Alone

          Finally she could breathe, think. The last week had taken its toll, but now she was alone. No well-meaning relatives patting her hand and hugging her waist as if death brought the living closer. No sympathetic friends telling her to call if she needed anything as if they really meant it. No sad-eyed minister asking how she’s doing as if he could read sorrow buried in every laugh line around her eyes. Now, maybe, the shock would wear off. Maybe now she could just think. The icy vodka tasted smooth on her tongue as she sipped it lazily and watched the early morning light throwing its reddish-golden hue across the yard.

            The silence felt good in her ears. She had spent the whole night, hell the whole week, talking about Michael and the years they had together, all 25 of them. By 2 a.m. the last of her friends had departed with a final toast to memories, and the ordeal was over. There was nothing left to do but keep the vodka cold and drink in – gulp down - the silence. For the first hour, she watched the stars twinkle coolly and traced the lights of a few passing jets. She wondered where they headed and who they carried. People who were running away from their lives, running toward their futures, or just running through their time, she decided. At 4 a.m. she realized she hadn’t even taken off her black patent leather pumps yet and remedied that with an easy grace. By 5 a.m. the voices of birds had replaced those of crickets and the subtle lightening in the sky heralded the morning. At 6 a.m. she realized it was time to get ready for work, but she wasn’t going today. She wasn’t going until next week, if she ever went at all. No, this morning she was just going to think about her new freedom.

            What should she do? Should she move? Should she stay? Should she buy a different house? Should she sell the extra car? Should she take a vacation? Where should she go? Interestingly enough, the answers didn’t matter as much as the fact that she could decide. She loved Michael dearly. They had been very happy together, and for the last 25 years they had made their decisions together. They had raised a daughter together. They had moved and worked and saved and vacationed together. It had been grand. The cruises, the trips to Europe, the theater tickets, the dinners out had all been grand, and now she was alone, which sounded horrible and promising at the same time. She no longer had her friend, her companion, and she felt that loss keenly. However, she also no longer had to please anyone but herself, and she was just beginning to think what that might mean.

            By 7 a.m. she was tired of just contemplating the idea of making a decision, so she made one instead. She decided to do something fun, something that would please her and only her. A hot shower gave way to her favorite jeans, the ones with holes scattered across the knees and thighs; the ones Michael hated because they looked so ratty.

            “You aren’t wearing those out somewhere, are you? They look like someone put them on the fence and shot them with a 12-gauge,” she heard him comment wryly in her ear.

            “Why, yes I am,” she responded crisply to the mirror as she put on her favorite dark red lipstick after slipping on a form-fitting black silk t-shirt. A moment later she slipped on a pair of sexy, strappy black sandals and slung a chain belt around her slim frame. The color of the metal echoed the gleam of the white gold cross she wore at her throat, the platinum band that graced her left hand, and the silver glinting in her otherwise dark hair. Then she stopped and took stock of herself in the mirror. Forty-five-year-old eyes shone back at her. They were a clear dark blue, the eyes of a 16-year-old surrounded by a few crinkles that had formed in recent years, the eyes that turned a brooding jade green when she was angry and the light gray-blue of spring rain when she was sad. The red, puffiness of crying was no longer visible in those eyes. The tears had stopped a day or two ago after seeming to rise constantly for several days before that. “I’m just all cried out,” she had told her friends. “There aren’t any tears left inside my soul right now.”

            Her first stop of the day was at a new salon a couple of miles from home. She tipped the counter girl ten dollars to “find” her name in the morning appointment list; then settled into an overstuffed velvet chair that clashed with her lipstick and sipped the cup of coffee the girl had brought her. The steamy liquid tasted particularly good with double sweetener and hazelnut creamer – just the way she liked it. She thought she’d buy a new coffee maker later, one that made lattes or something fancy. Michael never drank coffee, though he didn’t care if she did. It was just too much hassle to have coffee and hot tea, so she just started drinking tea with him. It didn’t really matter after all, as long as it was hot, and she didn’t have to make it. Now, she guessed if she was going to make her own, it was worth making what she really liked.

            “I’d have made it if you asked,” Michael whispered in her ear. “I know,” she breathed to herself.

The counter girl pulled her out of her reverie with, “Ma’am, we’re ready for you now.”

            Funny, she thought as she surveyed the stylist’s work in the mirror 30 minutes later, I feel so much lighter now. She decided the new cut was sassy, a little edgy with its short back and sides and longer, tousled top that accentuated the bright strands in her hair and the light sparks in her eyes. As she moved away from the mirror to find a nail polish color that matched her favorite lipstick, she made a mental note to buy some new earrings that picked up that liquid silver quality of her hair.

            Her next stop was the mall. She decided to park near the theater so she could catch a movie later. There was a new romantic comedy that was supposed to be “wickedly funny” according to a local reviewer. “That sounds right up my alley,” she thought.

            “I thought you only liked action-adventure flicks on the big screen,” Michael commented with a twinge of surprise in his voice.

            “I guess that just shows you don’t know everything about me,” she smiled.

But before the movie, she wanted to have lunch at a little Mexican cantina near the end of the food court. She hadn’t eaten much over the course of the previous week even though friends and relatives had stock-piled her kitchen counters and refrigerator with food of every shape and description. She had tried to feed everyone who appeared at her house, but there was still too much left for her to eat. She briefly contemplated divvying it up into single portions and putting it in the freezer, but rejected the idea as too much trouble. Instead she decided she would take it all over to the school tomorrow morning and leave it in the faculty lunch room for everyone to enjoy. That would give her an opportunity to check on her substitute and students and talk to the principal about when she’d be back. “I like that plan,” she thought.

“Me, too,” echoed Michael.

In the meantime, some guacamole and black bean nachos would hit the spot. She decided to sit at one of the two-person pub tables in the bar area near the window that looked out over the central court of the mall. The waiter was quick to bring her a menu and take her drink order, but gave her a sadly patronizing smile when he learned that no one would be joining her for lunch. As she sipped her blue moon margarita and waited for her nachos, with chopped jalapenos, she thought about how often she and Michael had passed this place but never stopped for dinner.

            “I hate Mexican food,” he protested. “And they don’t have anything on the menu that doesn’t have some sort of pepper in it.”

            “I know,” she said aloud to know one in particular, “but I like this place. It’s festive.” She continued looking through the glass at the people passing by, but felt she could almost see Michael’s black leather sport coat reflecting back in the chair across from her.

            “The haircut is flattering,” he said. “Why didn’t you have it cut that way when I was alive to mess it up?”

            “Because you always liked my hair longer, and I tried to please you,” she responded. This time she saw the people at the next table turn to see who she was talking to, and she realized she’d have to learn to have these conversations in her head. “After all,” she thought, “that’s where Michael is now.” Then she wondered if hearing the voice of her dead husband talking to her made her a candidate for a straight jacket. Oh well, it didn’t matter because right now her nachos were being delivered along with a second margarita.

            “You shouldn’t have another one this early in the day,” Michael chided.

             “Hush,” she said to herself. “I can do anything I please.”

            After the movie, which had made her laugh just as the reviewer promised, she began wandering through the mall, strolling from store to store trying on every highly decorated, colorful, interesting outfit she could find. Occasionally the voice in her head commented on the wilder clothing, but it was quickly silenced by her own voice affirming her own opinion. In the end she rejected the gaudier pieces as uncomfortable and decided on several outfits that were formfitting, but not loud. However, she did buy some flashier accessories – dangle earrings, cuff bracelets, new shoes with matching purses – to complete the outfits. “This stuff is very cool, but still appropriate,” she thought. “After all, I am still in mourning.”

            “And you look great in black,” Michael commented. “It goes well with those killer red nails.”

            At this she laughed out loud drawing glances from people walking past her. “I’m glad you approve,” she whispered. “You know what they say: When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”

After placing her bags in the trunk of the sleek black convertible, she put on her favorite sunglasses – the ones with the sparkly stones and cat-eye shape – and popped the top, letting in the evening sun and air. When she hit the interstate, the wind tousled her gleaming hair as she heard Michael’s voice singing along with “Hotel California.” Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she could see his lean body slouching into the passenger seat, enjoying the dying day. She headed east, letting the road lead the way, until it was too dark to see.

Failure is an Option

I often fail at cooking, though people I’ve entertained probably wouldn’t believe so. Actually, one of the best things about cooking is having permission to fail and try again.

I experienced my first real failure in the kitchen during high school when I attempted Pears Caribbean. I had never really paid attention to how my mom cooked anything, maintaining that anyone who could read a recipe could cook. (I have since discovered this is basically true for simple dishes; however the art of cooking is something more than the science of mixing, measuring, and applying heat.) Thus, at 14, I ventured courageously into the realm of decadent dessert, but not without some help. Frequent help, actually, since I called Mom repeatedly.
“When it says to use fresh pears, will canned pears work instead?”
“What does it mean when it says to caramelize the sugar?”

My mother answered each question patiently and ended with, “What are you making?” Each time I responded, “a surprise.” And it was – because by the time my parents came home, the scents of cinnamon and warm sugar permeated the house, luring them to a sparkling clean kitchen with no sign of dessert anywhere. I had thrown the concoction away because I burned the sugar. One moment it looked fine – slightly golden, melting into sweet syrup – the next it was black and crunchy.

This story of repeated calls, mouth-watering aromas, and empty dessert dishes has followed me throughout the ensuing decades. Every boyfriend heard it; every family gathering was regaled with it. It has passed into the realm of mythology. And, like mythology, the story serves a wider purpose. It shows that failure, while disappointing at the moment, is not the end. After all, I didn’t stop cooking, and I’ve caramelized my fair share of sugar over the last 30+ years. It shows that people can learn, grow, progress. It shows that one bad dish, bad day, bad decision doesn’t have to rule our lives.

Over the years many other failures have occurred in my kitchen. Most recently I attempted a dish of honey bubbles for a holiday brunch. I envisioned a donut-like pastry with a boiled honey glaze hardening to hold the little pieces together in a shape of my choosing. I picked the dish – which I later threw away because it just didn’t taste good and it was ugly to boot – because it reminded me of a time I watched Martha Stewart and Julia Child make crockenbouche on television. Julia was in her 80’s and her dessert was sort of a mound of cream puffs rather than a well-shaped peak. Martha Stewart’s creation was, of course, perfect. It was a beautiful tower of glistening puff pastry with gossamer threads of syrup connecting the entire apparatus. It was breathtaking. However, Julia’s - (Ever notice how we all refer to the renowned chef by her first name? It’s a sense of comfortable knowingness that comes from watching her swig a glass of wine and relentlessly pound a chicken at the same time. Today’s T.V. chefs don’t seem to have her moxy. Well, maybe Nigella – and we talk about her on a first-name basis as well!)

Back to Julia’s crockenbouche - While it was more hill than tower, it looked eminently more touchable and edible than Stewart’s vision of confection. It was real. It was something I could produce. As I watched the show that night, I felt sorry for Julia being shown up, as it were. But now, many years later, as I look back on that Christmas special I realize it was a teachable moment. Julia – in her 80’s – was teaching us, yet again, to dive in and give it a try. She was teaching us it is alright if things don’t look perfect, because life isn’t perfect. She was showing us all that we need to step up and do without concern of what others will think of us, of our creations.

There’s the adventure in cooking and in life. It’s the excitement of trying something new without fear of failure. It is the idea that we can create a wonder – a feast – even if it isn’t perfect. And, of course, it won’t be perfect because it will be created by human hands – imperfect hands struggling to bring beauty and order out of a chaos of disparate ingredients. Ultimately cooking is life in a microcosm, and life includes failure. The lesson, of course, is all about what we do with that failure. In the kitchen, we toss it out and try again. We should do the same with any other failing aspect of our lives.

Mom Was Right After All

I never thought I’d teach. As a young girl my aspirations ran to the exotic – archaeologist, photographer, torch singer, artist, fashion designer, spy – but never teacher. That seemed too mundane, too provincial, too much my mother, who was the daughter of a teacher and who repeatedly said I should be one, too. Of course, that was the kiss of death for the career because my mother’s hopes always served as a compass pointing which way not to go. Looking back, I can see each time I turned my back on her advice and career encouragement until I managed to come around full circle.

Throughout high school I came to terms with my lack of artistic prowess, my inability to carry a tune, and my unwillingness to take sewing lessons from my mom – all of which served to show (once again) what I shouldn’t do for a living.  On the other hand, I found I had a knack for literary interpretation and a love of words. These interests steered me toward any publication outlet available – yearbook, newspaper, poetry contests – and began to shape how I defined myself. “I’m a writer,” I told my friends around the lunch table, even though they laughed heartily at the idea of my ever penning a best seller. “No, seriously,” I’d say amid more snickers. Interestingly, the only person who actually believed me was my mom.

In college I majored in English and writing believing I would knock out the great American novel before I was 25. It never happened. I continued to work on school publications, win some poetry contests, and field a few pats on the head from professors, but nothing profound, nothing truly valuable found its way from my soul to my journal. A few months before graduation, petrified by the idea of having to make a living and a life on my own, I accepted a scholarship to begin a master’s degree in business administration. This move made my dad, an entrepreneur himself, strut like a rock star. “Look,” he told my brother, “Jen’s going to make a million dollars telling people what to do.”

Of course, this didn’t happen either. After only a few weeks I knew I wasn’t cut out for the world of finance and big business. I gave up the money, quit grad school, and got a job in a jewelry store, which eventually gave way to a reporting gig at the local paper. The three and a half years I spent pounding a keyboard at The Mountain Press probably had more influence on my future career than anything or anyone else in my life. At first, I was ecstatic to have a job as a writer. Seeing my byline on the front page every morning stroked my ego and made the measly pay of $12,000 a year seem grand. But once the glamour wore off, I was forced to take stock of the realities – which included watching people suffer while I stood aloof snapping photographs and scribbling quotes.

Over the years I worked every beat at the paper, but none seemed a positive outlet. Sports stories were full of war metaphors, personal injuries, and disappointments. Court reporting overflowed with photographs of murder scenes that haunted my dreams and filled my journals with horror. Police blotters centered on domestic violence, fatal accidents, and missing hikers. Local government stories held an undercurrent of political corruption and back-room deals with power only going to those who had the correct last name in the county. Even the entertainment beat brimmed with egocentric performers giving syrupy interviews to the local yokels in an effort to sell more concert tickets and line their pockets.

Finally, I’d had enough. That day came when my editor’s voice echoed through my car on the work radio instructing me to check out an accident on a curving back road before coming in to the office. When I arrived – before most of the police officers and the ambulance crew – at the scene of a

head-on collision between a gravel truck and a motorcycle, I knew I’d never be able to write about it. Not only could I not print the reality of what I saw, but I would never subject a parent, a brother, a girlfriend to those details. After only moments on the scene, I walked back to my car without any information, without any photographs, and went to work, where I was immediately bombarded with questions about the accident since everyone in the office had been listening to the scanner chatter. As I fielded inquiries about the scene, about the victim, about my (non-existent) photos, I realized I had become a ghoul and knew I couldn’t live that way.

For days I wracked my brain. “What can I do that will actually make the world a better place?” I asked myself. “What talents do I have to share that will change someone’s life?” My mother’s words came creeping back into my head and seemingly possessed my fingers as I dialed the state department of education to get more information. Two years and a master’s degree later I began a teaching career that has spanned nearly two decades.

Even in today’s witch-hunt climate of teacher blame and the almighty test scores, I cherish my job. When I look in the mirror each morning, I know the world is a better place because I choose to help kids communicate their ideas and dreams – those same ideas that will reshape the planet and foster another group of thinkers, artists, and teachers.

Just Chill

I love my guys, but sometimes a few hours without them is heaven. Today Jeff and Jade are at the regional choir festival (Jeff because he runs the thing and Jade because he made it into the choir). This means that they left early (6:30 a.m.) and won't be home until around 7 p.m. This also means that I went to work alone this morning (read - cranked up the stereo and belted Garth Brooks tunes) and came home alone - which entails oh so many novel ideas.

First, I made a side trip to the used book store just to browse the trashy vampire/werewolf novels. I didn't buy any, because between my e-reader and the Kindle app on my phone I usually have a "stack" of books waiting, but it was fun to look. (As I walk along, I take pictures of the books I'd like to read so when I'm out of fresh material, I know what to download next! I have a whole slew of book photos in my gallery.)  On the drive home, I listened to NPR and didn't have to try to keep up with the reporters and a three-way conversation about the school day. Ah...

Arriving home alone has its own rewards. After all, it is permission to eat whatever I want without regard to its nutritional value, appeal to other people, or classification as a "meal." This means I fried the rest of the frozen onion rings for dinner (and they were delicious)! While the onion rings bubbled, I dumped the work clothes - especially the heels - and donned soft pajamas. (O.k. - I'll admit I do this when the guys are here, too.) As the last batch of crispy rings fried, it was martini time. (Yes, regardless of the time here, it is indeed five o'clock somewhere.) Thus, equipped with cold booze and hot snacks, I retired to my office for a rousing round of Zuma Blitz, where I was still unable to beat Jeff's high score for the week.

Of course, after all this R and R, I knew I had to get down to the (very) serious business of writing this blog. Thus, my day has ended, a long weekend has begun, and I still have at least an hour before the boys come home. I wonder what's on HGTV?

Teacher for a Day

Today I got to play teacher. Yes, I know I'm in charge, but since the semester began I haven't actually run class very many days because I have an excellent student teacher who has taken over the whole shebang. However, today she was ill. (A nasty cold / strep has been circulating and she succumbed!) I had to laugh last night when I received her email telling me what the kids were supposed to be doing. She ended with "Let me know if you have any questions." The irony was just too much for me.

Actually, I've grown a little bored this week watching class. Up until now she's still needed some guidance in planning and materials prep, but this week she just took the reins and made all the decisions. This is a great thing, because she's learning to deal with all aspects of teaching while I'm there to help if she needs it - but she hasn't needed it lately. So, I was pretty excited to run class today; after all, the juniors are in the midst of reading Of Mice and Men and the freshman are preparing to write a comparison/contrast essay on poetic elements. I realize these things may seem like drudgery to some people, but they are my idea of fun. (I'm such a geek!)

The best part of the day was working with the freshman in small groups to analyze their assigned poems. We picked them apart for theme, structure, and figurative language which provided plenty of opportunities for discussion, interpretation, and joviality. We had a great time talking about archaic language, 17th century dress, death, destruction, hatred, and revenge. On days like this one, I know why I show up to work even when the job (particularly dealing with administration and paperwork) is fraught with frustration. Second semester, the kids always seem to make a giant leap forward which makes them much more enjoyable to work with. While I hope Meg feels better, I have to admit that I'd like her to take another day off to rest.

All Stressed Out

It's funny that everyone agrees how terrible stress is, yet we all approach it differently. For example, when my son is stressed he doesn't eat. Generally he says his stomach hurts, so he's not hungry. But we can usually track it back to something upsetting him. It doesn't matter whether he is angry with us for taking his cell phone, worried about a chemistry test, or annoyed that someone called him a name; stress is stress and he quits eating. I often wish I had this response to life's pressures because then I'd be svelte and fashionable. Instead, I eat junk food (especially chips) and stay awake at least half the night. During the nocturnal silence I often play conversations over and over wishing I had said something different (especially to that annoying parent, co-worker, or administrator) or watch QVC hosts attempt to convince me I need a $300 Dooney and Burke handbag. Either way, the lack of sleep just adds to the weight I carry around my middle. I'm pretty sure that Jade's response as well as my own are normal reactions that many people share. Jeff, however, has a totally different way of dealing with stress. He shuts down - literally.

Third quarter is always difficult because he has multiple choir festivals on successive weekends. Compound those preparations with the fact that he is the regional choir chair (which means he has to organize a weekend full of auditions and then the festival itself), and his days off become few and far between from January to March. Jeff's response is usually to plow through until spring break. However, this year has been particularly hard. There was a computer glitch during the audition process which caused problems figuring out who made the choir and who didn't. Once that was straightened out, the guest conductor became a real pain in the backside. (She had been prior to auditions, but the problems became worse the more Jeff had to work with her.) She is demanding, rude, and haughty. As a result, Jeff has spent a good deal of time trying to accommodate and appease her, often to no avail. Today, as he worked to finish the final preparations for this weekend's festival, he received an email from the state choir chair saying that she and Jeff should take the director to dinner tomorrow night. I think that was the last straw, because the mere thought of having to entertain this person for a couple of hours sent Jeff into overload. His body just shut down. (This is hard to explain, but envision the opposite of a panic attack. Instead of a racing heart, skyrocketing blood pressure, and hyperventilation, Jeff's pulse drops radically, he falls over abruptly, and might even pass out.) Needless to say, this can be frightening, though over the last few years we've learned how to cope. So, when this happened at school today, Jade and I jumped in to walk Jeff around a little (to get the blood moving) and then we sent him home to sleep.

Interestingly, sleep seems to be the one magic cure all for stress around here. Once Jeff's had a nap, he's back to normal. Once Jade gets some sleep, he stops worrying and can eat once again. Once I manage a full night of rest, I can function without massive doses of coffee, aspirin, and potato chips. If the three of us could manage to get 8 hours of sleep every night - all at the same time - we might be able to change the world (or at least handle the problems it sends our way).

A Real Valentine

Today is really Valentine's Day for Jeff and me. We met 17 years ago last August when Jeff showed up for the first day of teacher inservice wearing a heavily starched, long sleeved dress shirt, tie, slacks, sport coat, and well-shined lace up shoes. If you've ever been to Kingman, Arizona, in August you might know that this attire is 1) terribly hot in the midst of 115 degree heat and the humidity of monsoon season 2) horribly over dressed for anything short of a (very) formal, high-class wedding 3) completely out of place amidst teachers dressed in cut offs, flip flops, and oversized cotton t-shirts because they will be sitting through meetings and decorating rooms in a school running on swamp coolers rather than air conditioners.

So, here's the scene: the entire faculty is lounging across hard chairs in the cafeteria trying not to sweat on the handouts the presenter is passing around, when in walks tall, thin, and formal - with a briefcase. All eyes in the room follow him as he finds one of the last empty chairs near the front. Whispers break out, creating a palpable undercurrent of curiosity. The people at my table - degenerates all - begin making wise cracks about the man's attire and how stuffy he must be to wear such things. On the other hand, I am intrigued by the guy's style. At the first break, when he is sitting all alone looking like a lost kitten, I invite him to move to our table. (Of course, the idea that I would do such a thing throws the entire group I'm with into deep consternation and they begin to question my sanity.) Alas, never being one to give in to peer pressure, I talk to him anyway (and forgive him when he mimics my Southern drawl).

Ultimately, Jeff moved to my table and we hit it off from the moment he sat down. His soft brown eyes invited confidence and his constant stream of jokes kept me giggling, even when I shouldn't have been (which is probably why I liked him so much). As the months progressed, we became best friends hanging out at the movies, picking up pizzas, or just talking on the phone while we watched the same t.v. shows. We learned we shared the same values, the same type of upbringing, the same sense of humor, but we were very different, too. He introduced me to opera and Broadway, while taught him Garth Brooks tunes. He took me out for basic meat and potatoes fare while I grilled shark and created Italian feasts in my apartment. By the time February 15, 1994, rolled around, we were inseparable, yet had only held hands on one occasion. So, when Jeff called me at 8 p.m. on a school night and asked to come over, I thought something terrible had happened. "Who died?" I wondered as I waited for him to make the seemingly eternal 10-minute trek from his place to mine. When I opened the door, he paced inside quickly, looking upset.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I think I love you," he said breathlessly.
"Thank God!" were the first words that sprang from my mouth. And the rest, as they say, is history. We hugged, kissed, laughed and cried all at the same time, and he asked me to marry him, to which I promptly replied, "Of course!"

Within a few days we began to plan a wedding, but after thinking about using the money as a down payment on a house, we opted to elope. So, about a month later - on spring break - we exchanged vows in front of a justice of the peace, a cute little bunny rabbit, and the Pacific Ocean while standing on a cliff overlooking Pebble Beach in Carmel, California. The next day we drove up the coast highway to San Francisco where we spent the first of many vacations together exploring the city and reveling in each other's company.

Ever after, we celebrate our own Valentine's Day on February 15 with our own little ritual. Each year, Jeff asks if I would marry him all over again, and each year I say, "Of course!"

What's Love Got To Do With It?

Valentine's Day at an average high school is an interesting phenomenon. There are the guys and girls walking around with huge balloon bouquets proclaiming to the entire student body that they are loved. Next, there are kids with smaller gifts - a single rose, a moderate-sized stuffed animal, a small box of candy - who are almost embarrassed to be carrying anything at all - as if they are afraid for anyone to know someone likes them. There are also the kids who have nothing remotely resembling a Valentine and who seem happy with this arrangement, and (finally) the group who have nothing and are miserable about it. (One girl actually told my student teacher on Friday that she wouldn't come to school today because she hates Valentine's Day and all the girls who flaunt their gifts.)

I must admit this year's celebration seemed comparatively modest. Usually, the school is awash with red, pink, and white frills and boys cutting class to make a big show of delivering goodies to girls. It seems the economy has taken its toll on the teenage population as well, since only a couple of kids in each of my classes had large gifts. (Interestingly enough, one told me her parents sent the balloon bouquet - not her boyfriend.) The number of moderate presents was also not as high this year as it has been in the past. In addition, it seems many of these did not come from significant others, but from friends. (One student came bounding in with a nice box of chocolates that her best friend bought her, and she was happily sharing with everyone.) Another little twist came in the form of several kids who had presents from people they didn't like. ("The guy who sent it to me is creepy," Liz told me as I admired her flower arrangement. "And the note's in Chinese, so I can't even read it.")

This year more boys than ever seemed to be toting gifts from girls. One junior was particularly touchy about the fluffy red dog his girlfriend handed him just before first hour. "Now I have to carry it around all day or it will hurt her feelings," he said. "But, my friends are all giving me crap over it because it's so cute." Even Jade was presented with Valentine gifts, though his took the form of a Greenday poster and calendar. (Funny, though, he didn't seem concerned about giving the girl anything in return.)

All in all, February 14 is one of those overly dramatic days that bring huge smiles, nervous twitters, and even tears to high schoolers across America. Of course, like everything in our society (except school where everyone's a winner) it is a competition to see who has the best, most, biggest, brightest, cutest _______ (fill in appropriate gift here). Jeff and I learned long ago that Valentine's Day isn't about spending money so much as spending time. Our celebration is always limited to less than $15 but filled with creativity. (This year, he wrote me a song.) If only we could get the rest of the world to go along, everyone would be happier (and richer).  

Road Trip

This weekend is the annual Northern Arizona University Jazz and Madrigal Festival, which means an overnight trip to Flagstaff with 25 high school students. The three hour bus ride up to Flag is always marked with a goody bag filled with snacks and mini games to keep the kids occupied. We learned long ago that even though teenagers want to be treated like adults, they're really overgrown kindergartners at heart. So some Chinese finger puzzles, crayons, and small decks of cards in assorted shapes please them for hours. This tradition began with Jeff's first trip with a Skyline choir. I made cookies for all the kids (of course, there were only about 12 back then), and handed them out as they boarded the bus. The next year, Jeff's mom made scarfs and hats in our school colors. The bags have progressed over the years - with the growth of the choir and the fundraising account - to become something the kids look forward to with anticipation and childish glee.

Once here, we watched a couple of groups perform at the venue the kids have tomorrow morning. Jeff and I always slice and dice what the adjudicator is looking for and talking about to make sure our kids take home a top rating. After lunch at the student union's food court, Jeff held a rehearsal and took the kids to watch the second judge they have tomorrow while Jade and I headed off for some one-on-one time. Our hotel, on the edge of the NAU campus, is fairly close to downtown, so we hoofed it. Of course, we made obligatory stops at a book store, a CD store, and a music store, where a small group of older teens tried to recruit Jade into their band after listening to him play a myriad of guitars. (He also had some fun with an electric ukulele painted like a pineapple.) They seemed genuinely disappointed when Jade said we didn't live here.

Several hours later we found ourselves back at the hotel for dinner with the rest of the group. (By the way, The Drury Inn is a fabulous place to stay. All the rooms sport a separate living room and mini kitchen, plus the lobby has free coffee, tea, and sodas all day in addition to a hot breakfast and dinner bar. Tonight the hot bar offered hot dogs with vegetarian chili, baked potatoes, and an assortment of chips and raw veggies. We will definitely stay here again next year and any time we trek north for vacation.) Following this respite, Jeff took the kids to the host concert while Jade and I took another walk toward a movie theater, which was 1.3 miles away. Though the weather was chilly (in the high 30's when we left and down to the 20's when we headed back), the walk really wasn't bad. It took us about 25 minutes each way, and only our ears were cold.

Finally, Jade and I made our way upstairs to find that Jeff had just finished room checks and was taping the doors which signified everyone in for the night. Though we are definitely ready for bed, today went a long way toward restoring the peace between us.

Love Hurts

Many years ago - not long after Jeff and I were married - we had a knock-down-drag-out-why-did-we-ever-get-married fight over three little words: I love you. Several times a day - every day - Jeff would say, "I love you." However, I did not. It took a bucket of tears and a box of Kleenex for us to understand each other's way of expressing feelings.

Jeff readily says what he feels. He is a heart-on-his-sleeve musician who is willing to sing love songs at the top of his lungs while waltzing me through Caesar's Palace. I, on the other hand, am not so vocal with my passions. As a writer, I generally think words are cheap, so I never want to merely pay lip service to the connection we share. Thus, I show Jeff I love him by taking care of him. I make sure the laundry gets done. I fix breakfast every morning. I find a way to pay for his little luxuries, even at the expense of my own. I buy him gifts. Unfortunately, when we were younger, he didn't really understand this form of affection. In his defense, I didn't understand his constant need to tell me he loves me, yet never do anything specific to back it up. Needless to say, we worked through this communication quirk and live together quite happily. Over the years I have learned to tell him I love him every day, and he has learned to show me he loves me in little ways - making me a cup of coffee in the morning, putting a smiley face note in my lunch box, or resetting the screen saver message on my computer.

These days, the communication problem isn't with Jeff, but rather his "mini-me." I've been telling the hubby that Jade is a carbon copy of him for more than a decade; however it is just recently that he actually sees the resemblance himself. Jade and I have spent the last three weeks arguing over stupid mistakes we've both made. He thinks I nag too much and want to control him; I think my job as a mom is to remind him where to be when. Like his dad, he doesn't understand that my way of telling him I love him is to "help" him, even when he doesn't want it. (After all, when I'm right, I'm right. Right?) I know he's trying to grow up and that I should just get out of the way, but it's hard. I guess I'll have to resort to notes in his backpack that say "Have a great day," in lieu of getting in the car each morning asking, "Did you pick up your homework?"

This friction between us is pretty new. Sure, we've had arguments and the occasional, "You're not fair!" statement that is typical of kids, but we've always just sort of understood each other. Jeff and Jade were always the duo on the outs, constantly bickering and picking at everything the other said - so alike they couldn't stand each other at times - while I was the referee and the voice of reason. Somehow that relationship has disappeared as the guys have become two peas in a pod, and I'm a leaf clinging to the vine well outside the safety zone dangling in the wind. I'm confident this phase will pass, and we will once again see eye-to-eye (mostly), but not until another tissue box is empty, and I find a way to show him I love him that won't drive him crazy. (Provided I don't strangle him first.)

Frustration

Some days are just filled with frustration. Endless lines, traffic, annoying people at work, and overwhelming tasks are just few examples of what throws my frustration meter into the red. Of course, the kicker is staring at a blank screen on Blogger for at least 20 minutes while my mind culls through the remnants of the day trying to find a worthwhile topic of discussion. Should I write about the new stick on fingernail polish strips that I really like? Nah...too trivial. How about the new standards being implemented in math and English? Nah...too much education-ese. What about people who make off-hand, insulting comments and are too oblivious to know they've offended someone? Nah...too whiny. There's always the news article about how Mexico wants the U.S. to declare an "emergency" rule and require gun stores along the border to report semi-automatic / long gun sales in an effort to staunch the flow of weapons to drug cartels. (The bit of irony here is, of course, that the U.S. would like Mexico to stop the flow of illegal aliens crossing the border. Looks like neither side is getting its way.) Nah...too controversial. My next option is a discussion of being a proud parent since my son aced a difficult lab report in honors chemistry, but that seems a little too peacock-ish. So, I'm left with the topic of frustration.

Of course we're all familiar with the adage, "no pain - no gain" or "April showers bring May flowers," but I think Faulkner puts the idea more eloquently with "People need trouble - a little frustration to sharpen the spirit on, toughen it." The pervasive concept that frustration is a good thing sometimes bothers me. Yes, spiritual growth comes from struggle and enlightenment; however, day-to-day frustrations with a society that has lost sight of basic values is not about becoming a better person. Or is it? Is my ability to keep my wits and focus during an 8-hour meeting in which a large group of English teachers dissected new standards good for me? Does the fact that I sat in a rather long line at the vehicle emissions testing station without so much as one heavy sigh mean that I'm on the road to patience? I don't think so. These frustrations, in the grand scheme of things, seem pretty trivial. Actually, most frustrations - when taken as part of the big picture - seem pretty trivial. Then, why do we get so annoyed? Perhaps it is because we have a limited amount of time - only 24 hours in a day - to accomplish all our tasks. So, whenever some random event (or person) interferes with the little time keeper in our head saying, "Aren't you done yet? - Tick tock! Tick tock!" we get upset.

I've noticed that some people are actually good at being frustrated. We all know these people; they're the Eeyore's of the world. (Thanks for noticing.) These people have made a life of being constantly annoyed. A prime example of this is Andy Rooney. His perpetually furrowed brow and whining voice strike a chord with each of us. As he discusses someone's rude behavior in a department store, we nod our heads in sympathy and empathy. As he makes a cynical comment on society, we release a knowing chuckle. All of us can relate to his experiences. Actually, that's the cool part of frustration: like every emotion, it's universal. Perhaps we should find a way to harness this notion of frustration as a common bond among all people. Wouldn't that be the greatest irony of all?

Money, money, money

The American dream of a little cottage with a white picket fence in a pastoral setting has passed us by. These days more is better and enough isn't. Why aren't we satisfied with a cozy little home, decent clothes, and plenty of food? Why do we have to have the largest house on the block, drive the fastest car (You know, the one that will garner multiple speeding tickets and higher insurance rates.) wear the $200 Lucky Brand jeans or the $300 Jimmy Choo designer shoes? Once upon a time the American dream was a well-defined common goal. Now, it's a nebulous category called "stuff." We're all so afraid of missing out on the latest techy toys that we spend more hours working than ever before just to purchase something we don't have time to play with.

Vacations are just another status symbol. When school starts every year I hear endless stories of two weeks in Europe, an Alaskan cruise, and surfing off of Maui. While all these sound grand (and like something I'd love to do), I know many of the people who are bragging spent money they didn't have on credit cards they'll be paying off for years to come - long after they've forgotten where they stored the vacation's scrapbook. Don't get me wrong; I am a believer in the work-hard-play-hard philosophy of life, but I'm also a believer in pay as you go. Still, it's often tempting to book that all-inclusive Jamaican resort holiday and make some payments in return for the instant gratification of looking forward to a great summer trip and fall bragging rights.

These days, though, I'm more interested in making the place I come home to 50 weeks of the year better. Even here, the temptation is to take out an equity line of credit, redesign the entire kitchen with granite counters and high-end cabinetry, create a second master suite from our current offices, build a wet bar / kitchenette in the basement game room, and purchase plush theater seats for movie night. The list goes on and on, but (once again) none of these items is necessary - none will grant me fulfillment or magically make my day-to-day life better. However lovely the dream is, I still must subscribe to the don't-do-it-if-you-can't-pay-for-it method of home improvement. This, of course, limits what a person can and cannot have forcing him to make choices about lifestyle, use, etc. As Jeff and I consider making some changes to our nest, the guiding questions is, "How will this enhance our lives?" If the answer is, "It won't; it just looks cool," the item is on the chopping block. We are looking to streamline the way we live and simplify our home to create an oasis of tranquility in our chaotic world - a spa vacation every night. This is a do-able goal on a tight budget with plenty of sweat equity. Over the years, our idea of the American dream has become less and less stuff with more and more time to enjoy it and each other. If the housing market were better, we might even downsize to a smaller place requiring less maintenance. Since we can't have that, though, we're trying to create that lifestyle with what we already have through smart choices and careful spending.

A Year's Worth of Progress

Beginning next year teachers will be evaluated on whether or not their students make “a year’s worth of progress” in a given subject area. (So far, it seems this type of evaluation will apply only to math, science, English, and reading teachers.) Of course, this raises some major questions for both teachers and students. First, what does a year’s worth of progress look like? How will it be measured? How can one prove the specific amount of progress that has been made? Second, if students don’t make a year’s worth of progress, does that mean they fail or don’t get credit for the class? Next, what happens to teachers who have kids who don’t make a year’s worth of progress? (Current talk is that every teacher will have his/her name published in the newspaper with a grade that denotes how well the students did.) What about the kids who don’t come to school regularly? What about the kids who change schools every couple of months? What about special needs kids? What about English language learners? What about teachers who have remedial versus average versus advanced students? What about all the levels of skill within each class? As you can see, this has more tangles than a cat in yarn store.

I’m not sure how I feel about this turn of events. On one hand, I am happy that teachers who currently skate by – spending little time and effort on tougher writing skills – will have to come up to par. On the other hand, I don’t know many teachers like this. The teachers I know spend countless hours writing lesson plans, creating assignments, and grading essays. Like any job, some teachers have more skill than others. We are human and come with our various strengths and weaknesses. I know a couple of teachers who can put together the most amazing literature units that help kids connect all kinds of themes and ideas with their lives, while others can teach kids to produce fabulous essays. The high school English curriculum is so varied – ranging from content, style, and process in writing to analysis of myriad literary genres – I’m just not sure how anyone could do everything at such an outstanding level that an outsider could tell all students made a year’s worth of growth.

In addition, I’m worried about how we will handle kids who have no support, no family, no home. Some of our kids spend each morning trying to figure out where they’re going to sleep that night and just don’t care about making a year’s worth of progress in academic writing. It is enough for them to get a couple of free meals at school and find friends who will let them crash on their couches for the week. These kids’ needs extend far beyond the help I can give them. According to Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs (basic education for all teachers), people must have their physiological and safety-related needs met before all others. We as a society must make sure kids have clean clothes, safe havens, and good food before we can even ask them to do well in school.

Ultimately, I know I will deal with whatever evaluation system is placed before me, but I’m still worried. I’m worried that many good teachers will quit because they can’t be everything to everyone. Somehow, in 50 minutes a day, for 180 days, I will have to be mother, coach, teacher, counselor, and friend to 150 kids who don’t think that being able to write a great essay or understand a great book is important. Pray for me; I’ll need it.

Seeing Red

Today is National Wear Red, which is meant to raise awareness of heart disease in women. After donning my bright, satiny red shirt this morning, I decided to take stock of how many others were sporting the vibrant hue and what it might say about each of us. As I walked through the day, I noticed only a few women at Skyline dressed in red. Most wore the school colors (Friday = spirit day), but many wore neither, which seemed to make those of us decked in scarlet all the more noticeable - bright cardinals (yes, I know the males are red) against a sea of oh-so-average-looking pigeons (or perhaps flaming ships upon a dark, stormy sea, or one of a hundred other metaphors denoting our stark contrast).

In addition, I noticed those who chose red today carried themselves with assurance and strength as they made their way through throngs of students. Many of these women project themselves in this manner every other day, as well. For example, our community liaison officer is in her late 70's and is a cancer survivor. She comes to school every day to help our kids who struggle with terrible family situations, to communicate with non-English speaking parents, and to run English language learner tutoring sessions during study hall. Here is a woman who is well-known, well-loved, and well-respected by faculty and kids alike; a woman who serves as a role-model even to veteran teachers. Another woman dressed in red today was our principal's secretary. She, like our liaison lady, works behind the scenes but is vital to our school. Every good teacher knows that if something needs to be done, the most expedient route is through the boss's secretary, who juggles paperwork for budget, supplies, paychecks, substitutes, conferences, calendars, and a million other tasks (not the least of which is knowing where the boss is at any given time). Though the work is never-ending and frequently exhausting, she comes to school every day with a smile on her face and a kind word for everyone she meets.

The quiet strength of these women, and many others with whom I work, is a testament to the strength of women in general. Thus, wearing red today is fitting on many levels beyond the obvious connection of hearts and blood. Red has been a symbol of power for centuries. For example, in medieval Europe, only kings, judges, cardinals, and executioners (who held power over life and death) wore red. Angels attending Christ's birth are often depicted in red robes. The color has the physical effects of increasing respiration and blood pressure in viewers - igniting their passions, if you will. Ultimately, red symbolizes an untamed spirit and vitality which strong women use to make this world a better place. I thank you - each of you - for showing up to life every day and giving it everything you have, no matter what color you're wearing.

Guest Speaker

I’ve been told that you know you’ve spent too much time with someone when you start finishing each other’s sentences.  That’s a rather negative way to say it.  I prefer “You know you’ve met the perfect person when you start finishing each other’s sentences.”   What does it say when you finish your partner's blog? 

Jen’s been out sick from work for three days and things have backed up on her.  In addition, today is payday - the day Jen balances the checkbook and pays the bills.  She knows better than to let me near the money.  I’m a musician.  I can’t count past four.

The truth is Jen and I have a great relationship.  We share the chores.  She cooks and I clean up.  I wash and she folds or sometimes the other way around.  She puts food in the cats, I clean the litterbox. (I’m not so sure that one is fair.)

Jen is the confident one with all the bravado, and I’m the one with my heart on my sleeve, until I get onstage and then we swap roles.  Jen has always been my support.  Years ago when I wanted to try my luck as a performer, she encouraged me.  I didn’t make nearly enough money, but I got to sing and dance in front of an audience several times a day.  It did a lot for my self-esteem.  When we were teaching in Safford, AZ, I wanted to try our luck in Las Vegas.  Even though she was content in Safford, she knew I wasn’t and she supported me.  Las Vegas did a lot for me as a teacher, but it was horrible for Jen.

We’ve done a lot together.  We’ve taken vacations on both coasts, cruised to Mexico three times, (Mexico wasn’t worth it but the cruises were.), gone to lots of zoos, aquariums, museums and theme parks. 

A few years ago Jen applied for a grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH) to spend a week in Amherst studying Emily Dickinson.  She got to spend a week surrounded by a town that loves Dickinson as much as she does.  I was and am very proud of all the things she does.  Recently she forwarded me a notice about an NEH grant to spend a month in Vienna studying Mozart.  She thinks I’ll get chosen.  I’m not so sure, but it doesn’t really matter.  Jen believes in me.  She completes me, and to help her out tonight, I’ve completed her blog.

T.V. for Night Owls

After three days at home coupled with sleepless nights spent channel surfing on the couch I have become addicted to late-night television. As a teacher, I seldom stay up past 9 p.m., except in the summer time, so I miss all the good stuff. To accommodate our schedule, we watch television on DVD a season behind everyone else. (I know. My friends keep saying, "Don't you have TiVo?" Obviously, we do not.) Our Netfliks membership also gets frequent use through instant play movies. However, none of this is comparable to the experience of flipping through channels at 2 a.m., piecing together five minute intervals of shows I've either never heard of or love but usually don't see.

A couple of nights ago, I spent a full hour watching Face Off, the new reality series about special effects make-up artists. I enjoyed it tremendously because it was like watching Design Star meets SciFi channel. (Let's be honest here; these are my two favorite genres!) I caught the first episode in repeat and noticed another episode premieres tonight, though I have no idea how far into the season the show is. Still, if I can't be horizontal (which has been a problem due to coughing fits), I'll be parked in front of the t.v. for another look.

In addition, I found a couple of old friends - What Not to Wear and Say Yes to the Dress. Both of these shows appeal to the wanna-be fashionista in me (If only I were a size 4!). Still, Stacy and Clinton often work with larger women, showing them how to dress well and look good without being society's stereotypical twig. I like this show because it empowers women to take control of their lives by taking control of their image. (I've also learned a lot about how to shop!) However, last night's episode was not too successful. The make-over woman was a Barbie doll bimbo with overpoweringly glittery and overtly sexual outfits that she wore as everyday casual. These clothes coupled with platinum blonde, highly-fluffed hair, Tammy Faye Baker spider lashes, frosted pink lipstick, and a voice that sounds like a character from an anime porno flick were just too much for Stacy and Clinton. They tried over and over to make her understand that she looked like an aging Playboy Bunny, but she just wouldn't listen. She didn't want to wear anything appropriate, even though it looked great on her. In addition, in the make-up and hair portion, her look was toned down to a more natural, modern vibe and the woman was drop-dead gorgeous. Ultimately, she followed the "rules" and spent $5000 on a new wardrobe, which she said (at the end of the show) she wouldn't wear. I guess there's something to be said for having confidence, but it was sad to see her prefer the trashy look over flirty and beautiful. Even Stacy and Clinton were speechless - which is saying alot!

I've often fantasized about being on What Not to Wear, though I realize I'd have to walk around in a totally tacky wardrobe until someone nominated me. I can't help but wonder if a sincere letter begging for help, discussing the limited clothing options available around here, and pointing out that I'm a poor English teacher would do the trick. Alas, that is fodder for sweet dreams (which I hope to have tonight)!

Loving Where You Live

Browsing through model homes is one of my favorite ways to spend a lazy afternoon. I adore the upscale finishes, the interesting furniture, and the designer touches. No matter how large or small, expensive or frugal, I always find something in the models I could apply to my own home. Our recent visit to two communities is no different.

We began our trek with a visit to a community called SPACES, which offers a different feel for the valley of the sun. These houses sported mid-century modern architecture and interiors by IKEA. Unfortunately, the community just opened a couple of weeks ago, so only two models are available for touring. However, the layouts are available online at www.spacesforlife.net. The real appeal of these homes is the sleek, easy feeling of the building and interiors. The kitchen cabinetry shown is plain, dark wood with modern stainless steel handles. The island cabinetry is in a contrasting color, and the counter top is high end on the island, but more economical around the edges. This idea is one Jeff and I are toying with as we approach some upgrades to our own kitchen. The idea of leaving our current counter tops (which are a nice, black laminate that looks like granite) around the edges and spending a little money on a solid surface with some wow factor on the island makes sense for us. (We'll be doing a lot of the work ourselves and only putting in one slab will be much easier than trying to work around the sink, stove, etc.) In addition, the contrasting color of the island cabinetry really added to the upscale look and is something we could easily do.

Another lesson we took from SPACES is using a few modern finishes - like stainless steel hardware that ties into our appliances - to give our house a sleeker feel without being cold. These houses also sported black anchor furniture which contrasted beautifully against the white woodwork. This is an idea we have already worked on for our own space, and one we've seen used repeatedly on HGTV's top design shows. It seems to give a timeless, uncluttered feel to spaces, which is what we're after. Our house is currently done in reds and golds, which are pretty but feel a little warm and formal for us these days. We're moving toward clean and casual - a simplified style of living. (Am I sound transcendentalist yet?)

The other community we visited is Encanterra Country Club, and boy was it posh with a capital P! This place actually has nearly all of its homes modeled on a side street next to the club house. We walked through 12 houses, to be exact, but didn't agree on which is our favorite. Jeff liked one of the larger models because it had a secret room hidden behind a huge, framed mirror at the end of the hallway to the master. Behind the mirror rests a gorgeously traditional den complete with floor to ceiling bookcases, a massive carved desk, and lovely leather chairs. It looked like something straight out of a 19th century English novel. While I do love this room, and the idea that it is hidden, my favorite house is a smaller (comparatively) model with 2,121 square feet built around a central courtyard. Because of its location in the center of the house, it is in shade most of the day, making it an ideal Arizona outdoor space. In addition, two sides of the courtyard had huge sliding doors that opened the entire walls up to the house, giving it a true indoor/outdoor feel. The rest of the house is beautiful and functional, as well, but that courtyard is something I've dreamed of for many years. You can check out this community at http://www.trilogylife.com/communities/arizona/encanterra/.

While these communities are night and day versions of housing in our area, both offered quite a few green perks, including solar panels integrated into the roof to help offset electricity costs (especially while running the air conditioning in the summer time). This seems like a no brainer where the sun shines 300+ days a year, but these are the first houses we've seen where this kind of technology comes standard or as a featured upgrade. This is also a project we'd like to undertake, though it carries a pretty hefty price tag, even with tax credits and rebates. In the end, we'll keep looking and dreaming because we usually manage to find a way to make those dreams realities in our own house. In today's market, it's all about loving where you live now.