I've heard a lot of people commenting that they simply aren't feelin' Christmas. What a relief to know I am not alone.
What does it take to get into the Christmas spirit? I used to get into the holiday spirit easily, starting with the day before Thanksgiving. Just the anticipation of days off from work, sleeping in, and eating lots of good food was enough to bring on the holiday happies. The month between Thanksgiving and Christmas was fun at school. I abandoned the strictly regulated curriculum for fun writing assignments. The kids loved the one (created and shared by my buddy Rachel Coutts at a professional development day) where they wrote a letter from the point-of-view of the turkey that convinced the farmer to eat something else for dinner. The kids had a great time with the topic, and I had the pleasure of reading some very well-written persuasive papers. We watched the B&W version of It's a Wonderful Life which, at that time, many of them had never seen. Then, they wrote about their world if they didn't exist to impact it. It was another good batch of papers. Besides the fun activities, the kids were in good moods and it showed. Sometimes I even got cards, notes, and gifts. If you were lucky enough to teach one of the Callahan kids you were gifted with legendary baked goods. I gave generously to charity and truly needy people. I decorated my classroom. I decorated my home. I baked cookies, gave parties, tinseled a live tree, and sent and received tons of Christmas cards. Christmas was THE SEASON in the old days.
I don't do any of that stuff any more. I feel that void, I guess, when I bah humbug the holidays.
The decorations in the shopping centers don't put me in "the spirit." I hate shopping in crowds. The pressure to buy the "right" gift is ever on me. I am disappointed when I give something and the recipient isn't thrilled. (I know, I know, thrilled is asking a lot.) It has become pretty common to give gifts by sending them home with people who will actually see the recipient. There's something not quite right about exchanging gifts with people you no longer see. It's just not Christmassy! The Christmas specials on television are terrible. Hallmark has been running 24/7 holiday movies since before Thanksgiving. But have I seen a single Ebenezer Scrooge? Heard the words, Every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings? Been crooned a tune by the Bing? No. These movies are all fluffy romances with the same interchangeable cast of soap opera looking actors. Boring! I can't remember the last Christmas party I attended or hosted. What a shame because I used to party the whole month. The music on the radio are the same songs looped over and over again. Dominic the Donkey is not Christmas, but in my opinion Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer is. Guess which one I've heard a bazillion times and which one I have yet to hear? And snow? We haven't had a whole lot of snow in years. Today, it rained all day. The world is grey and wet. Just like my mood.
So how do I handle my seasonal disorder? Realistically by expecting little and enjoying what does occur. First of all, I have given up on a month of holiday fun and festivities. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day - that's it for me. And that's ok. It helps me keep the meaning of the season in the forefront. Advent services soothe my soul. My charity donations are not so personal anymore, but I've written a bunch of checks lately. I know I'm helping others, as I try to do throughout the year. I don't exchange as many gifts as I once did, but at my age what do I need (that anybody I know can afford ha ha)? Cards and Christmas letters have gone the way of email and Facebook shout outs. Saves me a lot of work, right? I keep in perspective that I enjoy a good life, and that is something to celebrate every day of the year. And if that doesn't work, I keep a box of wine chilling in the fridge.
Happy holidays to you! Enjoy your Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa, New Year's! And if you know someone who's feeling a little blue this season, bake them a bunch of cookies and pour them a glass of wine. Feel the spirit!
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Monday, December 2, 2013
Kids and Common Core
This time of the year always makes me think of one of my former students whom I shall call Paul.
He was one of those kids who sat quietly in the back of the room. He didn't disrupt, often because he wasn't awake through the whole class. He did his classwork, but there was never any homework completed. He was skinny, pale, and rarely smiled. He had dead eyes.
Nobody seemed to know much about him except that he came from a "good" family. I wasn't too sure what qualified his as a good family. The neighborhood they lived in? The family name that was well-known in town? The siblings and cousins who excelled at school? He didn't look like a kid from a "good" family. He was always tired. Sometimes I had to buy him lunch. And, he refused to remove his coat. Many times he hunkered into it and dozed off in class.
Because I rarely let kids get away with doing nothing, I started talking to him. A lot. At first we discussed school work. He willingly stayed after school for help, but his grades barely improved. Eventually, I started getting him to talk about home. When I learned this boy was being verbally abused, occasionally hit, and often not fed, I was angry. When he told me about the night his father locked him out of the house, I was furious. It was freezing cold that night. One of the girls sitting near him heard our "casual" chat, and she confirmed she'd seen him wandering the neighborhood that night. I reported this to the guidance counselor, and he got to work on it.
Paul went into foster care. At Christmas time. I took some gifts and went to visit him in his temporary home. The family was nice. It was a comfort to be warm, fed, and certain of where he'd be sleeping at night, but he was completely miserable. It was Christmas time and his father had thrown him away. He was mad at the world, probably at me too, and who could blame him? He did not finish the school year with us as he began the bounce from foster home to foster home. I never heard from him again.
I have never forgotten him.
When politicians babble about what has to be done in the schools, when politicians throw money into "accountability" tests, when politicians tie teacher performance to student results, I think of Paul. There's nothing in the Common Core that addresses the needs of kids like Paul. No page in that curriculum can help a student whose foremost thoughts are of survival. Yet, it is all the teacher's fault when they don't succeed. I did what I could for Paul and it wasn't enough to bring him academic success. I hope his life eventually stabilized and that he graduated from high school. What politicians don't know is that there are many kids like Paul. All students need to feel that school is a safe and welcoming place for them; not a place to cause them nightmares on the nights before testing. What I wish politicians would learn is that the pressures of state testing and pushing every kid to attain the same level of academic achievement is not education. What I wish politicians would experience is daily classroom life so that the "curriculum" they develop is realistic to the kids they force to swallow it.
Yes, and I wish for peace on Earth, too.
He was one of those kids who sat quietly in the back of the room. He didn't disrupt, often because he wasn't awake through the whole class. He did his classwork, but there was never any homework completed. He was skinny, pale, and rarely smiled. He had dead eyes.
Nobody seemed to know much about him except that he came from a "good" family. I wasn't too sure what qualified his as a good family. The neighborhood they lived in? The family name that was well-known in town? The siblings and cousins who excelled at school? He didn't look like a kid from a "good" family. He was always tired. Sometimes I had to buy him lunch. And, he refused to remove his coat. Many times he hunkered into it and dozed off in class.
Because I rarely let kids get away with doing nothing, I started talking to him. A lot. At first we discussed school work. He willingly stayed after school for help, but his grades barely improved. Eventually, I started getting him to talk about home. When I learned this boy was being verbally abused, occasionally hit, and often not fed, I was angry. When he told me about the night his father locked him out of the house, I was furious. It was freezing cold that night. One of the girls sitting near him heard our "casual" chat, and she confirmed she'd seen him wandering the neighborhood that night. I reported this to the guidance counselor, and he got to work on it.
Paul went into foster care. At Christmas time. I took some gifts and went to visit him in his temporary home. The family was nice. It was a comfort to be warm, fed, and certain of where he'd be sleeping at night, but he was completely miserable. It was Christmas time and his father had thrown him away. He was mad at the world, probably at me too, and who could blame him? He did not finish the school year with us as he began the bounce from foster home to foster home. I never heard from him again.
I have never forgotten him.
When politicians babble about what has to be done in the schools, when politicians throw money into "accountability" tests, when politicians tie teacher performance to student results, I think of Paul. There's nothing in the Common Core that addresses the needs of kids like Paul. No page in that curriculum can help a student whose foremost thoughts are of survival. Yet, it is all the teacher's fault when they don't succeed. I did what I could for Paul and it wasn't enough to bring him academic success. I hope his life eventually stabilized and that he graduated from high school. What politicians don't know is that there are many kids like Paul. All students need to feel that school is a safe and welcoming place for them; not a place to cause them nightmares on the nights before testing. What I wish politicians would learn is that the pressures of state testing and pushing every kid to attain the same level of academic achievement is not education. What I wish politicians would experience is daily classroom life so that the "curriculum" they develop is realistic to the kids they force to swallow it.
Yes, and I wish for peace on Earth, too.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Where were you when the world stood still fifty years ago?
Fifty years ago on November 21, I had no idea that it would be the last day of my childhood innocence. Who would have thought that me, a ten year old girl, would become glued to the news and fixed in front of a black and white television watching the world as she knew it explode? Kids today have been exposed to many televised horrors that were unknown to ten year olds in 1963. Unknown that was, until the Friday when President John F. Kennedy, father of Caroline and John-John, was murdered. Today, I am sharing a piece that I wrote in 1989 for my middle school's literary magazine.
November 22, 1988
On this twenty-fifth anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, it has been said repeatedly that those who were old enough to understand can remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news. I remember that day and those that followed as clearly as I remember the happenings of last week.
Twenty-five years ago I was ten years old and a fifth grade student at Darby Township Elementary School in Glenolden, Pennsylvania. We were ending recess and had been assembled in orderly lines for our return to the classrooms.
Two women teachers, whose names I've long forgotten but whose faces are etched forever in my memory, stood at the head of the lines. The taller and greyer of the two held a transistor radio to her ear, as the shorter teacher held onto her arm, tilted her head, and strained to listen. Their faces, frozen with horror, warned us to wait quietly. We shifted uncomfortably in our silent lines, wondering about the reason for the delay, but too afraid to ask.
Finally, the teacher announced that the President of the United States had been shot.
The orderly lines disintegrated into pandemonium. Everybody began talking at once. Though the noise was deafening, it was as if I had slipped into a vacuum of silence. Shocked and sickened by the news, I withdrew from the crowd, drifted off to one of the logs surrounding the playground, sat down, and quietly began to weep.
I remember being the only person crying. Gradually, other students drifted over to stare and me and speculate about my tears. I could hear them asking: Why is she crying? Did she know the President? Was he her uncle? And so, the silly rumors began. My friend, Keith, awkwardly patted the top of my head as I bent over and pressed my face to the tops of my knees. He quietly whispered over and over again that it would be all right.
Eventually, we drifted back to our classrooms. By the time President Kennedy's death had been officially announced, everyone else had begun to weep. My tears, however, had stopped. The numbing shock that was to last for days had set in.
I did not know then why I cried. Perhaps I mourned the death of Caroline and John-John's father. Perhaps I was terrified by this sudden upheaval in my life and in my country. Perhaps I realized deep in my heart that a time of innocence, a time adults called Camelot, was over. My country would never again be the same. Neither would I.
November 22, 1988
On this twenty-fifth anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, it has been said repeatedly that those who were old enough to understand can remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news. I remember that day and those that followed as clearly as I remember the happenings of last week.
Twenty-five years ago I was ten years old and a fifth grade student at Darby Township Elementary School in Glenolden, Pennsylvania. We were ending recess and had been assembled in orderly lines for our return to the classrooms.
Two women teachers, whose names I've long forgotten but whose faces are etched forever in my memory, stood at the head of the lines. The taller and greyer of the two held a transistor radio to her ear, as the shorter teacher held onto her arm, tilted her head, and strained to listen. Their faces, frozen with horror, warned us to wait quietly. We shifted uncomfortably in our silent lines, wondering about the reason for the delay, but too afraid to ask.
Finally, the teacher announced that the President of the United States had been shot.
The orderly lines disintegrated into pandemonium. Everybody began talking at once. Though the noise was deafening, it was as if I had slipped into a vacuum of silence. Shocked and sickened by the news, I withdrew from the crowd, drifted off to one of the logs surrounding the playground, sat down, and quietly began to weep.
I remember being the only person crying. Gradually, other students drifted over to stare and me and speculate about my tears. I could hear them asking: Why is she crying? Did she know the President? Was he her uncle? And so, the silly rumors began. My friend, Keith, awkwardly patted the top of my head as I bent over and pressed my face to the tops of my knees. He quietly whispered over and over again that it would be all right.
Eventually, we drifted back to our classrooms. By the time President Kennedy's death had been officially announced, everyone else had begun to weep. My tears, however, had stopped. The numbing shock that was to last for days had set in.
I did not know then why I cried. Perhaps I mourned the death of Caroline and John-John's father. Perhaps I was terrified by this sudden upheaval in my life and in my country. Perhaps I realized deep in my heart that a time of innocence, a time adults called Camelot, was over. My country would never again be the same. Neither would I.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Buh Bye Keswick Theater
I used to love the Keswick theater, a smallish venue outside of Philadelphia. Those of you who remember the Main Point in Bryn Mawr know how special a place like that can be. Sadly, the Keswick is no longer this generation's Main Point.
Over the years, I have seen all kinds of shows there from Chinese acrobats to Wanda Sykes to fake Beatles to Cyndi Lauper, twice. After last night however, I am done with them. Cyndi was great, the Keswick not so great.
The Keswick needs to decide if they are a dance venue or a theater venue. Seriously, I know that many clubs exist where kids go in, grab their booze at the bar, then stand on an open dance floor where they actively experience the music. Last I checked, the Keswick didn't have a mosh pit in their theater. They had seats. Expensive seats. Seats that too many people choose to ignore. I get it if you want to stand up and dance as the concert draws to an end; a good musician should drive you to that point. But to stand for the sake of standing is just plain rude!
Don't tell me to get with it and join in the standing fun. At five feet tall, I'd have to stand on the seat to see over the six feet tall gaggle of gay guys blocking my view. Yes, I know Cyndi is a great friend to the LGBT community; but news flash guys - you do not have the corner on fandom. She did not write Girls Just Wanna Have Fun for you! She wrote it for me and all those other women twice your age whose views you were blocking. If you possessed an ounce of courtesy, you'd have moved your dance party to the sides of the theater. But nooooo, you were going to do what you wanted, when you wanted, and where you wanted.
I blame the Keswick for this. When people from the back congregate up front blocking the aisles and the views of those who paid a hefty fee for their seats, security needs to return them to their section. When people are standing and audience members are yelling, Down in front, don't expect your patrons to cooperate. Send security to sit them the hell down. I saw a few things that scared me. This big old blockhead was standing in the aisle, dancing in a way most white men try to avoid. A little, and I mean tiny, woman confronted him and asked him to sit. He began screaming at her, bending down, face purple, spittle flying and telling her to F this and F that or he would F her up. I was frozen and ready to go get help, when she backed away and he went back to his stupid little dance. That asshat was dangerous and stinkin' drunk and should have been removed from the theater. Cyndi had to stop her concert to appeal to some audience members who'd started to fist fight. What where they fighting over? Idiots blocking their views. And that brings me to what has really turned me off to the Keswick - their irresponsible sale of alcohol.
Any business that sells alcohol is required by law to stop serving customers who are obviously intoxicated. Not the Keswick. Unlike other theaters I've attended, their bar is open from an hour before the show starts to its close. From what I observed, they are doing a booming business. I was shocked to see a guy balancing six beers in his hands as he stumbled down the aisle. Does the theater have any idea where that alcohol is going? (No!) Are they providing limitless booze for underage drinkers? (Yes!) Is alcohol being delivered to people too drunk to walk to the bar by themselves? (Yes!) How many of those same people are going to start fights in the theater? (From what I saw, there were a bunch of "fires" being put out by Lauper's security.) How many of those people will get behind the wheel of a car at the end of the show? When is the Pennsylvania Liquor Board going to shut them down? Think about that lack of revenue, Keswick Theater owners, as you peddle your cocktails.
Which one is it, Keswick? Are you a theater venue or a dance bar? 'Cause I don't go to dance bars anymore. Until you decide what you are, I won't be going to Glenside for theater anymore either.
Over the years, I have seen all kinds of shows there from Chinese acrobats to Wanda Sykes to fake Beatles to Cyndi Lauper, twice. After last night however, I am done with them. Cyndi was great, the Keswick not so great.
The Keswick needs to decide if they are a dance venue or a theater venue. Seriously, I know that many clubs exist where kids go in, grab their booze at the bar, then stand on an open dance floor where they actively experience the music. Last I checked, the Keswick didn't have a mosh pit in their theater. They had seats. Expensive seats. Seats that too many people choose to ignore. I get it if you want to stand up and dance as the concert draws to an end; a good musician should drive you to that point. But to stand for the sake of standing is just plain rude!
Don't tell me to get with it and join in the standing fun. At five feet tall, I'd have to stand on the seat to see over the six feet tall gaggle of gay guys blocking my view. Yes, I know Cyndi is a great friend to the LGBT community; but news flash guys - you do not have the corner on fandom. She did not write Girls Just Wanna Have Fun for you! She wrote it for me and all those other women twice your age whose views you were blocking. If you possessed an ounce of courtesy, you'd have moved your dance party to the sides of the theater. But nooooo, you were going to do what you wanted, when you wanted, and where you wanted.
I blame the Keswick for this. When people from the back congregate up front blocking the aisles and the views of those who paid a hefty fee for their seats, security needs to return them to their section. When people are standing and audience members are yelling, Down in front, don't expect your patrons to cooperate. Send security to sit them the hell down. I saw a few things that scared me. This big old blockhead was standing in the aisle, dancing in a way most white men try to avoid. A little, and I mean tiny, woman confronted him and asked him to sit. He began screaming at her, bending down, face purple, spittle flying and telling her to F this and F that or he would F her up. I was frozen and ready to go get help, when she backed away and he went back to his stupid little dance. That asshat was dangerous and stinkin' drunk and should have been removed from the theater. Cyndi had to stop her concert to appeal to some audience members who'd started to fist fight. What where they fighting over? Idiots blocking their views. And that brings me to what has really turned me off to the Keswick - their irresponsible sale of alcohol.
Any business that sells alcohol is required by law to stop serving customers who are obviously intoxicated. Not the Keswick. Unlike other theaters I've attended, their bar is open from an hour before the show starts to its close. From what I observed, they are doing a booming business. I was shocked to see a guy balancing six beers in his hands as he stumbled down the aisle. Does the theater have any idea where that alcohol is going? (No!) Are they providing limitless booze for underage drinkers? (Yes!) Is alcohol being delivered to people too drunk to walk to the bar by themselves? (Yes!) How many of those same people are going to start fights in the theater? (From what I saw, there were a bunch of "fires" being put out by Lauper's security.) How many of those people will get behind the wheel of a car at the end of the show? When is the Pennsylvania Liquor Board going to shut them down? Think about that lack of revenue, Keswick Theater owners, as you peddle your cocktails.
Which one is it, Keswick? Are you a theater venue or a dance bar? 'Cause I don't go to dance bars anymore. Until you decide what you are, I won't be going to Glenside for theater anymore either.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Former Students...Part 1 in a Series
All of you who know me know that my weakness is Facebook. I love the daily statuses, the games, and being on top of world events, especially Hollywood world events. What you might not know is that one of my biggest pleasures concerning FB, though, is the opportunity I've had to peek into the adult lives of my former students. I'm going to name names (in most cases), so if any of you kids object, just message me and I'll invent a fake name for you. Right Aimee Granger? LOL You know who you are.
I must start with one of my favorite students in the whole world. Now, that doesn't mean the rest of you weren't important, but this kid grabbed my heart and I have never forgotten him. Tony Saunders, come on down!
When Tony was in seventh grade, he was a mess. He was doing poorly in class, his behavior made him the talk of the faculty room, and he was a fixture in the assistant principal's office. At the time, Bart Simpson was a popular cartoon character. No lie, Tony looked just like him. Well, our assistant principal, Mrs. Jones, decided that each of us on the team was to select an at-risk student and mentor him/her. However, we were not to let the students know they had been selected; we were to establish helping, encouraging relationships on the sly. When I eagerly announced I wanted to mentor Tony, my team members had the deer-in-the-headlight look before they burst out laughing.
Such cynics! I already knew that Tony could be reached. I'd taught his older brother, I knew his mother cared, and maybe this kid was wild, but he was not a lost cause. So, as we were instructed, I made an effort to get to know Tony. To get him to trust me. To get him through seventh grade.
Every day he'd come to homeroom and I'd ask him how things were going, if he'd done his homework, if he had his library book for class, if he needed a pencil for the day. Tony was smart, though, and he caught on to my not so subtle tactics. One day, I remember him looking at me in horror and blurting out, "Ms. Snyder! Why do you talk to me so much?!?" The jig was up. So I told him the truth, I had to. I told him that he was my project. He rolled his eyes, probably called me crazy under his breath, but he put up with me. It was a difficult year. One day I even called his mom in tears because I was so angry and frustrated with him. As always, she was very supportive. I never gave up on him. Due to many different factors, he began experiencing success in his classes; his grades improved, and he realized he liked doing well. Tony made it through seventh grade. I was there the evening he graduated from high school. Now, I see him on FB. He's a hardworking young man, and I'm proud of the person he has become.
I'm really glad for FB because I would not have known what happened to him unless I read about him in The Record or The Aegis. (We locals know that is not where you want to be featured.) I'm not totally up on all that happens in Tony's life because I have most of his feeds blocked. Bless his heart, he and his friends use the F-word as noun, verb, adjective, and adverb. And I can't help it, but such a lazy use of the English language just drives this English teacher crazy.
(PS: In case any of you are horrified that I have used his real name, please know that I obtained his permission before sharing this. And, I didn't reveal half the stuff I learned about him during our homeroom conversations. )
I must start with one of my favorite students in the whole world. Now, that doesn't mean the rest of you weren't important, but this kid grabbed my heart and I have never forgotten him. Tony Saunders, come on down!
When Tony was in seventh grade, he was a mess. He was doing poorly in class, his behavior made him the talk of the faculty room, and he was a fixture in the assistant principal's office. At the time, Bart Simpson was a popular cartoon character. No lie, Tony looked just like him. Well, our assistant principal, Mrs. Jones, decided that each of us on the team was to select an at-risk student and mentor him/her. However, we were not to let the students know they had been selected; we were to establish helping, encouraging relationships on the sly. When I eagerly announced I wanted to mentor Tony, my team members had the deer-in-the-headlight look before they burst out laughing.
Such cynics! I already knew that Tony could be reached. I'd taught his older brother, I knew his mother cared, and maybe this kid was wild, but he was not a lost cause. So, as we were instructed, I made an effort to get to know Tony. To get him to trust me. To get him through seventh grade.
Every day he'd come to homeroom and I'd ask him how things were going, if he'd done his homework, if he had his library book for class, if he needed a pencil for the day. Tony was smart, though, and he caught on to my not so subtle tactics. One day, I remember him looking at me in horror and blurting out, "Ms. Snyder! Why do you talk to me so much?!?" The jig was up. So I told him the truth, I had to. I told him that he was my project. He rolled his eyes, probably called me crazy under his breath, but he put up with me. It was a difficult year. One day I even called his mom in tears because I was so angry and frustrated with him. As always, she was very supportive. I never gave up on him. Due to many different factors, he began experiencing success in his classes; his grades improved, and he realized he liked doing well. Tony made it through seventh grade. I was there the evening he graduated from high school. Now, I see him on FB. He's a hardworking young man, and I'm proud of the person he has become.
I'm really glad for FB because I would not have known what happened to him unless I read about him in The Record or The Aegis. (We locals know that is not where you want to be featured.) I'm not totally up on all that happens in Tony's life because I have most of his feeds blocked. Bless his heart, he and his friends use the F-word as noun, verb, adjective, and adverb. And I can't help it, but such a lazy use of the English language just drives this English teacher crazy.
(PS: In case any of you are horrified that I have used his real name, please know that I obtained his permission before sharing this. And, I didn't reveal half the stuff I learned about him during our homeroom conversations. )
Friday, November 8, 2013
Procrastination
One of the downsides to my retirement is that it has allowed one of my bad habits to flourish. I am a procrastinator. A certified procrastinator. Yes indeed, I even have the certificate to prove it! Years ago the Procrastinators of America allowed you to join their organization for a small donation. I eventually got around to sending the donation, they eventually got around to sending the certificate, but I never got around to renewing my membership. I'm sure, though, that I continue to be a member of this fine organization because I'm sure they rarely get around to clearing their files.
But I digress. The point I had started to make was that because I am retired and under few actual time restraints, I can put off until tomorrow just about everything. However, that stuff needs to get done!! I just don't feel like doing it ... today. Or in some cases, this week, this month, or even this year.
When I taught, doctor appointments were always tricky. I'd schedule the annual ones for the summer. The regular ones I'd try to fit in without having to make plans for a substitute. I'd "get 'er done" because I had to do it. Scheduling was a must in order to complete all the demands on my days. They were the good old days of regular wellness check ups.
All this talk of health care has reminded me of all the check-ups I haven't had in months, years, or forever. I need to get to the dentist. I have health insurance and I should take advantage of those teeth cleanings and check-ups. I hate the dentist. But, I love my teeth. Gotta get there...one of these days. It's been so long that I actually had to do internet research to remember my gyno's name. I wonder if she'll remember me? Breast Cancer Month passed with me thinking, I gotta get those babies squashed one of these days. And Nancy, I have not forgotten your kind offer a few years ago to take me to my colonoscopy appointment, whenever I make it. Sigh. I'll be mad as hell at myself if I do finally get these things done and find out I let something awful go undiagnosed. Mad as hell.
Yes, I need to make these appointments. Soon. But, you know, the holidays are coming up and they're going to be so busy....
But I digress. The point I had started to make was that because I am retired and under few actual time restraints, I can put off until tomorrow just about everything. However, that stuff needs to get done!! I just don't feel like doing it ... today. Or in some cases, this week, this month, or even this year.
When I taught, doctor appointments were always tricky. I'd schedule the annual ones for the summer. The regular ones I'd try to fit in without having to make plans for a substitute. I'd "get 'er done" because I had to do it. Scheduling was a must in order to complete all the demands on my days. They were the good old days of regular wellness check ups.
All this talk of health care has reminded me of all the check-ups I haven't had in months, years, or forever. I need to get to the dentist. I have health insurance and I should take advantage of those teeth cleanings and check-ups. I hate the dentist. But, I love my teeth. Gotta get there...one of these days. It's been so long that I actually had to do internet research to remember my gyno's name. I wonder if she'll remember me? Breast Cancer Month passed with me thinking, I gotta get those babies squashed one of these days. And Nancy, I have not forgotten your kind offer a few years ago to take me to my colonoscopy appointment, whenever I make it. Sigh. I'll be mad as hell at myself if I do finally get these things done and find out I let something awful go undiagnosed. Mad as hell.
Yes, I need to make these appointments. Soon. But, you know, the holidays are coming up and they're going to be so busy....
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Happy Curmudgeon Halloween
I hate Halloween.
You'd think that someone who loves theater as much as I would be orgasmic at the chance to dress up and act crazy. Nope, not me. My favorite acting gigs were the ones that provided a costume director, and all I had to do was put on what he/she set out for me to wear. (xxoo to my favorite Costume Boy - you know who you are)
I was all excited about the costume I'd selected for this year. I dressed as a member of the Tea Party for Rita's soiree last weekend. My friend, Marie, who identifies with the Tea Party, seemed a little miffed at the idea because she knows I'm a bleeding heart liberal. But she didn't seem offended by my costume choice when I told her I wore a red, white, and blue dress with an 'Impeach Obama' campaign button, and that I carried a tea cup with a few tea bags.
The costume bombed. Just bombed.
First of all, I had far too many people clapping me on the back and saying "Oh yeah!" when they noticed the campaign button. When I explained I was a liberal and the costume was a joke, they backed away and stayed away for most of the evening. After I put down the tea cup, no one knew who/what I was. I like wigs, and so I chose a 50's style bob for the evening. Unfortunately, it was a red wig. Without my tea cup, the party guests thought I was trying to be Lucy Ricardo. It is very tiring to carry a prop and continually explain your costume. It just sucks the fun out of it.
So when Dee wanted to dress up and go to a local restaurant tonight for dinner, I realized that my costume wasn't going to work. Now, I have to come up with another costume, and that just feels like too darn much work. I think I have settled on being a politically incorrect gypsy. Of course, I can't find my zumba belt. The long black wig I once wore is a tangled mess. Most of the jewelry I used to dress up the ubiquitous black dress has been sold at a yard sale or two. And my scarves? I think I gave all of them to my nieces for dress up. Sigh.
Because of my age, once I do get dressed up, I can't do what really makes Halloween worthwhile. I don't think too many people will open up their candy bowls to a sixty year old trick-or-treater. I can eat a pillow case full of chocolate in one sitting. And then, because I am old enough to drive, I can head over to the stores tomorrow for half-price Halloween candy. Yep, I could do all that except I am an overweight diabetic and I do NOT dare indulge in a chocolate binge.
I hate Halloween.
You'd think that someone who loves theater as much as I would be orgasmic at the chance to dress up and act crazy. Nope, not me. My favorite acting gigs were the ones that provided a costume director, and all I had to do was put on what he/she set out for me to wear. (xxoo to my favorite Costume Boy - you know who you are)
I was all excited about the costume I'd selected for this year. I dressed as a member of the Tea Party for Rita's soiree last weekend. My friend, Marie, who identifies with the Tea Party, seemed a little miffed at the idea because she knows I'm a bleeding heart liberal. But she didn't seem offended by my costume choice when I told her I wore a red, white, and blue dress with an 'Impeach Obama' campaign button, and that I carried a tea cup with a few tea bags.
The costume bombed. Just bombed.
First of all, I had far too many people clapping me on the back and saying "Oh yeah!" when they noticed the campaign button. When I explained I was a liberal and the costume was a joke, they backed away and stayed away for most of the evening. After I put down the tea cup, no one knew who/what I was. I like wigs, and so I chose a 50's style bob for the evening. Unfortunately, it was a red wig. Without my tea cup, the party guests thought I was trying to be Lucy Ricardo. It is very tiring to carry a prop and continually explain your costume. It just sucks the fun out of it.
So when Dee wanted to dress up and go to a local restaurant tonight for dinner, I realized that my costume wasn't going to work. Now, I have to come up with another costume, and that just feels like too darn much work. I think I have settled on being a politically incorrect gypsy. Of course, I can't find my zumba belt. The long black wig I once wore is a tangled mess. Most of the jewelry I used to dress up the ubiquitous black dress has been sold at a yard sale or two. And my scarves? I think I gave all of them to my nieces for dress up. Sigh.
Because of my age, once I do get dressed up, I can't do what really makes Halloween worthwhile. I don't think too many people will open up their candy bowls to a sixty year old trick-or-treater. I can eat a pillow case full of chocolate in one sitting. And then, because I am old enough to drive, I can head over to the stores tomorrow for half-price Halloween candy. Yep, I could do all that except I am an overweight diabetic and I do NOT dare indulge in a chocolate binge.
I hate Halloween.
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