Down, Set, Hike...

Over the Christmas holidays, we changed our gym membership from the trusty, go-to YMCA to a private club.  Nothing wrong with the Y, but we needed something more.  Part of the more was racquetball.

Racquetball by itself is not going to address my fitness goals, but it is a game I learned from my dad. My dad and mom took us to West Courts which at the time was a smallish structure filled with courts, a small weight room, locker rooms, and a lobby that had orange Fanta in the vending machine.  (I still associate orange soda with racquetball.) Racquetball is one of the two games I have taught to all three of my sons. The first day AJ was back from college, we played.  I won.  It was nice.  There I was again, showing AJ how to play.  A few days later, he had the gall to beat me in one of three games.  A few more days later, he somehow won all three games.  And so it went for about two weeks.

I was proud.  I was demoralized.  What? I taught my baby to play....I'm the master. I should always win. (I never beat Dad! Never mind that he was always a much better sportsman and athlete than I have ever been.) Still,  I realized that I had, like my dad with me, taught the sport, but also never "let" anyone win.   I played down a little, but I always knew the serve that would make sure I won.  (AJ can return that serve now!). Thing is, I didn't mind losing; however, in losing more than just those few times, I came to realize the importance of winning.  When I did win, it felt good.  Really good.  An accomplishment.

Pondering this I came back to the current conversations about how everyone on the soccer team gets a trophy even if they only played because league rules insist.  And how, as happened with one of AJ's U-6 soccer teams, the coaches talk about what a great season it was and how everyone is a winner for just being out there.  1-10 is not a great season.  Catherina who literally sat during a game and picked the flowers on the field did not deserve a trophy.  As Lt. Worf asks in an episode of Star Trek: "if winning is not important then why keep score?"

Winning and the fun that comes with winning is important.  The rush,  the cheering, the real congratulations earned when your side of the scoreboard is heavier than the other team's.  The Ravens and the 49ers will tell you today that winning is important.  And, even if you're not a sports player or fan, you can win.  You can paint the bedroom and win.  You can teach a kid to read and win.  You can master a recipe and win.  You can rake the yard and win. We all have something we can do to win and enjoy the real feeling of real victory.  We all need that.  Real victory.  Yesterday, Nate told me he was awesome because he took his shirt off.   I could hear the cringing of every helicopter parent in the world, but my response was, "No.  You are not awesome for removing clothing.  You are 11 years old.  If you want to be awesome, you'll have to save someone's life with that shirt."  Nate said okay and went about his way.

Not everything we do is winning or awesome, but everyone has something to accomplish.  A real something that will be a real victory in the end.  I don't care who wins Super Bowl today. I'm more concerned about the fact that Charley just might beat me at our weekly racquetball game.  I'm also hoping that we all can find something real to win and get that real thrill of victory. AJ had it this week when he maxed sit-ups on the APFT.  Whoever wins the big game today will have it.  And, all those years ago at West Courts, when my dad was playing racquetball with an awkward, unathletic daughter, he was winning. For real.

The Year of Dating Dangerously

On online dating, meeting people, and how it all ends up: or, what I've come to call "the year of dating dangerously."

First things first: for my mother's peace of mind and clarification.  There was never any real danger - physically or otherwise.  And, secondly, it wasn't really a year, more like seven months, on and off.  Finally, as a point of reference for all readers:  I was not looking for an oath-swearing-jewelry-and-flowers-giving man.  Someone to go to the movies with, have a meal and a good conversation with once in a while, and make out with, if I had actually stated a goal, which I didn't.

Many of you know that my divorce was finally final this past year, in February to be precise.  There's something about the finality of those papers that can make one think, "Well, shit, let's party."  I didn't think that.  I thought, well, ok.  And left it alone until the end of the school year.  As summer approached, I decided to look around on several online dating sites.  Friends tell me that online meeting thing is no longer taboo, but just,again to clarify: I work in a high school, so I meet married fathers of my students, colleagues who are married or involved, and teenagers.  I don't go to bars, and the whole grocery store cliche is just that. So, what's a single woman in Augusta, Georgia to do?

At different times this year, I used two of the more highly advertised paid sites (an ad at every SINGLE commercial break, if one is watching a "Sex and the City" marathon).  The sites themselves were fine, and the people were just that: human beings.  Vulnerable, heart-broken, happy, frustrated, desperate, proud human beings.  There was nothing "wrong" with any of the men I went out with.  Certainly, there were those with more pronounced quirks, and it is from observing and being on the receiving end of said quirks, that I offer the following for any man engaging in online dating: 

1.  Be honest, but don't give a list of your bodily imperfections (undescended testicle), your ex's problems (threatens you physically on a regular basis), or your sexual preferences before we even meet.

2.  It does not entice me to go home with you if you offer to smoke weed with me (I am one of three people in my generation who has never done that) or take Viagra.

3.  If we proceed out of the site's blind email system to texting, talking, and private email, do not send me pictures of anything below the waist.  It is not pretty, and no, I will never, under any circumstances - even if I were dying of some dread disease that could only be diagnosed through a photo of "down there" and you were the world's leading expert on this disease and could cure me by seeing such a picture - reciprocate. I'd rather die.

Now, I have friends who have or are engaged in online dating who are far more humorous than I on this topic.  Other friends are invested and really believe they will meet their soul mates and that Dr. WithThreeNames can help them do just that.  I wish you all the best, but I'll be signing off in 2013.  

Still, it hasn't been for naught.  I have met some pretty interesting people, and they may show up as characters in short stories or spoken word poems in the near future.  And, there are exactly two men whom I met that I like, and ta-da, although we are not dating, we remain friends.  And, my sister would say that being friends is better any way.  

So, in 2013, I'll not be on any dating websites.  I'll be training for a triathlon, writing short stories, visiting with my friends of 20+ years, trying to survive hot yoga without passing out, going to Atlanta to try my hand at spoken word, figuring out how to fund getting my MFA, and going to Tybee and the mountains with the kids.

Still, two thoughts about "dating" or meeting men keep recurring as I reflect on this past year, as people are wont to do at the end of December.  The first is the concept of the false buffet.  So many people to try!  They are all here for my sampling!  Well, no.  One may start communicating with someone...perhaps someone with whom one has common ground and attraction...and then, it is easy to get distracted by a new dish that is put out on the buffet.  One may not be as interested in the newer one, but simply because it's newer, one is intrigued.  This leads to a viscous cycle of never striking out beyond the superficial "sampling" with anyone.  Ultimately, if one stays at the buffet, one meets a lot of people in a shallow way, but still goes home alone, and with a cloying aftertaste on the palate.  And, second is what I told my friend when she asked how the dating was going.  I responded, "It is like  being in rural Japan.  I neither speak the language nor can I read the signs."   So, for the upcoming year, I will be staying a little closer to home.  

Married, single, or somewhere in between, I wish you love, light, and happiness.

Peace.

Leave the Kids Out of This

'Tis the season...to hang out with your kids. They are out of or home from school, and many of us get two or more weeks of uninterrupted kid-time. When my boys were younger, I loved the days of not getting up to rush to school. Sure, they still woke up abnormally early to watch cartoons and demand breakfast, but we didn't have to rush out the door. We could do nothing or everything and we had all day to do it. Lovely. While I fully realize that parents need breaks from kids, even during winter holidays, I have been pondering a recent phenomenon: parents, with no preference to either sex, who are habitually trying to get rid of their kids.

I'm not talking murder here. I'm also not talking about date nights, book clubs, anniversary trips, or other naturally and necessarily kid-free outings. I'm talking about those parents that rarely seem to take their children anywhere (or at least frequently strive to avoid it) unless it is a kid-centered outing. The kids stay at home with one or the other parent or even a sitter when any errand must be run, restaurant is to be visited, or car needs to be serviced. Kids stay at home, attended by Mr. Wii, Auntie Hershey, and the Red Baron.

What happened to the days of being "forced" to run errands (and rake yards and clean bathrooms)with parents? I seem to remember in & out of the car even in Iowa winters: my sisters and I, sweaty little bundles in the backseat, then frozen faces in the parking lots of the grocery store and Ben Franklin and Dot Discount Drug. Nowadays, even here in temperate Georgia, children are too often spared the inconvenience of running around town with mom or dad...or rather, parents are spared their kids' whining around town. So, everyone's happy if the tots stay at home.

But, what is the price of this convenience? Children are not learning manners of public behavior or, really any basic adult-life skills, such as maneuvering a grocery store or pumping gas. And, yes, I'm serious. There are 18 year-olds who can't even begin to find a bottle of syrup or box of tissue at Kroger. I had a student once whose dad took her car and pumped gas into it whenever the tank got low. Then girl went off to college not knowing this most basic thing. As a twenty year veteran educator, I have the utmost hope for the future. Kids these days are, by and large, smart and interesting and talented. Still, parents today do their children a terrible disservice when they don't take their kids of all ages out and about on mundane tasks.

I know from conversations with and Facebook posts from younger friends, former students, and older first time parents, that many parents don't want to be troubled by their kids when it comes to errands. Friends post about their sadness at not being able to go to Walmart because their spouse is working, hunting, or at a baby shower. What?! Bundle up the kids - all of them - and take them. Teach them to sit calmly in the shopping cart, asking for only one thing while at the store. (asking, not necessarily getting.) The consequence of asking for more than one thing? Getting nothing. Guaranteed. Take the kids out to eat in a sit-down restaurant. Life is not Chuck E. Cheese's. Teach them to sit politely and amuse themselves with the kids'menu, hand and word games or even -- wait for it -- conversation with those with whom they are dining. Kids like experiential learning, and it's not happening nearly enough.

When I see harried kids and weeping parents at Applebee's or Target, it occurs to me that these parents have not taught their kids how to behave in these mundane settings. The kids can be fine at home, a playground, or school...but, they don't know proper comportment for society. Everything is either relaxation, fun and games, or serious business. Nope, a lot of life is picking up milk and getting tires rotated. And, more often than not such outings do not require a Chik-Fil-A milkshake or a Sonic wacky pack.

So, this winter break, take the kids to Disney on Ice and the laser tag arena with a built in pizza place, but also take them to pick up dog kibble and a prescription refill at Walgreen's. The future cashiers and waiters of America will thank you, but most importantly, your kids will, too.

Graduation Poem: Or, AJ's elegy.

This is graduation weekend at our school.  Like any parent, I'm a bit misty.  Part of our school's tradition is a senior breakfast whereat parents can rise and give a 1-2 minute speech (if you follow the guidelines) to honor their son or daughter.  The following was my contribution to this event.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Plump blueberries sift through moist fingers

as I search for stems.

All your life I’ve done this

a small discard pile on the side to

present you with a glistening bowl of fruit.

Now, being yours and your being mine means

picking through the stems.

I am content.

But I know it will not always be so.  You

will go and I imagine be glad.  I will

smile to send your ship to sea for it was

christened so long ago and has waited

in harbor.

The years you have been moored

have been lemony sweet,

sticky with the juices of baby

kisses.

The seed-pits we discarded well

you and I.

Amid playful antics you tested your rudder,

I sitting behind you dutiful,

sewing sails.

A tarnished clock speeds time as the

instinctual weavers hang

dew-laden cloth on the branch beyond our kitchen glass.

We have always homed together. There

was no question of place: hands touch just

after the shade of the day.

I know the sound of your breath in the night

velvet and when the owl screeches

in hunt, I have held you and peace returns.

You have been mine one season and many

are left to you.  You will

pick through your own berries sweet

hot mornings.

I will sew new threads, carve

paths and breathe. 

Each morning fresh blossoms --

I will remember and be content –

and  you are to go forward  --

E-volution

Is it possible to be invited to a dinner party -  know what to bring, when to arrive, how to get there, who else is going to be there, and what time the event will end without ever talking to the hosts?  Yes.  People send e-vites or create Facebook events for everything from christenings to bachelor parties to wakes.  And, one can get the vital information, mapquest directions, and arrive on time (or fashionably late) without ever talking to anyone else planning to attend.  Very convenient.  How much easier could the whole thing be?  Well, we could all just skype a party and not ever have to leave our own homes.  That's probably been done, but unless you live across the world from your entire social network, I don't want to know about it.

A commercial for one of the for-profit colleges boasts, "You can go to college in your pajamas!"  Great.  How valuable is that?  The best part of college was just removed from the equation.  Well, if you can get a degree in your pjs, why not attend social gatherings, conferences, or even funerals via our monitors?  It certainly would take the pressure off - the never ending questions of what to wear, how to tactfully leave when the host's neighbor turns boorish, and how to navigate the twisty-turny subdivision roads are all eliminated if we can just pop up our laptop screens. 

Jeans or a skirt?  Just put on a nice top and focus your camera correctly, and you can have sweats and bunny slippers on from waist down.  Mort's drunk too much again?  Just fake an internet snafu; then, pop in a movie and order a pizza online.  Too hard to drive 20 minutes to socialize?  No problem - you can attend from your living room.  Heck, you can even be in bed.

About two months ago AJ was writing a scholarship essay that asked what the greatest difference between his generation and my generation is.  He pondered for a while, and ended up with a paragraph that asserted that his generation does not know how to communicate well or effectively face-to-face.  They can type, text, and email until the cows come home, but meaningful human-based communication is being marginalized, and may eventually lead to a generation of socially inept, even socially panicked human beings.

Apocolyptic?  Perhaps.  But, there is some truth here.  Events in the past month have had students texting me (ah, the irony!) about how to deal with death and helping their friends deal with it.  In essence, the great equalizer called the cyber-hermits out into the sunshine of face-to-tear-streaked-face communication.  To everyone's credit, they did wonderfully when crying together, comforting each other, and holding hands.  Perhaps these skills are not learned, but actually hard-wired into human beings?

I'd like to think so.  But, I would like to see more face-to-face events, communication, and hand-holding.  Doesn't it mean so much more to have a friend say to you, "I love you,"  rather than sending  <3 over a text?  I don't consider myself a troglodyte - as evidenced by this blog, as well as my Facebook page and smart phone.  I do think, however, that those of us over the age of, say 35, have an obligation to teach those that come after us the ways of the human world.  Let them choose our ringtones and desktop backgrounds, and we can show them how to comfort a friend, throw a party without Facebook, take a hike without a GPS for directions, and give a hug that is more than {{}}.  

It's spring time - get out there and meet people.  Have a picnic with no phones or ipods.  One of my friends had this by her Facebook profile picture (yes, I appreciate the irony of this reference):  "Quit staring at my picture and get out there and live your life."

So, let's all live our lives - use our computers, sync our ipods -  but never forget that the most important things in life are not things that have a battery life of 6-10 hours.

Anything

"What are you going to do with your one wilde and precious life?" (Mary Oliver)

     It is the season of anticipation in the senior hallways of our nation's schools.  National notification date for letters of invitation or declination is April 1 - and, no, it's not a cruel joke.  A former student called the time period of February 1- April 1 the "cone of silence."  There's nothing an applicant can do to further their cause that now finds itself on the computer screens of admissions officers on campuses everywhere.  No matter what decisions come, I have seen students embrace the power of this moment.  There is inspiration and motivation when you are eighteen and look your future square in the face.  At what other time in your life did you feel more like you could do anything?  Opportunites are endless.  The moment you are accepted to a college seems to open up the future like nothing else can.  Being in academia, I have always had the sense of renewal in the fall, but spring is the traditional time of renewal - nature and a college acceptances bear witness to this. 

     For those of us not expecting the thick envelope from the school of our dreams right now, we might pause and wonder just from where the moments of inspiration, motivation and empowerment come as we load the whites in for a hot cycle, clean the cat vomit from the carpet, check emails, and tell our children to turn off the television.  No, doing anything, having real chances to open up the future is not often on the radar screen for those of us knee-deep in adulthood.  Many of us feel like we can't do anything because we have to do everything.  This could take a middle-aged angstful turn right now, but let us try to avoid that and forge ahead.

    When a well-meaning parent, aunt or college counselor said to you, "You can do anything you want with your life," what did that person really mean?  There seems to an innate falsehood to this statement.  Even in my most athletic phase, I could not have been a professional football player or a starter for the '90-'91 Chicago Bulls.  So, no, I could not have been a Deion Sanders, a Michael Jordan, or even a Jay Cutler.  Naturally, the question arises: did you want to be those things.  Well, no.  Not really.  But, even if I had wanted to, I couldn't have.  So, where does all of this go?  Can a person truly be anything the want to be?

     How about the reverse?  Can you not be anything you don't want to be?  I never wanted to be a meth addict.  I'm not.  So, yes, it seems to work in reverse.  I did not want to be prime minister of Canada nor was I ever interested in being an astronaut.  Those ambitions have never plagued me, so I guess I'm doing pretty well.  But, wait, I never really wanted to be a high school English teacher.  As a person who has spent 22 years in high school as a student, teacher, and counselor, I have the opportunity to converse with young people about their ambitions.  In the course of such discussions, I am inevitably asked, "When did you know you wanted to be a teacher?"  The answer, as unglamorous and uninspiring as it is, is: "Never."  I never wanted to be a teacher.  Nope.  No higher calling to mold the next generation or to be an inspiration the youth of today or to ensure my own immortality through touching lives.  I became a teacher quite by default.

     I am sure that given a few moments of reflection, my sisters and mother might disagree.  I am the eldest of three girls, and I did my fair share of "playing school" with my sisters.  After a day of being told where to sit, how to walk, where to sit, what to think, and when to lay on your nap mat, it is relaxing to come home and boss your little sisters around for an hour and a half.  To be fair, they enjoyed it.  Mostly.  In fact, I even went so far as to organize a sort of pee-wee Brownie troupe for my youngest sister when she was too young to join the real Brownies.  We called it Nannie Troupe.  I think we did a few crafts and maybe even designed a t-shirt with the use of (gasp!) permanent markers.  When I started learning Russian, I foisted my knowledge on my youngest sister, as well.  Even my middle sister - who quickly found her own interests and didn't really "play school" for long - remembered a few phrases in Russian that I engrained despite her study of German and Arabic.  The point here:  I never wanted to become a teacher.  This was all child's play.  My sisters might argue that it was an advanced, slightly polished form of bullying. (Ha!  Perhaps that is all education truly is anyway.)  But, nevertheless, it was play.

     However, I did want to be a diplomat; why else would someone study Russian in 1987?  And, to that end I have two degrees in the fifth most widely spoken language in the world.  Right, it might be fifth, but I can tell you that a Russian degree is slightly more useful than a philosophy degree and slightly less useful than a degree in art history.  A one-eyed monkey can tell you that it would be hard to find a career as far away from a globe-trotting diplomat as teacher & college counselor in private school in Augusta, Georgia. 

     So, could we be wired to want what we can't have?  Probably not.  Think of all of the would-be professional athletes.  Think of all of the blinded-by-hope-for-instant-fame-and-fortune-auditioners for American Idol; a conservative estimate approximates 100,000 individuals auditioned for season eight.  Okay, so you might say that it doesn't matter what age you are - figure out what you want to do and do it.  Find a way to make it happen.  Of course, at my age, I have to take certain things into consideration:  kids, house, job, car, supper, dog, laundry, a washing machine that doesn't stay balanced....right, this list could go on.  The question remains:  Can we do anything we want to do? 

     Yes, we can.  With more patience and wisdom, we all adjust our life dreams.  We can look around today and find a way live and be and pursue our dreams.  Doing anything might not be realistic, but we can quit trying to everything and focus on a something that gives us inspiration and empowerment.  We may not be waiting for the thick envelope at the end of March, but we can be reminded that the warranty on hopes and dreams is a lifetime one.

Vegetable of My Discontent

When I arrive at someone’s house for dinner, I’m always glad to learn that green peas are not being served on the side, or indeed, included as a part of any dish.  Ever since Mom shoveled green baby mush into my mouth, I’ve had an aversion – no, aversion is too weak a word – repulsion? – ah ha!  - a loathing-  for this vegetable.  Even eggplant – which you might think would be my most hated food after Grandma Johnson’s every-dish-has-an-eggplant-component-in-it dinner – is immune to the level of disdain that I hold for peas.  Pea.  Peas.  Who chooses names of vegetables?  This is certainly a bad one.  I mean, asparagus, Brussels sprouts, artichokes all have a slightly melodious or even clever element to them.  But pea?  Right up there with leek if you ask me.  Muffin agreed with me, too.

 As many nine year-olds do, I thought I would surreptitiously provide nutrition to our dachshund mix.  Well, Muffin seemed to be gobbling up the little green jewels (Mom’s nickname, not mine).  Content that I had a staunch ally in my war against things small, round and green,  I put them in my hand, and my canine accomplice licked them up.  When we rose from the dinner table, the floor was littered with green confetti.  To say Mom was not happy would be an understatement.

This hatred survived my childhood, and years later caught up to me when I was living in the USSR, during the winter of 1990.   During one of the worse economic times in recent history, when everyone stood in line for bread, cheese, vodka…the necessities of surviving Russian winters, I had the good fortune to be invited to a friend’s apartment for a celebratory dinner. Along with the requisite appetizers, conviviality, salads, conversation, and potatoes, Ivan and Tanya served a giant bowl of – you guessed it.  Everyone happily took large servings, commenting on the rarity and generosity of this treat.  When questioned about my reticence in taking any peas, I feigned stupidity – “What are these?  I’ve never seen them before.”  I stumbled, “No, no, please you have them all…I’ve eaten too much already.”  No luck.   I pretended not to understand what was in the bowl or the Russian word – горох (goroch) – even in Russian it sounds gross!  I faltered.  Then, aha!  "У меня аллергия" – I’m allergic to them.  Russians tend to have a soft spot for medical problems.  Heads nodded gravely.  For a moment a silent, sympathetic, collective sigh.  And, then a toast!  All was well, and I was freed for the tyranny of the Soviet pea.  I ended up being served (and eating without complaint) a giant quantity of beets and sour cream, as well as a meat product that I, to this day, do not know the name of.  But, anything’s better than peas.