulsing from the white light shattered across the night sky.

It was hard to sleep after such an alarming awakening. I'd hide under my covers for awhile, but retreat to the humid air of summer when I felt the oxygen levels underneath the comforter dangerously drop. My eyes shut tight, I could still see the flash across the room and like Haley Mills in the Swiss Family Robinson, high atop her tree of safety, I'd count -- One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand -- marking the miles between me and a bolt of sudden death.

Years later, working on my master's thesis, I spent an evening in the computer lab while all of my classmates went out drinking. I was in Baltimore. The humidity had been oppressive for days. The lightning threatened all evening, but around 10, just when I was packing to head back to the dorm, the thunder grew in intensity and fired like cannons in rapid succession.

Just as I started to run from one building half a mile to the next, buckets of water poured from the light show above me. In just 5 minutes, I was wet everywhere. My underwear just as soaked as my shoes. It was during that run that I remembered Iowa and all the lost and foggy memories; ghosts of uncertainty whispering from the past. It was during that soaking that I knew I would write my thesis on my relationship with my father. When I got back to my room and changed into dry clothes, I sat down at my computer and typed the first letter to my father. The letters would later serve as my transitions between my father's story of mental illness and my own.

So now, when nights like this promise a storm, I no longer run for comfort. I see them more as inspiration -- of cooler temperatures, of dampening earth, of cleansing and redemption.

The rain has stopped for now, though the breeze is still angry and sporadic. The sky changes in shades of gray and as night falls the young men who sit on the porch at the end of the block thunder in the streets, their chests puffed, their baseball bats cocked to the left, their voices taunting and angry as the wind.

The Last Monday

There's a hint of rain in the air today. Slate gray clouds move slowly to the east. The crows are quiet and so is the wind. From our new bedroom we can't see much but sky and the top of our cherry tree where the cherries are reddening and the birds and squirrels are feasting. If we had a long rake or hook, we could grab a branch and feast ourselves. By the time the cherries are ripe enough for human consumption though, they'll all be eaten by one critter or another. I love watching the squirrels hang upside-down, their tails wrapped on a thread of a branch, their little noses and hands working away at a cherry bouncing up and down with the weight of the critter.

Today is my last Monday of teaching. I am so ready for it. I'm tired. Slept like the dead this weekend. Rain will do us good. Wet down the excitement of summer vacation. The girls will be less likely to act like fools.

And so will I.

The best questions...

So, we're back. I'm exhausted, but home. Nothing like a field trip with 20 girls at an old army barracks.

Not many highlights, though I knew we were a "different" school when I looked at our chaperones...3 lesbian moms, a rich white dad, and our African American secretary (from school). Combined (with my teaching partner and me) we comprised a wonderful movie title..."4 lesbians, a white man, and a soul sista"...we could never figure out how to fit my teaching partner in (white woman who's married to a man)...

And then last night, before lights out, one of my favorites asks, "Can you tell me what these words mean?" So, I look in her book (teenage level) and it says "phone sex." Umm, I think, how do I explain this and the girl says, "Don't laugh at me, okay? And don't tell me you have to tell my mom...she knows I'm reading this book already."

Okay, so I put on my best teacher's face and I say, "Well, you know how women sell their bodies to men who want sex, right? (Though that's not very correct, but...) And she says, "Yeah, like prostitutes." "Yeah, well, it's the same thing only men pay women to talk to them on the phone in a sexual way while the man masturbates." And she says, "That's stupid. It sounds kind of boring." "Yes, well..." was my only response. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, she's right, it is kind of boring in a way. Well, from a kid's perspective it is.

Then, in the morning, she calls me over and says, "What's ecstasy?" And I say, "With an 'x'?" "No." "Oh, well, did this word come after the phone sex?" "Yes." "Well, you know what an orgasm is right?" "Yeah." "Well, it's how people describe that feeling when they have an orgasm." And she looks at me with this big question mark on her face and says, "But does that mean it's a good feeling or a bad one?"

Oh...what fun.

I'm just glad I get to sleep in my own bed again. World War II barracks aren't good for middle-aged back!

Only 2 school days left...whew!

Weak signal

I wanted to upload a picture of one of the horses we worked with last Friday, but the connection to the wireless I'm freeloading off of is very weak tonight and is moving very slowly. I think this is only fitting as my connection to whatever drives me feels a bit weak tonight as well.

The good news: I'm typing this at our new butcher block 8 foot kitchen island. It's beautiful...promise, pictures coming as soon as I'm up and running on my own cable service.

Other good news: There are chocolate chip cookies baking in our fabulous new oven.

Now for the exhaustion: We head to our remote island...me, my teaching partner and now about 19 kids as one has opted out of going (well, her evil mother has), the other came down with strep (second time in a month...she apparently got it from reusing the same toothbrush...go figure) and the other was home sick today hoping to recover from something not quite finished in her system. Two out of the three are a great loss to the trip. Evil mother child is free to stay home in my opinion as the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree and not having evil daughter of evil mother go makes our trip a lot easier and well, a lot safer. Long story.

But the other two, well, it will be a loss as they are kind and gentle and always engaged in whatever we're doing. Still, it wouldn't be a good end to the year if we all ended up with strep on our remote little island!

Oh, and our other set of exhausting events came in the form of one of our field trip drivers having to back out because her youngest daughter broke her arm...I mean broke as in had emergency surgery. Couldn't be helped, but we spent much of our day trying to figure out alternate drivers for the trip. All solved, but it took most of the day. Whew. Nothing like a mom with a van!

I want this trip to be over...it's going to be two nights of sleeping in barracks with young girls and a few chaperones. Kind of like Cider House Rules..."Good night all you kings of New England" or however that went.

Cross your fingers, though, the weather looks like it might be decent and when we get back there are only 2 days left of school! Yahoo! And I'd rather spend the last days of school outside than inside trying to give tests. Been there and done that and this is much nicer if a ton more work.

Hence, the chocolate chip cookies -- for the car ride and the ferry wait.

We're listening to Lizz Wright and soon the buzzer on the oven will sound. Then it's bedtime and rest before we shove off for our voyage. Peter Pan and Wendy...and the Lost Girls.

Flight plan

In our 7 months of remodeling and living any where but here, I've noticed some differences in how I live and how others live. Or should I say WHERE I live as opposed to WHERE others live.

First, we are in the path of all the flights that land at Sea-Tac airport. Big jets fly over about once every 3 minutes. They don't fly super low, but we hear them all the same. When we stayed at Doris and Steven's house, they rarely heard them at all. This, mind you, is about a mile from our house, if that, but over the rise of the big hill with all the ritzy houses on it. I'm not certain it has to do with much, I'm just sayin...you know, I'm just sayin. At one point, when we were all talking on the porch, I remember Steven pointing to a jet far off in the sky and saying, "Wow, they never get that close." I couldn't even hear the jet.

Second, there aren't as many cell phones in this 'hood as there are in others. Again, the places where we've stayed are pretty well off, wonder bread white, with meticulous lawns. There are cell phones in our neighborhood, but in the other neighborhoods where we stayed, it was as if every person had a cell phone taped to their ears (some actually did with that wonky ear piece thingy).

Third, in our neighborhood people look at you. In the other neighborhoods, people jumped back when we said hello or worse, didn't even acknowledge our kind warmth and kept on walking -- cell phone plastered to the side of their head.

Next, gas is cheaper, but grocery stores are dirtier. I can't find any decent produce on this side of the tracks, but the price for a head of lettuce is almost the same as the fancy, trendy grocery store in the other housesitting neighborhoods and their heads of lettuce are lush and green and gi-normous. I can't figure out why gas is cheaper in our neighborhood except that maybe in the richer neighborhoods people are willing to pay for and put in $50 worth of gas in their BMWs and Mercedes and Hummers while we would much prefer $30 of gas in our beat up LeBarons and LTDs. Hard to say.

Starbuck's and Tully's are much quietier atmospheres there than here. They also are "overstocked" with help. At the major Starbuck's up the street, 4 employees try to service at least 30 customers at a time while at the major Starbuck's "over there", 10 employees offered service to the same number with much greater efficiency. Ummmm. And the music over there is not nearly as loud as the music over here. Double ummmm.

There are more police here than there, but that's a recent phenomenon as the drug gangs are in a turf war here and the police "have made a commitment to keeping the CD safe from crime" though they aren't doing a very good job of it since the drug crime is just moving south and we live, well, south of the drug street and there's a ton more "drug" garbage around our house than there was 7 months ago when we left.

Still, I must say it's good to be home. Even with the rowdy neighbors and the opossum who slinked through our backyard the other morning and the jets overhead, we love our new house and are excited to work this summer on all the stuff that isn't quite finished. Luckily, we have the great hardware store (affordable, that is) in our 'hood while in the others there is either nothing or the trendy places that charge pentagon prices for screwdrivers and garbage pails.

Ann is right now installing screens in our windows and putzing in the back yard under the roar of yet another jet.

Still. It's nice here. It's home. (Pictures soon, I promise!)

Connection/Dis/Connection

3:20 a.m. Saturday morning -- our brand spankin new bedroom smoke detector goes off. I look up to the 11 foot ceiling and think "How the hell are we going to get up there? We don't have a ladder that tall!"

Luckily, the alarm stopped and we sat up in bed trying desperately to read the smallest print known to humankind on the alarm instructions. "3 Beeps - Pause - followed by 3 Beeps" means the thing is in TEST MODE. What a time to test yourself!

So we heard -- from our designer and my mother -- that sometimes spiders can walk across and set it off. Tonight we reached our feather duster up there to sweep away any spiders. I'm still worried that it will test itself again early in the morning.

But there's no time for sleeping as our new neighbors are having a party in their backyard, which is adjacent to ours. They are renting the house. Melvin, who usually lives there NEVER has parties. In fact, the onlly thing we hear from him is a bit of Aretha in the morning while he's shaving (we can hear is electric razor, too). Melvin's off in some foreign country and he's rented his house to the rowdiest, loudest woman I've met in a long time. She usally sits out on her back porch and talks on her cell phone incessantly in a voice that reminds me of Lucille Ball on speed. It's awful. It goes on and on all night long. Just as I'm certain this party will.

Unless they head to the Cowgirl Bar downtown. They seem like the Cowgirl Bar type. How's that for stereotyping! HA!

I am exhausted. I should be sleeping. I haven't had much sleep in quite a few days what with alarms and cowgirl parties and the thugs at the end of the block who stand in the middle of the street and challenge each other with chests and shouts.

And work has been none-too-easy either. Thursday I felt like Lucy from Charlie Brown -- I could have hung a shingle on a stand that said "Psychiatrist is In" and made a killing with 5 cent sessions. 4 girls got in trouble for writing a letter to another girl they thought was a bully only their letter was more bullish than the girl they were accusing. When we "punished" them, they all started sobbing uncontrollably (well, except one girl who truly is the BULLY) and I kept thinking, "Is this how the Salem Witch Trials got started?" Then the accused bully found out about it all and fell apart, as did her psychotic friend who wants ONLY to be friends with the accused bully and no one else (and she expects her friend to be exclusive to their friendship as well). Then I found out that the accused bully has confessed her thoughts of suicide to psycho girl so I had to spend an hour with accused bully and then another half hour with her mother and in that conversation, I learn that psycho girl is cutting on herself so I have to go back in "session" with her to find out if that's the case and spend another half hour on the phone talking to her mother.

Is it July yet?

My only solace this week (though it still required amazing energy) was our field trip to the Horse Whisperer (in Enumclaw) who uses her horses to teach the girls how to be effective leaders. That was fucking amazing. The girls loved it, the parents loved it, we loved it, and as far as I could tell, the horses loved it. Too much to explain, but it was exactly what we needed after our psycho-ward drama on Thursday.

Still, sleep would have been nice.

We came up to bed hoping that the party would end soon, but no such luck. More guests seem to be arriving as I type and I wouldn't be typing at all if I hadn't booted up my computer to download some pictures only to find that the internet connection I thought I no longer had access to I have access to...but only upstairs.

So, I checked email to find a message from Ann's sister about their psycho mother who has, according to sister, spent almost 10 grand on the Mexican convict. Sister asked Ann to call the mother, but Ann can't find her phone number admist our half-unpacked boxes and so she's decided that reading the DaVinci Code was far better use of her time than rescuing mom, yet again, from some manic relationship.

It has been a week of connection and disconnection in so many ways. Perhaps the biggest lesson I learned with the Horse Whisperer (and there were many) was that if you don't show your authentic emotions to a horse, they'll not give you the time of day. Not sure how to carry that into the rest of my life, but it seemed pretty amazing at the time...and very true as the girls who struggle with being themselves couldn't lead a single horse (to water) until the Horse Whisperer helped her "get real" as she demanded of the students. It was fucking amazing.

The party has reached a frenzy next door. It would all be okay except for this very drunk woman who screams a lot...like Lucille Ball on speed -- it's the kind of heterosexual ditziness I hate in some women.

Do men really think that's attractive?

Get real, I want to yell out the window!

Ann's idea is to hose them all down with water from our lofty perch of our new bedroom. "They'll think it's raining," she says. Yes, they are probably drunk enough to think it's raining, but I doubt they'll quiet down or go inside.

I could really use some sleep.

Ram Das in the Outfield

First, we are home in our newly remodeled house and though we still haven't set things into place (oh my, what work ahead), I am able to "piggyback" off someone else's wireless system until I hook up with the cable company sometime this week. Sweet.

Second, the title of this post was inspired by student of mine who, all last week, wore a fleece shawl-thingy with a hood that reached almost to the floor. She walked around the classroom draped in pink and purple looking like a cheerful druid, arms crossed in front of her like a holy monk. We played kickball in the afternoon recess and she stood in the outfield almost prayerfully, arms only unfolding when she attempted to catch a ball. At one point, not paying attention at all to the game, she stretched out both arms, tilted her head to the sky, and looked, for all the world, like Ram Das basking in the glory of some god or gods. "Ram Das in the outfield," I thought, "What a great title for a short story or an essay." Unfortunately, I haven't had a moment's breath to write such a piece, but the title seemed to fit nicely for this post.

Lastly, I have 10 more days of school left and I am more than ready to say goodbye to the year and hello to vacation. Living out of our house for 7 months has aged me. Sitting in the small study we've set up in the sunny room off the kitchen makes the journey all worth it, but I'm extremely tired and ready to just focus on my life again and not my work.

Our BIG EVENT (school performance) was last week and all went without a hitch. Well, almost without a hitch. One late student -- Ram Das, though her real name is absolutely divine and one I can't share in such a public way, but let's just say it's something like Blueberry Certain -- and the computer technology hiccuped a few times, but other than that, the kids performed well, everyone LOVED it, and the stress of that evening and all the days that lead up to it are behind me. Sigh.

Next up, a trip to the Horse Whisperer -- a woman who uses horses to help people build leadership skills -- and then three-days on Whidbey Island for the girls last trip of the year. Finally, on the last day of school, we'll head to the beach one more time to play naturalists for 100 kindergarteners...holy jesus! Once the kids leave, I have a tooth to repair and a bundle of meetings, but then I'm free and clear until my classes start mid-June.

Yes, classes. While I'm excited about these, it's hard not to get resentful about having to take them. Luckily, this round I don't have to pay for as there is money from some fund or another, but the thought of sitting in a classroom during the dry days of summer does not excite me in the least. I think, though, that since the classes are all focused on biology, we'll be outside a lot and I look forward to that.

Meanwhile, there's a brand new kitchen beckoning to me and some wonderfully dark chocolate begging to be baked in the new oven in the form of cookies. Off to the store for butter, then back home -- my real home -- to putz and putter til the sun goes down!

Ram Das ain't got nothing on me this afternoon!

Death takes a holiday

I woke with this thought this morning...

Chester, our beloved dog, showed his first signs of illness on July 4th (he had his first seizure); he died on Good Friday; and on Memorial Day we shall move into our newly remodeled house without him.

I think he's trying to send us a message. I wonder what it is?

The rich and the homeless

Having lived among the rich these past few weeks, I've noticed some parallels between the homeless who live in my neighborhood, which is just over the big hill from the posh, mansion-ville I'm living in now.

Chiefly, the biggest similarity is the amount of time the rich and the homeless have on their hands.

Perhaps it doesn't have anything to do with being rich or without a home, but more with my being a teacher -- neither rich nor homeless (well, only temporarily at the moment).

I spent most of today working. I took time out for a brief nap, but then went right back at it. I didn't get everything done that I wanted to get done and am fighting the urge to kick myself about it tonight. My teaching partner last year used to tease me by leaving little notes on my desk that said things like, "Stop, you've done enough!" She's off teaching in Cyprus and I'm left trying to remind myself that "enough" is truly far less than what I end up doing...if that makes any sense.

Ironically, the weather was nice all morning while I was tucked away in my classroom pulling together the multi-media extravaganza that has haunted me for weeks as well as mounting the art work for THE BIG EVENT Tuesday night. When I got home, still with much to accomplish, it started to rain, therefore I haven't really been outside today.

Pity. Outside gives me strength. Even in the rain.

Tonight I'm not feeling weak so much as exhausted though I doubt much sleep will come my way partly due to the coffee ice cream I ate after dinner and partly because there are 12 thousand things I must remember and they all seem to pop into my head around 3:30 in the morning.

So I marvel at the weekend my friends spent...the friends who have graciously offered us respite in their million-dollar mansion.

Yesterday, Doris spent the day moving all of her art supplies (which are sizable and varied) from the upstairs billard room to their downstairs apartment. (Yes, they live in the basement of their mansion...as Doris told me yesterday, maybe twice a year does she make it onto the fourth floor and that's only if she can't find what she's look for.) Saturday, Doris cleared away, cleaned out and reorganized like a fiend, reveling in every little find. "Oh, I wonder what's in here" was her mantra for the day and she'd open up box after box to find beads or old cards or an odd assortment of test tubes, silver chains, and pastels. Meanwhile Steven, her husband, worked in the garden and then changed out his grips on his old set of golf clubs that he is giving to his son. He spent most of the afternoon reading and listening to his flotsam and jetsam musical selection on his IPod.

Today, Doris worked on an art project on the dining room table, while Steven putz with the pool. At 11:30, Ann took them to the ferry where they went to Bainbridge Island for lunch with long-time friends. We picked them up at 5:30 this evening and then everyone came home to putz some more -- Doris made pepper rolls and Steven read again (though I, of course, was still working).

I envy their days of "projects"...of passing the time with glue or putty or yeast.

But it's May, and I find that I always envy those who have time, be they homeless or rich, since, for me, May to the middle of June is a lesson in patience and persistence, a lesson in not running out into the rain naked screaming at the top of my voice and trying to remain calm in the face of mountains of work.

I dream of running away to some commune during May, of wearing overalls without a shirt on underneath, building up callouses on my hands by shoveling dirt and hauling hay, manure, and wood. I dream of a cloistered abbey somewhere high on a hill overlooking the ocean, a place where I wouldn't have to speak or be spoken to, a place where I wouldn't be in charge of anyone and only "God" would be in charge of me.

But the days will keep turning, one after the next, and I will remain between the rich and the homeless until the middle of June when I can let it all go and pretend I am either homeless or rich or both.

That which does not kill you...

...frustrates the hell out of you.

THE MOVIE -- the 23 minute piece of "art" we've been working on for our BIG EVENT next week with our 5th grade girls -- died a slow and painful death today.

We learned, painfully, the limits of IMovie. Our script and scenes were rich and textured and therefore too much information for even our most expensive computer to handle. After an hour of trying to make it work, we threw up our hands in resignation and frustration.

And like any good teacher would do, we quickly brainstormed how to salvage the movie section of the BIG EVENT.

In the end, we're creating a sort of Performance Art Piece where the girls will perform their "movie parts" live while we synchronize a slideshow/movie behind them choreographing our selection of music throughout it all.

The girls were at first, crestfallen -- "You ruined my acting debut?" one girl moaned -- but once we explained the "new plan" they were excited to begin final rehearsals on Monday and Tuesday and then "go on stage" Tuesday night. Cross your fingers.

At the end of the day, this is what I wish they could learn from this frustrating, exhausting experience:

That sometimes, not always, but sometimes when you hit a wall, if you problem-solve, strategize, contemplate, breathe, activate some other section of your brain that was once focused soley in one direction ... the wall you so painfully crashed into will seem like a gift because what you've envisioned after the crash is often times more enlightened and meaningful than what you planned before the crash.

In the past few months, the faculty at our school has grappled with trying to rewrite our Mission Statement, which is long, jam-packed with catch phrases, and all stated in one (extremely complicated) sentence. When we look at our Mission Statement and try to live up to it each and every day, we often find ourselves walking away as failures because we all know we're trying to do too much all at once.

And too much, no matter how well-intentioned always ends up being too much.

After this week's MOVIE experience, I think the Mission Statement should simply read... "We empower girls to think beyond walls."

It's a HUGE life lesson and perhaps one of the keys to happiness and success (however one might define that). If you see the wall as a block, as an unavoidable stopping point, as a moment of giving up, it's hard to be happy or successful because life is full of walls.

But if you can see the wall as a gift, as a way to exercise your brain to get you beyond the wall in a different way, well then happiness and success have a glimmer of a chance in your life.

It sounds hokey, I know, and kind of like a Hallmark Card (Don't let the turkeys get you down...?), but as educators we're constantly struggling with WHAT TO TEACH and in WHAT ORDER and frankly, I don't think it matters what we teach. I think what matters is that we throw walls up in front of your students again and again and then say, "Okay, how are you going to get past this? What are some ways you can envision that move you beyond your stuck-ness and into a better place?"

The other day I was working with a kid on some math problems...fractions, to be exact. She is perhaps our lowest-skilled kid in terms of math, but funny, creative, and competent in the rest of her life. Math is her wall.

I am not the math teacher, per se, but my teaching partner and I pretty much tag team all areas during the day. So, here I am with V (the student) trying to explain how to find 12/5 on a number line between 0 and 2. After a half hour of grappling with the problem, I decided to ask her where 1/2 would be...thinking she'd surely get that it was between 0 and 1.

Nope, she points to the 1 because, in her mind, it's "half way" or 1/2 between 0 and 2. Makes sense in one way, but clearly V had a wall up and was unable to see beyond it.

So we make two points in the classroom. And I tell her point A is Seattle and point B is Portland. Then I make her walk between the two points. At halfway I tell her to stop and look behind her and ahead of her and tell me what she sees. She says, "I'm not in Portland yet, but I'm not home either."

Me: Great, how far are you?

V: (With a painful look of consternation that turns into a spark of light and a devilish grin)...Well, I'm half way, aren't I?

Me: Why, yes you are. So now think of Seattle as the 0 and Portland as the 1. Where is 1/2?

V marches to her paper and makes the correct placement for 1/2 on her number line.

It went on like this for another half hour as we tried to cover all those quirky componets of fractions (1.5 is the same as 1 1/2; 12/5 is the same as saying 12 divided by 5; and if that ain't enough, fractions can be written as percents.)

She didn't get much past Portland in our discussion, but she exercised her brain around the wall a number of times that afternoon.

I, of course, exercised my own brain trying to think of ways to explain it all with A)never having formal math training (except for my own twisted attempt at it years ago) and B)a limited vocabulary on what exactly 12/5ths represents...it just is, isn't it?

Is she better at math? A smidge though nothing that will register on the richter scale. Did she think beyond the wall? In fits and starts, but she did think and wrestle and twist and push and I think that will benefit her later in life when she gets stuck metaphorically between Seattle and Portland. Does she still hate math? Yes, but she's willing to keep at it and she knows it won't kill her...

...it will just frustrate the hell out of her and, hopefully in the end, make her stronger, wiser, and perhaps a bit more creative than she already is.

Tantra and tantrums

Exhausted, the words on the computer screen are fuzzy. Even with my new glasses on.

I woke again at 4 this morning and stared out the window where the lake shook with the first light of day. Ann slept soundly and peacefully beside me, her breath whispering with the leaves of the trees.

I met with my friends of 26 years last night and we talked "through" (not around or under) the large bump in our road. Tears. Wounds. Words. Understanding. Laughter.

Then today, this is the order of events in my day:

7:30 Arrive at school to get some work done on THE MOVIE we're making for our BIG EVENT next week.

7:35 Phone call to inform me that a student's grandmother passed away last night. (It's been a long illness and a struggle for a 10 year old to grasp -- death and all the trappings that slide along with it).

7:45 Copy machine because I realized I hadn't xeroxed off the assignment for the day, but then, as always, the copy machine was not turned on (needs to warm up for like 10 minutes), and once I tried running through my 22 copies, it jammed four times...by that time it was...

8:15 And the kids were in the classroom quietly reading while my teaching partner was tearing apart her desk searching for a missing wallet. No luck.

8:30 School officially begins with a whole school Community Meeting where everyone -- teachers and kids -- is in a fiesty mood. We are all counting down the days.

9:00 Work time to finish up those pesky projects. While the girls are painting and typing and organizing and practicing, we're busily working on THE MOVIE, downloading clips, matching up audio, and plugging in stills to cover up gaffes and mistakes.

10:00 Student whose grandmother died last night, walks into the room. We hug her and ask if she needs or wants anything, that we're sorry for her loss, and she says she just wants a normal day...but it's about to not get normal...

11:00 Math...(I continue working on THE MOVIE)

12:00 Lunch...and this is where it starts to get odd...I'm eating lunch in the room with S (our Health and Fitness teacher) and I casually ask, "So what are your plans for the weekend?"

S: Well, M (her husband) and I are going to continue our work with Tantra.

Me: Oh, like as in Tantric meditation and shakras (I am not as innocent as I may appear)?

S: Yes, as in getting in touch with your male and female aspects and using your shakras to have better and more meaningful sex.

Me: Oh.

S: Your face is a bit red.

Me: Yes, well... (and I'm really thinking...is this something people share at lunch?)

S: It's not as weird as it sounds.

Me: It doesn't sound weird (you must realize that this woman is amazingly fit, incredibly nice and seemingly grounded, and exquisitely gorgegous in a sort of sporty way and my teaching partner and I are constantly commenting to each other how beautiful S is and so, while Tantric sex doesn't sound all that outlandish, I have developed in my head this picture of S bent in some athletic position, orgamismly enjoying herself all the while I'm suspended OVER MY DISH OF COLD PASTA WITH TOMATOES!)

S: We've been working with this amazing couple who I met at a workshop last month.

Me: Oh.

S: They've been together for almost 20 years and have a 14 year old son, but they don't live together because she's in a relationship with a woman and he's in a relationship with a man.

Me: Oh. But they are still like together like sexually?

S: Oh yeah. I met her at a Queer Tantra workshop and M met him at a men's drumming circle. It was kind of weird how we all connected.

Me: Oh...how was that?

S: Well, I just wanted to explore tantras more and M was interested as well, so we started working with this couple in weekly sessions.

Me: Working with means what exactly?

S: We go to their house and learn about shakras and balance and work on stuff.

Me: So like when I go to workshops they show me how to do things. Is that what you do here?

S: Yes, exactly.

Me: (Uncertain of what "exactly" means...) As in what kind of things?

S: Positions. Ways to connect with one another. Clear blocked energy.

Me: Do they SHOW you this?

S: Yes.

Me: And then you practice it?

S: Yes.

Me: (Who cannot get the picture out of my head of this sexy woman and her husband straddled in some yogic posture, naked, while another couple, equally naked and straddled give them encouraging feedback ... "No, just a bit higher...yes, that's it...) You're much braver than I am...

S: It's really opened up a whole new world for us.

Me: I imagine it has. (At this point a student approaches me for help in math...the conversation fades away.)

1:00 My teaching partner and I sit down to start pulling THE MOVIE together. I tell her about my lunch time conversation. She says, "Oh god, I'll never look at S again. How can I without turning bright red."

1:10 We push play on THE MOVIE and what comes out sounds something like garbled oatmealish words. We turn to each other and say, at the exact same moment, SHIT! NO! WHAT THE FUCK?

Side note: We've worked for hours on this movie -- writing it, practicing it with the kids, shooting it, reshooting it -- we've probably put in 25 hours a piece to get this puppy ready.

1:20 (After trying a number of different tacks like rebooting the computer, changing computers, pushing every button we can think of...and still...) Mushy, goopy oatmeal.

Me: It sounds like a tantric mantra. (I start imitating it then segue into orgasmic moans and groans...my teaching partner starts throwing bits of orange peel at me, which I throw back, and soon we are in an all out food fight -- oranges, carrots, crackers -- when the kids walk in from recess.

Student: Our teachers are going off the deep end!

They all walk in scared. We're still throwing things and laughing hysterically and I keep saying "Ohmmmmm" over and over but in a kind of sexual way though the kids can't tell...they think I'm having a nervous breakdown, which I suppose I am since I've not slept well for weeks, I'm putting in 10 hour days, and then taking work, like THE MOVIE home every night...oh and let's not forget I'm not living in my house!!)

1:25 The kids settle down for art time. We brainstorm our options...there's no way we can reshoot...

1:30 I run down to another teacher's room to get help...he's teaching...I try another teacher...she says, "Oh no, you want T (a student) to help you. She's a whiz with IMovie." So we get T who tells us, "You need a bigger, faster computer, that's all."

1:50 We head to another room slogging all of our crap (camera, laptop, external hard drive, script) to find a bigger, faster computer, one whose "shakras aren't blocked" I quip.

2:00 Ahhhh, it works...and I clap and dance and sing "Ohmmm" again and my teaching partner laughs until her eyes fill up with tears and she can't breathe and meanwhile S (the Health and Fitness teacher) walks in and says, "What's so funny?" And we turn bright red and avert our eyes because now when we look at S we just see this sexy, fit woman NAKED in a foursome chanting and drumming and having the best sex of her life, unblocked energy and all.

3:00 We walk back into the room and a kid is having a tantrum about something and the art teacher is standing in the corner holding her hands to the heavens and we're still laughing and crying and trying to catch our breath when I say...

"Hey kids, time for a nap, what do you say..." And in less than a minute, they are all sprawled on the carpet, pillows on their heads, feigning sleep.

Me: That was easy.

My teaching partner: No unblocked energy here.

It would have all been well and good if I'd been able to go home after school, but it was my turn to monitor homework center while trying to download the last of our video onto the file which took me until 6 tonight. Then Ann picked me up, we drove to our house (10 days and counting until we move in) and finally out to dinner because we were too tired to cook.

Over dinner I say to Ann, "Want to hear a funny story?"

After a night of not sleeping...

...I've done remarkably well today. I even walked home from school (3 miles) after walking the not so gentle Ben (dog) for 2 miles this morning. No wonder I'm tired and sweaty and ready for bed.

I threw myself into work today, herding cats (my students) through the final phases of their huge projects for next week's BIG EVENT. We listened to the soundtrack of Akeelah and the Bee while we worked and went outside a few times during the day to enjoy the 80 degree weather. We played kickball, which was a sight as half the girls had on flip flops (better known as thongs in my day, but god forbid you call them that today) and sandals, and more shoes went flying than the ball.

Tomorrow I meet with said-friends (previous post) to discuss our difficulties. I'm not looking forward to it. It will be emotionally exhausting at a time when I don't have a lot of emotions to spare.

This is a tough time of the year. It always makes me laugh (and a bit angry) when people complain that teachers have the summer's off. I've always wanted them to just try my job for a week or two and see if they don't feel the need for a vacation.

Teaching is constant energy out. When I taught in public schools, so much energy went out I had so little left that I broke down emotionally. Now, in private school, though energy still goes out, energy still comes in (much more than when I taught in public schools). Still, at this time of the year, I'm counting down the weeks and the days and the hours until I can bid my class farewell and sleep in for a week or two.

Of course, the downside of the of private school teaching is that I must return August 7 as we are on a 10-month contract. Not a lot of time to recover from this year and as I get older, it takes me longer to recover than it did when I was in my twenties.

Ah, I sound as if I'm complaining. I suppose I am, in one sense, though mostly I'm just tired.

And hot.

I don't do well in the heat.

Hence, I shall forever live in the mild Pacific Northwest away from mugginess, away from mosquitoes, away from floods and hurricanes and tornados.

Will I sleep tonight? That's the big question. We're on the second floor of the mansion and it's warm up there...despite the open windows, despite the breeze from the lake, despite sleeping in a t-shirt or last night, in the buff.

I will shut my eyes and see if I can dream of something other than exhaustion in all of its weird permutations.

Not drowning, but not waving either

I'm particularly sad tonight.

It's a long story, so I won't go into it. In fact, I'm not certain I can go into it because it's too complicated to write about. And if I did write about it, I'm not sure it would feel as significant as it does to me right now...that I'd minimize it to some kind of soap opera. And unlike soaps, my tears are real. Let's just say it has to do with friends and how sometimes, after years and years of knowing someone, you realize you don't know them at all. As another friend said, who knows the story, "What do you like about these friends anyway?"

A lot on the one hand. And yet there are a lot of things I've sort of overlooked in the 25 years I've known them. That's because all those things didn't matter and now all of the sudden they seem to matter...not to me, but to them. Well, sort of to me, but they don't matter as much to me as they matter to them.

Complicated.

And I'm not going to go into it.

It's been a long day. On top of everything else, my back upper right side tooth broke off. Another $1200 in dental work. "At least you don't need gum surgery," was the dentist's happy news.

At least, though with this friend matter, I feel as if I'm having gum surgery.

But I'm not going to write about.

Well, not directly. It's odd because when I'm overwhelmed (as I am right now with the remodel, the end of the school year, and now with my friends), I always have the same reoccuring dream that my teeth are falling out. Not whole teeth, but bits and pieces all crumbling into my cupped hands.

Let's just say this whole friendship struggle brings up huge issues for me about being "good enough"...something I never thought I'd have to address when dealing with friends.

Yet, here it is again...am I good enough?

And then the tooth falls out.

And then the dog I've been helping to train has sort of avoided me all day.

My friends are upset with me, my tooth falls out, and the dog won't even let me pet him.

I could read a lot into this and yet I always come back to the same issue -- am I good enough? Am I worthy of friendship, of good teeth, of a dog's affection?

Oh, I know the rational answers to all of these questions, but there are times when rational thinking eludes me and I am left with that hole inside that wonders, questions, agonizes over "am I good enough?"

Every day I work with my students on their friendship issues. My favorite today was a girl who kept killing the spiders on the sidewalk while all of her "friends" screamed at her not to, ran over to the spiders to protect them, only to have the said spider killer push their hands aside and smash the creatures with rocks. "They have no brains, no hearts, no blood...they don't really count," she squealed at me later when we discussed the issue.

Of course, it wasn't about the spiders at all. It was about power and bullying and about who she could get to kill spiders with her.

Meanwhile, another girl is freaking out because, as she told me later, "It really reminded her of how white people treated black people a long time ago."

A long time ago.

I'm thinking, "Not so long. Yesterday, in fact. Most likely even right now."

And here I am with two kids on the extreme sides of emotions -- "kill them all, kill them all," screams one while the other girl wails and moans that "they (the spiders) are living creatures!"

This must be some kind of personal lesson for me...you create your own reality...only my reality is created by the kids I work with whose dramas bleed over into my own life and I must deal with friends who think I kill spiders.

But I would never kill spiders. Ever.

So I mantra-size the whole ordeal..."I am a good person, I am a good person"... I rattle off in my head again and again all the reasons why I am a good person, but nothing can really fill that fist-sized hole in my belly that doubts and worries and spends her nights dreaming that her teeth are falling out only to wake up and find out that they really have.

Third house, third dog

Tonight we are dog sitting for our friends, Melinda and Elizabeth (and their two kids, Meda and Aden). Their dog is a lively, wiry English Springer, full of energy and obsession. She is fine in the house -- calm and relaxed -- but once on a leash, she becomes fixated on the possibility of a bird or small animal crossing her path. The family is off for a family reunion in Port Townsend and they asked us to watch Josie for the weekend.

So, we packed an overnight bag and shipped out for tonight. We could have continued to stay with Josie at the mansion by the lake, but the gift of this house is their king sized bed. Normally, I am not a fan of king sized anything, but after sleeping in a double bed for the past 7 months, I am so ready to claim my own space in something larger. When Elizabeth told me they had a king sized bed I jumped for joy. We decided we would splurge and spend tonight in the larger bed! Now, when I want to cuddle with Ann, I have to search for her. Now, when Ann starts snoring because her allergies are acting up, she can saw away on her side of the bed. Now, when I want to stretch out sideways on the bed, I can point my head north and my legs to the southwest.

Luxury.

Joy.

Bliss.

At least for one night.

Then back to the mansion with Josie in tow as she will help in my quest to teach Ben, the German shepard, how to feel more comfortable around other dogs. Josie is oblivious to other dogs. Solely focused on birds, when other dogs approach she stands at attention and lets them sniff her. Only after she has deemed the horizon clear of feathered friends will she take a split second to sneak a sniff at her canine visitor. I think this will be good for Ben who sees every other dog as either his bully or his victim.

Third house and now our third dog...

The end of our vagabond life is in sight, though. The house remodel is nearly finished. We can move our bedroom stuff up to the master bedroom this weekend. Now we wait for the inspection and then we can move back in even though our builder has some finishing touches to complete...like the outside house painting. Of course, we'll still be living out of boxes as this is the busiest time of the year for teachers and we'll not have a moment's breath to move all of our crap from the basement to the house until the middle of June.

But even that, the middle of June, is fast approaching. Whew.

Another friendship crisis at school today. That makes 11 in 2 months. We only have 22 students and 11 of them are struggling with their friends. Approval ratings are dipping slightly...we're all growing tired of each other.

And I grow tired tonight as well...good night, good night!

Iranian Friendships

My day...

Two girls in tears. Two girls in gasping sobs. I must negotiate between their dispute. I talk with one girl for half an hour while the rest of the class works on their projects for their BIG NIGHT performance in two weeks. The other girl sits at her table and whimpers.

Then I ask the other girl to come to my desk and tell her side of the story. It's a complicated story involving one crazed theatrical (she's a playwright) mother, a passive father, another therapist mother who allows her 10 year old daughter to watch R rated videos (like The Wedding Crasher!) and another father who is absent while off in on some business trip one week after the next selling his healthy snacks. Oh, and it involves the two girls -- one who is confident, dramatic, popular, and talented; the other who is insecure, slightly overweight, formerly a bully (at her previous school) as well as a victim...but both girls very sweet and very good friends...up until today.

When...in the midst of teacher playing therapist and trying hard not to say what I really feel...another student comes up and says, "The music you're playing isn't any good. Can we listen to the Classical I-Tunes station, though it's not really classical."

And I say, "Sure," while I'm handing the sobbing girl at my desk another box of tissues. So the girl who thinks my music sucks (how can anyone hate the Be Good Tanyas?), comes around my desk, messes with my computer (where the speakers are hooked up) and selects, Classical Iranian Music from the I-Tunes radio menu.

The rest of the afternoon, while I counsel the friendship back together, we listen to traditional Iranian music -- drums, chanting, the whole kit and kaboodle -- and the rest of the class works like a hive in honey season.

Go figure.

And in the back of my mind I'm thinking, "So, if someone is monitoring my computer, will I get arrested for playing 'subversive terrorist' music to a class of 5th graders?"

I'm glad, oh so glad, it's Friday. If I have to deal with one more friendship crisis (this makes number 10 in the past four weeks), I will throw up my liver...I swear.

At least I'll have good background music while I'm puking or while I'm being arrested by Homeland Security...or both!

house to bedroom

I am in a room, now, that is the size of our living room (the room we did not remodel), but this room is filled with oil paintings, four torch-like sconces, and an entire wall of cherry wood cabinetry. The couches in this room are leather (yes, there are two, and the floor is hardwood. An ancient rug given to the room's owner by some East Indian friend, stretches the length of the floor. Outside the window, the world is in bloom -- pinks and purples and oranges and peaches and yellows. In the backyard, a swimming pool and more colors busting open the nostrils of spring. Across the street, there is a gabled house with a balcony, equally virulent blossoms, and sculpted hedges the shape of overgrown Chia pets.

We are sleeping in a room the size of our original house (640 square feet) with a hot tub on the balcony just outside our window. The view from our bedroom and the hot tub is to the east where we can count the peaks of the Cascades and watch the rowers on Lake Washington work their way against the wind.

It is as if we have been transported to a resort hotel and only our daily getting up and preparing for work reminds us that we have not yet retired to such a deluxe life.

I love our friends who own this house, but every day I am amazed at how the manuver through their lives without one turn of the head, or a nod of consideration that beneath them lies 6000 square feet of structure, four floors of opulence, and a house large enough to accommodate 6 full-sized bathrooms.

The irony of it all is that they live in the basement, two rooms they've remodeled to make it warm and cozy. They cook in their exquisite kitchen and spend time, as I am tonight, in their study, but the other 5000 square feet is relatively untouched -- a collection of furniture, art, and dust.

Each night they cook their meal at 8:30 and sit down to eat by 9. The food is purchased at a variety of stores, where Steven spends his days shopping for just the right herb or piece of meat or the special endive that is only sold in one store in the International District. This is only after four hours of golf for which he rises each morning at 4:30. 18 holes of golf every week day, no matter the weather, and then a day spent searching for basil and rosemary, tender duck or substantial pork.

The price of staying here is my helping to "Dog Whisper" their enormous German Shepard, Ben. Ben is a sweet dog who has never once been given boundaries or limitations. He has destroyed countless pairs of shoes, numerous garden tools, and has a special affinity for bathrobes of which he's torn up 7 in his 4 years of life.

So Ben and I rise at 5 and walk the lake path every morning and then again in the evening. We work on not fearing other dogs (Ben is enormous, but hides behind Steven when another dog approaches or lunges out of fear to bite the head off an unsuspecting lab, or his favorite, a yorkie... the smaller the opponent, the more he fears it.) Tonight, we walked past the neighbor dogs who lunge at the gate setting Ben into a frantic spasm of growling and barking. I immediately threw Ben to the ground and made him lie in a submissive pose until the two large dogs settled down and stopped their slathering and huffing. Then we walked past the gate four more times and nary a bark or snivel was heard.

A small success in a rather long day of work where the drama of friendships dominates the curriculum.

It makes me want to train dogs for the rich.

But there is something uncomfortable about this temporary home. I think it is guilt, but it could be just an unfamiliarity with wealth of this magnitude.

I do find it ironic that Doris, Steven's wife, is an art teacher. An art teacher living in a mansion. A living, breathing oxymoron.

And perhaps the oxymoronic experience is partly what I'm feeling.

Still...

...what am I to do, but take another hot tub, eat another arugula salad, and take the dog on endless walks to overcome his low self esteem. A dog with low self-esteem...

Only in America.

Moving on up...

This is our last night at Little Norway (housesitting gig). Tomorrow we move the last of our stuff to our friend's mansion...yes, 6000 square feet of mansion. I shall get lost in the house, I know, but for 3 more weeks, I must live under someone else's roof and not my own.

And I may be sans computer for awhile, which will provide me with lots and lots of reading by the time I hook up ours at home. Happy blogging, my dears.

But I am thankful we are moving back, sort of, to our side of the tracks. Living in the "north end" of Seattle is like an episode of the Twilight Zone. The traffic is amazingly awful (it took us an hour to get from here to our house today...it normally takes 15 minutes), the people are amazingly rude, and the money spent at the grocery stores and local mall is amazingly horrific. I am happy to be moving back to the grocery store that has two whole aisles devoted to Mexican items, another aisle for Asian items, and a special row in the meat section for parts of the animal I never knew were edible. I'm happy to be back in the 'hood where people say hello, every corner has a church where the congregants actually sing and faint and wear Sunday hats the size of bird baths, and the skin color is not all one hue, nor the pocketbooks all filled with enough money to gag on.

Little Norway has been a perfect respite and a perfect "nursing" home for Chester's final days, but I'm ready for a neighborhood that's a bit more real and less Stepfordish than this one.

So, we're moving on up to the mansion tomorrow (hot tub, pool, leather couches, six bathrooms) and then by the middle of May, into our own humble abode.

There is no place like home.

No place.

My biggest concern is how I'll feel moving back home without Chester. I will most certainly cry, just as I did today when a large lab licked my chin with his velvet tongue, his eyes half closed and his tail wagging.

And then the vet called and told us that Chester's remains were ready to pick up. I cried just hearing the message.

I shall cry again and again and again when I pick up the box with his remains and then figure out where to store them until we decide where to spread them. We plan on making a garden stone with some of the ashes, but then there are many hikes we've taken where Chester deserves to be laid at rest.

So soon we shall head to the mountains and I shall cry again.

Last night I dreamt that Chester was chasing a greyhound through a large field.

I woke up crying and smiling. He always did love the tall ones!

Thinking of all of you over the next few weeks and will attempt to get back in touch soon.


Signing off for now...
na

A skeptical lot

I spent today in a workshop with my co-workers learning about the current brain research as it connects to teaching and learning.

Now my brain hurts.

It was a fascinating day, but I was also intrigued watching and listening to our faculty's skepticism about what they were hearing. We are a snobby group, intellectually speaking, and I find tonight I am in a bit of a funk about it all. Even though today was eye-opening for me, I also realized how arrogant teachers can be.

Luckily, our presenter, Nicole, saw through the bullshit in a second. I talked with her at lunch and she asked me, "So, how well do you think your faculty works together?"

Me: "Not very."

Nicole: "Ahhhhh..."

Me: "But they have good intentions, they're just resistent to change."

Nicole: "Yes, they find comfort in their intelligence and then hide behind it, intellectualizing their way out of moving forward."

I fell in love with this very heavy African American woman who commanded our attention just like my own 6th grade, six-foot tall teacher who commanded my attention almost 40 years ago. Erma Miller. There was a woman who knew how to claim space. Nicole did as well.

After lunch, with the precision of a brain surgeon, she cut apart the resistence of our faculty with thoughtful, insightful, and honest questions until, I think...I hope...she overcame the resistance and helped us move forward. It was brilliant to watch. Inspiring, but I think my neurons are now firing at half speed because of all the information she pumped into us.

Meanwhile, I keep thinking about how my teaching partner and I need to have that talk with our students about claiming space and about the difference between claiming negative space and claiming positive space.

Lately, it's been a lot of negative claiming. And if I have to have one more discussion about friendships I think I'll puke up my liver. You should see me...on the outside I'm all teacher-as-therapist talking about boundaries and respect and using language like "What I hear you saying is..." and "When she says that to you, how does that make you feel?"

On the inside I'm screaming to myself, "Jesus fucking Christ! Just get over it!"

But my head keeps nodding as I listen to girls tell me that so and so did this or so and so said that and the tears start flowing and the hormones start erupting. Peyton Place meets 5th grade. Oy.

I suppose it's not a good mix...me, pre-menopausal (I turned quite the shade of crimson this afternoon during a mini-hot flash) and my students (all girls, as I teach at an all girls school) pre-menstrual. New blood meets old blood.

Not a pretty mix.

And today I learned that when the brain sees read, neurons fire like it's the Fourth of July, overstimulating the brain so that it downshifts and does not work at full capacity. A whole new perspective. Color theory in the classroom!

But tomorrow is Friday and we are off to the beach to look at nudibranchs and moonsnails, enjoying the sun and warmth the forecasters have assuredly predicted. Please may it be so. Nothing that a little sun and sand and invertebrate anatomy can't do to overcome friendship drama.

Not a bad gig, this here teaching. Even if days like today make my brain hurt.

Listening?

I'm listening to Ann on the phone with her mother:

Ann: um, uh, um-um, yes, why?

Mother: long silence (I can't hear the other end of the so-called conversation)

Ann: umm, uh, um, yes, yes, oh?

Mother: Long silence

20 minutes later

Ann: He's a convict, mom. You don't really know him.

Mother: Long silence, though it's not really silence because I can hear her lilting accent even from here (I'm in the study, Ann's in the kitchen)

Ann: Um, I...oh, um-um...

Mother: Long silence, though I think she's still talking about her Mexican boyfriend who was released from prison last month

Ann: Mom...are you there? Shit...she cut out...Gretchen? (She calls to me...)

Me: Yes?

Ann: What do I say to her? She's in panic mode. She hasn't heard from him in over a week and she's worried that he might have been hurt. God, she's freaking out over some guy she thinks she knows but she doesn't know him!!!

Me: She'll hear nothing you say, so what can you do?

Ann calls again. The conversation continues like this for another 20 minutes. Then the phone cuts out again.

Now I can hear Ann doing the dishes, organizing them in the basin and slamming the doors to the cupboards.

Oh, and the phone rings. Mom again.

Ann: This is the phone number of the place where we're housesitting. We're moving out this weekend and staying with Steven and Doris. (God, she actually asked about Ann's life...it won't last long)

Mom: Short silence.

Ann: I'm not going to hold my breath. You don't know this guy. You don't know if he's the real thing or not. Already, this silence from him. Jeez, mom, I've heard it before with all the other men where they don't call you, they use you...

Mom: Interrupting...

Ann: I know, but...

Mom: Interrupting again...

Ann: Mom this is a whole other game. He's a convict. A drug runner. He just needs your money. You need to take care of yourself. Take it slow, mom. If he's going to be there for you, he'll be there for you in a year or two years. Why do you have to rush into all of this?

Mom: Quick response...

Ann: Well, that's your gut talking to you and you need to listen...

This goes on and on...and Ann is clearly upset, as she should be. Knowing her mom, I'm certain she's justifying every action she's taken so far with this man.

Meanwhile, Ann talks to her mother like she "gets it", but she doesn't get it...how many times has Ann had this conversation with her mother?

I can't listen anymore. I'm going to go watch Mariska Hargitay in yet another rerun of Law and Order SVU!

Chai, it's not just a drink...

We painted today. We painted the kitchen. Well, some of it. The cabinets go in soon, so we needed to put the "accent" color on the walls before the cabinets and before the tile backsplash. The bamboo floors are in and the house is completely different...completely.

We were a bit leary of the accent paint color, though. At least when we opened the can and saw it. Ann said, "It looks like those Espresso Milkshakes you like to drink in the summer" and it did, but the color was "Chai" as in the tea, as in the new trendy drink served at Starbuck's and not espresso at all.

But once it was on the walls it was perfect -- warm and colorful, not too overwhelming or unpredictable.

Who knew? Chai...

In between the painting of the first coat and the second, we came back to "Little Norway" (the housesitting gig) and took a nap. Then we both woke up and cried, missing our little man. It's been a week since he died and most days are okay, but the mornings and evenings suck because 1)they are so quiet and 2)no one is happy to see us when we wake up or get home.

And now, it seems, weekends will be hard too as we aren't bound to any canine schedule. We wander a lot or drive the car around wondering what we should do next since it doesn't involve walking the dog, feeding the dog, letting the dog in, letting the dog out or taking the dog somewhere.

Our tears today were sadness that our "new" house shall not be Chester's house anymore and though we are excited to move back in, it will be bittersweet as there will be no dog bed at the foot of our bed, no dog food dishes in the kitchen, and no wagging tail chasing squirrels in the backyard.

Perhaps the next dog will be named Chai?

I think not. I think not.

Spelling and Sympathy

We've received many wonderful cards and emails from family, friends, and even our students and their families. My favorte is a loving message from a very sweet young girl in my class who gave me a card that reads (on the front): "Going through a rough time? Look on the bright side. Remember every cloud has a silver lining, put on a happy face, and if that doesn't work...

(inside of card)
1. Carefully cut out the smiley face below
2. Rip it into a thousand tiny pieces
3. Flush it down the toilet!

There! Don't you feel a little better now?"

This is only topped by her hand-written message. "I am so sorry Chester pasted away."

Yes, pasted...I like the image of Chester pasted somewhere in the spirit world!

Onward!

Dogs

And what if they lived forever
What then?
Would your heart be so hollow,
Your hand empty?
Would you get tired of them,
The morning walks,
The evening walks,
Carrying the 50 pounds of dog food
Out of the car and up the stairs?
Would you wish for quiet
And no more snoring
Late at night when your dreams
Are really worries
And the night is filled with echoes?
Would you wish for cats
Who purr and never bark
Who only need a patch of sun
On a wool couch
Or a touch of cream with their tuna?
Would there be no more room in your
Bed for the twitching leg
Or the scruffy whiskers against your
Chafed and sallow elbow?
Would you wish to paint their noses
Some other color than black
Or hide their squeaky toys in a
Tall closet just beyond their reach?
Would your mind eventually focus
On the waiting taxes or the dirty dishes
Or the mismatched socks stuffed
In the back of your dresser drawer?
Would you tire of the tangled leashes
Or the holey bags stacked in an
Overflowing basket just as you
Walk out the door?
Would the fluffs of fur gathered in the
Corner of the kitchen and the den
And the bedroom be forgotten, piling
Higher, growing larger until they became
Pieces of soft and cushy furniture?
Would the smell of their ears or
The sound of their paws
Or the huff of their breath
Become a burden of odor and repetition?
Would you forget about love,
Say goodbye to sweetness,
Dangle your toes in the icy ocean
And be unimpressed?
Would the richness of a crisp morning
Taste as bitter as cold coffee
Or the rain on a spring morning
Fall like fire on your skin?
Could you truly know happiness
Or silliness
Or weariness
Or sadness
Or frailness
Or folly
Or gloom
Or anticipation
Or impatience
Or worry
Or exhilaration
Or irritation
Or persistence
Or integrity
If they lived for ever?

They do not.
So you will never know
And that
is just one more mystery floating
on the ripple of air
Formed by the wave
Of a once proud tail.

Thank you...

First, both Ann and I want to thank all of you bloggers in bloggersville for such warm and loving thoughts about our sweet, sweet Mr. Pajama Pants (aka, Chester).

We spent a nice weekend with our friends, Jeanne and Lisa, at their river cabin up over the mountains. It snowed. So fitting. Ann said Chester was shaking the clouds, eeking out the last bit of snow for us. We picked out river stones for our garden that reminded us of Chester. We'll make a garden stone for him when his cremation ashes come home and place it right next to Abbie's.

Ann just said, "Having the rocks in the car reminded me of the weight of him in the back seat on our way home. It didn't make the car feel so empty."

Yes, empty. We feel it deeply, his loss, his absence, his clicking toe nails on the floor.

But we also know there is relief that he will not have to walk down the road of suffering he was headed for with such certainty. The vet, a sweet man, very gentle and soft-spoken, told us he was touched by how much we did for Chester these past 10 months since the diagnosis of a brain tumor. "You did more than most would," he said, "And that shows such love you and your family have for each other."

We sobbed.

We sobbed for a long, long time.

But Chester had an amazingly good last day. Friday morning we rose early and fed him a hard-boiled egg and half a bagel. He smiled. Then we walked at Ravenna Park, one of his favorite new walks since our house-sitting stint, and the sun warmed us all despite the wintery temperatures. Next stop, our house to let him pee on his old haunts, followed by dinner of half a bagel, another hard boiled egg, and roasted chicken, huge hunks of it! He smiled again.

Finally, we ended the day with a walk at Seward Park, truly his favorite spot on earth. With his illness and medication, he was never able to walk more than 30 minutes before exhaustion set in. This was essentially his third walk for the day and to make the trek through the park takes, on a good day, about 40 minutes. Chester took over an hour this time, but stayed right in his pack spot, behind me and in front of Ann, the whole way. He wagged his black tail with the four white hairs at the tip the entire time and smiled, smiled, smiled like he hasn't done for months.

By the time we got to the vet, we knew he'd had one of the best days of his life.

He died at 6 pm on Good Friday. Peacefully, calmly, and with dignity. We surrounded him with our arms and with our love -- his faithful pack.

This morning, Easter morning, we toasted the day with toasted bagels together with Jeanne and Lisa, and both Ann and I waited to see if Chester, like Jesus, would rise again.

On the way home, we stopped along the highway at a beautiful bend in the river and said one last goodbye to him. It was hard to come home, even though it's not our home, but our housesitting home. We still fell apart wondering why he wasn't at the door to be let in, why he wasn't at his bowl waiting for dinner, why he wasn't there to monitor the unloading of bags, the setting up of laundry. More than once I have tried to fill his dog bowl with water only to catch myself and cry some more.

This is hard, this letting go, but we know he had a good life, a very good life, and was surrounded by love every minute of every day. Yes, he is with Dakota, his earth twin, and he is also with my former dog, Abbie (his soul twin sister) and with my dad's dog, Sasha, and Ann's former dog, Cocoa. He is not alone.

And we aren't either. We know there are many more tears to come...like tomorrow when we must tell our students (we bought our classes bagels for the same goodbye ritual and salute)...but the tears our, I guess, a further celebration of a beautiful, wonderful dog who shared our lives with his wagging tail, his happy smile, and his ever-loyal and faithful loving stare.

Thank you again, everyone...truly.

In Memory of Chester
1993-2006

In celebration of Chester’s life we would like to remember all the reasons we loved him, and love his memory still:

His tail signaled great things…grandmother’s cooking, hidden treats in a raincoat, four-legged visitors, promises of walks in the park, the discovery of chicken bones dropped by crows, contentment with his quiet position on the bed wedged between us, and the anticipation of a trip in the car. He wagged his tail from side to side and up and down and in a special move, around in a circle like a helicopter. We trimmed his tail at the Dog Wash and played with it despite his growling protestations. On the end of his black tail, four white hairs beckoned us on the trail. It was his flag and our comfort.

His sounds sent messages…the impatient moan for his morning walk; a gentle “woof”, just once, to be let in; the excited high-pitched squeal at the discovery of a raccoon in the cherry tree; the slurping lap of water; the jingle of his collar against an ice cream bowl; the stomping of his back legs when begging for a bagel or some toast; the extended yowl when dinner was prepared and delivered; the ha-rumph when he laid down; the huff of air as he cleared his nostrils to better smell the fresh air, his head stretched out the back of the car window; the gratification-pant of a day well-spent with his family; his yips and hoots while he dreamt; the occasional snap and snarl when irritated; and the smacking of his lips as he fell asleep. Our silence will echo with the memory of his dogged-determination to get and keep our attention.

His prance that set the pace of our lives…the way his paws and body lifted when he greeted friend or foe; the silly gallop that greeted us when we got home; the hobby horse, bucking bronco when we pulled out the leash; the way he sat, still and ready, in his assistant chef position, anticipating the clean up; the shuffle of his toes against the hardwood; the “chase-of-the-crows run”, head down and surreptitious; the running paws as he dreamed of chasing squirrels; the lean against the leash when he wanted to smell for chicken bones or hamburger buns; his stubborn walk as we circled back home begging us for just another mile, just another sniff; the slurpy walk through marshes, padding wet paws occasionally lifted like a pointer or a great hunting dog; and the wading up to his chest in the lake or the river or the ocean, feet firmly planted on the earth. May your tired legs run with new energy in the blue sky of all dogs.

And his friends…past and present…Moses and Ruckus and Mario and Tomas and Buster and Sandy and Chloe and Dakota and Monty and Franklin and Josie and Frankie and Sasha and Sasha (yes, two), and Hope and Ringo and Keenan and Shelby and Ben and Brio and Lulu…yes, especially Lulu.

And his face – those eyes, those ears, that broad forehead – they way he could stare us down with such burning amber love; the professorial pondering late at night; the happy smile; the concerned worry; the ancient knowledge of scent and sound; the way one eyebrow lifted at the sound of his name; the droopy eyes as he fought sleep; the willingness to tend the pack even in his dreams; the tilt of the head; the muzzle laid softly against our thigh or curled up like a deer bedded down in a tall field of grass; the Rin-Tin-Tin look when scouting out the valley of some great hike; the look of anxious concern as he turned to make certain we were following; the hanging head when he gave into weariness; the curl of his lip when it stuck on his canine tooth; and the gentle kiss when we asked for it. May we never forget that face. May we never forget those eyes. May we never forget those soft, buttery ears.

It’s hard to say goodbye to such a friend. There is no way, in fact, and so we we’ll let our tears sing our farewells, remembering the softness of a spirit who still lives with us in so many ways. It’s hard to say goodbye and so we won’t. Three cheers to Chester and a toast of roasted chicken!

It's easier to be mad than sad...

She doesn't even know me
Doesn't know
I sleep with a pillow
between my legs
to level out my back
And she doesn't know
how I hate the sound nail-
biters make when chewing
the fleshy skin around the cuticle
the little nibbles that soon turn
red and bloody
She doesn't know the
inside of me or
even the outside, how I
break out in a rash
in the spring, then again in
fall because of Alders,
the weedy tree that blooms
after they've clear cut a lot
for a row of townhouses
or a new Walmart
She doesn't know that
peppers, no matter what
color,
give me gas
or that I can't stand
spicy foods
because they make
my stomach hurt
late into the night
or that I prefer dark
chocolate to light
or blueberries when
they're fresh and
never as jam
that I drink skim milk
with cocoa
or that I dunk my
whole grain seeded
bread
into my soup
just long enough
to make the bread limp
and drippy
She has no idea
that at night
when I can't sleep, I count
backwards and then
again by fives and then
by threes
just to bore myself
back into my dreams where
a soundtrack plays loudly and
wakes me humming a song each
morning...usually Sondheim,
"a weekend in the country
how exciting,
how terribly fun"
...or this morning, a classic,
"When you're a Jet,
you're a Jet all the way..."
She doesn't know I'm
47
no longer 12
no longer 8
no longer 4
She doesn't know I'm
really older than
she is
in so many ways
though the numbers
don't add up
the years are all wrong.
She doesn't know
how each morning,
I count my steps
into the kitchen
then count the seconds
as the steamer heats the milk
then count the seconds
as the coffee swirls into the foam
then count one
two
three
four
five,
it must always be five,
turns of the spoon,
then count my steps
back to the bedroom
where I wake my lover with
one kiss on the forehead,
and the thud of the
mug on the nightstand,
then walk back to the kitchen,
counting my steps
and the dog's steps as well
to pour cereal, then milk
one, two, three, four, five
She doesn't know how seconds
pass in my life
how seconds skip right
into hours
how I am content
and sometimes sad
and a little tired of
the weather, and the gray,
and the rain
but overall,
I am content, at peace,
and working on my
humility
and
forgiveness
She doesn't know me, has
never tried, is so wrapped up
in sarcasm and spite
she doesn't have time to feel
jealous
just bitter
with that smile
of hers
and the giggle
that always follows
the curve
of her mouth
she spits her bitterness
my
direction
always
with the wind at her
back and tells me
to RELAX,
in capital letters
as if
as if
as if
she knows me

and now I cannot
RE-LAX
because I'm wiping
spit off my face
and off my new glasses that
she
doesn't
even
know
I
picked
up
just
to-
day

No,
I cannot make sense
of what she doesn't
know.

That was then, this is now...

The house originally (well, circa 1950's style though the house was originally built in 1900) and the house as it stands today (circa 2006, with all new siding and a hunky addition on the back).

And Chester, trying to convince us that he still can chase ducks if given half the chance.

We went shopping with our designer to look for lights yesterday. What a trip. I've never seen so many lights. Thousands. And very few of them we actually liked. But Denise, our designer, said that's how it would be, that we'd only see a few that appealed to us.

And when I say designer, don't get the wrong idea. She's really a normal woman with good taste...something we're not and don't necessarily have. When she was working with the store rep, Ann and I sat at a table under some heavy wrought-ironed fixtures and discussed our options and preferences. It struck me then that there were thousands of different lights in the store and out in the world you could find someone who could find something to like in the store. In other words, every light would have a home. Hard to believe when looking at some of the over done, shiny and jeweled fixtures, but they must sell stuff like that otherwise why would they have it in the store?

Later that evening, we had dinner with our best of friends, Jeanne and Lisa at a nice Mexican restuarant. We sat under the same light fixtures we saw in the store that morning, the ugly ones though they worked in the restaurant.

Last year at this time, the four of us were in Mexico, soaking up the sun and salt water, eating fish tacos and watching Alma, the house caretaker, make us chicken mole, chile rellanos and flan. Last night's meal was good, but it couldn't compare to Alma's meal.

Still it was wonderful to hang out with our friends and talk about house remodels and the Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan. Lisa, the most non-religious or spiritual person I know, is not a fan of dogs, but loves Cesar even though he talks about ENERGY being the way all animals (including humans) communicate. Until we talked about energy in scientific terms, Lisa was not ready to accept energy as anything else but spiritual. She's very good natured about it, but it was interesting to watch her squirm a bit during the discussion.

When we got home, we watched bad TV (another rerun of Law and Order) while Chester slept beside us on the bed. He got up, turned to the right, shuttered a bit, and we knew...time for a seizure.

It's amazing how calmly we respond now, having been through the ordeal too many times to count. Ann held his head, I ran to the bathroom to get the valium, and then we lifted his tail so I could inject the amber liquid into his rectum. The shuttering stopped, followed by the usual heavy sighs and twitching paws. His heart beat wildly and we inspected his belly where the sore is slowly healing. The second I tried to put on some ointment, he popped up looking at me as if to say, "No way, lady. You ain't touching my sore. Not on your life."

Usually, after a seizure, he's extremely disoriented and it takes a couple of hours for him to settle down and relax. Last night, he did his usual routine of going outside about 5 times to pee, but then laid right down on his bed and fell asleep. He got up a couple of times during the night and this morning he is wobbly and drugged (we upped his meds again), but as far as seizures go, this was an easy one.

I'm not particularly spiritual or religious myself, though I do believe in nature as a force that lives within us all and all around us. Energy, as a way of communication, makes perfect sense and there are times when I am blown away by energy's circumstance.

For instance, we have this silly dog calendar where every day is a different picture of a dog and an explanation of either a dog's behavior or physical feature. As part of my morning ritual, I make coffee and turn yesterday's dog calendar page to the current day's dog. This morning, the picture for Thursday, April 13, struck me hard. It was an exact image, close up, of my former beloved dog, Abbie. Spitting image. I cried.

"She's here," I thought and with Chester's current decline, I knew it was a message of some sort. I could analyze the implications, the message of the "energy", but there's no need. She was a wonderful dog -- loyal, silly, and so happy to be on the trail of my life. Fossilguy is right...her death was painful and difficult for me, the first step down in my spiraling, deepening depression, but now, the dull ache I feel when seeing a picture that looks like her but is not her is pleasantly sweet and comforting.

Chester must have sensed my energy while I was looking at Abbie's non-picture because he nuzzled my leg while we stood in the kitchen as if to say, "Yes, I know, but really, it is time to make coffee and get on with life."

And so I shall.

Til death do us part...

There's something remarkable about
the way they love you
Dogs,
that is,
or any animal, I suppose, but
this morning,
with white flowers blooming and
blue china plates painted across
the sky
it is a dog's love on my mind.

This dog's love.

He rests right now,
as a matter of fact,
on the little rug just outside
the office door and
sighs, licking his lips
ever so slightly, adjusting
his black fur and back legs
with a kick and a turn.

He wants a walk.
I know this as I do every
morning
because his impatience clicks
on hard wooden floors
from the water dish
to the hallway rug
wearing a path in the
steadfastness of his love.

Even his lapping of water,
a quiet slurp that wakes me in the
blackest of nights
is a comfort,
a thirst more powerful
than dream.

He knows, as he drinks, I'll rise up within
the hour
and smell the burst of morning air
as I swing open the back door,
watch him pad down the walk,
circle three times in the yard
then lift his head along with his leg
in relief.

He knows.

But now he knows to wait.
He knows when my desk chair
groans under the weight of my rising
he must rise, too.

That is his promise.
That is his vow.

But when he's quiet,
like now,
when he's finally surrendered to
the idea that perhaps he will
not walk today
or at least not right now today
I still know he is
there, always there
waiting,
wagging behind closed eyelids
his muzzle slightly flared
with each puff out
followed by each breath in.

It is all so simple
Can you see it?
To paint such a picture of
a dog is
to paint something remarkable

Even now as he shuffles his sleepy self
into the office and lays his heavy head against
my thigh
he attempts, one more time,
to remind me of my promise, my vow
Food.
Water.
Tenderness.
Rubs behind the ears
and one above the tail,
And a walk
or two
daily.

Til death do us part.

Vet's day = Good Day

Contrary to our often somber mood about Chester, he's still kickin' and kickin' in a lively fashion.

He's developed a sore under his belly, right next to his penis. A gaping hole, actually, so we took him in to see our friendly neighborhood vet, Dr. Jones, a lovely gay man with a gravelly voice.

In order for Chester to see the vet he must be muzzled lest he take off sweet Dr. Jones' face or hand or nose or elbow. Then, just how I used to hold a sheep when the vet came for a checkup, I brace Chester against my body, his muzzle in the palm of my strong right hand, my left arm wrapped around his chest.

At first, the old guy submits, leans right into me and relaxes, calm and submissive like the Dog Whisperer encourages. Then, as the vet pokes around a bit, the growling starts, then the jerking to get his muzzled teeth around the doctor's ear or chin. But I hold on, not as firmly as you might think, but firm enough to let Chester know he will not get loose.

The doc shaved Chester's underbelly, pulling at mats that have developed because of his nightly diaper (for his incontinence) and his bulging fatty tumor that sits just to the right of his penis and, in fact, makes his penis point sideways. (On a windy day, Chester can spray a mighty mile!)

We talked with the vet about Chester's progress and this is what he said:
1. He's amazingly still alive.
2. There is some neurological damage to his back legs (he bent up his feet and they stayed like that until eventually, they straightened out).
3. His heart murmur is a bit worse, but doesn't seem to be doing anything other than making him tired if he walks too long.
4. In generally, he's in good shape for a dog with a brain tumor and a gaping infected hole under his belly.

Bad news? Just a bit...the gaping hole could be an infection or it could be cancer. We'll know in about a week or two if he responds to the antibiotics.

When we are alone with Chester, we worry that perhaps we are keeping him alive because it is too hard to imagine our lives without him. Today, in fact, I realized that I haven't cried much because I know how much energy that kind of crying is going to require and frankly, I don't want to require it of myself until I really have to. Also I know that the last time I cried like that I was immersed deep in a heavy state of depression. I always want to keep the depression at bay, but I have yet to learn how to cry meaninfully and not let the sadness overcome my saneness.

Perhaps this is yet another lesson Chester is offering me.

So we worry and wonder exactly when is when and will we know when the when is the right when.

But then we go to the vet, bracing ourselves for bad news and Chester prances in because he knows he's going to get treats from the receptionist, treats from the vet tech, treats from lovely Dr. Jones (despite all the poking, prodding, shaving, and examining), and we realize how very alive Chester really is.

I need to spend more time enjoying that.

Of course...we must now put on an "Elizabethan Collar" or lampshade (as I call it) on his head tonight so he doesn't lick the sore spot under his belly.

We tried to put it on at the vet. Not a good idea. He snapped and snarled and looked like a fighting bull, crouching his body back against the wall ready to strike if we pressed any harder.

We'll see if we have better luck tonight.

So, as always, we wait...will he respond to the meds or won't he? Will he have another series of seizures or won't he (it's been 6 weeks since the last ones)?

But every day he is our lesson in the NOW...in pleasure and patience, in whimsy and in rest.

He is still a joy and still ready to be here with us now...we must and can only do the same.

Ann's mother

Ann's mother is French.
Ann's mother is also a woman without boundaries.
It is true that she tutored a prisoner when she lived back East and he was imprisoned for some sort of "smuggling" charge... that's the most we can get out of her. "You know how it is," she says, "He was picking berries for his family and someone asked him to carry something across the border."

Yes, well.

She tutored him in English while he was in prison. 25 years her younger, he then wrote her "wildly romantic" love letters, though when Ann read them she said they were like love notes from a 10 year old and very uninspired.

Ann's mother moved to Arizona and lo and behold, he was transferred to a prison in Texas. She never saw him there, but continued to get love letters that she'd fawn over every time Ann talked with her on the phone. Soon, the conversation of "Jose" became something Ann refused to listen to, though the dream of "being with the love of my life" was all good old mom wanted to talk about.

Remember, he's in prison and she is not. Not one single conjugal visit.

Not even a kiss.

Just letters.

She counted down the days until his release and at the end of March, he was released and deported back to Mexico.

They met there, on a balcony of some hotel that we're certain Ann's mother paid for.

She also paid for the removal of his gold "grills" from his teeth, all meals, and god knows what else.

She sent Ann an email, long and involved and written completely in French. I think this is because she did not want me to read it, but I also think she is planning on writing a book about her life and writing in French is not only more natural for her, she thinks it is more romantic.

The email begins, "The first chapter..." and ends, "Stay tuned for the second chapter..."

She's written two other books. Trust me, you won't find them on any bookshelf (other than the shelves of relatives), but they are as fantastical as her email about Mexico and her convict Romeo.

Ann just throws up her hands. "What can I do?" she exclaims, "She's 68 years old."

This is not an uncommon affair for Ann's mother. Yes, she left Wisconsin in a cab and ended up being a call girl in DC. Yes, she lived with a man who said he was Japanese (more prestige) who turned out to be Korean and a swindling masseuse. Yes, she "married" an African man (who lives in Africa) who happened to be married to another woman and then got married to a third shortly after Ann's mom "married" him. He still owes her a significant amount of money, but since he is unfaithful to her, she decided to find "another man" because, as she told me on a visit, "it's important for a woman my age to have sex, no?"

Now there are phone calls between Ann and her sister (who lives nearby their mother). They share their mother stories and worry over the telephone lines about sexually transmitted diseases, whether or not their mother will try to smuggle him back into the US, and yes, they worry about their inheritance, though Ann is pretty much resolved to the fact that they'll be no money from that side of the family. In fact, she sends HER mother money for birthdays and holidays and has paid for a TV, a DVD/VCR, and countless other accessories.

Ann's mother is eccentric. There is no two ways about it, but she is also kind and savvy. She lives simply (buys her clothes at Goodwill) and works hard (childcare, mostly, but also cleaning jobs and work with the elderly).

Still, we can't help thinking that she is mentally ill. She is like one of those Enquirer stories of the women who fall for men they can't have. She gets attached, works herself into a lustful lather, lives on this high for a few months, even a year or two, then crashes -- the men leave her, lie to her, take her money, run off with someone else -- and she goes into a funk, calling Ann up on the phone to tell her how sad she is, how angry she is, how none of it is her fault and really, they were good men, but hey, they were men who have strong sexual appetites.

Chapter two should be interesting. Sad, but interesting.