I am currently perched at a coffee shop in the Sun Valley Resort, happily surrounded by luxury that provides a rustic, back-country facade sans the effort of actually roughing it, observing children who have been coddled by their parents into believing that it's perfectly normal to climb and jump on furniture and throw tantrums when they do not receive a third cup on $4.00 cocoa.
It's hard to beat the Sun Valley ambiance during the winter season. And, let's face it, what better way to spend Christmas than in a place where condescension and superfluous demands are rewarded?
Just yesterday, a woman with a pointy nose and professorial hair cut entered Iconoclast Books and asked the clerk to help her find a book written in the last year by a female author. The clerk suggested the new Toni Morrison novel.
"I want a book that is, well, good literature, you know . . . " A minute later, after the clerk had made another suggestion, "That looked a little sappy to me. Where do you keep that books have been written in the last year or so?" A few minutes later, upon her husband's approach, I heard her sniff and comment that she was ready to leave, "I'm not making much progress here."
Perfectly understandable. I mean, come on bookstore owners. What good is your business if you can't employ workers who can read the customers' minds, detect their preferences, and meet their requests within minutes of contact? Talk about incompetence!
Last night, while Dan and I relaxed in the Lodge pool, we were interrupted by a hotel guest's tirade regarding a glass Perrier bottle that had been left at the edge of the pool.
"How inconsiderate!" she huffed. "I guess we'll just take it with us since it hasn't been picked up yet."
The sign does after all read "No Food or Drink in the Pool Area," I thought as I watched the noble woman pick up her plastic cup and take a swig of whatever she was drinking.
A few minutes later, a hotel attendant came out to tell all of us that the pool would be closing in eight minutes.
"Does that mean you're going to come back out in five minutes?" the same woman who had been so appalled by other people's inconsideration snorted. "By the way, you might want to throw away this Perrier bottle -- no not that one, that's mine. I can't believe it was left here. That's so dangerous!"
"I thought we were so concerned about being considerate. The way that woman is addressing that worker seems extremely inconsiderate to me," I said, a little too loudly since it solicited a nudge from my husband.
But I was mistaken. Aren't the attendants supposed to cater to the fortunate people who can afford to be there?
Eight minutes later in the locker room, I discovered that no amount of money could hide the fact that the insulted woman was aging and pudgy with pockets of lumpy cellulite on the backs of her thighs. I suppose that's something we all have in common in the end.
I implore you, outlandishly wealthy people, to consider using your resources this Christmas season to make the world easier for others. I implore you to travel to a locale like Sun Valley, not for the sake of prestige, but so that you may stand in awe of its sheer beauty at this time of the year. Instead of searching your soul for enlightenment and God in yourself (judging from the shelves and shelves of "spiritual junk" at the bookstores, there is a lot of this kind of introspection occurring), I implore you to focus that energy on treating others with respect and regarding those who "serve" you as equals. Maybe then, you'll find a portion of the path for which you so ravenously seek.
"I wish for just one time you could stand inside my shoes. You'd know what a drag it is to see you."
-Bob Dylan, Positively 4th Street
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Mr. Fix-It
Certain recent events in my marriage have transported my recollections back to that old Cosby Show episode where Cliff says to Theo, "Son, get me my tool belt," and Clair (Cliff's wife) and Theo exchange looks of dread and panic at the prospect of Cliff using his sledgehammer on the bathroom wall. I remember that while watching that particular episode for the first time in the late eighties, my mother snickered and pointed to my father as Cliff strapped on his belt, a belt comprised of all sorts of odd-looking contraptions perfect for exacerbating household repair issues.
I am rapidly discovering what my mother already knew. There is a little Cliff Huxtable in all men.
In order to illustrate my point, let me introduce you to my husband’s alter ego, Mr. Fix-It.
During the summer, our garage door began making a strange fog-horn-like sound whenever it was lowered or raised. Soon the garage door refused to move at all but still insisted on making the sound every time we would press the button. My husband, my Mr. Fix-It husband, reticent to call an actual garage door repair person, spent a good part of a Saturday afternoon “fixing” the garage door. According to Mr. Fix-It, only one side of the door was broken, and it appeared to be a simple fix, although it did take him most of Saturday afternoon to accomplish this.
About a week later, I opened the garage door, only to be greeted by the same fog-horn sound now accompanied by a crunching noise that sounded like the garage door was being run through a meat grinder. The door opened, so I didn’t think anything of it; however, the attempt to close it failed as I was pulling out of the driveway.
Mr. Fix-It spent a long time in the garage that evening, eventually coming to the conclusion that it was broken, this time on both sides. After a night of deliberation, he decided to call a garage door repair person who fixed it in fifteen minutes.
That same summer, Mr. Fix-It emerged again when he decided it was time to replace one of the broken heads on our sprinkler system. He spent yet another Saturday afternoon in the backyard before realizing he had bought the wrong size extender.
Upon this revelation, Mr. Fix-It entered the office, sopping wet, laughing with amusement. “I guess I did take a shower this morning after all . . . in the sprinklers – ha ha!”
That evening, while I sat on the living room couch watching a Great Performances special, Mr. Fix-It sat beside me fiddling with the broken sprinkler head and a screwdriver. He had decided to fix the old head before installing a new extender in the correct size.
“Isn’t that a ratchet sound?” he said when the sprinkler head emitted an unpleasant grating noise underneath the screwdriver’s rotation.
A few minutes later, he set the screwdriver and sprinkler head on the coffee table.
“I think I stripped it completely.” It was time to buy a new head.
Right before school started, I informed Dan that my car blinker was not working anymore. Enter Mr. Fix-It.
“That should be easy to fix.”
So he spent the first hour in the garage, taking apart the steering column, diagnosing the problem. When I asked him what was wrong, he replied, “I don’t know, but it’s broken.”
An hour or so later, Mr. Fix-It tracked me down inside the house, quite proud, holding the blinker and window washer switches in his hand.
“I’m going to fix it,” he promised.
He worked for another hour with the contents of his toolbox and random car parts spread out on the kitchen table.
Eventually, he did put the steering column back together. And excitedly, he demonstrated the properly working blinker, to which I proclaimed him a genius. A few days later, I discovered that my horn was no longer working.
“What do you want, a working blinker or a working horn?” Dan said. “It’s not that important for you to have a horn anyway. When do you use it?”
Needless to say, my car still does not have a functioning horn.
The other day, one of my 4th grade students brought in a toy car remote control. He announced that he was going to take it apart for talent day because that was his talent - he was good at taking things apart.
“Do you put them back together, and do they work after you put them back together?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Well then you’re one step ahead of my husband.”
I am rapidly discovering what my mother already knew. There is a little Cliff Huxtable in all men.
In order to illustrate my point, let me introduce you to my husband’s alter ego, Mr. Fix-It.
During the summer, our garage door began making a strange fog-horn-like sound whenever it was lowered or raised. Soon the garage door refused to move at all but still insisted on making the sound every time we would press the button. My husband, my Mr. Fix-It husband, reticent to call an actual garage door repair person, spent a good part of a Saturday afternoon “fixing” the garage door. According to Mr. Fix-It, only one side of the door was broken, and it appeared to be a simple fix, although it did take him most of Saturday afternoon to accomplish this.
About a week later, I opened the garage door, only to be greeted by the same fog-horn sound now accompanied by a crunching noise that sounded like the garage door was being run through a meat grinder. The door opened, so I didn’t think anything of it; however, the attempt to close it failed as I was pulling out of the driveway.
Mr. Fix-It spent a long time in the garage that evening, eventually coming to the conclusion that it was broken, this time on both sides. After a night of deliberation, he decided to call a garage door repair person who fixed it in fifteen minutes.
That same summer, Mr. Fix-It emerged again when he decided it was time to replace one of the broken heads on our sprinkler system. He spent yet another Saturday afternoon in the backyard before realizing he had bought the wrong size extender.
Upon this revelation, Mr. Fix-It entered the office, sopping wet, laughing with amusement. “I guess I did take a shower this morning after all . . . in the sprinklers – ha ha!”
That evening, while I sat on the living room couch watching a Great Performances special, Mr. Fix-It sat beside me fiddling with the broken sprinkler head and a screwdriver. He had decided to fix the old head before installing a new extender in the correct size.
“Isn’t that a ratchet sound?” he said when the sprinkler head emitted an unpleasant grating noise underneath the screwdriver’s rotation.
A few minutes later, he set the screwdriver and sprinkler head on the coffee table.
“I think I stripped it completely.” It was time to buy a new head.
Right before school started, I informed Dan that my car blinker was not working anymore. Enter Mr. Fix-It.
“That should be easy to fix.”
So he spent the first hour in the garage, taking apart the steering column, diagnosing the problem. When I asked him what was wrong, he replied, “I don’t know, but it’s broken.”
An hour or so later, Mr. Fix-It tracked me down inside the house, quite proud, holding the blinker and window washer switches in his hand.
“I’m going to fix it,” he promised.
He worked for another hour with the contents of his toolbox and random car parts spread out on the kitchen table.
Eventually, he did put the steering column back together. And excitedly, he demonstrated the properly working blinker, to which I proclaimed him a genius. A few days later, I discovered that my horn was no longer working.
“What do you want, a working blinker or a working horn?” Dan said. “It’s not that important for you to have a horn anyway. When do you use it?”
Needless to say, my car still does not have a functioning horn.
The other day, one of my 4th grade students brought in a toy car remote control. He announced that he was going to take it apart for talent day because that was his talent - he was good at taking things apart.
“Do you put them back together, and do they work after you put them back together?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Well then you’re one step ahead of my husband.”
Sunday, September 07, 2008
You Have Officially Entered Bear Country
My husband and I spent a week of our summer vacation in Yellowstone National Park. I had been to Yellowstone twice. Both times, I was passing through on the way to somewhere else, giving me just enough time to see Old Faithful, a few elk, and nothing else.
Dan, on the other hand, had spent many summers around the Jackson and Yellowstone area, and he took on the role of personal tour guide, treating our vacation much like our trip to Disney World (translation: He woke me up at 6:00 every morning in order to arrive at the park when the gates opened, and we stayed every evening until the gates closed).
Prior to our trip, Dan suggested we buy a can of bear spray since our plan was to do some hiking and mountain biking. I think Dan secretly hoped we would encounter a bear on an isolated wilderness trail.
Joe's Sports and Outdoors was sold out of the stuff.
“Boy, the bears must really be out this season,” the clerk behind the weapons counter said. I giggled nervously, glancing over at Dan. I knew he was thinking, “Cool. Bears!”
Cabella’s had a few 45-dollar canisters left, but we were told the same thing, that there had been a rush on the bear spray inventory that season. I immediately discovered that the majority of the bear mauling incidents as retold in the bear spray safety pamphlet had occurred in Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Park.
I braced myself for my summer venture into Bear Country.
Upon check-in at Togwotee Mountain Lodge, Dan and I were instructed to store all food in our room rather than in our car because “You are in Bear Country after all.” We also received a Bear Fact Sheet at the front desk that delineated what to do if we did indeed meet a bear.
“Three reasons a bear may charge,” the fact sheet read, “1. The bear is startled. 2. The bear is defending his/her territory,” and my personal favorite “3. The bear is hungry and wants to eat you.”
“Are you sure Yellowstone is a safe place to visit?” I asked Dan. “I mean, maybe we should just let nature be nature and not invade its living space.”
“That’s why we got the bear spray,” was Dan’s response. “It can shoot thirty feet!”
Everywhere I went in Yellowstone, I was politely reminded that I had infiltrated bear country. Bear warnings were posted at hiking trail pit toilets so that outdoors enthusiasts could read about the imminent threat of bear encounters while attending to their needs. Picture books in the resort stores taught children about the various wild bear scat found in Yellowstone. And just in case I had managed to forget that I could get attacked by a bear at any moment, all of the ornaments and magnets in the gift shops announced “Welcome to Bear Country” and “Be Bear Aware!”
So did I meet a bear during my summer outdoor adventure? Well . . .
Dan and I were stopped in one of the many traffic jams that occurs on the Yellowstone roads during the summer season. I had my camera in hand just in case a bison or elk walked by the car. All of a sudden, people were hanging out of vehicle windows, cameras clicking away.
“Becky, a bear!” Dan exclaimed.
There it was, beautiful black fur shining in the sun, sauntering past our driver’s side window.
“Take the picture!” Dan hissed.
“When?” I squeaked, frozen in my seat. “Should I do it now?”
“What now? Just take it!”
I didn’t take the picture, much to my husband’s chagrin. I didn’t even move the camera near my eye. But I did buy an ornament later that day that read, “You are in Bear Country.” I figured that was close enough.
Dan, on the other hand, had spent many summers around the Jackson and Yellowstone area, and he took on the role of personal tour guide, treating our vacation much like our trip to Disney World (translation: He woke me up at 6:00 every morning in order to arrive at the park when the gates opened, and we stayed every evening until the gates closed).
Prior to our trip, Dan suggested we buy a can of bear spray since our plan was to do some hiking and mountain biking. I think Dan secretly hoped we would encounter a bear on an isolated wilderness trail.
Joe's Sports and Outdoors was sold out of the stuff.
“Boy, the bears must really be out this season,” the clerk behind the weapons counter said. I giggled nervously, glancing over at Dan. I knew he was thinking, “Cool. Bears!”
Cabella’s had a few 45-dollar canisters left, but we were told the same thing, that there had been a rush on the bear spray inventory that season. I immediately discovered that the majority of the bear mauling incidents as retold in the bear spray safety pamphlet had occurred in Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Park.
I braced myself for my summer venture into Bear Country.
Upon check-in at Togwotee Mountain Lodge, Dan and I were instructed to store all food in our room rather than in our car because “You are in Bear Country after all.” We also received a Bear Fact Sheet at the front desk that delineated what to do if we did indeed meet a bear.
“Three reasons a bear may charge,” the fact sheet read, “1. The bear is startled. 2. The bear is defending his/her territory,” and my personal favorite “3. The bear is hungry and wants to eat you.”
“Are you sure Yellowstone is a safe place to visit?” I asked Dan. “I mean, maybe we should just let nature be nature and not invade its living space.”
“That’s why we got the bear spray,” was Dan’s response. “It can shoot thirty feet!”
Everywhere I went in Yellowstone, I was politely reminded that I had infiltrated bear country. Bear warnings were posted at hiking trail pit toilets so that outdoors enthusiasts could read about the imminent threat of bear encounters while attending to their needs. Picture books in the resort stores taught children about the various wild bear scat found in Yellowstone. And just in case I had managed to forget that I could get attacked by a bear at any moment, all of the ornaments and magnets in the gift shops announced “Welcome to Bear Country” and “Be Bear Aware!”
So did I meet a bear during my summer outdoor adventure? Well . . .
Dan and I were stopped in one of the many traffic jams that occurs on the Yellowstone roads during the summer season. I had my camera in hand just in case a bison or elk walked by the car. All of a sudden, people were hanging out of vehicle windows, cameras clicking away.
“Becky, a bear!” Dan exclaimed.
There it was, beautiful black fur shining in the sun, sauntering past our driver’s side window.
“Take the picture!” Dan hissed.
“When?” I squeaked, frozen in my seat. “Should I do it now?”
“What now? Just take it!”
I didn’t take the picture, much to my husband’s chagrin. I didn’t even move the camera near my eye. But I did buy an ornament later that day that read, “You are in Bear Country.” I figured that was close enough.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Text Message: IDUWWCJUCSA
There is a phenomenon sweeping across the technological world that makes using complex sentence structure a thing of the past. It's called text messaging. I bet you cannot figure out the title of my posting. That is because I have joined the ranks of the young and the hip. Now when I speak or write, it is not necessary for me to use actual words. In the young and hip text messaging universe, I am only required to divulge the first letter of each word in my sentences. And only young and hip people with super texting decoding powers can understand me.
I stumbled upon text messaging by accident. Dan and I were running some errands when all of a sudden, my cell phone let out the strangest doorbell noise I had ever heard.
"View now, view later," the screen said.
I pressed "OK" and there was a message from my brother Steve. He wanted to know when he could pick up his birthday cards from our grandmother and great aunt, since they refuse to send anything directly to him but always send any correspondence (birthday cards, graduation gifts, money, etc.) in care of me.
After making sure Dan, my husband and technology guru, wasn't watching, I tentatively put the phone to my ear just in case Steve was actually on the other end and that message was just the "subject line" to his phone call.
"Hello?" I whispered.
"Who are you talking to?" Dan glanced at me from the driver's seat.
"No one. I just got an IM (young and hip lingo for Instant Message) from Steve."
"That's a text message, Becky."
"That's what I meant."
Pretty soon, I started noticing odd consonant-vowel combinations popping up on magazine pages, commercials, billboards, in e-mails - BTW, BRB, LOL, LOLA, TTFN, and IYKWIMAITYD. Occasionally, I found out that what I thought I knew about the English lexicon did not always apply in the text messaging world. For instance, SOS does not always mean "help" in the world of text abbreviations. Sometimes it means - well, I'll let you look that one up. And WTF does not mean "Where's the food?"
Young people, this bizarre obsession you all have with locutionary brevity is nothing new. Let me introduce you to FDR and his New Deal complete with the FERA, PWA, and SSA.
Eventually, I knew I had to jump on the bandwagon when I saw my dad texting my brother during his college graduation. In fact, my dad glows with pride everytime he receives a text and goes to work replying to the message promptly.
I realized that if I ever wanted to contact any young people such as my brother or any of his peers, I would have to master the art of text messaging. None of the younger generation answers the phone anymore. Text message them, and you can expect an immediate response even if they failed to pick up your call five minutes before.
"You know how to text?" a teenager asked me one day a little too incredulously.
I had just picked up my cell phone and was punching random numbers that the phone somehow converted into letters on the tiny screen in front of me.
"Of course," I sniffed.
I turned away so that the kid couldn't see how slow I was typing.
"Let me do it for you," Dan always says when he sees me texting. "Haven't you ever seen the kids text? They can do it so fast!"
It's true. I am a very slow texter. It takes me a while to figure out where all the letters are and how many times I need to punch the number in order to arrive at the desired letter. Besides, nobody ever texts Dan, so he never gets to show off his mad texting skills. It's quite sad.
Now that I have been initiated into the text messaging universe, I have decided I can start using that abbreviated slang that only young and hip people know how to decipher. Did any of you figure out the title of my posting?
(Here's a clue for any of you elderly readers: I don't understand why we can't just use complete sentences anymore.)
I stumbled upon text messaging by accident. Dan and I were running some errands when all of a sudden, my cell phone let out the strangest doorbell noise I had ever heard.
"View now, view later," the screen said.
I pressed "OK" and there was a message from my brother Steve. He wanted to know when he could pick up his birthday cards from our grandmother and great aunt, since they refuse to send anything directly to him but always send any correspondence (birthday cards, graduation gifts, money, etc.) in care of me.
After making sure Dan, my husband and technology guru, wasn't watching, I tentatively put the phone to my ear just in case Steve was actually on the other end and that message was just the "subject line" to his phone call.
"Hello?" I whispered.
"Who are you talking to?" Dan glanced at me from the driver's seat.
"No one. I just got an IM (young and hip lingo for Instant Message) from Steve."
"That's a text message, Becky."
"That's what I meant."
Pretty soon, I started noticing odd consonant-vowel combinations popping up on magazine pages, commercials, billboards, in e-mails - BTW, BRB, LOL, LOLA, TTFN, and IYKWIMAITYD. Occasionally, I found out that what I thought I knew about the English lexicon did not always apply in the text messaging world. For instance, SOS does not always mean "help" in the world of text abbreviations. Sometimes it means - well, I'll let you look that one up. And WTF does not mean "Where's the food?"
Young people, this bizarre obsession you all have with locutionary brevity is nothing new. Let me introduce you to FDR and his New Deal complete with the FERA, PWA, and SSA.
Eventually, I knew I had to jump on the bandwagon when I saw my dad texting my brother during his college graduation. In fact, my dad glows with pride everytime he receives a text and goes to work replying to the message promptly.
I realized that if I ever wanted to contact any young people such as my brother or any of his peers, I would have to master the art of text messaging. None of the younger generation answers the phone anymore. Text message them, and you can expect an immediate response even if they failed to pick up your call five minutes before.
"You know how to text?" a teenager asked me one day a little too incredulously.
I had just picked up my cell phone and was punching random numbers that the phone somehow converted into letters on the tiny screen in front of me.
"Of course," I sniffed.
I turned away so that the kid couldn't see how slow I was typing.
"Let me do it for you," Dan always says when he sees me texting. "Haven't you ever seen the kids text? They can do it so fast!"
It's true. I am a very slow texter. It takes me a while to figure out where all the letters are and how many times I need to punch the number in order to arrive at the desired letter. Besides, nobody ever texts Dan, so he never gets to show off his mad texting skills. It's quite sad.
Now that I have been initiated into the text messaging universe, I have decided I can start using that abbreviated slang that only young and hip people know how to decipher. Did any of you figure out the title of my posting?
(Here's a clue for any of you elderly readers: I don't understand why we can't just use complete sentences anymore.)
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Fishnets, Wal-Mart, and Ineradicable Feelings of Guilt
A few weeks ago, I found myself on a steadfast mission to track down a pair of fishnet tights. Fishnets are not a staple in my fairly conservative, slightly bookish wardrobe. I do own the occasional spaghetti strap tank top, lowish-cut halter, and above-the-knee mini skirt. But nothing quite so trendy or - dare I say - sexy as fishnet stockings.
However, in the production Chicago (in which I was performing at the time), fishnets are a necessity. Apparently, 1920's-era murderesses did not dress like school teachers. Hence my determination to find a pair of fishnet stockings.
I asked my fellow theater company members where I might find fishnets, and almost unanimously received the same reply - Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart carries the most variety. Wal-Mart's prices are the cheapest.
I boycott Wal-Mart. For some reason, after Sheryl Crow, in her song "Love is a Good Thing," insinuated that children could too easily obtain guns from Wal-Mart discount stores, my somewhat pacifist alter ego began to feel uneasy about shopping at Wal-Mart. And being a wannabe writer, musician, and avid reader, I was already wary of Wal-Mart's censorship policies.
Then I came upon the Rise Against "Prayer of the Refugee" video in which children and adults from developing countries are shown assembling products in squalid conditions that are then shipped to a Wal-Mart-type store and stamped with a "Made in the U.S.A." label.
I'll admit it. I have been swayed by liberal pop culture.
Here is where my hypocritical nature surfaces and subjects me to intense sensations of guilt. I boycott only Wal-Mart. I do not boycott The Gap, Old Navy, or Banana Republic. I run in Nike shoes, and I own Dri-Fit shorts and shirts. I enjoy the occasional trip to Disneyland, and I collect Barbies. I know these and probably almost every "American" corporation out there are linked to unfair, exploitative labor and/or employee practices. But I boycott only Wal-Mart.
I won't even try to justify my actions by saying Wal-Mart is worse than all other corporations because of its multiple unfair practices. I boycott only Wal-Mart because I, in the spirit of a true American, do not want to completely inconvenience myself. So I boycott only Wal-Mart and feel ridiculously guilty about not boycotting everything else. But, obviously, not guilty enough to do anything about it.
There came a time during my quest for fishnets that I was forced to go to Wal-Mart. I had exhausted all of my other conveniently cheap options. If Wal-Mart didn't have fishnets, I was certain I would have to spend $15 or $20 at a dance or costume shop.
To make my experience more purposeful, I equated my entrance into Wal-Mart with the conventional epic hero's descent into Hades. Would I return unblemished and noble, or would I give in to the Dark Side of the Force?
I stepped through the automatic doors, half expecting to see a kid with a .22 running up and down the aisles or a long table with sewing machines operated by 12-year-olds. Instead, I found myself staring at several empty shelves, the flourescent lights above casting an eerie purple shadow over the seemingly barren store.
I was wondering if in fact my boycott had worked, and I had run Wal-Mart out of business singlehandedly (in which case, I would have felt guilty as well, knowing that I had cost all of the Wal-Mart employees their jobs), when a clerk approached me and asked if I needed help.
"I'm looking for fishnet tights," I said, just above a whisper, not wanting anyone else to know that a professional, thirty-something school teacher would be looking for an item as risque as a pair of fishnet stockings.
"We're remodeling, so a lot of our stuff is off the shelves. I'll have to check where we moved them."
I blindly followed the clerk who led me to a rack of little girls' pink dance tights.
"I don't think any of those sizes will fit me." I said, not bothering to point out the difference between pink dance tights and fishnets.
"Hey," the clerk shouted to another group of clerks hanging out in the women's underwear section, "do we have any fishnets? This lady wants to know."
The other clerks began to murmur, "Fishnets? Fishnets? Do we carry fishnets? I've seen them at Halloween with the sexy kitten costumes . . . "
"Usually they're with the tights." One confident clerk left the befuddled herd and led me to another rack filled with an assortment of women's tights.
After studying the rack for a moment, she shrugged apologetically. "They used to be here. We must be out. Sorry."
I decided not to tell her that she didn't need to apologize, that she had just saved me from committing treason on my Wal-Mart boycott. I had emerged from my descent into Hades unscathed.
I went to a costume shop that afternoon, perfectly willing to dish out $15 or $20 for a pair of fishnets. They were $4 a piece. I bought three pairs.
"That's a good idea, buying extra pairs," the woman behind the counter said. "Fishnets are so flattering. Now you can wear them after your production."
I smiled, probably a little unenthusiastically. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that, most likely, I wouldn't be wearing them anywhere besides on stage. I mean, after all, I am a conservatively dressed elementary school teacher, right?
However, in the production Chicago (in which I was performing at the time), fishnets are a necessity. Apparently, 1920's-era murderesses did not dress like school teachers. Hence my determination to find a pair of fishnet stockings.
I asked my fellow theater company members where I might find fishnets, and almost unanimously received the same reply - Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart carries the most variety. Wal-Mart's prices are the cheapest.
I boycott Wal-Mart. For some reason, after Sheryl Crow, in her song "Love is a Good Thing," insinuated that children could too easily obtain guns from Wal-Mart discount stores, my somewhat pacifist alter ego began to feel uneasy about shopping at Wal-Mart. And being a wannabe writer, musician, and avid reader, I was already wary of Wal-Mart's censorship policies.
Then I came upon the Rise Against "Prayer of the Refugee" video in which children and adults from developing countries are shown assembling products in squalid conditions that are then shipped to a Wal-Mart-type store and stamped with a "Made in the U.S.A." label.
I'll admit it. I have been swayed by liberal pop culture.
Here is where my hypocritical nature surfaces and subjects me to intense sensations of guilt. I boycott only Wal-Mart. I do not boycott The Gap, Old Navy, or Banana Republic. I run in Nike shoes, and I own Dri-Fit shorts and shirts. I enjoy the occasional trip to Disneyland, and I collect Barbies. I know these and probably almost every "American" corporation out there are linked to unfair, exploitative labor and/or employee practices. But I boycott only Wal-Mart.
I won't even try to justify my actions by saying Wal-Mart is worse than all other corporations because of its multiple unfair practices. I boycott only Wal-Mart because I, in the spirit of a true American, do not want to completely inconvenience myself. So I boycott only Wal-Mart and feel ridiculously guilty about not boycotting everything else. But, obviously, not guilty enough to do anything about it.
There came a time during my quest for fishnets that I was forced to go to Wal-Mart. I had exhausted all of my other conveniently cheap options. If Wal-Mart didn't have fishnets, I was certain I would have to spend $15 or $20 at a dance or costume shop.
To make my experience more purposeful, I equated my entrance into Wal-Mart with the conventional epic hero's descent into Hades. Would I return unblemished and noble, or would I give in to the Dark Side of the Force?
I stepped through the automatic doors, half expecting to see a kid with a .22 running up and down the aisles or a long table with sewing machines operated by 12-year-olds. Instead, I found myself staring at several empty shelves, the flourescent lights above casting an eerie purple shadow over the seemingly barren store.
I was wondering if in fact my boycott had worked, and I had run Wal-Mart out of business singlehandedly (in which case, I would have felt guilty as well, knowing that I had cost all of the Wal-Mart employees their jobs), when a clerk approached me and asked if I needed help.
"I'm looking for fishnet tights," I said, just above a whisper, not wanting anyone else to know that a professional, thirty-something school teacher would be looking for an item as risque as a pair of fishnet stockings.
"We're remodeling, so a lot of our stuff is off the shelves. I'll have to check where we moved them."
I blindly followed the clerk who led me to a rack of little girls' pink dance tights.
"I don't think any of those sizes will fit me." I said, not bothering to point out the difference between pink dance tights and fishnets.
"Hey," the clerk shouted to another group of clerks hanging out in the women's underwear section, "do we have any fishnets? This lady wants to know."
The other clerks began to murmur, "Fishnets? Fishnets? Do we carry fishnets? I've seen them at Halloween with the sexy kitten costumes . . . "
"Usually they're with the tights." One confident clerk left the befuddled herd and led me to another rack filled with an assortment of women's tights.
After studying the rack for a moment, she shrugged apologetically. "They used to be here. We must be out. Sorry."
I decided not to tell her that she didn't need to apologize, that she had just saved me from committing treason on my Wal-Mart boycott. I had emerged from my descent into Hades unscathed.
I went to a costume shop that afternoon, perfectly willing to dish out $15 or $20 for a pair of fishnets. They were $4 a piece. I bought three pairs.
"That's a good idea, buying extra pairs," the woman behind the counter said. "Fishnets are so flattering. Now you can wear them after your production."
I smiled, probably a little unenthusiastically. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that, most likely, I wouldn't be wearing them anywhere besides on stage. I mean, after all, I am a conservatively dressed elementary school teacher, right?
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
How I Finished My Master's Degree Without Killing Anyone in the Process
A little over a year and a half ago, I embarked on a journey that many teachers decide to take after a few years on the job, after attempting to survive on an average teacher's salary. I thrust myself into the world of academia and started working on a master's degree.
For me, it was less about the salary raise and more about my love of learning and my nagging desire to perpetually accomplish something . . . anything. Oh and also, I wanted to be smarter than my husband since he does not have a master's degree. As a feminist, I believe it's important that we women constantly strive to dominate the male race and flaunt our intellectual superiority whenever possible.
In all seriousness, when I first began my graduate program, I remember visiting my father (who holds two master's degrees and had begun work on a doctorate in the early 90's - I guess there goes my intellectual domination ambition) one weekend. My mother had died fairly recently, and when something positive happened in any of our lives, we held onto it with a white-knuckle grip for fear that yet one more constant would vanish from our world. So that weekend, my father introduced me to everyone as "my daughter Becky, who will be starting her master's program next week."
At that moment, I knew I had to finish my degree for my family, for my husband, for myself, and for my mom . . . and for the thousands of dollars in tuition money Dan and I were shelling out.
My master's program ended up providing more than educational advancement. Every month I met with a cohort, a group of Idaho teachers from all walks of life and experience. We called our meetings "group therapy at the Institute" because we truly shared our struggles, joys, and neuroses with one another.
On top of that, my graduate program emphasized arts integration in the classroom, so most of the projects provided me with a creative outlet to release some of the anger, bitterness, and sadness I had experienced as a result of my mother's death. Gradually, I began to heal, all the while thinking how strange it was that a graduate program would be the catalyst for me entering the acceptance phase of the grief process.
Then came the big master's thesis. You know, the dreaded final paper or project at the end of a master's program that is probably the leading cause of suicide among grad students.
I faced finishing my thesis with trepidation. It meant saying goodbye to the safe environment of the weekend classes where I could complain with other like-minded teachers about the lack of and the necessity for arts education in our public school system. It meant having to stand by these convictions in the real world of education. It meant the possibility of ruining my perfect 4.0.
But I did finish in a relatively painless fashion. I did have one and only one screaming/crying fit. I was trying to copy and paste a couple of my lesson plans into the final paper, and the formats would not transfer correctly. Dan, who is a software engineer and speaks to computers like Dr. Doolittle speaks to animals, couldn't even get it to work, at least not in the three minutes that I allowed him. I screamed at him to leave me alone, and he returned to his permanent perch in front of the Nintendo Wii as I disintegrated into a deluge of tears.
"Smart boy," said the third grade teacher at my school who had finished the same master's program a few years earlier. "He understood that's just par for the course."
So I made it. I have spent exactly a quarter of my life pursuing higher education, and I am now officially smarter than my husband which, don't worry, ladies, I will not let him forget.
I do wish my mother had been here to see me receive my master's degree and I mean physically here, not looking down on me from some ethereal alternate universe. But sometimes a little bit of pain brings about a greater sense of accomplishment.
For me, it was less about the salary raise and more about my love of learning and my nagging desire to perpetually accomplish something . . . anything. Oh and also, I wanted to be smarter than my husband since he does not have a master's degree. As a feminist, I believe it's important that we women constantly strive to dominate the male race and flaunt our intellectual superiority whenever possible.
In all seriousness, when I first began my graduate program, I remember visiting my father (who holds two master's degrees and had begun work on a doctorate in the early 90's - I guess there goes my intellectual domination ambition) one weekend. My mother had died fairly recently, and when something positive happened in any of our lives, we held onto it with a white-knuckle grip for fear that yet one more constant would vanish from our world. So that weekend, my father introduced me to everyone as "my daughter Becky, who will be starting her master's program next week."
At that moment, I knew I had to finish my degree for my family, for my husband, for myself, and for my mom . . . and for the thousands of dollars in tuition money Dan and I were shelling out.
My master's program ended up providing more than educational advancement. Every month I met with a cohort, a group of Idaho teachers from all walks of life and experience. We called our meetings "group therapy at the Institute" because we truly shared our struggles, joys, and neuroses with one another.
On top of that, my graduate program emphasized arts integration in the classroom, so most of the projects provided me with a creative outlet to release some of the anger, bitterness, and sadness I had experienced as a result of my mother's death. Gradually, I began to heal, all the while thinking how strange it was that a graduate program would be the catalyst for me entering the acceptance phase of the grief process.
Then came the big master's thesis. You know, the dreaded final paper or project at the end of a master's program that is probably the leading cause of suicide among grad students.
I faced finishing my thesis with trepidation. It meant saying goodbye to the safe environment of the weekend classes where I could complain with other like-minded teachers about the lack of and the necessity for arts education in our public school system. It meant having to stand by these convictions in the real world of education. It meant the possibility of ruining my perfect 4.0.
But I did finish in a relatively painless fashion. I did have one and only one screaming/crying fit. I was trying to copy and paste a couple of my lesson plans into the final paper, and the formats would not transfer correctly. Dan, who is a software engineer and speaks to computers like Dr. Doolittle speaks to animals, couldn't even get it to work, at least not in the three minutes that I allowed him. I screamed at him to leave me alone, and he returned to his permanent perch in front of the Nintendo Wii as I disintegrated into a deluge of tears.
"Smart boy," said the third grade teacher at my school who had finished the same master's program a few years earlier. "He understood that's just par for the course."
So I made it. I have spent exactly a quarter of my life pursuing higher education, and I am now officially smarter than my husband which, don't worry, ladies, I will not let him forget.
I do wish my mother had been here to see me receive my master's degree and I mean physically here, not looking down on me from some ethereal alternate universe. But sometimes a little bit of pain brings about a greater sense of accomplishment.
“Time is a brutal but a careless thief
Who takes our lot but leaves behind the grief.”
- Emmylou Harris, The Pearl
Monday, January 21, 2008
Fun with Winter Driving
Dan, my husband, thinks he's a great winter driver. He never misses an opportunity to point out that he was raised driving in the snow. The town where he grew up receives several inches of snow every winter. According to Dan, his hometown has produced many wonderful winter drivers.
I tend to question his "snowy towns produce skilled winter drivers" theory. For example, Dan once told me about a friend of his who developed his driving skills in this same town. One blustery morning, Dan's friend slammed on the brakes while driving down an icy country road at fifty miles a hour just to see if he needed to turn on the four wheel drive. Apparently, he did because he slid off the road, slamming into the fence of a nearby farm and landing in a ditch. Of course, once he realized his car was totaled, he decided that turning on the four wheel drive would be futile. Now, that's logic for you.
Dan also admitted to me that he follows a similar practice. He peels out of our driveway on snowy mornings to gauge the road's iciness. When I remind him about what happened to his friend, he explains that peeling out at five miles an hour and slamming on the brakes at fifty miles an hour are two different situations. Thanks for the clarification.
Dan doesn't like to use four wheel drive. He says, "If you get stuck in four wheel drive, you're really stuck." I thought he created that cute maxim all by himself until I heard his father say the exact same thing one winter.
Nevertheless, Dan likes to wait until the last possible second to turn on the four wheel drive. He calls four wheel drive false security. I happen to like security, whether it's false or not.
A few weeks ago, while driving on the snow blanketed roads to Tamarack, we began to fishtail as we approached one of the many ominous curves around the mountain.
"Don't you think you should turn on the 4x4?" I asked.
"There's still pavement showing. You don't need to use 4x4 when pavement is still visible," was the calm reply.
A moment later, we began to slide again. This time the car started beeping. What genius invented that safety feature? Dan and I were well aware that we were going into a spin.
"All You Need is Love" blared over the stereo speakers.
"All You Need is 4x4 . . ." I started to sing.
"Don't worry," Dan said as he got the car under control. "I slowed down because I knew we were sliding."
"And what was your first clue?" I asked.
He did eventually turn on the four wheel drive.
I discovered that wasn't much better. When the car's in four wheel drive, he often takes both hands off of the steering wheel to fix his sunglasses or drink his cocoa or adjust his seat. I guess it's that false sense of security thing.
I know I have just made my husband sound like a lunatic driver. But, if you haven't already guessed from my previous postings, I freak out over pretty much everything. The truth is, when given the option, I always choose to ride with my husband during the wintertime.
Number one, I don't want anyone else to see my true neurotic tendencies. Number two, I don't want to have to drive on those icy roads myself. Number three, in spite of all I've just said, he really is a great winter driver.
I tend to question his "snowy towns produce skilled winter drivers" theory. For example, Dan once told me about a friend of his who developed his driving skills in this same town. One blustery morning, Dan's friend slammed on the brakes while driving down an icy country road at fifty miles a hour just to see if he needed to turn on the four wheel drive. Apparently, he did because he slid off the road, slamming into the fence of a nearby farm and landing in a ditch. Of course, once he realized his car was totaled, he decided that turning on the four wheel drive would be futile. Now, that's logic for you.
Dan also admitted to me that he follows a similar practice. He peels out of our driveway on snowy mornings to gauge the road's iciness. When I remind him about what happened to his friend, he explains that peeling out at five miles an hour and slamming on the brakes at fifty miles an hour are two different situations. Thanks for the clarification.
Dan doesn't like to use four wheel drive. He says, "If you get stuck in four wheel drive, you're really stuck." I thought he created that cute maxim all by himself until I heard his father say the exact same thing one winter.
Nevertheless, Dan likes to wait until the last possible second to turn on the four wheel drive. He calls four wheel drive false security. I happen to like security, whether it's false or not.
A few weeks ago, while driving on the snow blanketed roads to Tamarack, we began to fishtail as we approached one of the many ominous curves around the mountain.
"Don't you think you should turn on the 4x4?" I asked.
"There's still pavement showing. You don't need to use 4x4 when pavement is still visible," was the calm reply.
A moment later, we began to slide again. This time the car started beeping. What genius invented that safety feature? Dan and I were well aware that we were going into a spin.
"All You Need is Love" blared over the stereo speakers.
"All You Need is 4x4 . . ." I started to sing.
"Don't worry," Dan said as he got the car under control. "I slowed down because I knew we were sliding."
"And what was your first clue?" I asked.
He did eventually turn on the four wheel drive.
I discovered that wasn't much better. When the car's in four wheel drive, he often takes both hands off of the steering wheel to fix his sunglasses or drink his cocoa or adjust his seat. I guess it's that false sense of security thing.
I know I have just made my husband sound like a lunatic driver. But, if you haven't already guessed from my previous postings, I freak out over pretty much everything. The truth is, when given the option, I always choose to ride with my husband during the wintertime.
Number one, I don't want anyone else to see my true neurotic tendencies. Number two, I don't want to have to drive on those icy roads myself. Number three, in spite of all I've just said, he really is a great winter driver.
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