I've just been reading Deepak Chopra on happiness. You know what that means. I've gotta get over something.
I might be getting a little hypochondriac-ish. Gotta get over that. But I have a lot of stuff going wrong with me. I was playing on my Wii and stretched a tendon in the arch of my foot past the point of no return. That's a kick in the pants.
What if I'm on my way to dowager-ville? Some people gain weight in their hips or thighs. I might gain weight on my back! Up high. Oh no!Quasimoto! With hips and thighs.
I've got a a floater in my left eye. It does as its moniker suggests, drifting in and out of my field of vision just when the six pack abs commercial comes on.
My mood - mostly okay. I quit saying, "Fine," when people ask how I'm doing. Partly because George Carlin said it's inane to say "fine," and partly because I've realigned my responses to more nearly match reality. "Fine" could be overstating it. Sometimes I say "groovy." I haven't been truly groovy in many years, but I enjoy the reaction.
But am I happy? Sure. Except, the more I know the less lee-way there is. Smaller margin of error.
I remember in The Big Chill, Mary Kay Place is talking to JoBeth Williams about the men she meets. She says with her experiences she can size men up in the first 10 seconds after she meets them and know whether they're worth any effort. JoBeth says, "Well, at least you give them a fair shot."
That's me. I can zero in on the salient pretty quickly now. With age and experience comes insight, sometimes mistaken for wisdom. It just doesn't take that long to size up the newest ride and figure out if it's worth buying a ticket.
But often enough I'm wrong, and I love a surprise. For example, I can cook! I'm pretty good at it. Who knew? Check out The Flavor Bible.
I still hang out with kids for the wonder. Dogs and cats rock. Simple and deep all at once.
Often joy comes in the familiar: Seeing my husband peek around the living room corner again this evening. Returning to Yellowstone. Watching The Sixth Sense the sixth time. Replaying Achmed the Dead Terrorist and laughing like an Alzheimer's patient. "Silence! I keel you!"
Can you hear me Deepak? I'm happy I tell you. I'm over it, whatever it was.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I'm from Oklahoma. Read: Scotland
I had the honor and privilege of attending a swearing-in ceremony for 1303 new citizens of the United States of America yesterday.
I sat in the balcony of Oakland's Paramount Theatre, an Art Deco icon. The Art Deco Style is defined by eclecticism, a perfect metaphor for a melting pot. Families and friends of the imminent citizens from 105 countries surrounded me along with gilded curtains and walls, sweeping images of man and nature.
We watched a video about Ellis Island. I saw the face of my great great grandfather on the screen. Or someone who looked just like him. Like most American citizens, I descended from immigrants.
We sang the National Anthem together with tears streaming down our faces. We put hands on our hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.
We heard a man from US Citizenship & Immigration Services speak seven languages with ease. I marveled at his facility, but the young woman seated next to me said, "I think this should all be in English. They're becoming American citizens, after all."
I thought about my great great grandfather and wondered what resistance he encountered in New York and Missouri. And my great great grandmother, and my great grandpa. When those people who got here first looked at my family, did they see human beings?
Many years ago, I took in a stray kitten. Tiny, filthy, and on the verge of becoming ferrel, she had been taunted and battered by the young boys living in the apartment below mine. After weeks of coaxing, she finally allowed me to lift her into my arms. Shuddering with fear, she clung to me as we ascended to my apartment. She lived with me for 16 years. Lulu.
In Lulu's 13th year, a wet, ragged, and desperate kitten found its way to the crawl space under my house. Of course I took her in, if only for a few days to find her a new home. To my surprise, Lulu didn't just resent the new kitty, she actively stalked her and attacked her at every opportunity. "You don't belong here!" she seemed to be saying. "Go back where you came from! This is my house."
I guess Lulu forgot her own history.
I sat in the balcony of Oakland's Paramount Theatre, an Art Deco icon. The Art Deco Style is defined by eclecticism, a perfect metaphor for a melting pot. Families and friends of the imminent citizens from 105 countries surrounded me along with gilded curtains and walls, sweeping images of man and nature.
We watched a video about Ellis Island. I saw the face of my great great grandfather on the screen. Or someone who looked just like him. Like most American citizens, I descended from immigrants.
We sang the National Anthem together with tears streaming down our faces. We put hands on our hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.
We heard a man from US Citizenship & Immigration Services speak seven languages with ease. I marveled at his facility, but the young woman seated next to me said, "I think this should all be in English. They're becoming American citizens, after all."
I thought about my great great grandfather and wondered what resistance he encountered in New York and Missouri. And my great great grandmother, and my great grandpa. When those people who got here first looked at my family, did they see human beings?
Many years ago, I took in a stray kitten. Tiny, filthy, and on the verge of becoming ferrel, she had been taunted and battered by the young boys living in the apartment below mine. After weeks of coaxing, she finally allowed me to lift her into my arms. Shuddering with fear, she clung to me as we ascended to my apartment. She lived with me for 16 years. Lulu.
In Lulu's 13th year, a wet, ragged, and desperate kitten found its way to the crawl space under my house. Of course I took her in, if only for a few days to find her a new home. To my surprise, Lulu didn't just resent the new kitty, she actively stalked her and attacked her at every opportunity. "You don't belong here!" she seemed to be saying. "Go back where you came from! This is my house."
I guess Lulu forgot her own history.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
OJ at the Smithsonian
I haven't heard back from the Smithsonian yet. I sent them a clarifying question: How do you determine which artifacts to acquire and display?
'Cause I was wondering about O.J. Simpson's suit. What in blue blazes makes my beloved Smithsonian Institution want that?
There's a clear reason, I'm sure. My beloved, my esteemed Smithsonian doesn't go around like a drunken lotto winner buying up stuff because "wouldn't it be cool?" (My brother bought a hearse once. It was pretty cool. We had fun driving around thumbing our noses for a while.) But the Smithsonian has a good reason...just, what is it?
I was thinking of the "Trial of the Century" angle. So while I'm waiting for them to clear this up, I did some research on famous trials.
OJ's not the only murdering SOB who generated a media dominating courtroom escapade. Charles Manson, Scott Peterson...but don't they all belong in Madam Toussaud's Wax Museum exhibit of the macabre? Surely not the Smithsonian.
There's a difference between dictionaries, in case you didn't know. Some are dictionaries of Standard American English. Others are dictionaries of common American usage. The former shows us the best, what we should strive for. The latter simply shows us what is.
I thought the Smithsonian would display the Standard, the highest achievements, the proudest moments. Yes, American history and culture aren't totally comprised of nobility and glory. We have to know who we've been and where we've failed.
But OJ Simpson?
All right, I watched the trial. I watched. I might watch it again someday like I might watch the "mystery" of Marilyn Monroe's death, or Helter Skelter. On MSNBC Investigates. On E! Most Shocking Celebrity Crimes. I'm not above it.
But the Smithsonian is.
'Cause I was wondering about O.J. Simpson's suit. What in blue blazes makes my beloved Smithsonian Institution want that?
There's a clear reason, I'm sure. My beloved, my esteemed Smithsonian doesn't go around like a drunken lotto winner buying up stuff because "wouldn't it be cool?" (My brother bought a hearse once. It was pretty cool. We had fun driving around thumbing our noses for a while.) But the Smithsonian has a good reason...just, what is it?
I was thinking of the "Trial of the Century" angle. So while I'm waiting for them to clear this up, I did some research on famous trials.
OJ's not the only murdering SOB who generated a media dominating courtroom escapade. Charles Manson, Scott Peterson...but don't they all belong in Madam Toussaud's Wax Museum exhibit of the macabre? Surely not the Smithsonian.
There's a difference between dictionaries, in case you didn't know. Some are dictionaries of Standard American English. Others are dictionaries of common American usage. The former shows us the best, what we should strive for. The latter simply shows us what is.
I thought the Smithsonian would display the Standard, the highest achievements, the proudest moments. Yes, American history and culture aren't totally comprised of nobility and glory. We have to know who we've been and where we've failed.
But OJ Simpson?
All right, I watched the trial. I watched. I might watch it again someday like I might watch the "mystery" of Marilyn Monroe's death, or Helter Skelter. On MSNBC Investigates. On E! Most Shocking Celebrity Crimes. I'm not above it.
But the Smithsonian is.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
A Shrug for Schools
If there truly were fiddlers fiddling during the conflagration of Rome, and a stringed quartet on the damp decks of the Titanic, I guess we won't be able to say there's no precedence for the current widespread denial of reality when the schools crumble and collapse.
But we will probably cry out and express our shock.
My school district, a large-ish one in Northern California, has been obliged to cut $33 million in the past three years, and is gearing up to cut another $17 million next week. Programs for gifted students (music, Advanced Placement courses) are shrinking, or gone entirely. Programs for needy students (support classes, reading specialists) eliminated, or circling the drain. Counselors gone. Vice Principals with caseloads of 700.
I think we are like the rain forests. Beautiful. Essential. But out of sight. Out of earshot. Being hacked at and buzzed into with metal teeth while the breathing world inhales and exhales.
Last year, when the athletics program in our District succumbed to the swinging axe, we observed an impressive phenomenon: parents, teachers, and community members, knowing athletics make up a crucial component of a young person's education, refused to let the program close. They organized, formed a non-profit foundation, established a Board of Directors, began raising funds and SAVED THE PROGRAM, in a matter of weeks. Thank God. I wouldn't want to be running my high school without sports. Truly.
Recently, a corrupt event planner absconded with more than $6500 from our students' hard-earned prom fund. When the kids called the press, we had "an outpouring from the community." People wouldn't stand for anyone so callus as to steal from kids. Instead of no prom, we will have a free prom in a first class venue, all whistles tweeting and bells chiming. Part of next year's prom is now paid for too. Hooray. It's a right of passage that should not be cast aside.
Yet we're remarkably silent while the schools themselves are dismantled. Teachers are laid off. Classes are swelling. Facilities are shabby. Students are angry.
Sure, heads are shaken. Letters are written. We even carry signs sometimes and make the news. But it's tough times. We all have to take a hit after all.
We probably don't recognize the keystone institution. Maybe schools aren't it. But I'll bet they are. On some level we all know that schools are everything to our state and our nation. But on the surface, the place where we speak and stand, we don't know what to do to save the schools. So we watch.
But we will probably cry out and express our shock.
My school district, a large-ish one in Northern California, has been obliged to cut $33 million in the past three years, and is gearing up to cut another $17 million next week. Programs for gifted students (music, Advanced Placement courses) are shrinking, or gone entirely. Programs for needy students (support classes, reading specialists) eliminated, or circling the drain. Counselors gone. Vice Principals with caseloads of 700.
I think we are like the rain forests. Beautiful. Essential. But out of sight. Out of earshot. Being hacked at and buzzed into with metal teeth while the breathing world inhales and exhales.
Last year, when the athletics program in our District succumbed to the swinging axe, we observed an impressive phenomenon: parents, teachers, and community members, knowing athletics make up a crucial component of a young person's education, refused to let the program close. They organized, formed a non-profit foundation, established a Board of Directors, began raising funds and SAVED THE PROGRAM, in a matter of weeks. Thank God. I wouldn't want to be running my high school without sports. Truly.
Recently, a corrupt event planner absconded with more than $6500 from our students' hard-earned prom fund. When the kids called the press, we had "an outpouring from the community." People wouldn't stand for anyone so callus as to steal from kids. Instead of no prom, we will have a free prom in a first class venue, all whistles tweeting and bells chiming. Part of next year's prom is now paid for too. Hooray. It's a right of passage that should not be cast aside.
Yet we're remarkably silent while the schools themselves are dismantled. Teachers are laid off. Classes are swelling. Facilities are shabby. Students are angry.
Sure, heads are shaken. Letters are written. We even carry signs sometimes and make the news. But it's tough times. We all have to take a hit after all.
We probably don't recognize the keystone institution. Maybe schools aren't it. But I'll bet they are. On some level we all know that schools are everything to our state and our nation. But on the surface, the place where we speak and stand, we don't know what to do to save the schools. So we watch.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Post Script for the Opening Ceremonies
What a relief---the Opening Ceremonies were totally Canadian. Totally! Of course. Duh! Just like an American, I assumed.
I was proud of them for their focus on the Native Canadian cultures. We never think of that in the U.S. Native Americans are an afterthought. Shame on us.
There were some cool special effects, about every 15 minutes. In other words, WAY too slow! Loved the whales....the moon was pretty...okay I'm tired of waiting.
I'll just look at the program guide as an overlay with the ceremony in the background. Oh! Look! Law & Order!
I was proud of them for their focus on the Native Canadian cultures. We never think of that in the U.S. Native Americans are an afterthought. Shame on us.
There were some cool special effects, about every 15 minutes. In other words, WAY too slow! Loved the whales....the moon was pretty...okay I'm tired of waiting.
I'll just look at the program guide as an overlay with the ceremony in the background. Oh! Look! Law & Order!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Fear of the Olympics
Everyone is coiling up for the Opening Ceremonies of the 2010 Olympic Games in Vancouver, B.C.
What amazing feat of the imagination will top the Chinese? I say, nothing, nothing can compare. Thank God.
When the ads for Vancouver come on, I relive Beijing. And I don't think I'm alone when I say, reliving that opening event stirs up bad memories. The Opening Ceremonies from the Beijing Games---scary! Here's how it goes: First Beijing, then Star Trek, and then the Borg and their monotone. "You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
Yep, watching the dazzling precision of the 2008 Opening Ceremonies put the fear of God in me. Well, no, I guess it didn't really.
I was afraid in the moment, but it didn't last. I am American afterall.
They were too cool though, weren't they? I LOVED the scale of it! The grandeur. The geometric M.C. Escher beauty created by human beings in motion. The discipline!
But that's where the fear came in. I can only hope it's irrational. Think of it: One BILLION Chinese. One point three Billion. Running in concentric circles baffling the eye, never missing a step. Wearing thousands and thousands of lighted body suits, suspended on wires, defying gravity and rewriting physics. Presenting an alternate view of reality.
I couldn't take it in. It took me in. I was assimilated. Or I would be, could be. Very scary.
We just don't have that, do we? Discipline on a vast scale? Like most Americans, I don't even have it on my own tiny personal scale. Which is likely why the scale that weighs me isn't so tiny any more! We're mostly fat now in America. We take comfort in the numbers of obese. We're making our children fat. Oh, excuse me, not fat! Overweight, heavy, proportionally challenged. Let's not hurt anyone's feelings!
Somehow I don't think they're pulling punches along the Yangtse. Get off your Chinese cheeks and smile! But I digress.
Are these new Opening Ceremonies Canadian? I guess they are, but somehow it seems like we, Americans, are on the line. Ours will be different, defiantly so. Ours will be loud, sexy, shamelessly in-your-face extravagant. We don't have thousands of years of history to depict, so we will swagger about our short, dramatic, undeniable rise and lasting influence. Bruce Springsteen, for sure! Born in the USA! Born in the USA!
We are lasting aren't we? We won't be assimilated will we? We will go on. Unique. Independent. Yes. Because we're good. Good deserves to go on.
What amazing feat of the imagination will top the Chinese? I say, nothing, nothing can compare. Thank God.
When the ads for Vancouver come on, I relive Beijing. And I don't think I'm alone when I say, reliving that opening event stirs up bad memories. The Opening Ceremonies from the Beijing Games---scary! Here's how it goes: First Beijing, then Star Trek, and then the Borg and their monotone. "You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."
Yep, watching the dazzling precision of the 2008 Opening Ceremonies put the fear of God in me. Well, no, I guess it didn't really.
I was afraid in the moment, but it didn't last. I am American afterall.
They were too cool though, weren't they? I LOVED the scale of it! The grandeur. The geometric M.C. Escher beauty created by human beings in motion. The discipline!
But that's where the fear came in. I can only hope it's irrational. Think of it: One BILLION Chinese. One point three Billion. Running in concentric circles baffling the eye, never missing a step. Wearing thousands and thousands of lighted body suits, suspended on wires, defying gravity and rewriting physics. Presenting an alternate view of reality.
I couldn't take it in. It took me in. I was assimilated. Or I would be, could be. Very scary.
We just don't have that, do we? Discipline on a vast scale? Like most Americans, I don't even have it on my own tiny personal scale. Which is likely why the scale that weighs me isn't so tiny any more! We're mostly fat now in America. We take comfort in the numbers of obese. We're making our children fat. Oh, excuse me, not fat! Overweight, heavy, proportionally challenged. Let's not hurt anyone's feelings!
Somehow I don't think they're pulling punches along the Yangtse. Get off your Chinese cheeks and smile! But I digress.
Are these new Opening Ceremonies Canadian? I guess they are, but somehow it seems like we, Americans, are on the line. Ours will be different, defiantly so. Ours will be loud, sexy, shamelessly in-your-face extravagant. We don't have thousands of years of history to depict, so we will swagger about our short, dramatic, undeniable rise and lasting influence. Bruce Springsteen, for sure! Born in the USA! Born in the USA!
We are lasting aren't we? We won't be assimilated will we? We will go on. Unique. Independent. Yes. Because we're good. Good deserves to go on.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Gangsters in Public Office
You can learn a lot working at a school.
I always know when I've pissed off a teenager. (Excuse my language---language gets rough when you work at school!) No matter what I say or do after that, I'm wrong. Persona non grata. No eye contact (except for a glare). No acknowledgement (except for sarcasm). Certainly no applause! If I piss off one of the 1400+ students at my school, she will probably get a bunch of her friends to ignore me too. Even if I'm handing out extra credit or free passes to an early lunch, she will find fault.
That's how I know that the Republicans are mad at President Obama, and the Democrats are mad at the Republicans. When the President speaks, the Republicans won't even look at him. In an enormous bill, like Heath Care Insurance reform, there's not ONE SINGLE THING that deserves their acknowledgement. And the Democrats will NEVER applaud a Republican idea. NEVER.
That's the way it goes with teenagers---but oops! These are not teenagers. These are elected officials engaged in "tick tock the game's locked and nobody else can play!"
It's disappointing and discouraging to regular mopes like me who actually have to listen to their colleagues. We have to work WITH people. We've learned that means actually trying to hear and understand someone else's point of view.
That's right. Try to understand the other guy. Give him credit for a good idea and work it into your plan, bragging about where you got it. Let him shine in your world.
I'll bet the country's bloated and expanding Health Care Insurance bottom line that adults on both sides of the aisle in the Capitol Building secretly recognize some excellent components of the other guys' proposals. But like wanna be gangsters, they will never give an inch of territory because his shirt is red and mine is blue.
And the penalty for being red is death of your ideas. Or if you're blue, I will never acknowledge your contributions.
Let's line up with our homies and watch their backs! Loyalty to the point of idiocy. To hell with the country. To hell with the charge of serving the people. By god, I will play it safe!
I always know when I've pissed off a teenager. (Excuse my language---language gets rough when you work at school!) No matter what I say or do after that, I'm wrong. Persona non grata. No eye contact (except for a glare). No acknowledgement (except for sarcasm). Certainly no applause! If I piss off one of the 1400+ students at my school, she will probably get a bunch of her friends to ignore me too. Even if I'm handing out extra credit or free passes to an early lunch, she will find fault.
That's how I know that the Republicans are mad at President Obama, and the Democrats are mad at the Republicans. When the President speaks, the Republicans won't even look at him. In an enormous bill, like Heath Care Insurance reform, there's not ONE SINGLE THING that deserves their acknowledgement. And the Democrats will NEVER applaud a Republican idea. NEVER.
That's the way it goes with teenagers---but oops! These are not teenagers. These are elected officials engaged in "tick tock the game's locked and nobody else can play!"
It's disappointing and discouraging to regular mopes like me who actually have to listen to their colleagues. We have to work WITH people. We've learned that means actually trying to hear and understand someone else's point of view.
That's right. Try to understand the other guy. Give him credit for a good idea and work it into your plan, bragging about where you got it. Let him shine in your world.
I'll bet the country's bloated and expanding Health Care Insurance bottom line that adults on both sides of the aisle in the Capitol Building secretly recognize some excellent components of the other guys' proposals. But like wanna be gangsters, they will never give an inch of territory because his shirt is red and mine is blue.
And the penalty for being red is death of your ideas. Or if you're blue, I will never acknowledge your contributions.
Let's line up with our homies and watch their backs! Loyalty to the point of idiocy. To hell with the country. To hell with the charge of serving the people. By god, I will play it safe!
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