Sick Day

It is my firm belief that sick days should be reserved for lovely, sunny days when I feel fit as a fiddle and just want to goof off. But, alas, sometimes even I have to be sick - though I hate to succumb. Today is the fated day, and tomorrow isn't looking much better. On the bright side, though, I spent the day sleeping, watching t.v., and surfing the internet. I did not do dishes or laundry; I did not clean house; I did not grade papers; I did not even make the bed. I did, however, cook. When the guys came home from school, Jeff said, "Wow, thanks for making a nice dinner." I smiled sweetly and replied, "While I love you, I only made it because I had a hankering for soup." (The soup also earned me a big hug from the boy, since he is on the tail end of a cold and enjoyed it's steamy goodness!)

Yes, soup is the universal cure-all for illness. Of course, several studies have shown that chicken soup contains all kinds of things to make a body better, but I think anything hot and liquidy hits the spot when a person has a cold. Today's variety is potato-corn chowder. Honestly, I planned to just open a can of soup, but when I found the cabinet devoid of the potato soup I craved, I just had to make some. Luckily, it is "souper" easy.

Peel and dice 3 or 4 potatoes. (I used Yukon Golds.) Cook them in salted, boiling water until fork tender. Drain most of the liquid, leaving just a little in the bottom of the pot to provide extra moisture for the spuds. Use a hand masher to break them up, but don't worry about making them smooth. Add two cans of creamed corn and return to the heat. If the mixture isn't soupy enough, add a little milk, water, or half-and-half. Season the pot liberally with salt and pepper, (I always use extra pepper if I'm sick so I can actually taste it!) and simmer a few minutes until heated through. (See, that was easy!)

While my soup simmered I doctored some ciabatta bread as dippers. (I watched Giada Laurentis do this a couple of weeks ago and have been thinking about it ever since.) Mix a stick of room temperature butter with 8 oz of shredded cheese. (She used sharp cheddar, I used the casserole mix from the grocery.) You can use a food processor to made this spread really smooth. Next toss in some green onions (I used shallots instead.) and garlic. Once the mixture reaches spreading consistency, cut the ciabatta bread in half lengthwise and divide the cheese between the two pieces. Bake at 400 degrees for about 10 minutes. Cut each half into "sticks" to serve. The topping on this gets melty and yummy, while the bread is slightly crunchy. It was delicious and I could've eaten it by itself as a meal!

While dinner was my only accomplishment of the day, it may actually have been worth having the cold.

Beauty vs. Brains

Today's journal topic for the students - Is it better to be smart or beautiful? - laid the foundation for an interesting discussion. Of course, the first students to speak up after writing proffered the idea that intelligence is better because it helps a person get ahead in life. They reasoned that smart people make better grades, get better scholarships which lead to better college degrees, and ultimately fatter paychecks on the job. However, after this view was bandied about (by the smart kids, of course), another student said, "I disagree. It's better to be pretty because you get more attention and you don't have to work as hard." This comment led to a full-blown debate (which I'm pretty sure the student teacher didn't intend to have) about the advantages of being beautiful.

As I listened to this discussion, I wondered whether or not the "pretty people" theory was valid or just an offshoot of teenage (or adult for that matter) insecurities. It turns out the girl was right. Many studies over the last decade have shown that good looking people get more breaks - both at school and in the work place. As a matter of fact, the research shows that good looking kids frequently get more attention and better evaluations from instructors, pretty adults get better service from just about everyone including health care professionals, salespeople, and automotive techs; even attractive criminals get lighter sentences. So, how does this translate into money? You may be surprised to learn that "plain" people earn 5 to 10 percent less than their "average looking" counterparts, who in turn earn 3 to 8 percent less than people deemed "attractive." That's a pay gap of 8 to 18 percent based solely on looks.  In addition, other studies found that being "unattractive" has a penalty that averages about 15 percent less pay for men and 11 percent less for women. These same studies say that being tall is especially helpful to men, who earn nearly $800 a year more for each inch of height difference.

Of course, the researchers also point out that people are deemed attractive for many reasons including clothing, personal grooming, and confidence (which is good news for those of us who don't meet society's height, weight, and age requirements). Still, I think it is interesting that so many of my students are so jaded about what counts in life. When I was that age - idealist that I was - I believed talent, creativity, and intelligence were all that really mattered. (Oh, who am I kidding. Despite evidence to the contrary, I still believe that.) It saddens me that young people who are so full of life and promise already feel a little defeated by fate because they aren't deemed beautiful by our looks-are-everything world. I just want to pull them each aside and say, "You are beautiful, too, even if the world doesn't see it yet. Be fabulous, and don't let the bastards wear you down."

Write On

As a writer, a teacher, and a grader I am picky about my pens. In my book, different writing utensils are designed for different tasks and should not cross over into areas for which they were not intended.

For example, many of my colleagues love to grade with nylon-tip markers. These are pretty much the modern version of the felt-tip pens we had as kids, only better. Whereas the felt-tips became flattened and started to leave a wider and wider line as they were used, the nylon-tips maintain their shape and provide a cleaner look from beginning to end of the ink. These pens, which come in a variety of colors, are particularly popular in my department because the vivid purple and green shades are easy to spot against a black and white essay without looking as threatening as red ink. While I like these pens just fine for grading quizzes, homework, vocabulary, etc., I am not fond of them on essay assignments. The line is not fine enough for my taste. (Since I often write lengthy notes on student papers, the fatter tip takes up too much space.) In addition, I'm a purist and prefer to edit in traditional red. (How else can I make jokes about opening a vein?)

Thus, my pen of choice is the inc. R-2, a .7 mm rollerball available in black, blue, and red. While the color selection is limited, the quick flow and stark, fine line make this a fabulous grading pen. In addition to the way it writes, this is a great pen to hold. It has a fat, smooth barrel that feels cool against the crook of my hand with a rubberized grip near the end that keeps my fingers from cramping. The wide spring clip on the cap is perfect for hooking across a clipboard, notebook, or catalog, as well. Unfortunately, these are not available from district suppliers, so I have to keep my own stock, which is alright since I usually find them at Dollar Tree. (It's funny that I've used much more expensive pens, but prefer the two-for-a-dollar variety.) In addition to red for essays, the brilliant cobalt blue is my favorite journaling utensil.

Obviously, since all pens are not created equal, there are some pretty bad choices out there. Anything that has "stick" in the description should be avoided at all costs. These are not even worth putting in a cup on my desk for students to borrow (a.k.a. swipe) since they don't seem to write at least half the time. Once I took five boxes of blue stick pens to another school where I was administering a writing test and ended up throwing away three boxes worth before the evening was over. This is a prime example of "you get what you pay for." Another utensil I avoid at all costs is a pencil. While I understand their usefulness in math class, the idea of writing (or reading) an essay in smeary, number 2 lead that always turns my fingers to charcoal is a frightening proposition. Unfortunately, the kids frequently want to complete their work with this devil stick, and it takes me the entire first quarter to break them of the habit.

When I'm not grading or writing, I'm a good deal more open to different types of pens. For example, I have a box full of Sharpies in every color imaginable. (I was even tempted at Christmas to buy a new set because it included "cool retro 80's colors" like banana clip yellow and valley girl pink.) These pens are great for doodling, making posters, or completing craft projects. In addition to the bright permanent markers, I have an assortment of opaque pens designed to show up on dark paper (After all, you never know when you might have to make a black sign.) and a variety of glitter pens that add a metallic sheen to pastel shades of blue, pink, and green. These are great for creating greeting cards or coloring decorations for my classroom.

I know that having such strong opinions about writing utensils probably qualifies me for the loony bin, but I just can't help my ink-based compulsion. There is probably a 12-step program for me out there somewhere, but since the first step is to want help, I'm up a creek.

Showing Up

Many years ago I read an Ellen Goodman column in which she said 98 percent of life is just showing up. This lesson has stuck with me for decades and is one I think today's kids haven't learned. In the essay Goodman posits that if people show up and do their best, if they just get out of bed every morning with a willingness to do something, life will happen, progress will be made, and the world will be a better place. Many days in my life I have experienced this phenomenon by dragging myself out of bed, into a shower, and off to work even when I didn't want to go. I learned that by showing up and engaging the world, I become a better person.

If students could do this on a daily basis, their lives would become better too. While many of them manage to bring their bodies to class every morning (for which I should be grateful since this is a step in the right direction), they leave their brains somewhere else. This lack of engagement is the biggest problem educators face. We realize that learning about American literature or how to effectively incorporate a quote into an essay may not seem like life-changing material to high schoolers, but it could have a much greater impact on their reality if only they actually give it a chance. This chance requires them to show up mentally and put some effort into whatever comes their way over the course of the school day. If they could show up in this capacity, they might discover all sorts of possibilities available in the world. Perhaps this is too much to ask of teenagers. After all, I'm not sure when I learned that showing up every day means creating a life. I guess youth really is wasted on the young.

Open House Part Two

Open house is an interesting phenomenon of American education. The idea seems to be that a quick first impression lays the groundwork for a year-long partnership. At our school this big top event occurs twice a year: once first quarter and again third quarter. In August – usually the third or fourth day of school – parents follow their students’ schedule and are treated to a 10 minute preview of the year’s curriculum, the textbook, and the class goals. Once this whirlwind show is concluded, they have about three minutes to ask questions of teachers who haven’t yet learned all 150 names and faces. The second event of this nature may take place anywhere between MLK day and spring break – depending on the boss’s mood – and carries a completely different set of parameters. The spring open house is a meet-and-greet for parents and students who are preparing to register or have registered for next year’s classes. (Are you confused yet? Welcome to my world.) One might think that the beginning of second semester would be a good time to meet with struggling kids and their parents in an effort to create a better support system. Instead, at the beginning of second semester, administration is focusing on the next school year and teachers are expected to recruit students into elective and honors programs. (I don’t know about you, but I’m tired just thinking about it.)

Tonight I am taking this hand-shaking, flyer-distributing opportunity to downplay my reputation. Because I hold the honors kids to high standards and make them work hard, many students think I am mean while their parents complain that I am intimidating. (Of course my friends find these descriptions hilarious since they’ve seen me do the Time Warp in the English office and fight over a pickle plucker during a white elephant gift exchange.) So, in an effort to be more approachable, I traded in my usual meet-the-teacher power suit for slacks and a leopard-print sweater. (O.k., it still says predator, but at least it’s soft and fuzzy.) In addition, I plan to turn on the Southern charm. Can’t you just picture it? “Well, hi there! It’s so nice to meet you!” in my best drawl. (Well, maybe not.) Hopefully these ideas, coupled with the fact that several other department members will be present to talk about their standards as well, will comfort the parents of incoming freshmen who worry that I might stuff their children in the oven for dinner. (I’d just like to point out that my house is not made of candy, nor do I have cages large enough to confine teenagers while I fatten them up.)

Ultimately, the problem with open house events – tonight’s and the one earlier in the year – is the lack of substance. At the high school, only good students drag their parents in to meet the teacher. Only parents who are interested in helping their kids actually show up, and these people will call or email throughout the year whenever a question arises. But the parents who don’t bother returning phone calls or contacting teachers when their kids are struggling – the ones I really want to speak with – are nowhere to be seen.

A Pat on the Back

While encouraging kids seems a natural extension of being a parent and a teacher, adults often forget to compliment one another. This is especially true about working in an environment that fosters stress, feelings of inadequacy, and uncertainty about the future. In this climate of political upheaval and deep budget cuts it is surprising how a few minutes of positive feedback to reshape an entire day - at least for me.

Last Thursday one of our assistant principals spent a class period in my room while the kids edited a literary analysis essay. It was a typical lesson on a typical day - no dog and pony show for the boss. (Let me just interject here that I am generally annoyed by this process in which someone spends one hour deciding whether or not I'm good at my job.) Today, I was pleasantly surprised by the outcome because the AP actually "got it." He didn't just say "Good job, Jenny; sign here," (which has happened to me before). We had a real discussion of what happened over the course of the period and the course of the year. He included a list of all the extra activities I am involved with ranging from district committees to department chair "den mother" to mentoring a student teacher. By the time we were finished, I felt appreciated, which brings me to the point of this story: a little appreciation goes a long way.

I know that sounds trite, but it is true. After many weeks of feeling discouraged and thinking that no one notices how much effort I put into my job, I discovered someone (other than my family) is actually paying attention. Pleased as I am with this realization, I wonder how much happier I would be if the boss had just handed out an occasional "atta girl" along the way. With this idea firmly in mind, I am renewing my efforts to appreciate my colleagues. Earlier this year I made sure to hand out cookies and encouraging notes on a regular basis, but I have grown lax. As I have become discouraged by politicians and lazy students, I have allowed that to seep into my dealings with others. However, today I know that one note, one pat on the back can make all the difference in the world.

Dream Big

Dreaming is living. It is a belief that tomorrow can (and will) be better. It is faith that we can be more than we are today. It is the knowledge that destiny is bigger than each of us. As long as we have dreams, we have hope; as long as we have hope, we have strength; as long as we have strength, we can change the world (or at least our little corner of it).

Jeff dreams of performing on Broadway while I harbor literary ambitions. Our son dreams of being a rock star. The the last several years his guidance counselors have tried to dissuade him from this career path saying, "That's pretty unrealistic," and "What ELSE would you like to do?" Interestingly, the same people who don't believe he can be a professional musician - a star - encourage high school athletes to pursue their dreams of playing pro sports. In reality, even if Jade doesn't hit the heights of fame and fortune, the possibility that he can make his living singing, playing piano, plucking guitar, and writing songs is pretty good. Unlike those few hundred pro-sports jobs (in any given arena), musicians are everywhere - film, television, Broadway, symphonies, cover bands, studio gigs, back-up singers, advertising. You get the idea. (Don't get me wrong. I think it's fine for kids to want to play pro ball, but I don't think it's fine for adults to encourage that dream but not another, which is a much more viable career path.)

Over the years, Jeff and I have repeatedly voiced our support for Jade's choices, and we have helped him construct a plan - which includes a degree in music - to reach his goals. One of the best parts of being a parent is sharing in the excitement of feeling that life is new and the world is waiting to be taken by storm. I am encouraged by my son's belief in his dream as well as his creativity. And there's plenty of creativity to go around, it seems. My nephew, Ben, also expresses himself artistically, though his media is visual rather than performance based. While he is tight-lipped about his actual plans, as a family we see his potential and are drawn into his hopes.

These two boys - on the verge of becoming men - embody the best of each of us: belief, innocence, passion. As parents, those are the qualities we must encourage and protect. In return, we are rewarded with the grand adventure of watching our children grow and become more than we ever imagined they could be.


Jade sings a favorite tune.



This is a "scratch" piece Ben created.




One of Ben's drawings.



The Japanese and Chinese character's spell out the model's name.



Rise and Shine

The kids at school frequently characterize me as a hard case - stubborn, mean, intimidating. They'd be shocked if they knew what a push over I am for my son. I indulge his penchant for books, sheet music, instruments, and museums. Perhaps it is because I love all these past times as well, or perhaps it is because I love him. (I'm leaning toward the latter because I tend to do the same with Jeff's yearnings, so I think there's a pattern there.) His latest request is to change schools. He has spent several years as a misfit in our sleepy bedroom community that somehow thinks it's still a 1950's tiny town full of five-generation families. So, this week he decided he'd had enough and transferred to the high school where Jeff and I work. (Mind you, I had some misgivings, but Jade and his dad convinced in the end.) To my relief, he has been exceptionally happy since his arrival. (Insert happy sigh here.) So, what else could he want? I'm glad you asked.

After school today the boy was noodling on the piano in Jeff's room when the band director appeared out of nowhere. (Teachers have that sneaky power, you know.) After listening to some improv and asking Jade to play some specific chords, he recruited the kid for jazz band. (Hooray! Jade wanted to be in the jazz  band at his old school.) Unfortunately, the group meets at 6:30 a.m. Personally, I can't picture anyone wanting to blow a horn, strum a guitar, or plink on the piano at that ungodly hour, but apparently a fair number of students do. The dilemma, of course, is that Jeff and I would have to go to work early in order to take our son to school. Since my bleary mornings and need for coffee are practically legendary, the guys knew they'd have to tread lightly. Thus, after school Jeff took us all to Sonic, popped the top on the convertible, and plied me with onion rings and a pineapple shake before mentioning the invitation. And what could I say? My son, who plans to be a professional musician, has an opportunity to spend an hour each day doing what he loves in the company of his compadres. I guess I'll just have to go to bed a little earlier or buy a bigger coffee cup.

Happy Birthday Edgar

Today is Edgar Allan Poe's birthday. My love affair with Poe began as a kid reading scary stories under the covers with a flashlight and reciting lines of weird poetry on the playground as surrounding eyes narrowed at this strange tomboy who quoted "Annabel Lee." At the time, the best reason I could give for liking Poe's work was the way it sounded. Today, as an English teacher who has read, reread, and reread Poe; given lectures on his life; graded a zillion analyses of "The Tell-Tale Heart," and recited line upon line of "The Raven," I still dwell on his facility for language. Poe's descriptions - in the typical romantic style of his day - over flow with color and noise. "The Cask of Amontillado" is a study of  irony in all its forms while "The Masque of the Red Death" is an allegory about the folly of tempting fate and thinking oneself beyond the reach of death. Each of Poe's stories grapples with time and the impotence of man. Each reminds the reader of his own frailties and begs the question, "What would you do in this situation?"

After all, that was Poe's impetus for writing. He wanted to know what makes men tick, and he used the most horrific and stressful situations to uncover their souls. Unfortunately, each time he wrote, Poe found only the darkness of his own torment which he sought to understand through art and escape through drink. He is the iconic tortured writer who cannot come to terms with what he knows about humanity. Many such artists have lived throughout history. Of course, Poe's inner demons were the result of a tumultuous childhood, rebellion against his adoptive father, and rebellion against an age of philosophers and romantics who found God in nature, life in light.

These days, that stereotypical angst that drove Poe to seek the depths of depravity seems mostly relegated to frustrated teenagers and heavy metal musicians. The idea that being a great writer means one must turn into an abusive drunk has faded away. Today's writers seem to have sunnier dispositions - especially on the talk show circuit. However, those, too, may be in response to the dark days of our society. Now, rebellion comes by saying one grew up in a two-parent household, held watermelon seed spitting contests in the summer, and drank dandelion wine in August. These idyllic scenes play to the damaged psyche of today's American because they are the opposite of "normal." Thus, even those of us who are generally happy, trying to knock out a page or two a day and call ourselves writers must feel the weighty presence of Edgar Allan Poe.

Not Quite Spring Cleaning

Standing in the middle of IKEA watching me check the dimensions of every tub, bin, and collapsible box in site, my son asked, "What exactly are we looking for?"
"I need some bins to organize the linen closet," I responded, eyeing another row of possibilities.
Without a moment's hesitation, he said, "Oh no! It's January and you're starting spring cleaning!"

Indeed, my spring cleaning often begins around MLK weekend and culminates in a full-scale window scrub at the end of the quarter in March. Generally, it takes me that long to clean and organize every area of the house, and it always starts with some inciting incident during which my frustration with an on-going mess reaches its breaking point. This year, I was attacked by the linen closet. (Attacked, I say!) I innocently opened the door to put away cleaning rags when a blanket at the top jumped on me for no apparent reason. As I took evasive maneuvers, the newly-folded towels popped out of my hands attempting to block my vision while the rest of the stack vaulted from the shelves to join the fray. Upon extricating myself from the mass of terry cloth and cotton, I decided to win the war once and for all through my secret weapon - organization. Enter the boxes from IKEA, which allow me to easily imprison my combatants, label their cages, and provide a window through which I may taunt them each time I open the closet door. Victory is mine as evidenced by the "after" photo below. (I know, it didn't occur to me to take a "before" photo in the midst of the war.)

Truly, there is something deeply satisfying about spring cleaning. I actually enjoy the process of sorting, organizing, trashing, and donating the contents of every closet, drawer, and cupboard. By the time I'm finished, spring break begins and I feel lighter, happier after conquering the clutter of three-quarters of the school year and a plethora of holidays. Thus, each weekend for the next couple of months, you may find me parked in the middle of the floor, surrounded by mounds of fabric or scrapbooking supplies, or cookbooks, or pots and pans. Whatever it is, whichever room is involved, rest assured I will prevail!

Once organized, the closet has
room to spare!

A Day Downtown

Downtown Mesa, Arizona, is reminiscent of many small towns with a couple of large churches, a park, and interesting shops lining the sidewalks. This charm doesn't open its arms to visitors until 10 a.m. and the sidewalks roll up at 5 p.m. shooing pedestrians home in time for dinner. While Mesa offers a monthly evening event with street corner bands and plenty of people, Monday afternoons pass lazily inviting visitors to wander aimlessly among antique shops, music stores, and trendy boutiques. Lulled by the January sunshine of central Arizona - which is a meek 75 degrees this time of year - the guys and I sojourned to downtown for the day.

We spent a great deal of time playing guitars at the local music store, culling through stacks of records in an antique mall (which we left with four new 45's for our juke box), and meandering through an ancient bookstore which sports antique tables and Victorian-style chairs as display space for myriad leather-bound copies of classics ranging from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland to Crime and Punishment. The walls are lined floor-to-ceiling with millions of books - both new and used - on every subject imaginable. These library-style stacks continue along center sets of book cases and have built-in ladders to help customers reach the tallest shelves. The entire place smells of old paper and ink and is manned by a gruff-looking gentleman on a tall stool behind the counter opposite the door. Today, while Jeff browsed the music section, I looked at art books, and Jade went upstairs to thumb through the novels, where he met a man who said his mother went to school with Louis L'Amour. The man proceeded to talk about how L'Amour quit school when he was about my son's age and found odd jobs doing manual labor before he started writing. (This kind of thing happens to Jade frequently. In a department store at Christmas, he sat in an empty chair next to an older gentleman who regaled him with stories about fishing on Douglas Lake.) After a late lunch at an Italian cafe (which shut down around us at 3 p.m.), I browsed an interesting little boutique filled with embellished blue jeans and the latest jewelry while the guys visited a piano store to try out its wares.

Finally, we made our way back to the car and headed home for snacks, t.v. time, and ultimately the comfort of our beds since tomorrow is a school day all around. But we each felt a sense of contentment which comes from the slower pace of a small-town excursion.



This old bookstore has a library vibe.



 

The tree-lined streets and shaded sidewalks add to Mesa's small-town feel.

  

Sculpture adorns nearly every street corner downtown.



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Hello, my name is Jenny, and I'm a mama bear. Anything that seems to remotely threaten my son - who, by the way, is 6'3" tall and about 40 days away from a driver's license - becomes a target on my radar. Never mind that he can take of himself. Never mind that he's level headed (well, as much as any boy his age can be). Never mind that he doesn't need me to defend him. (Though, I might add here, he has noted that I am a force to be reckoned with and most people are in awe of me. Of course, my response is "Flattery will get you nowhere, son!") After all, this is an instinctual reaction.

Funny, when I was much younger I never thought I'd have kids, and when I became pregnant I worried that I wouldn't know how to deal with a child. I truly believed I wasn't the maternal type. Now I know that was all nightmares and nerves. I can't imagine anyone carrying a baby for nine months, pushing it out in pain, and then being unwilling to step in front of a moving freight train to save it. Thus, whenever my son is hurt - scraped knee or scraped heart - my first inclination is to charge in like the cavalry and make everything better. Except, sometimes, I can't.

This year has been one of change for Jade. He is figuring out who he wants to be, what he wants to do, how he wants to look - all the typical teenager "stuff." Unfortunately, as he experiments with his appearance (straight black hair or his natural wavy brown? biker boots or Keds? dark wash jeans, black jeans with studded pockets, or faded, ripped-knee jeans? band shirts or button downs? wrist bands, rings, guitar picks on a chain?) some of his friends have decided they aren't. As he morphs out of the clean-cut kid look into the guitar star wanna be some of his cookie-cutter friends have stopped calling, hanging out, inviting him places, because he doesn't look like the rest of the group. On the flip side, many of the other rebellious-looking kids tried to befriend him, but found he didn't share their interest in ditching school or getting in trouble. Although his outer look has changed, his inner self - the kid who does his homework, enjoys family game night, and sings along with his parents to cheesy 80's pop tunes and Broadway musicals - is still the same. This conflict between what he shows the world and what he shows his parents has caused him some heartache, which (of course) makes me want to bash a few heads together, though I resisted the temptation knowing he had to deal with these problems on his own. (Besides, I couldn't really chew out all the idiot kids at his school; there just aren't that many hours in a day!)

What I have done this year is encouraged him to be true to himself, held him when he cried because his "friends" weren't his friends any more, and allowed him to work through the heartache himself. I'm not sure who has been tested more by his unwillingness to fit it - him or me. Looking back over my own life I realize I have chosen again and again not to just go along with the crowd. While those choices have frequently brought me trouble, they have helped define who I am. I know Jade will say the same, but in the meantime this mama bear just wants to roar at few people until they turn-tail and run.

A Day in the Life

For just one day I'd like to be a cat. Imagine spending 24 hours lounging in sunbeams, chasing dust particles, and getting purred. Yup, a day in the life of my beloved Licorice might go like this.

5:25 a.m. - Wake up because the people are getting ready for work. Be sure to race through the bedroom - tromping on Mama's stomach and galloping across Daddy's legs, startling them awake just before the alarm goes off. Of course, this daily service is provided just in case they forget to set the clock. In addition, the loud beeping is hard on delicate feline ears, so getting it turned off before the alarm sounds is all the better.

5:30-6:25 a.m. - Wind through Mama's feet once she gets out of the shower to help her dry off. Continue keeping her company by sitting on the bench and supervising her choice of attire for the day - purring especially loudly when her hand touches the leopard-print skirt. Next, move to the vanity to better help Mama select her accessories, being sure to paw at the dangly earrings and beaded bracelet so she knows which to choose. Remain on the vanity while she puts on her makeup, but jump down before the final dusting of powder and perfume since these tend to elicit feline sneezing fits.

6:25-6:35 a.m. - Ignore Daddy completely and trot along as Mama moves to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Be sure to stand up and stretch the front paws toward the counter so she remembers that kitties would also enjoy a bite of the farmer's casserole or cheese quiche she is reheating. While the microwave runs, be sure to lead Mama down the hall with plenty of plaintive mews so she can top off the food dish and provide ice water for the day.

6:35-6:55 a.m. - Repeatedly attempt to jump on Mama's lap while she eats breakfast. (After all, this is a cat's only opportunity to sit there before she leaves for work.) When she's finished, try jumping up one last time to let her know you're still waiting for a little morsel of love from her plate.

7:00 a.m.-2:20 p.m. - After following Mommy to the door and trying to slip into the garage (so she knows you'd really love to go to work with her) give her a mournful look as she closes the door. As soon as the garage door is locked, begin the day's fun. Spend plenty of time chasing Georgie through the circuit of the house being sure to unexpectedly stop so as to catch her off guard later making her long hair fuzz up as she plows headlong into the door jamb because she missed the pet door cutout in her haste. Interspersed with the Georgie games, wrestle with Bandit. Later ask Bandit to gang up on Mousy, chasing her to and fro until she erupts in a ball of hissing, spitting fur. Obviously, all of this exercise will take its toll, so after a good snack and a cool drink, curl up in the middle of the dining table and take a nap just in time for Jade to come home. (This helps perpetuate my image of laziness.)

4:00-7:00 p.m.- Greet the people at the door, again following closely on Mama's heels to see if she's putting on her pajamas (which means she's home for the day) or changing into jeans (which means she's leaving the felines to entertain themselves again). If she's leaving, be sure to give her a baleful cry and jump in her lap while she's tying her shoes to entice her to stay home and play (or at least to make her feel guilty for going back out). If she's staying home, stay with her as she walks through the house and jump in her lap each time she sits down. Remember, checking her email affords a prime petting opportunity since the office chair has plenty of extra room. When dinner time rolls around, repeat the breakfast procedure.

7:00-9:00 p.m. - After wolfing down the nightly wet cat food in several dishes (which is accomplished by the art of full body contact) jot downstairs to curl up on Mama's faux fur throw, which provides such great camouflage that black cats disappear when they close their eyes, for t.v. time. Be sure to beg for snacks if any are available. Give Mama perturbed glances when she moves around too much, and finally decides to go to bed.

9:00 p.m.-12:00 a.m. - Play with stuffed mice, being sure to bring a couple different kinds to Mama (in bed) so she can play along. Once she falls asleep, get out the jingle bell balls and play soccer in the hallway with Bandit. If Mama wakes up, offer her another mouse to toss. If not, continue the game with Bandit until someone scores 15 points.

12:00-5:25 a.m. - Sleep on Mama's feet until morning, but be sure to keep track of the days since weekends afford a nice change of pace.