Cruise to Mexico

I'm at a Loss...

When I got up too early this morning because I couldn't sleep, I turned on the television. One of the first commercials I saw was for a medication called Flameez. The 60-second advertisement sang the product's praises for helping users with extreme memory loss, including those who have Alzheimer's.

My question is simple. If you really need to take this pill, how will you remember to do it?

Come on, People!!!

Come on, people...is this really news??!!

***********

THIS KID'S A TEXT MANIAC

OMG! 14,528 MESSAGES IN A MONTH

By SUSANNAH CAHALAN

Click for photo gallery

HOLD THE PHONE! Greg Hardesty tries to pry a cellphone out of the madly typing fingers of his 13-year-old daughter, Reina. "Who are you texting, anyway? Your entire school?" he asked her recently.

PHOTOS: Text-Crazed Teen

Last updated: 10:04 am
January 12, 2009
Posted: 2:09 am
January 11, 2009

Greg Hardesty didn't LOL when he got his teen daughter's cellphone statement.

All he could think was "OMG!"

PHOTOS: Text-Crazed Teen

The California man's 13-year-old daughter, Reina, racked up an astonishing 14,528 text messages in one month. The online AT&T statement ran 440 pages.

"First, I laughed. I thought, 'That's insane, that's impossible,' " the 45-year-old dad said. "And I immediately whipped out the calculator to see if it was humanly possible."

He found it was - barely.

It works out to 484 text messages a day, or one every two minutes of every waking hour.

"Then I thought maybe AT&T made some mistake on the bill," said Hardesty, of Silverado Canyon.

The reporter for the Orange County Register grilled his daughter on her texting habit - by text message, of course.

"Who are you texting, anyway? Your entire school?" he asked.

"Well, a lot of my friends have unlimited texting. I just text them pretty much all the time," she explained.

She messages a core of "four obsessive texters" - all girls between the ages of 12 and 13 - on her LG phone.

Reina had a karaoke birthday party, and while other people were singing, she was texting her best friend sitting right next to her.

She even texted her friends to brag about the high number of text messages she had logged when her parents got the statement.

Her texting soared last month because "it was winter break and I was bored," Reina told her parents.

Luckily, Hardesty has a phone plan that allows unlimited texting for $30 a month. Otherwise, he estimates, he would have owed AT&T $2,905.60 at a rate of 20 cents per message.

The average number of monthly texts for a 13- to 17-year-old teen is 1,742, according to a Nielsen study of cellphone usage.

Hardesty admits he himself punches in 900 messages a month - 700 more than average for his age group, according to Nielsen.

Hardesty and his ex-wife have since placed restrictions on Reina's cellphone use, ruling she cannot text after dinner.

**********

My 17-year-old son, Dylan, averages about 15,000 texts a month without any problem. Hell, over Christmas break, he went several thousand over that. Like the girl in the story, he will text his sister or friends when they are next to him, across the room or in another room in the house/school. It's simply, however unfortunate, his mode of communication. Plus, Dylan does all his texting between the hours of 6am (on weekdays), when he gets his phone from the kitchen counter, and about 10:30pm at night, when I make him return it to the charger. Thankfully, I do have unlimited texting, something I knew was necessary with two active, social teenagers.

So, let's get real, folks. This is not news. It's the norm.

My "Wow!" Moment at Walgreens

Yesterday I went to our local Warrensburg Walgreens for Kleenex and Tylenol. Seemingly, a pretty uncomplicated, in and out, kind of trip. Yeah, right.

I was the first person in line at the counter with my two boxes of tissue and extra large bottle of medicine. I always try to know in advance about how much I am going to spend, and I knew the total, with sale prices, would be about nine dollars. When the Kleenex rang up as $2.27 each, I had to say something to the cashier.

"I'm sorry, but I believe that the Kleenex is on sale for 'Buy one at $1.99, get one free.' At least that's what the sign says."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know about that sale," said the check-out woman, flipping through this week's advertisement quickly. When she didn't see it pictured, she called on the intercom for a price check. Another employee confirmed that yes, the price was "Get one for $1.99, get one free."

The cashier then took out her calculator and, with a frown, starting punching in numbers. By now, a long line was forming behind me, and I'm almost sorry I questioned the price in the first place. Almost. But I couldn't help but be curious about where this was all headed.

After a couple of minutes of furious button punching, the young lady (about 25 years old, I'd say) looked up in confusion. "I just don't know what to do. I cannot divide $1.99 in half. There's always a penny left over." I looked back at her, nodding in agreement. "Would it be okay if I just charged you 49 cents and 49 cents?"

"Well, I suppose you could do that, if you wanted. But you'd be cheating yourself out of more than a dollar," I replied. Again, a look of total confusion.

"Then maybe I could just charge you 99 cents?" she questioned with hesitation, most likely still pondering her original division problem and why it didn't work.

By this time, I'm ready to tear open the Tylenol and down a few to help with my worsening, explosive, two-week-long headache. Instead, I looked at the elderly gentleman directly behind me. He smiled, resting his cane on the counter. "Why doesn't she just charge you $1.99 and throw the things in the bag for you?", he wisely asked, making sure he was loud enough for all around to hear.

"I know that, and you know that, sir. Let's see how long it takes for her to figure that out." We then pursued a quiet conversation about our personal aches and pains and what treatments have helped. Meanwhile, the calculator tapping persisted for another minute or so.

Finally, the cashier picked up her phone again, only this time to call her manager. "I don't know what to charge her. I already rang up 99 cents, but she says that is not right." After listening to the one-sided conversation for about 45 seconds, a relieved expression took over her face. "Oh, okay. I can do that," she replied, hanging up the extension.

"I'm sorry. I am just going to charge you 99 cents and then one dollar. Is that okay with you?"

"That's sounds fine," I answered, seriously considering what would happen if I told her it wasn't okay. "You now have the total you were looking for, which is $1.99, right?"

"Yes, I do," she said, putting away her calculator with a sigh. "That was really a hard one."

Dr. Phil says that this is the year for teaching people common sense. I think maybe there's some Walgreens employees who need to go back to school.

Not Again

It happened again, and I don't know how much more I can take.

The first time was with Danielle. That happened in October, too, but in a much different way. She had been in a hurry, driving her car way too fast. It was unexpected and tragic. I still shed tears over my precious Danielle. Her life was left so incomplete.

Last summer, it happened with Stephen. One day we were finishing his autobiography at my desk, and seemingly the next, I received an email from Brittany telling me what had happened. I didn't believe her at first and insisted she call me for confirmation. It was true, though, and I still find it difficult to fathom. It was definitely a case of "wrong place, wrong time, wrong people". I still wonder why such a senseless tragedy happened to such a sweet boy. It's not fair. Life's not fair.

Now this. Sheena was a deep, dark, introspective girl. She was that way in 5th grade and remained that way as a high-schooler. Inside, her brain was always buzzing. She let the chapters of her life get the best of her, though. She couldn't cope, couldn't handle it anymore. She wanted, no--she needed--permanent relief from the constant pain she felt in her soul. Now she has that. Her new home is with her mother, and I have to believe she's now content.

Teachers touch lives, but more than that, students touch teachers' lives.

Another Day at the "Farm"

Jim, the kids and I went up to visit Mom a couple of days ago. It had been a while since I'd seen her, since the whole "I'm so sick of your boobs" incident, so I was a bit apprehensive as to what her mood may be. I called in advance, however, and she seemed to at least know who I was, which was a big plus, thus encouraging me to make the hour trip to Kansas City. (I think when I mentioned that Jim wanted to bring her tomatoes she perked up; he is an absolute favorite of hers, and she is convinced that tomatoes from Warrensburg are somehow different and better than from anywhere else.)

Mom was in rare form. She gossiped about family members, told stories about fellow "funny farm" residents, and reminisced about how Dad "didn't make a decision in 32 years of marriage, and he liked it that way...because he didn't talk much, you know." When I was busy hanging up her clothes in her bedroom, she told Jim how Mary had chosen activities for her to do like butterfly arts and crafts, bunco, and Big Bucks Bingo.

"Did you say Big Butts Bingo?", I asked from inside Mom's closet, sure that I had heard her wrong.

"No, but that's a good one! I may go to that if they had it!" Mom answered with a laugh.

She went on to talk about all the animals outside her patio, like the cats, squirrels and birds. ("They're supposed to be on leashes, you know." No, Mom. I didn't know that about birds.) Then she said that there are occasionally deer in the yard, too. I told her that we have quite a few of those around us, too.

"They have deer in the good 'old 'burg?" she asked, surprised as could be.

Jim couldn't help but be his typical smart-ass self, knowing that Mom probably wouldn't catch on. "Oh, yeah. They're just passing through on vacation."

Quite a few stories and a couple of hours later, it was about time to go, and Mom left us with one last zinger.

"You know, I'm going deaf. But I kind of like it. It gives you all something to talk about."

Ain't That the Truth?

"If you're not nervous about your passion, you're not passionate about it."
--Bobby Flay, 2007

Take My Advice!!!

When Baillie started working at our town's movie theater a few months back, I never realized how much I would enjoy one of her "perks." She can get family members in free to movies. With how much I adore keeping up with new flicks, I have taken full advantage this summer during my time off from teaching. Some of my favorites have been 1408, Mr. Brooks, Live Free or Die Hard and License to Wed. (Anyone who had to take marriage classes before getting hitched, especially in the Catholic church like I did, has got to see that one! What a hoot!)

But nothing topped this afternoon's feature film, one that Baillie and I had been anticipating all summer long. All the previews and interviews I saw beforehand with the stars didn't come close to doing it justice. Even the "making of" show a few nights ago on HBO was simply a teaser of what was to come on the big screen. Never before have I literally smiled my way through an entire movie the way that I did today, from start to finish.

When it was over, I wanted to turn around and immediately go back and see it again. It was just that good. No, not just good. Incredible. Amazing. Star-studded spectacular.

Go. Go now. Get in your car or SUV. Get your spouse or significant other. Get your whole family. Get all your friends, too. Get to your nearest theater as soon as possible.

Go see Hairspray. You won't be sorry.

Back in The Day

When we went on our recent vacation up north for college visits, we passed an amazing-looking outlet mall. We didn't stop, of course, since our mission was simply (like it was simple!) to visit four universities in two days. Anyway, one of the stores was the Kate Spade outlet. I was really surprised to see that the Kansas City native, well-known for her incredibly overpriced handbags and other accessories, would have a store at a discount mall.

"Look, Baillie, it's a Kate Spade store. I remember her back in high school at St. Teresa's when she just another girl with toothpaste on her face to cover her zits."

Yep, I'm just keeping it real...

Sick and Tired

Yesterday, the rest of the siblings, Mom and I took my sister, Mary, out to celebrate her fiftieth birthday. We went to a nice Italian restaurant in a Kansas City suburb, along with our spouses (no kids allowed, as is the rule when we have our parties when we turn the big 5-0.)

I knew from the moment Mom stumbled in the door with her walker that it wasn't a good day for her. She sat relatively quiet at the end of the long table, not really joining in with anyone's conversations. When it was time to order, John named off a variety of delicious things from the menu, and Mom kind of stared off into space and just muttered, "Spaghetti." She spent about a half an hour attempting to sign Mary's birthday card, to no avail. Towards the end of dinner, she went off on Liz about how she used to be able to manage her own money and finances, and now everyone does it for her, and she didn't like that. At one point, Mom mentioned that her legs hurt, but she didn't know why; she just woke up that way.

When dinner was over, the presents had been opened and the cake had been eaten, I went from my end of the table to Mom's end to check on her. "So, Mom, how are you feeling?" I leaned over and asked, never expecting what I was about to hear.

"Well," she replied, "I am just so sick of looking at your boobs."

"Huh?" I answered, not sure that I heard her correctly, especially since Mom is usually the first to say she is envious of my size D's.

"I am so sick of looking at your boobs," she repeated. "If I had a safety pin, I'd take it and pin up your shirt."

"Well, Mom, I'm sorry. I'm totally covered up. Everything is snapped, and I don't think I'm showing anything," I apologized, for what, I'm still not quite sure.

I'd venture to bet that there have been a lot of people in my life who have been sick of me for a lot of reasons, but I think this is probably the first time that someone has been sick of my boobs!

She's Simply PO'ed

I called Mom yesterday a few hours before my sweet niece, Carrie, walked down the aisle to marry her wonderful fiance, Marc. You see, she has been going downhill quite a bit lately when it comes to areas of the mind. It goes in stages with Mom, I'm afraid. When her body is working somewhat well, the mind starts to go, and vice versa. Well, let's just say we haven't had any serious trips to the hospital lately for health problems, so...

When I asked if she was ready for the night's events, she replied in a tiff, "No, I'm just really pissed off."

You have to understand that the terminology "pissed off" came into being about the time when I was in junior high school. I didn't say it in front of Mom until late in high school after my father died, and she occasionally began saying it to me (and only me, as far as I know) as well. It was always so funny when she said it, and it's even funnier now that she's a 77-year-old woman. But sometimes the saying just fits the situation, no matter who you are.

This time, of course, it made absolutely no sense at all.

"Okay, Mom, why are you pissed? What's going on?" I asked, expecting to have her say something about Carrie marrying an African-American man, or about my jailbird nephew going to the wedding, or even about how the marriage was going to take place in a library. (It was a beautiful location for a service, by the way, and was the original location of the First National Bank, where my parents first met and worked when my dad came over from Scotland in the '40s!)

"Well, Mary and Liz both want to take me to the wedding. Neither of them called me until about 2 o'clock. Plus I'm tired, and I didn't do anything today. And that just pisses me off."

"Mom, that should make you happy that they both want to take you, not piss you off. Now if no one wanted to take you to the wedding, then you could be upset, but that's not what is happening. Instead, you have two people wanting to take you."

"I don't know about all that. I'm just pissed."

I convinced her that it would all work out, and that it would be okay, and of course it was. The wedding was glorious, Mom behaved herself and made it through almost all of the reception, which was quite an accomplishment.

Of course Mom claims she's never seen the library (former bank) building before, but that's a whole different story.

Happy Birthday, Princess Di!

I always had a fascination for Lady Diana Spencer, who later became Princess Diana, the future Queen of England. When I was a kid, I used to absorb every magazine article I could get my hands on, and then collected each in an ever-growing file folder. I spouted off facts like I was a member of the Royal Family myself and felt an uncanny attachment to her, as did much of the world. When she was courted by Prince Charles, it might as well have been me. (I don't know if it's my natural inclination to marry a man who wears a kilt, or the whole little girl "Princess" fairy tale thing, but either way, Diana was living my dream.)

When Diana and Charles got married, you better believe I was up at the crack of dawn to watch the whole televised event from start to finish. Many years later, when Diana was tragically killed in a car accident in a French tunnel, I sat for hours glued to the television praying that she would pull through, and that the news couldn't possibly be true. For all the events in Diana's life in between, I watched, read about, listened and paid close attention. She was an icon, an inspiration and a philanthropist. At the same time, she was a wife (with the same problems that we all face as wives, and many more that we'll never really know about), a friend and a wonderful mother to two adoring boys.

A couple of weeks ago, I watched a Matt Lauer interview with Diana's two sons, Prince William and Prince Harry. Seeing William, especially, was like seeing a glimpse of his mother on the screen again. He looks a bit like his mom, of course, but his appearance is strikingly similar. They have the same long nose and deep-set eyes, and William's mannerisms are just like Princess Diana's. The two young men talked about the anniversary of their mom's death in August, and how they were not only going to have a memorial service for her then, but a huge concert for her in July in celebration of what would have been her 46th birthday. They were inviting all her favorite singers and performers, and they thought it would be a wonderful way to honor their mother.

Well, today is Diana's birthday, and again, I was drawn to the television to be a part of her life. The six-plus hour concert aired on VH1 included such artists as Duran Duran, Tom Jones, Rod Stewart and Elton John, among many others. Each act was interspersed with video clips and interviews from people whose lives Diana touched over the years through her many charitable works. As much as I wanted to hear Elton sing his infamous version of "Goodbye, England's Rose" at today's concert, he, himself, admitted that singing it again after Diana's funeral would be "inappropriate." I'm glad that he held to his guns and didn't sing it, but instead wowed the audience with "Saturday Night's Alright" and two other numbers like only EJ could do.

The concert was definitely a hit. Over 60,000 people filled Wembley Stadium in England expecting to see an incredible show. They were not disappointed. Millions of other viewers watched around the world. They were not disappointed, either.

All joined together, on the same day, at the same time, to wish a wonderful lady, our special Lady Di, a happy birthday.

I think it was one hell of a birthday party. Wish you could have been there, Princess Diana.

Whacked Out Wal-Mart

Okay, I'm the first to admit that I'm not a huge fan of change. I take the same route to work each day. We still live in our "starter" home, 18 years after buying it. I have faithfully gone to the same hair stylist for more years than I can remember. I buy my gasoline at the Shelby's on the corner because I like their cashiers, whether the gas is the cheapest or not. Heck, I start breathing a little heavy if somebody puts the dishes the wrong direction in the dishwasher. You get the idea.

Well, about every five or six years, Wal-Mart gets the oh-so-bright idea that they need to change the entire layout of their store. This immediately sends me into panic mode.

You have to understand, I'm the type of person who makes their grocery list based upon where items are located in a store. For instance, all the international food items (Mexican, Chinese, and the like) would be on one section of the list according to what aisle I would find them in the store. For the health and beauty aid section, I would do the same. Anything related to a hair product, for example, would be put together, or all the medicinal items would be listed as a category. Yes, I realize this is a bit anal, but it makes for much shorter and more organized shopping trips. I can stay focused, especially since I don't enjoy the whole shopping experience in the first place, and get in and out in a relatively acceptable amount of time.

The latest Wal-Mart transformation has been taking place for the last few weeks. I've been trying my best to avoid the place altogether, but today I could stay away no longer, as our refrigerator was nearing bare. List in hand, I headed there about 3pm this afternoon. Being a Thursday, I figured I would avoid the inevitable weekend crowds, and it was still too early for the after-work shoppers.

I was overwhelmed with anxiety as I entered the store and immediately saw all the changes that had taken place since I was last there. All the areas of the store had been moved to new locations. Some had even been divided, quite illogically I might add. Where there once was electronics is now fabrics; where I used to try on sandals I can now purchase DVDs; the small appliances are now found where I used to find purses. I still don't know where the toys were moved, and it took me 10 minutes to locate where they put the darned kitchen trash bags.

When I finally got to the food section of the store, it was even worse. A man obviously is the one who redesigned the store (please take no offense, male readers), or at the very least, it was someone who has no clue about how to cook. The noodles are next to the Kool-Aid drink mix. The international food items are now in different rows, and some things are even separated that should be together (like the tortillas are no longer with the refried beans/enchilada sauce). Some entire rows were entirely switched around from one end to the other, just to bother the customer, I believe. For instance, originally the salad dressings were on the end of the first aisle, and the peanut butter at the beginning, with lots of things like coffee in the middle. Now, it's all flip-flopped (is Wal-Mart becoming a politician?), with the salad dressings first, the PB last, and the coffee now on the opposite side. Autistic and OCD consumers are going to lose their minds.

Not one to keep my opinions to myself, I mentioned to numerous employees my displeasure at the new organization (or lack thereof) of the store. Some were empathetic and totally agreed. One cashier said just to wait another five years or so, and it would be different again. (Yeah, I'm so excited...can't wait.)

When I expressed to another employee, who was moving around items in the juice row, how much I hated the changes and couldn't find anything, her answer was not only amazing, it was absolutely deplorable.

"Well," she replied, like what she was doing was some life-altering feat. "You may not find everything right away, but at least you're getting clean shelves out of the deal."

I looked at her with a shocked stare and could barely utter my response. "There should be clean shelves anyway."

A Budding Artist

I don't have an artistic bone in my body. No, that's not exactly right. I don't have an artistic cell in my entire body. People have said to me, "But you write. You teach writing. That's being artistic!" No, folks, I'm here to tell you, it isn't. It's being creative, yes. Motivating, organized, and informative...absolutely. Sometimes I can even be a little heartwarming, gut-wrenching or humorous. But artistic? Nope, nada, never. Not me.

When I read aloud one of my favorite books to my students (Night of the Twisters by a wonderful children's author and friend of mine, Ivy Ruckman), I often draw a picture on the Smartboard of my best tornado. It's a twirling cyclone, created in a mere 5 seconds or so, complete with a little house and a stick person with a sad face. I let them know that the picture is about the best they will get out of me, so they'll just have to deal with my lack of artistic ability. They always make fun of my tornado pic, and I'm totally okay with that.

Luckily, my 15-year-old son, Dylan, did not inherit my inept skills in the world of art. He, on the other hand, has been drawing intricate, magnificent cartoons since he was just a young boy. Like his grandfather, two aunts, and father before him, he has talent oozing from each pore.

At the end May, Dylan's high school had their end of the year art show. Dylan had just completed his Freshman year and had taken an Art I class. I wasn't sure how many pieces of art he would have in the show, and I don't know if he even knew, but usually Freshman only have a few each.

When I arrived, there were drawings and photographs lining the hallways. Sculptures and other artwork filled the foyer. As I perused and glanced at my favorites (I always like the photographs the best!), I also looked for the Art I classwork to see if Dylan had any work posted. The more I looked, the more pieces of artwork that I saw with his name. And not only that, almost every one of his pieces had a first, second or third place ribbon on it!

Unlike his mother, Dylan is an artist. And I couldn't be prouder.

Broken Up Over Baillie

If I had it to do over again, I don't think I would have ever had teenagers....

Last Sunday, I woke up early to help Baillie prepare to leave for a week's stay at our local university. She was selected from her high school as a delegate to Missouri Girls' State, a fabulous opportunity sponsored by the American Legion and involving hundreds of high school juniors from around the state. The teenagers will spend the week learning about all facets of government, taking classes and even "becoming" state representatives, governors, judges, etc. for the week.

In the last few hours of preparation, I proofread Baillie's application for a possible college scholarship offered through the Girls' State program, did two loads of laundry, made sure that her health forms were in order and gathered all the toiletries she would need for the 6 days away from home. By the time Baillie finally woke up a mere hour and a half before she needed to be on campus, I felt there was little else to be done. (Baillie had already packed her suitcase the day before, following the provided list and checking each item off after adding it to her bag.)

"I still need to get one of those things you talked about," Baillie told me groggily. "You know, for under my shirt."

"Oh, a camisole," I answered. "I think that the one I have will probably work. Why don't you try it on?" Knowing a trip to Wal-Mart any time, let alone on a Sunday, is never a short trip, I was desperately trying to avoid that kind of adventure.

Just one look at my camisole, and Baillie was already convinced that it wasn't going to work for her. Plus, she added, she needed white underwear. This is a girl who has more bras and underwear than anyone I know, and she wants to buy more now? "I need new white underwear to go with the new white skirt." Let's see, so the old white underwear won't work? In Baillie's world, apparently not.

After a reasonably quick shower, Baillie was finally ready to head off to our local "Discount City." I headed to get Kleenex and trash bags, and sent Baillie in the opposite direction to get a travel-sized shampoo. I told her we'd meet at the undies. Five minutes later, two white thongs (ewww!) in hand, we had also found a camisole that suited her purposes.

We rushed to the front of the store and found that the only short lines were the self check-outs. With the few items that we had, I decided I would chance the computer system and go for it. Luckily, no errors came up on the screen, we paid and were out of the store in a reasonable amount of time.

Then it happened. Sometime between leaving Wal-Mart and getting home, which is less than a five minute drive, Baillie became a different person. I don't even remember now how it started or what she said exactly. I do know that she had an attitude, she said her classic line (which she always saves exclusively for me!) "Oh, WELL!", and everything that had ever gone wrong in the world was suddenly my fault.

As we pulled in the driveway, I had to ask. "So, let me understand this, Baillie. The one who does the most for you, takes care of you, buys everything you need, etc., is the one that you treat the worst?"

"Yep," she replied, as if the answer should be obvious to me.

Later, when Jim took Baillie to leave for her week away at college, she didn't bother to say thanks for anything I did to help her, and she didn't even say goodbye. When the door slammed behind her, I closed myself in my bedroom and broke down in a flood of tears.

She just breaks my heart over and over again....

Good Samaritan...or Not?

Several years ago, my sister Katy and I spent the day at Kansas City's Bartle Hall with several of our precious treasures, only to find out that they were mostly sentimental in value. I believe I blogged at the time about being a Roadshow loser. Well, this past Saturday, another appraisal fair came to Kansas City, and my sister Mary and I decided to attend, with even more collectibles in hand.

The fair took place as a fundraiser for the Wornall House, a historic Civil War home and small museum. There was already a huge crowd gathered when we arrived at 10am, and we took our place in the long line outside in the sun waiting to enter the large tent. After about an hour or so of waiting, we got to the entrance of the tent, paid our $25 each and received three "general line" tickets for the three items we each brought to be appraised. There were only two specialist appraisers there, one for artwork and one for pottery/glassware, and the others were for all other items. Those, of course, were the longest lines, and the ones to which we were directed.

Just as with the official Antiques Roadshow event several years ago, there was an eclectic group of people and items under the tent. The young and old, and everyone in between, had come with everything from portraits to toys to lamps to books. There were sculptures, old photographs, samplers and even a harp. Mary had brought a trinket box she purchased in France in the mid '70s, a teddy bear that was Mom's, and a doll that was my grandmother's. I learned my lesson the first time around and brought light-weight items: a first-edition Stuart Little book autographed by the illustrator, Garth Williams, my autographed picture collection (I was most interested in the autograph of Groucho Marx) and my Mom's sterling silver charm bracelet from the '40s.

The wait in line was just awful. It was horribly hot outside, and it was even worse in the tent. The air was super still, and we were all very cramped together. Even though everyone tried to keep their spirits up, it was difficult, especially in our line, as it was definitely the slowest. (Kind of like when you choose the wrong line at Wal-Mart or the grocery store, and it ends up taking twice as long as it should...)

All of a sudden, I heard a slight commotion behind us in line. I say slight because I could tell something was happening, but I couldn't really tell if it was a big deal or not. Mary and I both turned around, and I immediately saw that an elderly man had collapsed and was laying on the ground. The people directly around him were doing absolutely nothing but looking at him, and looking around to see if anyone was going to do anything. The two ladies behind me were asking aloud to each other, "I wonder if someone should do something", yet taking no action whatsoever. Others began to join in by, well, simply standing there and staring. It was ridiculous to see a seemingly intelligent group of people have no clue about what to do in an emergency (or, at the very least, medical) situation.

My adrenaline (or was it just common sense?) took over immediately. First, I yelled across the tent to one of the Wornall House volunteers to get help. She was just a young girl, maybe 19 or 20 years old, and I think she purposely ignored my pleas for assistance as not to get involved. Then, I yelled to another volunteer, an older man this time, who saw what had happened and said he'd go get a wheelchair.

In the meantime, I got my cell phone and called 911. (I'll preface what I'm about to write by saying in my own small town if there is an emergency, I dial the direct number into Central Dispatch. Of course dialing 911 would work just as well, but being a cop's wife, I just feel like I can dial direct.) Anyway, I dialed those important three numbers, your supposed lifeline in the case of any emergency, and what did I get on the other end of the line? A recorded message telling me that all dispatchers were busy, but to stay on the line, because if I hang up, it will take even longer to get someone to help me. I was thoroughly appalled. I had to wait approximately three minutes before a real person answered the phone to speak to me! The first person then transferred me to another person, who asked me a lot of questions, some of which I could answer, and others I asked the wife of the man who had fallen. He was 93 years old, he didn't have any heart problems and he was breathing regularly. They were sending an ambulance, and we were to meet them on Wornall Road, if at all possible.

After hanging up the phone, the male volunteer who had gotten the wheelchair chastised me, saying quite rudely, "You didn't need to call 911. We had it under control. All he did was fall down." Another volunteer, also a man, had a similar opinion and had no qualms about voicing it to me. I told both of them that I was a cop's wife, that 911 needed to be called, and that the gentlemen needed to be checked out by medical professionals.

Soon after, the ambulance arrived. About 15 or so minutes later, I felt the need to go and make sure that the man was going to be okay. The paramedics said that his vitals were stable, but they were going to check him again in about 30 minutes. Between the heat and standing for too long in that tent, it was just too much for him. (Join the club...it was too much for most of us!)

I then turned to his wife to see if if there anything else I could do. "Well, honey," she said with a half smile, holding out a large manila-colored envelope, "I still want to have my item appraised."

"I will make sure that you are at the front of the line. That's the least they can do for you!" I guaranteed her. Taking her item, I went up to the front of the line and explained the situation, pointing to the ambulance a mere 25 feet away. The woman volunteer promised that the couple's item would be next in line, and I watched to make sure that it was.

At the end of the day, my own items weren't appraised for thousands, although Mom's bracelet is worth about $400, which is kind of cool.

I'd like to think, though, that I was under that tent, at that particular time, for a whole different reason. Two men may disagree with me, but I hope that at least one 93-year-old man agrees.

Geometry-Challenged

I have spent several mornings this summer watching Baillie's high school Poms squad, as their regular sponsor has been out of town. Since this is Baillie's fourth year on the Poms, and she is the senior captain, I feel comfortable with most of the girls, and they are quite a talented group of dancers. (I also taught several of them fifth grade way back when, so of course I have a special attachment to those Pommies in particular!)

Anyway, the Poms are in the process of learning their first dance of the new year as they get ready for camp at the end of July. Baillie is one of the choreographers for the dance, and they were working on her portion today. It was a challenging, quick-paced, routine with a kick line, group work and lots of turns.

At one point, when the girls were organized into four small groups, Baillie asked, thinking that everyone would know exactly what she was talking about, "Okay, do you think you guys would be able to make a rhombus now?"

Her question was met with blank stares, "huhs?", and even a few "a WHATs?" Needless to say, no one dared to move from their places. The next five minutes was spent with the girls talking and giggling among themselves trying to figure out what a rhombus was. A few even tried to construct a picture of one on the classroom's whiteboards. Finally, Baillie showed the girls what she meant by holding her index fingers and thumbs together in a rhombus shape.

"Oh, well that's just a diamond in my book," said Andrea with a smile. "Why didn't you just say that?"

You don't even know what a ruckus Baillie caused later when she asked the Pommies to form a collapsed rhombus...

Unsportsmanlike Conduct

I am a big fan of the news, especially the ten o'clock news on Channel Nine. When I tuned in last night, an NBA basketball championship game had pre-empted the news, so I decided to watch the end of the game while waiting for the latest updates on local shootings, kidnappings, robberies, and murders. (Oh, yes, and the occasional human interest story and the two minute weekly weather guess.)

Anyway, the game was a fairly exciting one. Even though I don't keep up with professional sports teams all that much, I enjoy watching basketball, and the two teams seemed evenly matched, and the score was really close. In the final seconds, even, it came down to free throws and fouls, to see who would be the champion. In the end, the San Antonio Spurs won the game by only one point. Both teams, and their fans, should have been proud of the accomplishments of their players, who all worked hard and did their best.

So, the events that played out next on the court of the Cleveland Cavaliers infuriated me. When the championship trophy was handed out to the winning Spurs, all you could hear from the majority of the crown were loud, non-stop "boos." When the trophy for the game's MVP player was announced as Tony Parker, the same thing happened. Granted, I'm sure there were a lot of Ohio fans in the crowd, since the game was played there, and I know that they were upset about their team losing. But whatever happened to being a good sport? Whatever happened to treating others with kindness and respect? Whatever happened to simply "playing well with others"? Whatever happened to just plain being nice?

I'll bet there were a lot of children watching the game last night. Some, I'm hoping, turned off their TVs before the trophies were distributed. Others, unfortunately, had to see and hear the atrocity and embarrassment of what our society has become. If we cannot teach future generations how to be a good sport, how to lose with grace, how to congratulate others with dignity, this cycle will continue.

I can't tell you how much that worries me.

Why Bother?

In my many years of teaching and standardized testing, I have seen a lot of things.

We've moved from all multiple choice, "teach to the test", MMAT and Iowa Basic assessments to a higher-level, written response, MAP assessment. In my first years of teaching, the only calculators allowed were the ones in your head, and now the more scientific and expensive, it seems, the better. Fifteen years ago (heck, five years ago), there was no such thing as an ACT+Writing test. And now many of the more prestigious colleges require that test to show that the prospective student is a well-written, thoughtful, reflective thinker. (Or at least that the teacher scoring the essay test on that particular day believes that he/she is.)

Not only have the tests changed, mind you, but so have the strategies used to study and to take the test. There are mind-boggling editions of ACT/SAT preparation guides, along with books for every AP (advanced placement) test available in high school. Along with that, there are CDs (the musical versions being my personal favorite), computer programs, flashcards, study clubs and after-school and summer prep classes and tutoring sessions. Some parents even pay to have private classes to help their children better prepare for standardized tests.

I thought, then, that nothing would surprise me when I volunteered to supervise a group of high school students taking the ACT test this last Saturday morning. I was wrong.

Of course I had the typical, work-to-last-minute students, who rushed to fill in every blank in the final 15 seconds before the timer went off. I also had the exhausted, "I'd rather be asleep", teens, who obviously dragged themselves out of bed just in time to get to the test. Their yawns all morning long said it all. I appreciated the studious testers the most. I could tell that they wanted to perform well, they read each page and question carefully and paid close attention to the time. They will, most likely, perform the best on the test and ultimately, in life.

Then, there was the boy in the row next to the wall in the second seat back. I didn't recognize him, but I would guess he was probably an upperclassman, most likely a senior. He was a nice-looking, young man, wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, but he just wasn't present from the moment he walked in the door. He didn't talk to anyone, and he sat quietly at his desk the entire morning. When it came time to take the test, his strategy was certainly a unique one. He would read (or at least appear to read; I think he was just looking) at one question. Then, he would close his eyes and sleep for about five or so minutes. Upon waking, he would quickly write down about 10-15 answers in his test booklet. Then, he would start the process over again by reading/looking at another question, sleeping, then writing down about 15 answers. If a test should have taken an hour, it took him 20 minutes. For the final two tests, this young man chose not to even open his test book at all. He simply slept for a bit, then put all the answers down in one fail swoop, and was done with it.

I wanted to ask him why he was even there that day, but he left the room just as quickly as he had finished his tests, so I didn't get the chance.

But as I watched him on and off for the four hours, I kept asking myself the same question. If you don't care about something, if you don't have an investment in it, if you don't see the point or have a reason for doing it, should you even bother doing it at all?

In Memory Of Kelsey

I was drawn to Kelsey Smith's story like the rest of her community, the state and the country. From the first time I saw her picture on the Kansas City news, I had to follow the kidnapping of the 18-year-old with every television blurb, each newspaper story and all internet sites like it was my own daughter.

The parallels to Baillie, in fact, were remarkable. (Of course I'm probably one of millions of moms saying that this morning.) Both were petite, beautiful girls with long, dark, wavy hair. Both were actively involved in both theater and show choir in their high schools. Both had hundreds of family and friends who would go to the ends of the earth to find them if something ever happened to them. Both had fathers in law enforcement, and knew to "check in" in they changed locations. Both thought that they had the whole world and a wonderful future ahead of them, with college and an exciting career. Both felt fearless, as most teenagers do, when entering their local Target store to purchase a gift for their boyfriend.

Today, only my daughter is alive.

Kelsey's body was found yesterday in a wooded area.

Today, a family is grieving.

And the country is grieving with you.

An Incomplete Life

Less than two weeks ago, I sat at my desk while he sat in a chair next to me. He hadn't been able to go on the field trip that day with the rest of the seventh graders because he wasn't done with his autobiography. So, he stayed behind, not necessarily unhappily mind you, to finish his work.

That's how he was. If I ever assigned a detention for work completion, he was always there, and he never understood those students who didn't show up. "I would never miss a detention," he would say. "That's just wrong."

So, for over two hours that day, we sat at my desk, while he gave me a verbal history of his life, as I transcribed it into written pages on my computer screen.

He told of his mom and how much he loved her, his best friends (including Chris), and his favorite teachers.

He remembered his special stuffed dolphin from his childhood with such fond memories. It brought a smile to his face as he described what it looked like, and when he told me that he thought he still had it in a box somewhere.

He discussed the schools he attended and how he liked Warrensburg schools the best.

He shared with me how he loved to ride his bike around the neighborhood, especially with his mom.

He talked about what was "in" and cool with him and his friends, and that he loved classic, hard rock music. He had, in fact, bought tickets for his mom for the two of them to go and see a Def Leppard concert in July at Verizon Amphitheater, and he was really excited about it. He said that peer pressure didn't matter to him, and that he just wore and did what he wanted.

He bragged about getting dirty with trucks and working at his house with equipment and tools, and showed me the calluses and well-worn hands to prove it. His pride was obvious.

He said that his favorite classes were reading and language arts because the teachers in those subjects were the nicest and understood him.

He reflected on the friendship he had with his sister. He talked about how she was the one person he could tell anything, and that he could trust her with all his secrets. He could talk to her about everything, and he was sorry he didn't live with her.

He dreamed about the future, as he knew the importance of education and wanted to get a college degree in business. After that, he declared with determination, he would own his own trucking company with lots of trucks.

Now, the autobiography has been graded, the score has been posted, and the book has been returned. Two weeks have passed, and the school year has come to an end.

His life came to an end, too. Yesterday. In an accident that never should have happened.

Stolen truck. Police chase. Innocent kids, along for the ride. Rammed into a tree. Pinned. Dead on the scene.

Some things just aren't fair, Stephen. You were loved. You were special.

Stephen Hayes, you will be missed.

What's the Matter with Kids Today?

Before I had children, everyone warned me about the "terrible twos." Those years were a breeze with both kids; I sailed through them without nary a problem or tear.

So, why didn't anyone ever tell me about the "terrible teens"? (Sixteen, to be more specific.) I'm not sure I'm going to survive.

Go Ahead, Make My Day!

When leaving our local Country Mart grocery store the other evening, a woman I'll define as "special" greeted me with a boisterous, "Hi, lady!"

I smiled back at the woman, who was taking one quick drag after another on her cigarette. "Well, hi!", I replied back, walking towards my van with my green peppers and Pepsi.

"I like your hair!" she yelled from across the parking lot.

Hey, I'll take the compliments when I can, I thought happily.

Turning around to thank her, the woman, not realizing how her few words had made my night, had disappeared.

Metaphorically Speaking...

So, when an F5 tornado comes roaring through your life, what do you do? Do you stand by passively as the storm rips away pieces of your world, waiting for the debris to settle so you can clean up and rebuild? Or, do you gather all of your most important belongings, go to a safe spot and wait for the storm to subside, knowing that the roof could disappear at any moment? Or, are you the type to go out on the front porch and watch the imminent tragedy occur, possibly even taking pictures of its arrival and destructive dance?

So, what do you do? What should I do?

Heredity 101

With Mom in the hospital once again from yet another fall, I can't help but turn my mind to genes. Yep, based on family history, I'm thinking I'm destined to head down the path of bad health.

Heart problems run on both sides of my family. My dad had his first heart attack right before I was born. A second one seventeen years later killed him at the age of 62. My mom's father died of a heart attack, too, in his mid-70s. Even my own daughter was born with heart trouble, having a condition called atrial septal defect. Basically, Baillie had a hole in her heart. Many specialist's visits later, thank God, the hole had closed on its own.

When Dad was in the hospital with heart attack #1, he found out he had diabetes. With daily medication, he usually kept it under control. Mom found out she had diabetes in her late 60s. Not only does she take meds, but is also insulin-dependent. (Add the fact that she's recently had bouts of blood sugar dropping as low as 40 every few days. Not a good situation.) My sister, Mary, also has adult-onset diabetes, and Katy is convinced that she would have it, too, if she didn't regulate her diet so carefully.

Both my parents were/are victims of high blood pressure. Mine is typically normal, for now. Of course it shot through the roof when I was in labor with Baillie, putting me into shock and forcing an emergency caesarean section delivery so that the doctors could save my life. So, I'm thinking the tendancy is unfortunately there.

Mom has been overweight for many years, with the bulk of her bulge in the stomach area. Of course that's the worst place to put on weight, and as they say, like mother, like daughter. I know I need to do something about the belly, but there just isn't enough time in the day, and I hate the whole sit-up scenario.

There are other conditions, too, as I heard Mom's nurse yesterday rattle off things like Hepatitis C, seizure disorder, and sleep apnia. And, of course, there's the ever elusive idea that Mom probably has multiple myelomia (bone cancer).

Yep, folks, in the gene pool, I think I may be drowning.

Dreams Do Come True

Usually when I watch the news, it's filled with stories of shootings (like the one this morning 5 blocks from where I grew up in Kansas City), car crashes and murderers. Occasionally they throw in a human interest story that is cute or interesting. Like today, they talked of putting some giraffe on birth control because she was a bit too fertile for her own good. Rarely, though, do I hear a story that inspires me or brings me to tears like the sports news feature from yesterday.

Jason McElwain is a senior at a high school in Greece, New York. He is the manager for his school's boy's basketball team. He is also medically diagnosed as high-functioning autistic.

Now, over the years, I have taught quite a few autistic children. I have one right now whose daily smile and spirit bring such joy to my life. Often autistic children have some special talent, such as spelling or a knack for numbers. (The student I have now is an amazing actor and can memorize lines and dance moves like you wouldn't believe!) No matter what others may believe, autistic children are fully capable of learning, thinking and feeling.

Anyway, back to the story...

The coach of Jason's basketball team gave him a very special "Senior" gift. After working only as the team's manager, the coach pulled Jason off the bench and put him out on the court. He finally got the chance to follow his dream and play in a high school basketball game. His first shot was a total miss, a complete air ball about 5 feet from the hoop. He was passed the ball again, though, and made a smooth three-pointer. Jason wasn't done yet. In his words, he was "on fire, just like a pistol!" He went on to make five additional three-point shots in a row, breaking the school record.

The crowd, all holding mask-like posters of Jason's face, went wilder than the girls in Florida on Spring Break. They rushed the court, cheering and putting Jason on their shoulders as their unsung hero. Jason's grin filled the auditorium as he beamed with pride.

For at least one night, one moment, a special senior in New York made his dream a reality.

That, my friends, brings a smile to MY face.

Idol Wars

I'm sure you know all about the world wars and civil wars. Fans of children's literature may even be familiar with the chocolate wars or the pushcart wars. Well, my family is in a battle of sorts of which you've probably never heard. I call it the Idol Wars. American Idol, that is.

My husband and I first started sparring last season. Jim wasn't even a fan of the show at first (or of any reality series, for that matter.) But when I'm in charge of the evening remote, there aren't really many other available options. He was eventually sucked in by the horrendous singing and bloopers and ended up sticking around through the finale. Jim picked "Carrie, my Carrie" Underwood from the start, and my votes each week went to Bo and Anwar. (How can you not root for the sexy Middle School music teacher?!)

Needless to say, Jim won the first war. Carrie won the competition and has since released an amazing country CD that I proudly own.

The new season is well underway, and the fists are out again in our house. Only this time, Dylan has joined in the war. From the moment he saw one of the blonde chicks say "Pick Pickler!" in an adorable Southern twang, he came out fighting. Calling all the others "losers", he dialed furiously last night to put in his votes. Each time a busy signal reached his ear, he'd turn with an emphatic "Hah!" as if to tell us that the whole world was voting just for his favorite.

As Dylan continued to call in from his phone from one couch, I voted for my two picks on mine. Paris, a 17-year-old Georgia belle, is a spunky, amazing singer who I'm confident will go far. Mandisa, a personality-plus, plus-sized underdog, is already another winner in my eyes.

Jim joined in the voting later in the evening. He put in his sympathy votes for Pickler because, although he knows she won't win, he wants her to continue. He likes Paris, too, saying she's so cute "you could roll her up in a ball and play with her." He believes the Idol this year will be a man, though, so is looking forward to tonight's showing of the male competition. (I am anxious to watch, as well, as Ace is a hottie, and I'm intrigued by the antics of the grey-haired Taylor.)

Let the battles ensue, and may the best Idol (or at least my favorite!) win!

MIA

I won't make excuses, friends and readers. I could, and you'd believe me completely and thoroughly, but I won't.

The thing is I've been a little out of sorts lately. I can't totally explain it, really, but I'm sure part of it is depression. The things that I usually like to do have no interest to me. Unfortunately, that includes writing. It's not that I don't have ideas...those still come to me on a regular basis as quickly and easily as water flows from a faucet. It's just that I don't seem to have the energy or desire to put the pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.

Some may ask why I feel this way. After all, I have a job I thoroughly enjoy, a wonderful family and terrific friends who are always there to support me if I ask. And you're right, of course. But there is more to it. I live with constant pain from my car accident, which will eventually lead to a jury trial. (It's been over four years since the wreck; the lack of closure would be enough to make anyone a little stressed, I'm thinking.) I am the mom to two TEENAGERS, one who dates a guy with whom I have extreme issues. Enough said. Add to that the fact that I worry each day that I'll get a phone call saying that something tragic has happened to Mom. I really don't know how I'll deal with that day when it comes.

I just feel like the day to day of my life is getting to me, and it's bringing me down like the thermometer on a freezing winter morning. I just sometimes feel alone in this great big world.

Letter-less

I didn't do my traditional Christmas letter to friends and family this year. It kept appearing on my daily "to do" list, but it simply never got done. Then I decided to make it, for one year only, a New Year's letter. That idea lasted about five minutes. Finally, I came to the conclusion that I didn't need the pressure and crossed it off my list for 2005. Wow. What a burden off my shoulders. Now, if I could just get over the guilt of not letting everyone know what we've been doing this year. So, in a nutshell and a very condensed version, here goes...

Jim: is now working as head Baliff in the courts here in Warrensburg; they gave him the job thinking he would hate it and quit, but who could hate holidays and weekends off for the first time in 17 years plus guaranteed overtime when the judges need you? :)

Bridget: finished her STARR year (on sabbatical) training teachers and is now teaching 7th grade Language Arts and enjoying that age level immensely; still involved in a lawsuit from her car accident from four years (UGH!) ago, and still in lots of ongoing pain.

Baillie: involved in dance (all kinds), Poms, theater, Spanish Club and SADD. She participated in two productions at CMSU this summer (Wizard of Oz and True Story of Little Red Riding Hood), turned 16 in August and has dated (with often more arguments than not) the same guy since May.

Dylan: involved in musical theater, Science Olympiad, Chess Club and soccer. He claims to not have any girlfriends, but there are at least 3-4 girls who call the house on a regular basis to talk to him, so I'm not so sure. It's hard to get Dylan away from the computer and the television; he's quite the techie.

**Sigh of relief.** Glad to get some of that off my chest and out of my mind, even though I'm never going to send the letter.

Merry Late Christmas and Happy 2006!

What's Your Christmas Like?

Here's a fun little quiz to get you in the spirit! :)

Your Christmas is Most Like: A Charlie Brown Christmas

Each year, you really get into the spirit of Christmas. Which is much more important to you than nifty presents.

What Movie Is Your Christmas Most Like?

No Kilts Allowed

I realize that schools must have their dress codes. Our Middle School's policy is long, in fact, and listed specifically in the students' planners. Some of the guidelines include: no hats during the school day, no underwear showing, clothing that refers to alcohol, tobacco, drugs, etc. will not be allowed and the basic rule that students "shall maintain a neat, clean appearance." The school has the right to "restrict any student from attending classes or school activities when such dress, general appearance or conduct creates a safety, health or discipline concern."

What? No mention of kilts in the policy? Of course not, you may think. That would be silly to include that in any school's dress code. And I couldn't agree more.

That's why a recent news story interested me so much. A high-schooler in Jackson, MO wore his clan's kilt to his November high school dance. The principal asked him to remove it, a proud display of his family's heritage and ethnicity, and wear pants instead. Would the same principal ask a student to remove her Japanese kimono, her Indian saree or his/her Mexican sombrero? I sincerely doubt it. So, why was the Scots-Irish teen asked to change his clothes?

I know I'm probably biased. My husband wore a kilt on our first date, as did I, and proudly dons it each St. Patrick's Day as well. My family includes kilted bagpipers at every wedding and most funerals. In addition, my dad was born in Scotland, and I grew up knowing the significance and family meaning behind each particular plaid. To me, a man wearing a kilt is completely acceptable (and pretty darn cute, too!)

So, why, I wonder again, was the student in Jackson asked to remove his kilt? Sometimes I just don't understand what people (the principal, in this case) are thinking when they do something as ignorant, insensitive and unfair as this.

Cooking "School"

**This photo was taken Thanksgiving, 1985, twenty years ago, of Mom and me in the kitchen of the house where I grew up in Kansas City, MO.**

I remember learning to cook from my mom at holiday time, Thanksgiving especially. I probably started when I was about 7 or 8 years old, watching her every move in the kitchen. The menu was vast, and almost always the same from year to year, but that didn't matter to me. I watched, and I learned as she maneuvered around our tiny kitchen and breakfast room like a modern-day Rachael Ray.

First, she would wake up super-early with an alarm clock (the only day of the year she needed one) to put the bird in the oven. There was a preciseness about this that I didn't quite understand, even to this day, but Mom always knew when "the right time" was to put in the turkey in order to have it cooked on time for the family to devour.

Next, there was the obligatory orange jello salad with pineapple, cottage cheese, Cool Whip and mandarin oranges. Early on, Mom allowed me to take over the making of this recipe since it basically required dumping and stirring together. Sometimes other jello salads would be made instead, like a Pistachio pudding salad, but the jist was always the same. Dump, mix and eat!

Of course there were always mashed potatoes with heaping mounds of oozing butter (not margarine, mind you!) dripping down the sides. I remember Mom standing in the corner of our kitchen mixing and mixing on her Kitchenaid until the potatoes were just right, completely lump-free and perfect. I think I even have some old photos of her doing just that.

In the early years, veggies consisted of usually a broccoli-rice casserole (which as a kid, I hated), sweet potatoes and occasionally a green bean casserole with dried onions on top. Later, I introduced a recipe to Mom from my oldest best friend's family called Hidden Valley Veggies (with broccoli, cauliflower and Velveeta cheese), and that soon became a family favorite and staple at family dinners. I was able to learn quickly how to make these recipes, too, as Mom shared her tips of the kitchen and tricks of cooking.

Mom's dressing was traditional in the sense that it included all the innards of the turkey. Yep, all of it. Mom, to this day, says it tastes wonderful; I feel like I'm eating and looking at sludge. I guess food tastes are very much a matter of opinion. (I have to admit I'm grateful that I don't ever have to eat or see that dressing again.)

I always thought it was funny when Mom made sure to open at least two cans of cranberry sauce (both ends, of course!) and dump them (PLOP!) on plates. Nobody ever ate the sauce, but I think she felt that a Thanksgiving without the sauce wouldn't be Thanksgiving at all.

Desserts were the best! I helped Mom with so many desserts over the years, that I'm sure my love for baking came straight from the kitchen at 75th and Grand. There was Coffee Cloud Pie, coffee toffee bars, Pistachio cake, soda cracker pie, "Better Than Sex" cake, bourbon balls, etc. etc. Each year there would be more desserts than people, it seemed, and nobody counted calories or complained.

We haven't had a real Thanksgiving since Mom moved into assisted living. The last few years, we've brought dinner to her place and tried to celebrate there, but somehow that's not the same, and I'm sure never will be.

As the youngest child in my family, I'm so thankful I have those precious times to remember of Mom and me together in the kitchen cooking up holiday meals and a lifetime of memories.

Old Irish Wisdom

"May those that love us love us, and those who don't love us, may God turn their hearts. If He can't turn their hearts, may He turn their ankles so we'll know them by their limping."

A Renewed Passion

Sometimes the older that you get, the more set in your ways you become. You know, more stagnant, more boring, basically "same old, same old" every day. Instead of learning new things, it is often just easier to maintain a basic routine.

I want to change that part of my life.

Back in high school, I was really into photography. I knew how to develop my own pictures and often went on photo excursions around the city looking for just the right picture to take. When I got into college, I was so involved in my major that somehow my hobby that I loved so much went out the window. Sure, I still had the camera and still took pictures at family functions, but it just wasn't the same.

When I got married and had a family of my own, I continued taking photos (lots of them, actually) of the family. When my precious 35mm Canon AE-1 broke, however, due to cost, I opted to buy a cheap "click and shoot" 35mm one instead. My interest in pictures soon waned.

For Christmas last year, Jim bought me a new, wonderful Minolta 35mm camera. It has all the features of my old camera and so much more. For Christmas this year, he has purchased a telephoto lens to go with the camera, which totally excites me.

Finally, my passion for the printed picture is returning. I see things in a new light when I am thinking about how it will look from behind a camera lens. I look at the world in a different way, a clearer way, a way that makes everything seem so much brighter and simpler.

From behind the glass and technology of a camera, I see what could be. And the future is looking up.

Colors of Fall

Lizisms

My sister Liz is a real piece of work. She always has been, really, kind of the black sheep of the family with quirky ideas and interesting mannerisms and tics. She can be super kind one minute, then turn on you the next, so you never know what to expect. (She obsessed recently because she didn't think I returned her phone call. I, of course, had called her back the following day during the first free moment that I got and left her a voicemail, which she apparently hadn't checked. She emailed Katy, my favorite sister, over and over again that night interrogating her as to why I hadn't called back. I know she said some pretty horrific things about me to Katy, but Katy's too nice to repeat them, and it's probably best not to know anyway.)

This past week Liz certainly had some of her most classic moments.

After two hours with Mom, which may be more time than she's spent with Mom alone since she's been in the nursing home, Mom had a bit of a meltdown because of her sore arm and started crying. Liz, in response, wheeled her to the dining room and said, "Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and you cry alone." Then she left. Liz later called Katy and told her how difficult it was being around Mom and how she'll never make it back in assisted living. Come on, Liz, tell us something we don't already know. It's about time you're figuring this out. Now, just stay away from Mom if you can't be sympathetic and helpful.

This week, after three months in the nursing home, we'll be moving Mom back into an assisted living apartment. Katy and I got things packed last weekend, and everything was moved yesterday. As the movers delivered things to her new place, Katy, Mary (another sister) and I unpacked, dusted and got everything in order. Surprise of all surprises (not!), Liz, her husband, and my brother John showed up after the movers had left and after the majority of the work was done.

Taking one look at Katy and me working our butts off to get the apartment in perfect shape for Mom's homecoming, Liz said, after plopping herself down comfortable in a chair, "You're really two peas in a pod, aren't you?"

My only comeback was, "Well, someone has to do the work." (By the way, there's no other person I'd rather be compared to than my sister, Katy. I'd be in a pod with her anytime!)

As the afternoon wore on, while Liz continued to do absolutely nothing, Liz came up with this one. "Do you know what this reminds me of, with all of us rushing around getting the apartment together so quickly? Being in a play and getting all the scenery on and off the stage." Yeah, right, Liz. Some play. At least Katy and I would have leading roles.

After Liz complained from her spot on the chair, "God, it's hot!" one too many times, I finally couldn't put up with it anymore and left for home.

Jim says that since Mom's move to assisted living 3 1/2 years ago after selling her house, my family is becoming like his, separated and distant. I said, "No, it's just Liz."

Sticks and Stones May Break Bones, But Words Hurt More

The words keep resonating in my ears over and over again. They weren't even spoken words, either, which goes to show you the true power of the written language. They instead came in the form of text messages on my cell phone from Baillie's boyfriend, Caleb.

"Hope you're happy that you made her life so miserable..." began the first message, which blasted me for apparently "causing" Baillie to break up with him. What? Me, make Baillie's life miserable? If her life is miserable, then I'd like to live it for a while. That's the kind of misery I'm talkin' about.

"Well, because of you treating Baillie like crap..." started the next. Well, I have my issues, I'm the first to tell you. But I have never treated my daughter like crap and never will. I only want happiness for her and have told her so. I support her like you wouldn't believe and want only the best for her in life.

Still, those words keep coming back to me, and they hurt like hell.

On a recent Everybody Loves Raymond episode, Raymond's father, Frank, said that you hadn't succeeded as a parent until your children hated you. It was a funny episode, with Raymond trying to please his daughter by purchasing a $250 dress for a party just to make her happy and so she wouldn't despise him. At the end of the show, the daughter gets mad anyway and screams at Raymond, "I hate you, Dad!"

Granted, I haven't heard those words yet. Thank God. But the words I have heard stab repeatedly at my heart just as much.

I Hate Halloween!

I don't know when or why it happened, but I absolutely abhor Halloween and everything about it. I don't like the idea of being scared, begging for candy from strangers or playing tricks on people. And I really can't stand dressing up in costumes. Even as a kid, I never got into it. I played along for the sake of being cool to my friends and dressed each year in the easiest outfit I could find. One Halloween I was a bum, with charcoal rubbed on my face and arms. Another I was a girl from the 50s with bobby socks and rolled-up jeans. The only year I went out of my way to excel in the costume department was the year I dressed as Pinky Tuskadero, Fonzie's girlfriend from Happy Days. Yep, I just don't understand the hype. I'm convinced that Halloween is where my fear of clowns comes from, too. They freak me out like there's no tomorrow. All of them. I can't even see a picture of one without breaking into a cold sweat. And those funky creatures tend to come out in droves on Halloween night. What's up with that? I guess I should be thankful that my kids never really got into the Halloween spirit, either. (I'm sure I had something to do with that!) And Jim could care less if we celebrate, just as long as I buy some extra Skittles and M & Ms for him.

Now, Thanksgiving...that's a whole different story. Bring on the family, turkey, relaxation and pie!

No Guts, No Glory

I've had this blog a long time, longer than most have even known what a blog is, for goodness sake. I really never thought this day would come, and I'm sorry to say that it has because of someone out there who likes to appear "anonymous" and write comments towards me that are not appreciated or deserved. So, as of now, at 2:37 am, no more anonymous posters can reply on my site. (I know this won't affect all my regular readers, who always leave their name and who have supported me through so much these past months, especially. I thank you so much for that...you are the best!) But, to the person or persons with no guts to leave your name, you can read, but leave your comments to yourself. I don't have time for it.

Who's In Charge Now?

Overheard at our local Wal-Mart last night...

"Hey, Mom!" a boy of about four years exclaimed excitedly.

"Yes?" she replied nonchalantly as she continued to look through the various pastas on the shelf.

"I'm the master of the world!" he concluded with a grin as wide as an October jack-o-lantern.

Ohhh...to be a kid again...

Backyard Butterfly Kisses

My Mood...NOT! (But It's Fun to Try!)

Your Mood Ring is Blue

Relaxed At ease Calm Lovable

Mood Ring Generator

Can I keep playing until I get the ring that really matches my mood? :)

Tell It Like It Is

Jack sits at the table next to Mom in the dining room at the nursing home. His wife, Rosalie, is there for every meal and takes care of his every need, want and whim. I never really understand her, either, because Jack seems like such a grumpy, stodgy, old fart. You know the type, I'm sure. He is obviously set in his ways, gripes at the workers and complains all the time when I am around him. Still, Rosalie smiles and dotes more like a newlywed than the wife of 63 years that she is.

Today, at lunch, Rosalie helped Jack eat his usual meal of carrots, mashed potatoes and pork with gravy. He fought her every step of the way, yet she kept smiling.

Then the Catholic church volunteer came around with the bulletins as he does each week after Mass. He's kind of a quirky man, but is friendly enough to all the residents and tries to get them to eat their veggies, make small talk, etc. When he got to Jack, he didn't even try to give him a bulletin at first. He just said with a grin, "You look like you're even grumpier today than usual, Jack!"

Jack then called across the room for a bulletin. Rosalie just looked on, probably wondering what her husband was planning. "What are you gonna do--read it?" the volunteer asked rhetorically.

"Nope," Jack responded with a sarcastic smirk. "Gonna wipe my ass with it."

Explain It to Me, Please

I just don't get it. My husband's obsession, that is. And it's not just his obsession, but the emotions surrounding it. It all revolves around Michigan football.

Take today for instance. There was a game on TV. I'm okay with that. I've lived with it for the last 18 years, and, although I am certainly not a football fan (that's putting it lightly), I'm okay with it being a form of entertainment. (I even support him to a certain extent by buying him Michigan items or by taking a vacation to visit the "Big House" in Ann Arbor.) In the last second of the game, Michigan won the game. Jim went from his normal, non-emotional state, to a state of ecstasy. It was as if he were a Michigan player himself or at the very least, had some form of affiliation with the place. But, of course he doesn't.

Someone we know could die, have a baby, go to the hospital, or win tonight's $300 million lottery (wouldn't that be nice?!), and Jim wouldn't change expressions or feelings or even flinch. Yet a team wins a stupid game and his day is suddenly made?

Can somebody please explain this to me?

I just don't get it.

Puddle of Pee and Then Some

It was nine weeks ago yesterday when Mom fell and broke her left humerus and a right rib and had her trip to the hospital. So, wasn't it due time to have another trip (literally)? Sure enough, big, favorite sis Katy called yesterday morning to let me know that Mom had fallen in her own pee when she hadn't made it to the pot on time. (Suffice to say that she is supposed to have assistance to and from the toilet every time she goes, but she is stubborn as hell and won't listen to those who care about her and thus goes on her own most times.)

So, off to the hospital again, where several hours and numerous x-rays later, a new broken rib is discovered, this time on the left side. Go figure, a matching pair.

"Where's John?" Mom asks at one point, when Katy is out of the room. It doesn't matter to her that Katy is always there, or me, or Mary. It's always about John.

"He's not here. Katy left a message for him, but he's at a soccer game."

"He should be here," she says.

"Yes, Mom. But there's nothing we can do about that."

A pain pill later, Mom was in rare form, as belligerent as can be. "I'm just mad at all of you!" she declared as she got in the car to head back to her nursing home. Apparently Mom was upset because I told the nurse that Mom had a problem with pain medicines and that we limited the amount she could have. Then she started a crying fit.

Later, after getting back to her room at the home, Mom continued to let me have it. She also got off the toilet again without help from anyone.

Sometimes when I'm dealing with my mom I feel like I'm the parent of a toddler. I help her change her clothes, I cut her food, I change her (adult) diaper, I pull up her pants, I have to talk "down" to her to make her understand me, I repeat things, I have to help her walk, I have to explain why she can't have too many pain pills, etc. etc.

Mom may have fallen in a puddle of pee, but I often feel like I'm sinking in a pile of poop.

Truth-Teller

"I just love that bib that babies wear that says 'Spit Happens', Mom stated matter-of-factly yesterday. Then she rambled on for about an hour to her high school friend about everything that had happened to her since her August 6th arm-breaking accident.

"And you know what?" Mom continued. "The older you get, the more spit that happens!"

Yes, Mom, ain't that the truth?!

Don't Sweat It

I don't understand the small stuff. You know, the pettiness that comes my way, especially in teaching. Well, more specifically, with other teachers. It happens all the time, really. Teachers who don't mind their own business. Teachers who think they know you, but don't have a flippin' clue. Teachers whose only goal in life is to get you in trouble for the small things, when in reality, the small things don't really matter at all.

A prime example happened just yesterday. A student of mine had to leave early from school at 2pm. Instead of writing her assignment down for her, I cut and pasted the day's work from my class' homework site and printed it off. Since I don't have a printer in my classroom (imagine that, a writing teacher without a computer printer...that's a whole different story...), I printed to the one across the hall in the seventh grade teacher's lounge. Keep in mind that lunch shifts were over, and it was nearing the end of the school day. I told the student to run across and get the sheet off the printer so she could take it with her to her doctor's appointment.

Later in the day, the library aide came into my classroom out of the blue. (You have to realize, this woman doesn't even know my name, and would have no reason to be in my room unless there was a technology problem.) "You know, if you want to have your computers set to print to the library, you can. I can set that up for you. I don't know if anyone told you, since you're new here, but you're not supposed to have students get papers off the printer in the lounge. Someone told me that you are doing that."

"Oh," I responded, taken back by the fact that I was ratted out by such an insignificant event as this, and that whoever had an issue in the first place didn't have the guts to come to me with it. "You're right, I didn't know. From now on, I will get the papers myself, even though that means leaving students alone in the classroom. I guess it's a good thing I'm right across the hall so it's somewhat convenient."

Yep, I just don't get it at all.

In Loving Memory, Part II

Sir Angus MacNair
August 17,1994-
September 24,2005






Angus, without Lanie, you lost your partner, your friend, your heart.
Go look for her in heaven, and rest in peace forever, Mr. Angus.
You will be missed.

Teachers Touch Lives Forever

We all have at least one. Even if you despised school, most everyone can name one teacher who has had an effect on their life, be it positive or negative. We do, after all, often spend more time with teachers than we do with our own family, or even with our friends, when growing up. So, it shouldn't come as any surprise that teachers have such an influence on our lives.

Inside TV magazine posted a list recently of the "Most Memorable Teachers on TV." Number one on the list was Mr. Kotter, teacher of the famous Sweathogs on the 70s television show Welcome Back Kotter. A few of the other TV teachers honored were Laura Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie, Mark Cooper from Hangin' with Mr. Cooper, Lydia Grant on Fame and Edna Krobappel, the teacher on The Simpsons.

What? No Mr. Feeney from Boy Meets World? He was one of the most realistic teachers on the air, as he was not only a teacher, but also a counselor, friend, confidante and constant encourager. And what about all the teachers on my favorite, now-defunct teacher show, Boston Public? They struggled with real-world problems in a public high school and still managed to motivate students and keep them learning to the best of their ability under the circumstances provided. That's real teaching.

As I reflected on this list, I was reminded of my all-time favorite teacher. Mr. Mike Maloney was my 7th and 8th grade Social Studies teacher. He was also my homeroom teacher for 8th grade. To an adolescent, Mr. Maloney was the coolest. His teaching strategies were far ahead of his time; he used games and fun activities to help us learn, and it worked. I remember his famous boys vs. girls "Capital Downs" where we had to know the capital of every country in the world. Other than the new countries created since then, I can still recite all the capital cities. (It is a great way to impress my students, let me tell you. Plus, if I'm ever on Jeopardy, I'm sure to clear the "Capital City" category.) Mr. Maloney played the guitar and put things we needed to learn to music. Again, way ahead of his time. When John Lennon was shot and killed in 1981, we spent the day in mourning singing Beatles' songs along to his guitar accompaniment. I respected Mr. Maloney so much. When he caught me copying off of Kim Connelly's test, I didn't feel badly because of my failing grade. I felt badly because I had failed my teacher. Mr. Maloney knew the importance of making learning active and fun. He was friends with us, but we also knew that he wanted us to leave his class educated. Because we liked and respected him, we met, and often exceeded, his expectations.

Thirteen years ago, when I got my first full-time teaching job, I called Mr. Maloney to thank him for being such an inspiration to me. It's because of him that I am a teacher, and I wanted to tell him that. I was sorry to find out that he had left the teaching field. (I have discovered that some of the best educators are not liked by administrators, yet adored and revered by their students. I wonder why that is...) He wasn't at all surprised that I had become a teacher. He claimed that he knew I would be. We went on to chat about our families, other classmates and where our lives had taken us over the years. Just like when I was a 7th and 8th grader, I was taken by the fact that Mr. Maloney was still so cool and my most memorable teacher ever.

So, what about you? Who is your most memorable teacher and how did they affect you or change your life?

Happy Birthday, Dad

It's so hard to believe that Dad's been gone since 1984. That seems so unreal to me. Looking back, there were so many things I didn't know about him, questions left unasked, things a "normal" child should know about their parent. I missed out on all of that. I saw Dad dwindling to nothing but a skeleton in front of my eyes those last couple of years, but I was a typical selfish teenager and didn't want to admit or face the obvious. That was stupid and so regrettable. The older I get, the more I miss him. Some days, like today, I miss him a whole, whole lot.

Happy 84th birthday, Dad.

XXXX 0000,
Your Baby,
Bridget