Money makes the world go round, the world go round, the world go round...... Did you simply read that or did you visualize Joel Grey, Cabaret, and find yourself humming along?
Few of us have enough of it. Judging from media stories of exorbitance, some of us have too much of it. I have yet to meet the person that has just the right amount.
Do you ever fantasize about what you'd do if a huge amount of cash just plopped down into your lap? I have. I'd donate a ton of it directly to teachers for their classrooms. I've dreamed of setting up a Make a Wish Foundation type organization for them. I'd read through the applications like I used to grade my papers. Good writing skills? Clear sentences? Excellent spelling? Those A+ requests would go to the head of the line. Of course, I would donate to my church. Now that we have a real rector, I'd enjoy using my money to help the memberships and missions expand. I'd gladly put to rest the money worries that drain people close to me of some of their joy of life. I'd continue doing random acts of kindness, but on a grand scale. What fun that would be! I'd get my house repainted, recarpeted, and refloored. Yep, I'd even spring for a new bathroom and a walk-in closet. Because I'd have money, I'd probably also need a security system. I don't have a desire to move, but a condo on a beach would be nice to visit.
Too much money would destroy one of the activities I really enjoy. I love bargains and bargain shopping. The thrill is in the hunt and the find at the yard sale, at a Boscov's markdown, or on Kohl's mystery discount days. Who wants to shop if you can afford anything you want? Who would even know what they want? I'd want everything I saw... for a while anyhow.
I have never been able to make a budget and stick strictly to it. A few years ago, I recorded all of my expenses so I could see exactly where my money was going. It was mind-boggling how those miscellaneous expenses added up. I'm doing it again this year and comparing it to that first year I recorded my expenses. Although I make the same number of entries per month, I am spending so much more on gas and groceries. I wish my income was growing in such leaps and bounds. While I don't budget, this book helps me keep an eye on what I spend and where I need to curtail my expenses. It helps a lot in managing my money. If you've never done this, I recommend giving it a try. It's eye-opening to see where it all goes.
But there's the rub. And the reason money worries me. It always goes. I can't see where I can cut the expenses by a whole lot. Though I live frugally as it is, it seems like anytime I get ahead, something happens that causes me to hit the savings account. Occasionally, I can't sleep at night thinking about the what-ifs should financial disaster strike. I've been in this house for twenty plus years; you homeowners know what that probably means.
Sometimes I get angry. I get angry at the Kanyes and Kims of the world who flaunt their greed and prosperity. I get annoyed at the influence such displays of extravagance have on impressionable people who think they can only be happy if living like that. I get angry at puffy politicians who have theirs and continually deny others who need help. There's a fundraising group for wounded warriors? Our government isn't there for them? That's shameful. Movie stars, overpaid athletes, puffy politicians -- give back a little. It would help a lot.
My mother would be turning over in her grave if she knew I was writing about money. That is the one thing she thought no one should ever discuss with acquaintances, let alone strangers. She's probably right, but I didn't give away too many personal details. Did I? I muse about many things, money only being one of them. Forgive me, Mom.
********
"Let us all be happy and live within our means, even if we have to borrow the money to do it with."
-- Charles Farrar Browne
Friday, March 14, 2014
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Ode to Buddy Boy
Today my sister and her daughters had the sad task of helping their beagle, Buddy, travel across the Rainbow Bridge. I wasn't sure how to comfort her except to acknowledge how much he was loved and the good life she and her kids gave him. We always called him the Lucky Dog because he managed to get adopted. When Buddy was given up for adoption, he was not a cuddly Snoopy-like puppy. Think Walter the Farting Dog, and you have him.
Helen originally went to the SPCA to see about the basset hound up for adoption. When she met Abby, there was this sad-faced beagle hanging with her. They called him her brother, and if I remember correctly, Helen was given the option to take only the basset. But, if you know my sister, there was no leaving Buddy behind.
And it is a good thing she took him, because not only was he devoted to Abby, Abby the Diva Dog expected Buddy to attend to her. He was very good at warming a spot on the couch for Abby to sleep on when she was ready to roost. He attended to her hygiene, frequently cleaning her long basset ears. He was her punching bag when the grumpy girl wanted someone to snap at. He was always at her beck-and-call; poor Abby is going to be lost without him.
Buddy had one expression, old man serious. He looked the same way when he was happy as he did when he was hungry, sad, or lonely. He wasn't a snugly dog, but once he learned that pats on the head felt good, he'd nudge your hand and look at you with those sad eyes until you petted him. He backed away if Trixie or Abby pushed forward, but he'd wait and return later for more.
Buddy loved to eat. Anything. And I mean anything. I won't go into detail about how he supplemented his daily two bowls of diet food, but it was disgusting. One of my funniest memories of Buddy involves his voracious appetite. One night Helen made a roast for dinner. As we were cleaning up the kitchen and chatting away, our backs were to the table. We heard the telltale thump; Buddy had gotten on the table and he had the roast in his mouth. Well, it was an expensive hunk of meat, and Helen wasn't about to let him make off with it, so she grabbed the other end and a tug-of-war broke out. Helen was yelling at Buddy to drop it, he was hanging on tight, and Trixie snuck up and under the roast eating as much of it as she could grab. I guess Helen eventually won as he dropped the roast, but there were no midnight roast beef sandwiches for any of us.
I often thought of Buddy as Billie's dog. She'll tell you her guinea pig hates her and her bird ignores her, but Buddy was always there for her. She liked to take him for walks, in and out of the house. She'd snuggle with him on the couch when they watched television. He'd listen to her play the violin, and he'd let her dress him up like a girly dog. But, she drew the line at allowing him to sleep in her room because Buddy had a bad habit of lifting his leg. (Helen has gone through a lot of carpet cleaner.)
Buddy snored like an elephant's trumpet. If a dog could have sleep apnea, I would guess Buddy had it. He was so loud we'd have to turn up the television to hear above him. He could rattle the windows. I would never let him sleep in my room because the sound drove me nuts. So, each night he slept in my sister's room. I guess his snoring didn't bother her because they snored in tandem.
He's sleeping peacefully now. Helen gave the girls the option of being with him when he was put to sleep, and they went there to say their goodbyes. I'm proud of them for being so brave. I'm glad they were able to love him to the end. Now, he's scampering around the Rainbow Bridge with Lucy, White Dog, Abner, Daisy, Cleo, Mr. Dobbs, and Tramp. Goodbye little Buddy. We'll miss you.
Helen originally went to the SPCA to see about the basset hound up for adoption. When she met Abby, there was this sad-faced beagle hanging with her. They called him her brother, and if I remember correctly, Helen was given the option to take only the basset. But, if you know my sister, there was no leaving Buddy behind.
And it is a good thing she took him, because not only was he devoted to Abby, Abby the Diva Dog expected Buddy to attend to her. He was very good at warming a spot on the couch for Abby to sleep on when she was ready to roost. He attended to her hygiene, frequently cleaning her long basset ears. He was her punching bag when the grumpy girl wanted someone to snap at. He was always at her beck-and-call; poor Abby is going to be lost without him.
Buddy had one expression, old man serious. He looked the same way when he was happy as he did when he was hungry, sad, or lonely. He wasn't a snugly dog, but once he learned that pats on the head felt good, he'd nudge your hand and look at you with those sad eyes until you petted him. He backed away if Trixie or Abby pushed forward, but he'd wait and return later for more.
Buddy loved to eat. Anything. And I mean anything. I won't go into detail about how he supplemented his daily two bowls of diet food, but it was disgusting. One of my funniest memories of Buddy involves his voracious appetite. One night Helen made a roast for dinner. As we were cleaning up the kitchen and chatting away, our backs were to the table. We heard the telltale thump; Buddy had gotten on the table and he had the roast in his mouth. Well, it was an expensive hunk of meat, and Helen wasn't about to let him make off with it, so she grabbed the other end and a tug-of-war broke out. Helen was yelling at Buddy to drop it, he was hanging on tight, and Trixie snuck up and under the roast eating as much of it as she could grab. I guess Helen eventually won as he dropped the roast, but there were no midnight roast beef sandwiches for any of us.
I often thought of Buddy as Billie's dog. She'll tell you her guinea pig hates her and her bird ignores her, but Buddy was always there for her. She liked to take him for walks, in and out of the house. She'd snuggle with him on the couch when they watched television. He'd listen to her play the violin, and he'd let her dress him up like a girly dog. But, she drew the line at allowing him to sleep in her room because Buddy had a bad habit of lifting his leg. (Helen has gone through a lot of carpet cleaner.)
Buddy snored like an elephant's trumpet. If a dog could have sleep apnea, I would guess Buddy had it. He was so loud we'd have to turn up the television to hear above him. He could rattle the windows. I would never let him sleep in my room because the sound drove me nuts. So, each night he slept in my sister's room. I guess his snoring didn't bother her because they snored in tandem.
He's sleeping peacefully now. Helen gave the girls the option of being with him when he was put to sleep, and they went there to say their goodbyes. I'm proud of them for being so brave. I'm glad they were able to love him to the end. Now, he's scampering around the Rainbow Bridge with Lucy, White Dog, Abner, Daisy, Cleo, Mr. Dobbs, and Tramp. Goodbye little Buddy. We'll miss you.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Age?
Age, and not looking one's age, is a hot topic in American culture. Magazines abound with cosmetic tricks to fool the mirror. Young is good; old is bad. I have been told I look younger than my age, good for my age, or just plain tired. Which is it?
When I was a young woman, I looked like a kid. I remember a parent coming in for a conference during my first year of teaching. Her eyes widened and she asked me, "Jeez, just how old are you?" I was always carded at bars and liquor stores. Eventually, I stopped getting carded, and I realized I was getting old and looking old.
When I was somewhere around forty, I went out for a night on the town with three younger people. Anthony and Jimmy were somewhere in their late twenties. I had no idea how old Denise was, but I assumed she was close to my age. I guess I assumed wrong, because the bouncer at the bar just glanced at her ID. When I showed him mine, his eyes opened wide and he appeared startled. Not sure how to take it, I guessed he was surprised by how much older I was than the others. I was somewhat insulted at the time, but I look back on that night and realize I should have been flattered that at first glance, he took me to be their contemporary.
At church this Sunday, we sang to celebrate Margaret's birthday. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she said she was eighty. Eighty! Holy cow - my mother died at eighty. This woman didn't look a day over seventy. She's slender, has thick beautiful silver hair in a pageboy style, wears little makeup, and is spry and bouncy in her movements. Maybe it is genetics that keep her young; maybe it is a healthy lifestyle. Whatever it is, no cosmetics made her look as good as she does.
My hair is grey. I dye it, but if you look closely, I have a stripe right now that is demanding I color it. I often ponder letting it grey, after all, I am sixty. My teeth are dull. I was blinded by the teeth on the newscaster last night. However, unlike hers, my teeth have survived twenty years of smoking, forty years of coffee, and ten years (at least) of anxiety grinding and peppermint chewing. Could any cosmetic treatment even make them white and shiny? Would they appear bizarre like that newscaster, or would I look younger with pearly whites? Does it matter?
Madison Avenue surely thinks it matters; the advertising industry banks on our insecurities. Since being housebound by the recent snowstorms, I've been inundated with commercials and magazine ads aimed at making me look as young as possible for a lot of money. I'm not sure I have enough money to spend to make this old woman look young again. But, the ads are beginning to get to me, even though deep in my heart, I know most models are airbrushed. Airbrushed or not, Annie Potts is sixty and so is Marylou Henner. Now that's what I want my sixty to look like. Sadly, my sixty looks more like Aunt Bea. No, I'm not turning off the television, but I will be trolling the cosmetic counters at the malls.
I'll be looking for that miracle in a jar that has the power to turn Aunt Bea into Marylou Henner. When I find it, I'll let you know.
When I was a young woman, I looked like a kid. I remember a parent coming in for a conference during my first year of teaching. Her eyes widened and she asked me, "Jeez, just how old are you?" I was always carded at bars and liquor stores. Eventually, I stopped getting carded, and I realized I was getting old and looking old.
When I was somewhere around forty, I went out for a night on the town with three younger people. Anthony and Jimmy were somewhere in their late twenties. I had no idea how old Denise was, but I assumed she was close to my age. I guess I assumed wrong, because the bouncer at the bar just glanced at her ID. When I showed him mine, his eyes opened wide and he appeared startled. Not sure how to take it, I guessed he was surprised by how much older I was than the others. I was somewhat insulted at the time, but I look back on that night and realize I should have been flattered that at first glance, he took me to be their contemporary.
At church this Sunday, we sang to celebrate Margaret's birthday. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she said she was eighty. Eighty! Holy cow - my mother died at eighty. This woman didn't look a day over seventy. She's slender, has thick beautiful silver hair in a pageboy style, wears little makeup, and is spry and bouncy in her movements. Maybe it is genetics that keep her young; maybe it is a healthy lifestyle. Whatever it is, no cosmetics made her look as good as she does.
My hair is grey. I dye it, but if you look closely, I have a stripe right now that is demanding I color it. I often ponder letting it grey, after all, I am sixty. My teeth are dull. I was blinded by the teeth on the newscaster last night. However, unlike hers, my teeth have survived twenty years of smoking, forty years of coffee, and ten years (at least) of anxiety grinding and peppermint chewing. Could any cosmetic treatment even make them white and shiny? Would they appear bizarre like that newscaster, or would I look younger with pearly whites? Does it matter?
Madison Avenue surely thinks it matters; the advertising industry banks on our insecurities. Since being housebound by the recent snowstorms, I've been inundated with commercials and magazine ads aimed at making me look as young as possible for a lot of money. I'm not sure I have enough money to spend to make this old woman look young again. But, the ads are beginning to get to me, even though deep in my heart, I know most models are airbrushed. Airbrushed or not, Annie Potts is sixty and so is Marylou Henner. Now that's what I want my sixty to look like. Sadly, my sixty looks more like Aunt Bea. No, I'm not turning off the television, but I will be trolling the cosmetic counters at the malls.
I'll be looking for that miracle in a jar that has the power to turn Aunt Bea into Marylou Henner. When I find it, I'll let you know.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Valentine's Day?
Not being much of a holiday fanatic, Valentine's Day barely registers with me. I understand the rest of America doesn't feel that way. Television commercials put a lot of pressure on folks to measure their love by the price of their gift. One commercial even went so far as to pooh-pooh chocolates and flowers as passé. Shameful!
I remember when I was a kid that my dad would bring home heart-shaped boxes of candy for all of us, small ones for the kids and a pretty big one for Mom. Yum! All of that chocolate put us in happy and loving moods. We exchanged Valentine cards at school. Those were the days before we were required by school law to give a card to everybody. I probably didn't get as many Valentines as some, but it was fun to see who did consider me a friend and important to file away for later, those who did not. I remember when Lynn S. got the big store bought card from Jeffery Z. All of us girls were jealous. She just stuck her nose up in the air and accepted it like a Kardashian, like she was due such adoration. I'm glad I no longer check my mailbox for Valentines. Like Charlie Brown, I'd have more luck getting a rock.
When I was in college, Valentine's Day was a big deal. I was an RA so I had the job of receiving the flowers and calling the recipients to come down to the office and make a BFD out of a bunch of carnations. One VD, my friend Smitty was the security guard for our dorm. He was a tall thin guy who was always hungry. I had baked him a cake, which I presented after closing the office. He laid a kiss on me, surprising me off my feet. I think that was my first and last Valentine's Day kiss, but it shed some light on why many people love this holiday.
I do remember one special Valentine card, and I still have it. I was sorta seeing two guys at the same time; one lived in Maryland and one I'd met through friends at home. I really, really liked the guy at home, but I was shy and not quite sure what to do about it. Even after he sent me a Valentine and signed it, "Love, Dan." While there aren't too many times in my life I'd like a do-over, that time is definitely one of them. Dan, wherever you are, I am so sorry!! What a mistake I made.
Sigh.
In '81 or '82, we got out of school early due to an afternoon snow on Valentine's Day. I agreed to meet a few teachers at the bar of the local Chinese Restaurant for a few drinks before following the snow plow home. At the door of the restaurant a young woman and I were cleaning off our shoes and chatting about the horrible weather. Her husband was meeting her there for dinner. She insisted that I looked familiar; she was sure she knew me. I told her she must have me confused with another one of the many short, chubby, brown-haired women who populate the Earth, and then I bounced off to the bar for a Singapore Sling. When nature called, I bounced off to the bathroom and stopped dead in my tracks. Eating dinner with my friend from the doorway was the other true love of my life, G.B. Now I knew why I looked so familiar to her. G. and I both had cameras and we considered ourselves budding professional photographers. We had taken many pictures of each other. I guess G didn't destroy my pictures when he got married. So that's how she knew me though I had never seen her before. Awkward. Painful. And a light bulb moment for the three of us. I do remember a few more Singapore Slings. I don't remember how I got home that night.
That's it. Those are the only Valentine Day memories I've accumulated over sixty years of life. As I said, the holiday barely registers with me. If it's important to you, I hope you have a good one.
I remember when I was a kid that my dad would bring home heart-shaped boxes of candy for all of us, small ones for the kids and a pretty big one for Mom. Yum! All of that chocolate put us in happy and loving moods. We exchanged Valentine cards at school. Those were the days before we were required by school law to give a card to everybody. I probably didn't get as many Valentines as some, but it was fun to see who did consider me a friend and important to file away for later, those who did not. I remember when Lynn S. got the big store bought card from Jeffery Z. All of us girls were jealous. She just stuck her nose up in the air and accepted it like a Kardashian, like she was due such adoration. I'm glad I no longer check my mailbox for Valentines. Like Charlie Brown, I'd have more luck getting a rock.
When I was in college, Valentine's Day was a big deal. I was an RA so I had the job of receiving the flowers and calling the recipients to come down to the office and make a BFD out of a bunch of carnations. One VD, my friend Smitty was the security guard for our dorm. He was a tall thin guy who was always hungry. I had baked him a cake, which I presented after closing the office. He laid a kiss on me, surprising me off my feet. I think that was my first and last Valentine's Day kiss, but it shed some light on why many people love this holiday.
I do remember one special Valentine card, and I still have it. I was sorta seeing two guys at the same time; one lived in Maryland and one I'd met through friends at home. I really, really liked the guy at home, but I was shy and not quite sure what to do about it. Even after he sent me a Valentine and signed it, "Love, Dan." While there aren't too many times in my life I'd like a do-over, that time is definitely one of them. Dan, wherever you are, I am so sorry!! What a mistake I made.
Sigh.
In '81 or '82, we got out of school early due to an afternoon snow on Valentine's Day. I agreed to meet a few teachers at the bar of the local Chinese Restaurant for a few drinks before following the snow plow home. At the door of the restaurant a young woman and I were cleaning off our shoes and chatting about the horrible weather. Her husband was meeting her there for dinner. She insisted that I looked familiar; she was sure she knew me. I told her she must have me confused with another one of the many short, chubby, brown-haired women who populate the Earth, and then I bounced off to the bar for a Singapore Sling. When nature called, I bounced off to the bathroom and stopped dead in my tracks. Eating dinner with my friend from the doorway was the other true love of my life, G.B. Now I knew why I looked so familiar to her. G. and I both had cameras and we considered ourselves budding professional photographers. We had taken many pictures of each other. I guess G didn't destroy my pictures when he got married. So that's how she knew me though I had never seen her before. Awkward. Painful. And a light bulb moment for the three of us. I do remember a few more Singapore Slings. I don't remember how I got home that night.
That's it. Those are the only Valentine Day memories I've accumulated over sixty years of life. As I said, the holiday barely registers with me. If it's important to you, I hope you have a good one.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Black History Month
I'm not sure what the current politically correct term is these days. Perhaps it is African-American history month. If so, forgive me my error, my heart is in the right place.
February is the month that schools are supposed to work the history of our Black population into the curriculum. Right there is the problem in a nutshell. Why are we "working" this part of our country's history into any curriculum anymore? Why in 2014 is the curriculum in schools not yet fully integrated? And why do the lesson plans provided focus on Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks? Was there was no "history" in our country before and after those two?
As a language arts teacher, I felt an obligation to honor the people of the month. My literature books offered a smattering of Langston Hughes, which was good, but not enough. Then I discovered a non-fiction book, and I was able to develop a February curriculum that met my needs. Warriors Don't Cry by Melba Patillo Beals is the true story of the integration of Little Rock High School. It's an unforgettable story, and one that I had not heard before a Scholastic magazine offered an excerpt.
My students were awed by the story of what those children endured in order to go to school - threats of violence, name calling, physical attacks, and death threats to name a few of their daily obstacles. Mr. Bobby Parks, a local legend, spoke to my class about the effects of the civil rights movement in our little city. My students presented a dramatic reading that chronicled the history of the African people from the days of slavery to present day America. It did my heart proud to see a racially mixed bunch of seventh graders singing "We Shall Overcome" in front of their peers. I gave my students a month of learning meant to last them a lifetime. It was an honor to do.
From what I understand, the books are no longer used by the teachers at my school. The strict curriculum which guides their lessons includes no mention of Black History Month lessons. This, of course, is another example of the schools expecting the impossible of their teachers -- stay on the curriculum, prepare for the test, and figure out some way to meet the requirements of BHM without losing your spot in the test driven curriculum. Then, give a write-up of your activity so the school can document how dedicated it is to honoring the month without losing a beat in test preparations.
Somehow, our dedicated teachers do it the best that they can. Kudos to those who care enough to do their very best.
'Cause they get to do it again next month. Did you know that March is Women's History Month - the time to honor the women in our history? What? you say. There are women who changed the course of our world??? Who'd a thunk it?
February is the month that schools are supposed to work the history of our Black population into the curriculum. Right there is the problem in a nutshell. Why are we "working" this part of our country's history into any curriculum anymore? Why in 2014 is the curriculum in schools not yet fully integrated? And why do the lesson plans provided focus on Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks? Was there was no "history" in our country before and after those two?
As a language arts teacher, I felt an obligation to honor the people of the month. My literature books offered a smattering of Langston Hughes, which was good, but not enough. Then I discovered a non-fiction book, and I was able to develop a February curriculum that met my needs. Warriors Don't Cry by Melba Patillo Beals is the true story of the integration of Little Rock High School. It's an unforgettable story, and one that I had not heard before a Scholastic magazine offered an excerpt.
My students were awed by the story of what those children endured in order to go to school - threats of violence, name calling, physical attacks, and death threats to name a few of their daily obstacles. Mr. Bobby Parks, a local legend, spoke to my class about the effects of the civil rights movement in our little city. My students presented a dramatic reading that chronicled the history of the African people from the days of slavery to present day America. It did my heart proud to see a racially mixed bunch of seventh graders singing "We Shall Overcome" in front of their peers. I gave my students a month of learning meant to last them a lifetime. It was an honor to do.
From what I understand, the books are no longer used by the teachers at my school. The strict curriculum which guides their lessons includes no mention of Black History Month lessons. This, of course, is another example of the schools expecting the impossible of their teachers -- stay on the curriculum, prepare for the test, and figure out some way to meet the requirements of BHM without losing your spot in the test driven curriculum. Then, give a write-up of your activity so the school can document how dedicated it is to honoring the month without losing a beat in test preparations.
Somehow, our dedicated teachers do it the best that they can. Kudos to those who care enough to do their very best.
'Cause they get to do it again next month. Did you know that March is Women's History Month - the time to honor the women in our history? What? you say. There are women who changed the course of our world??? Who'd a thunk it?
Friday, February 7, 2014
Babysitting Black and Blues
I'm babysitting my nieces this weekend as my sister escapes for a few days to scrapbook some event in their lives that happened oh, five or six years ago. She rarely gets the chance to go away, so these weekends are precious to her. I can't say no. Wouldn't dream of saying no. Even though her sidewalk is covered in icy patches.
Why are icy patches such a problem? Six years and eleven months ago I came to help babysit while our mom was in the hospital. Six years and eleven months ago, I fell on the ice in my sister's driveway. And my life was never the same again.
That night, it was my turn to be at the nursing home to force the staff there to make sure my mother was properly cared for before putting her to bed. If one of us wasn't there, we'd find Mom in despicable condition the next day. So, as I said, it was my turn and I didn't return to Helen's house until after midnight. Glenn, our brother, had cleared the driveway after the recent ice storm; but there was one patch of black ice left. In one more step I'd have been in the safety of the garage. I never made it. I slid on that patch and fell so hard I actually bounced a couple of times on the macadam. The pain was excruciating, and I couldn't get up. I yelled for help, but no one could hear me. Luckily, I could crawl to my cellphone. Even more luckily, it was charged so I could call for help. I refused to go to the hospital, and said we could reevaluate the next day.
There was no question the next day that I had to get checked out. Poor Helen had a choice, sit with me in the emergency room or go to my mother's hospice meeting. Of course Mom won, so she plopped me in a wheelchair and I was on my own. It was a while before I got into see a doctor. I was cheerful and joking with the nurses and the doctor until they told me my leg was broken in two places. Then I just started crying. And crying. And crying.
I ended up living at my sister's house for ten long weeks, enduring three surgeries, and extended couch rest as I was unable to put any pressure on my leg. It was my last year of teaching, and I had planned some grand end of the year activities. They never happened; but to this day I am thankful for the friends at school who took care of everything that needed to be done so I could heal.
The broken leg actually turned out to be one of those blessings in disguise you always hear about. Had I not broken my leg, I would not have been able to be with my family before, during, and after my mom passed away. Teachers cannot take off from school for long periods of time; it doesn't matter what your family crisis is. You suck it up because you have to get those kids ready for the state tests. By the time I could have applied for leave, my mother would have been gone and my sister left alone with her two young daughters to handle everything. My brother's grief made him worthless for a while. So, it was a blessing that the broken leg allowed me to be with my family when they most needed me.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this piece. I am babysitting and even though it was shoveled, there are still patches of ice on the sidewalk. After navigating my way past them once, I felt like I was home free. The girls will have friends sleep over tonight. When Helen shared the secret stash of junk food with me, I was thrilled that there'd be enough and I wouldn't have to venture out on the icy sidewalk to drive to the grocery store. And then it happened.
The oldest niece drank the last drop of milk.
So, I am leaving the safety of a carpeted house to dodge ice patches and get a gallon of lactose-free milk and more junk food. Cross your fingers that I get to the store and back unharmed. May the odds be ever in my favor.
Why are icy patches such a problem? Six years and eleven months ago I came to help babysit while our mom was in the hospital. Six years and eleven months ago, I fell on the ice in my sister's driveway. And my life was never the same again.
That night, it was my turn to be at the nursing home to force the staff there to make sure my mother was properly cared for before putting her to bed. If one of us wasn't there, we'd find Mom in despicable condition the next day. So, as I said, it was my turn and I didn't return to Helen's house until after midnight. Glenn, our brother, had cleared the driveway after the recent ice storm; but there was one patch of black ice left. In one more step I'd have been in the safety of the garage. I never made it. I slid on that patch and fell so hard I actually bounced a couple of times on the macadam. The pain was excruciating, and I couldn't get up. I yelled for help, but no one could hear me. Luckily, I could crawl to my cellphone. Even more luckily, it was charged so I could call for help. I refused to go to the hospital, and said we could reevaluate the next day.
There was no question the next day that I had to get checked out. Poor Helen had a choice, sit with me in the emergency room or go to my mother's hospice meeting. Of course Mom won, so she plopped me in a wheelchair and I was on my own. It was a while before I got into see a doctor. I was cheerful and joking with the nurses and the doctor until they told me my leg was broken in two places. Then I just started crying. And crying. And crying.
I ended up living at my sister's house for ten long weeks, enduring three surgeries, and extended couch rest as I was unable to put any pressure on my leg. It was my last year of teaching, and I had planned some grand end of the year activities. They never happened; but to this day I am thankful for the friends at school who took care of everything that needed to be done so I could heal.
The broken leg actually turned out to be one of those blessings in disguise you always hear about. Had I not broken my leg, I would not have been able to be with my family before, during, and after my mom passed away. Teachers cannot take off from school for long periods of time; it doesn't matter what your family crisis is. You suck it up because you have to get those kids ready for the state tests. By the time I could have applied for leave, my mother would have been gone and my sister left alone with her two young daughters to handle everything. My brother's grief made him worthless for a while. So, it was a blessing that the broken leg allowed me to be with my family when they most needed me.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this piece. I am babysitting and even though it was shoveled, there are still patches of ice on the sidewalk. After navigating my way past them once, I felt like I was home free. The girls will have friends sleep over tonight. When Helen shared the secret stash of junk food with me, I was thrilled that there'd be enough and I wouldn't have to venture out on the icy sidewalk to drive to the grocery store. And then it happened.
The oldest niece drank the last drop of milk.
So, I am leaving the safety of a carpeted house to dodge ice patches and get a gallon of lactose-free milk and more junk food. Cross your fingers that I get to the store and back unharmed. May the odds be ever in my favor.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Cruisin'
I just returned from a cruise to the Bahamas. Oh Bahama Mama, it was a warm and wonderful experience. If you've never taken a cruise, this is the year you should do it.
For my friends who live in the Baltimore area, this port is a great one to navigate. I worried about driving in and being overwhelmed by traffic and confusion. Didn't happen. Dee and I left on a Sunday and returned on a Sunday so there was no business traffic. They will take your bags as you drive into the parking lot. Hand them over with a smile and a small tip. Parking must be paid as you pull into the lot; have cash so the process is faster (our cost was $105 for seven days). It was a long snaking line to get on the boat. If someone in your group is handicapped or if you are bringing young children, register ahead of time and pay the small fee that allows for preferential boarding and disembarkment. You'll be in a waiting lounge and processed quickly. If not, you may be standing in an hour long line getting to know your fellow cruisers.
The Pride, a Carnival ship out of Baltimore, is a beauty. The theme is Renaissance, so there are lots of thematic murals and decoratively carved moldings and statues. Translated, there will be a lot of boobs in your face. It's art, folks. Don't take your kids if such art offends you. I often saw young men being photographed holding the breasts of the reclining nude who's painted on the wall near the Karaoke stage. Laugh folks; it's funny, not crude. Even your kids will laugh. Learn the difference between the front and back of the ship. Aft is the back, so think ass. You will spend less time wandering aimlessly looking at the art.
The Pride has one formal dining room. Unless it is elegant night, the dress code seems to be anything goes. I suggest 6:00 seating. We were always quickly admitted; but the later diners waited for ages in a long line before being seated. Have fun with your waitstaff. Beatrice was the life of our party! You can order whatever you want from the menu. On elegant night, two entrees were prime rib and lobster tail. I couldn't choose, so I ordered both. I wanted the lobster tail on the plate with the steak, but beware. If you order both you will receive two complete dinners. You can always eat at the buffet stations if you don't want to be restricted to a time. I loved our dining companions!!! Nancy and Carolyn were two ladies around my age and with whom I had an instant relaxed rapport. Joyce and Patty were a mother/daughter team who looked like sisters. It's lots of fun talking to people other than those you'll be with 24/7. The tip for the waitstaff is included in your cabin charges. However, I tipped the waitress and her staff a bit extra the last night because they were especially attentive and lively. The water girl was so shocked that I tipped her as well as her "boss," she hugged me three times. The photographers will send a pirate around on the first night. Smile pretty; my first pirate photo is still one of my favorites.
Pictures!!! Photographers are everywhere. Play fashion model and pose for all of them. It's a fun way to spend some of those leisure hours. You don't have to buy pictures if you don't want them. Be careful, though, if you are one of the beautiful people. You will want every photo you see, and they are expensive starting at $12 for the 4"x6". Don't even think about stealing them as the pictures have sensors that set off a shrieking alarm if you try to leave the area. Buy them when you see them because pictures are rearranged every day and it can be a pain trying to locate the older ones. No, they do not go on sail (ha ha get it? sail? not sale) at the end of the trip, they go into the trash.
Excursions are always optional and very expensive when ordered through the cruise lines. Research your excursions before signing up. Cruisecritic.com will offer you a lot of advice from experienced travelers. My personal advice follows. If you want a tour of the island, go with one of the tour guides waiting for you as you leave the ship. We met Rodney who was hawking his tours right in front of the Bahamian police, so we weren't worried about being pirated off to white slavery. His tour of Nassau was personal in the way only a local can provide. And it was much less than the same tour offered by the cruise line. Rodney charged $20 for the same trip the cruise line offered for $60. Bargain at the straw markets. They may never go as low as you want, but the first price they ask is at least twice as much as they'll take. Some of these people are extremely aggressive, so I prefer to do business with the quieter sellers. Beware of made in China jewelry that they'll pass off as Bahamian crafts. You'll recognize it as the same stuff appears in all the booths and at your local WalMart. Looking at jewelry in an upscale store? Ask if what they are offering you is their "best price," and you may get a discount. You may also get cheated, so only buy that diamond or emerald if you really love it. And don't be surprised if you have it appraised at home and it's worth no where near what you paid. You've been warned.
On this trip, I took advantage of the Spa. Do not book in advance of your cruise. Once you get on board there will be specials and discounted services offered. I had the first full-body massage of my life. Thought I'd hate it and feel embarrassed. I LOVED IT!!!! Sooooo relaxing! That massage packaged with a facial, foot massage, scalp massage, and eye treatment was $150 on special offer. Dee had acupuncture treatments. They relieved her pain so much that I will be scheduling treatments here in town because of her cruise experience. There's a gym to visit to work off some of those extra calories. Ha Ha Ha It's somewhere near the Spa, I think.
I've never been seasick, and I can't advise about that. Many people wore the patches, so I guess they help. Only one night was treacherous. We were bounced left and right trying to walk throughout the ship. It was hysterically funny as strangers groped each other to stay upright. That night we ordered our final cocktails through room service. Better to let the staff navigate the halls with the drinks than me with the equilibrium issues!
The casino is the only common area on the ship where people are allowed to smoke. There's a lot of nervous smoking because people are doing a lot of losing. One woman could have booked three cruises for what she told me she lost that week. Hint: You can't possibly win at the slots. Or at the money cube games or the tables or the quarter tosses. If somebody does grab a one hundred dollar packet out of the money pit, they probably spent a few hundred to get it.
Cruises are wonderful vacations. You are treated royally. No dishes to do, no beds to make, no meals to cook, no chores to complete. The staff is there for one reason, and that is to make you happy. When else does that happen? Take a break from your life and go cruisin'. You won't regret it.
For my friends who live in the Baltimore area, this port is a great one to navigate. I worried about driving in and being overwhelmed by traffic and confusion. Didn't happen. Dee and I left on a Sunday and returned on a Sunday so there was no business traffic. They will take your bags as you drive into the parking lot. Hand them over with a smile and a small tip. Parking must be paid as you pull into the lot; have cash so the process is faster (our cost was $105 for seven days). It was a long snaking line to get on the boat. If someone in your group is handicapped or if you are bringing young children, register ahead of time and pay the small fee that allows for preferential boarding and disembarkment. You'll be in a waiting lounge and processed quickly. If not, you may be standing in an hour long line getting to know your fellow cruisers.
The Pride, a Carnival ship out of Baltimore, is a beauty. The theme is Renaissance, so there are lots of thematic murals and decoratively carved moldings and statues. Translated, there will be a lot of boobs in your face. It's art, folks. Don't take your kids if such art offends you. I often saw young men being photographed holding the breasts of the reclining nude who's painted on the wall near the Karaoke stage. Laugh folks; it's funny, not crude. Even your kids will laugh. Learn the difference between the front and back of the ship. Aft is the back, so think ass. You will spend less time wandering aimlessly looking at the art.
The Pride has one formal dining room. Unless it is elegant night, the dress code seems to be anything goes. I suggest 6:00 seating. We were always quickly admitted; but the later diners waited for ages in a long line before being seated. Have fun with your waitstaff. Beatrice was the life of our party! You can order whatever you want from the menu. On elegant night, two entrees were prime rib and lobster tail. I couldn't choose, so I ordered both. I wanted the lobster tail on the plate with the steak, but beware. If you order both you will receive two complete dinners. You can always eat at the buffet stations if you don't want to be restricted to a time. I loved our dining companions!!! Nancy and Carolyn were two ladies around my age and with whom I had an instant relaxed rapport. Joyce and Patty were a mother/daughter team who looked like sisters. It's lots of fun talking to people other than those you'll be with 24/7. The tip for the waitstaff is included in your cabin charges. However, I tipped the waitress and her staff a bit extra the last night because they were especially attentive and lively. The water girl was so shocked that I tipped her as well as her "boss," she hugged me three times. The photographers will send a pirate around on the first night. Smile pretty; my first pirate photo is still one of my favorites.
Pictures!!! Photographers are everywhere. Play fashion model and pose for all of them. It's a fun way to spend some of those leisure hours. You don't have to buy pictures if you don't want them. Be careful, though, if you are one of the beautiful people. You will want every photo you see, and they are expensive starting at $12 for the 4"x6". Don't even think about stealing them as the pictures have sensors that set off a shrieking alarm if you try to leave the area. Buy them when you see them because pictures are rearranged every day and it can be a pain trying to locate the older ones. No, they do not go on sail (ha ha get it? sail? not sale) at the end of the trip, they go into the trash.
Excursions are always optional and very expensive when ordered through the cruise lines. Research your excursions before signing up. Cruisecritic.com will offer you a lot of advice from experienced travelers. My personal advice follows. If you want a tour of the island, go with one of the tour guides waiting for you as you leave the ship. We met Rodney who was hawking his tours right in front of the Bahamian police, so we weren't worried about being pirated off to white slavery. His tour of Nassau was personal in the way only a local can provide. And it was much less than the same tour offered by the cruise line. Rodney charged $20 for the same trip the cruise line offered for $60. Bargain at the straw markets. They may never go as low as you want, but the first price they ask is at least twice as much as they'll take. Some of these people are extremely aggressive, so I prefer to do business with the quieter sellers. Beware of made in China jewelry that they'll pass off as Bahamian crafts. You'll recognize it as the same stuff appears in all the booths and at your local WalMart. Looking at jewelry in an upscale store? Ask if what they are offering you is their "best price," and you may get a discount. You may also get cheated, so only buy that diamond or emerald if you really love it. And don't be surprised if you have it appraised at home and it's worth no where near what you paid. You've been warned.
On this trip, I took advantage of the Spa. Do not book in advance of your cruise. Once you get on board there will be specials and discounted services offered. I had the first full-body massage of my life. Thought I'd hate it and feel embarrassed. I LOVED IT!!!! Sooooo relaxing! That massage packaged with a facial, foot massage, scalp massage, and eye treatment was $150 on special offer. Dee had acupuncture treatments. They relieved her pain so much that I will be scheduling treatments here in town because of her cruise experience. There's a gym to visit to work off some of those extra calories. Ha Ha Ha It's somewhere near the Spa, I think.
I've never been seasick, and I can't advise about that. Many people wore the patches, so I guess they help. Only one night was treacherous. We were bounced left and right trying to walk throughout the ship. It was hysterically funny as strangers groped each other to stay upright. That night we ordered our final cocktails through room service. Better to let the staff navigate the halls with the drinks than me with the equilibrium issues!
The casino is the only common area on the ship where people are allowed to smoke. There's a lot of nervous smoking because people are doing a lot of losing. One woman could have booked three cruises for what she told me she lost that week. Hint: You can't possibly win at the slots. Or at the money cube games or the tables or the quarter tosses. If somebody does grab a one hundred dollar packet out of the money pit, they probably spent a few hundred to get it.
Cruises are wonderful vacations. You are treated royally. No dishes to do, no beds to make, no meals to cook, no chores to complete. The staff is there for one reason, and that is to make you happy. When else does that happen? Take a break from your life and go cruisin'. You won't regret it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)