Is it wrong of me to enjoy telling a kid I don’t like that she can’t do something? The way I see it, this is a kid who isn’t used to being told no, and I am more than happy to remind her what it sounds like. On second thought, that’s not entirely true, because she gets in trouble a fair amount. But denying her something she wants, even if it makes me look petty, is a small but satisfying morsel.
I do not have it out for this kid. She, however, has it out for my kid. AH (her actual initials, not just a slur) has been bullying my youngest daughter, S, for a year and a half now. They attend a Montessori school, so they will be in class together for another year and half, although the constant physical and verbal abuse my child endures makes me question my decision to keep her there. In public school, they have a slew of programs designed to identify and deal with bullying. They probably even have a mascot with a Scottish name or something. At S’s private school, I have the privilege of paying thousands of dollars a year for them to turn a blind eye.
Last year, AH was very physical. She would push S, shove her, knock her out of chairs, and even once smacked her upside the head with a lunchbox. Granted, it wasn’t a metal one like we used to have, but even those soft sided PVC-free bags can pack a wallop. And don’t forget about the ice pack. It makes a Hello Kitty lunch box the school yard equivalent of a tube sock filled with oranges.
AH has since started ADHD medication, which lessens her physical assaults. Unfortunately, AH is now more focused and better able to articulate her contempt for S, with a much greater verbal ability. She needles her daily, putting down virtually everything she can think of to get a rise out of my child. She doesn’t just call her stupid, she tells S that the teacher is wrong to think S is smart. She tells S that no one wants to be her friend because she is a liar and a tattletale. She forbids S from joining in games (much like the ostracized Rudolph) and attempts to sway other children in shunning her.
My daughter generally keeps her frustration inside, going about her day, doing her work and being kind to the other children in her class. But when she gets in my car at the end of the school day, she decompensates and gives me a detailed grievance report. She shares not only her conflicts, but the ones her friends experienced as well, and believe me, it is a never-ending list.
The situation with AH even has me questioning my style of parenting. I am an attentive, mostly patient mother to my children, and they know they can tell me anything, even if they have done something wrong. I have taught them to try to resolve their own conflicts, but never physically, and also to learn how to ignore people who persist in their hateful behavior. Overall, we try to include everyone, to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I am not preparing them for the real world, which is more likely filled with people like AH instead of people like S. If this were 1952, and S were a boy, I would have told her to deck AH, to pop her in the kisser. But that isn't an option in today's world, where even taking a plastic knife to school gets you a year in juvie.
AH is a lost cause. Whatever her reasons, she has a mission to destroy S’s self esteem. I’ve talked about it with her teachers and the school director, but always, it is a case of an unwitnessed occurrence, over before the teacher had an opportunity to see it or intervene. I’ve pointed out that each individual event is not my concern. Rather, it is the chronic nature of these incidents, the overall pattern, with which I have a problem. But AH’s mother also pays thousands of dollars a year, and the school collects it and tells the kids to try to get along.
I feel powerless to change this situation, but when a rare passive-aggressive opportunity for retaliation arises, I pounce on it, all ninja cat.
Last week was the class play/holiday party. The teacher chose the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, a Grimm Brothers feel-good story that fictionalizes the disappearance of children in a small German village, the kind of story that puts even the Scrooges among us in a holiday mood.
As the unofficial class mom, I was in charge of the holiday party, making sure there was enough food for the class and family members who came to watch the performance. With the help of a few other moms, I set up the food trays before the show, then joined my husband and watched the production, trying to refrain from laughing unless appropriate to the scene. Afterwards, it was time to enjoy the goodies and fellowship (my daughter actually said that once after a similar play/holiday party combo.) I rushed ahead of the other parents, not to raid the food, but to uncover all the trays and mix up the punch.
I poured cans of pineapple-mango juice with two liter bottles of Sprite and chunks of ice—Voila! Punch!—and filled cups with the concoction when AH sidled up to the table.
“What are you making?” she asked me.
“Punch,” I answered.
“Can I just have a cup of Sprite?” she asked.
“No,” I told her. “The Sprite is for the punch. If I gave everyone Sprite, there wouldn’t be enough for the punch.” In your face, AH!
She skulked away, carrying her plate of cookies. About fifteen minutes later, she tried again, this time with her big headed little sister.
“Can we have some Sprite?” AH asked.
“The answer is still no. Sorry,” I replied sweetly.
That will show her not to be mean to my kid! Okay, it might not be the most mature thing I could do, but so what? Drink Sprite on your own dime, brat. This here is some motherfucking punch. If you don’t like it, go slurp out of that germy lukewarm water fountain. And no, you can’t have an empty cup. The cups, like the Sprite, are for punch.
I didn’t tell S what I had done, because she is way nicer than I am, but I don’t want her to know that yet. I’d like to think it would make her smile, though. She hates Sprite as much as she hates AH. She would also be happy to know that in one small way, I stood up for her. We have to advocate for our children, if only by one denied cup of Sprite. Maybe next year I will limit AH’s cookie consumption too. That’ll show her!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Fly the Friendly Skies
I’m scared to fly, and I don’t understand why everyone isn’t. I have a variety of reasons, most of which are irrational. The basic reason is I don’t understand how a giant heavy metal tube filled with people can stay in the air. I am sure there is a simple explanation, involving the laws of nature and basic engineering principles, but it’s probably too complicated for my pea brain to grasp.
It’s more than just the feasibility of the big metal bird. It’s the canned air, filled with H1N1 virus and whiffs of Legionnaire’s disease. It’s the noise on takeoff, the hum mid flight, and the racket upon landing. It’s all that bumpy, the invisible bumps like potholes in the sky, that make me thinks one more jolt like that and we will fall out of the sky.
The parts of flying that I’m not scared of I just don’t like. The unregulated temperature of the recirculated air, always too hot or too cold. The existence of the barf bag tucked into the seat back, and the knowledge that other people considered using it, or, at the very least, have touched it. The shifting of the contents of the overhead bin. The way the air smells like microwaved chicken, even though they stopped serving meals in 2003. The cramped seats and the cramped aisles and the cramped bathrooms.
And while we are on the subject of airplane bathrooms, what is up with the airplane bathroom? It’s like a port-a-potty in the sky, only not that nice. The only thing missing is feces smeared all over the textured walls. I always wondered about the receptacle for used razor blades. Are that many people shaving with disposable razor blades while flying, or are they more likely contemplating slitting their wrists? I am so scared of someone opening the door while in that tiny water closet, even though it says occupied. I am going to be sitting there, in the middle of a big pee, when the accordion door folds in on me, my jeans at my ankles, bracing myself against the wall in case we hit turbulence and my own pee flies up and hits my ass. How mortifying would that be? Have you ever tried to change a diaper on that rickety little shelf? I’d be scared my baby would be sucked into that metal toilet vacuum hole. Now, seriously, why would anyone want to join the mile high club in there? And what if one day, while sleeping in my bed, a frozen blue chunk of airplane waste crashes through my roof and kills me? What an undignified way to go.
I haven’t even gotten to the parts I don’t like about the airport, but let’s save that for another day, shall we?
Other than writing about it now, however, I don’t’ really talk much about my issues with flying because I don’t want to influence my daughter E’s issues with flying. E has flown several times before, but like me, the older she gets, the more the idea of flying just freaks her out. So when we planned two months ago to fly to Orlando instead of driving for a Thanksgiving trip to Disney World (why spend the holidays with family when you could actually have a good time?), E decided she didn’t want to go at all. Not because she doesn’t like Disney; she loves it. No, she didn’t want to fly there. My husband and I explained to her the advantage of a one hour flight versus a nine hour car trip, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to go, and she cried a lot to show us how much she didn’t want to go, and then she had trouble sleeping for two weeks to further illustrate how much she didn’t want to go. I decided we would make a visit to the pediatrician for a little something to help make the proposed vacation a reality.
Our pediatrician, Dr. L, asked the reason for our visit. I explained to him that we needed some medication so that E could fly to Orlando with the rest of the family. He paused and said, “In all the time that I have been a doctor, no one has ever asked me for that.” “Well,” I answered, “if you have any suggestions on how to get her on the plane, I’m all ears. If not, we’ll be needing that prescription.”
We discussed how other children are also scared to fly but don’t need medicine. We discussed how E had already taken Valium for minor oral surgery, and how I had to kick her down the aisle the last time we flew. Then he wrote out a prescription for anti-anxiety medication. Four Valium. Perfect! Two for her and two for me.
The day of our trip, E and I both got nervous. It didn’t help matters much that our flight left after lunch, so that we had the entire morning to sit around and panic. I occupied myself with last minute obsessive packing of unnecessary things. E opted for a whole lotta Spongebob. When we finally drove to the airport, I could tell E was getting all worked up. Her face was red, her eyes were big, and she kept putting her hand on her chest as if she were going to say the Pledge of Allegiance.
We checked in at the ticket counter, went through security, bought non-terrorist bottled water, and each popped only half of a pill, because I got some bright idea that we really would be fine once we boarded and sat in our seats. Was I wrong!
After we settled in our seats, E’s red face and big eyes gave way to tears and shallow breathing. We asked the kind looking elderly lady in the window seat if we could keep the blinds closed, and she huffed but did as we asked. I spent the next hour playing motivational coach, talking my daughter through each noise and jostle of the plane. It’s a lot easier to keep your mind off how scared you are to fly when you are trying to convince someone else to not be scared to fly.
I learned some important things that flight, things I’ll need to remember for a long time. I learned that my daughter thought we had to know where the emergency exits are so we can jump out of the plane mid-air. I learned that flying is not so bad, although I’m sure I’ll be just as scared the next time I do it. I learned that just because an older lady looks like a grandmother, it doesn’t mean she will be nice too. But most importantly, I learned I should just take the whole Valium.
It’s more than just the feasibility of the big metal bird. It’s the canned air, filled with H1N1 virus and whiffs of Legionnaire’s disease. It’s the noise on takeoff, the hum mid flight, and the racket upon landing. It’s all that bumpy, the invisible bumps like potholes in the sky, that make me thinks one more jolt like that and we will fall out of the sky.
The parts of flying that I’m not scared of I just don’t like. The unregulated temperature of the recirculated air, always too hot or too cold. The existence of the barf bag tucked into the seat back, and the knowledge that other people considered using it, or, at the very least, have touched it. The shifting of the contents of the overhead bin. The way the air smells like microwaved chicken, even though they stopped serving meals in 2003. The cramped seats and the cramped aisles and the cramped bathrooms.
And while we are on the subject of airplane bathrooms, what is up with the airplane bathroom? It’s like a port-a-potty in the sky, only not that nice. The only thing missing is feces smeared all over the textured walls. I always wondered about the receptacle for used razor blades. Are that many people shaving with disposable razor blades while flying, or are they more likely contemplating slitting their wrists? I am so scared of someone opening the door while in that tiny water closet, even though it says occupied. I am going to be sitting there, in the middle of a big pee, when the accordion door folds in on me, my jeans at my ankles, bracing myself against the wall in case we hit turbulence and my own pee flies up and hits my ass. How mortifying would that be? Have you ever tried to change a diaper on that rickety little shelf? I’d be scared my baby would be sucked into that metal toilet vacuum hole. Now, seriously, why would anyone want to join the mile high club in there? And what if one day, while sleeping in my bed, a frozen blue chunk of airplane waste crashes through my roof and kills me? What an undignified way to go.
I haven’t even gotten to the parts I don’t like about the airport, but let’s save that for another day, shall we?
Other than writing about it now, however, I don’t’ really talk much about my issues with flying because I don’t want to influence my daughter E’s issues with flying. E has flown several times before, but like me, the older she gets, the more the idea of flying just freaks her out. So when we planned two months ago to fly to Orlando instead of driving for a Thanksgiving trip to Disney World (why spend the holidays with family when you could actually have a good time?), E decided she didn’t want to go at all. Not because she doesn’t like Disney; she loves it. No, she didn’t want to fly there. My husband and I explained to her the advantage of a one hour flight versus a nine hour car trip, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t want to go, and she cried a lot to show us how much she didn’t want to go, and then she had trouble sleeping for two weeks to further illustrate how much she didn’t want to go. I decided we would make a visit to the pediatrician for a little something to help make the proposed vacation a reality.
Our pediatrician, Dr. L, asked the reason for our visit. I explained to him that we needed some medication so that E could fly to Orlando with the rest of the family. He paused and said, “In all the time that I have been a doctor, no one has ever asked me for that.” “Well,” I answered, “if you have any suggestions on how to get her on the plane, I’m all ears. If not, we’ll be needing that prescription.”
We discussed how other children are also scared to fly but don’t need medicine. We discussed how E had already taken Valium for minor oral surgery, and how I had to kick her down the aisle the last time we flew. Then he wrote out a prescription for anti-anxiety medication. Four Valium. Perfect! Two for her and two for me.
The day of our trip, E and I both got nervous. It didn’t help matters much that our flight left after lunch, so that we had the entire morning to sit around and panic. I occupied myself with last minute obsessive packing of unnecessary things. E opted for a whole lotta Spongebob. When we finally drove to the airport, I could tell E was getting all worked up. Her face was red, her eyes were big, and she kept putting her hand on her chest as if she were going to say the Pledge of Allegiance.
We checked in at the ticket counter, went through security, bought non-terrorist bottled water, and each popped only half of a pill, because I got some bright idea that we really would be fine once we boarded and sat in our seats. Was I wrong!
After we settled in our seats, E’s red face and big eyes gave way to tears and shallow breathing. We asked the kind looking elderly lady in the window seat if we could keep the blinds closed, and she huffed but did as we asked. I spent the next hour playing motivational coach, talking my daughter through each noise and jostle of the plane. It’s a lot easier to keep your mind off how scared you are to fly when you are trying to convince someone else to not be scared to fly.
I learned some important things that flight, things I’ll need to remember for a long time. I learned that my daughter thought we had to know where the emergency exits are so we can jump out of the plane mid-air. I learned that flying is not so bad, although I’m sure I’ll be just as scared the next time I do it. I learned that just because an older lady looks like a grandmother, it doesn’t mean she will be nice too. But most importantly, I learned I should just take the whole Valium.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The 3-H Club
When was the last time you heard the word hobo? I hear it with surprising frequency, as my daughters think a hobo is any person down on his luck. I have tried to explain to them that the life of a hobo is more than just a downward turn. It is a hardscrabble life, men with an ever present five o’clock shadow, bandana knapsacks tied to a stick over one shoulder, riding the rails from one town to the next, eating beans out of a can heated over an open flame. The hobos sit on stumps and overturned pails, the light from the fire illuminating their rough features as they share their stories of like on the tracks. I have even showed them pictures of Boxcar Willie, that hobo’s hobo.
Well, the railroad connection is lost on my children. We have the same issue for hillbilly; the “hill” part has no meaning for them. The focus instead on the silly way it sounds. To my girls, hillbilly is a stupid word used for stupid people, and while it makes them dance around and stick their teeth out, it does not make them think of the Hatfields, the McCoys, or even any part of Kentucky.
But why the analysis of the misuse of hobo and hillbilly? A few weekends ago was the twentieth anniversary of United Ministries’ Walk for the Homeless. The three mile charity walk is a well attended event which raises oodles of money for different programs in the upstate of South Carolina, all geared to help the homeless both with their immediate needs and they long term goals. The event is so successful because of the support of area churches and religious groups which form large teams of walkers with a great fundraising capacity.
We learned of the walk not by the social action committee of our temples, since, shame on us, we don’t have one, but from my friend, MJ, and her daughter, AJ. MJ lives to serve her fellow man. She not only publishes a senior resource guide, she also volunteers in capacities not seen in the under 40 crowd. When she’s not supporting some cause or another, she is fostering that spirit of goodwill in her daughter.
The night before the walk, AJ slept over with my daughter, E. She came in and flopped on the couch, and the two of them began to play an imaginary game which revolved around the walk the next day. I sat behind them and acted as if I were engrossed in a computer game. I kept my mouth shut so they would forget I was in the room.
One of them pretended to be a reporter interviewing the other one who pretended to be a homeless person. If I heard correctly, the game was called “Interview with a Hobo.” Here are some sample questions and answers:
AJ (as interviewer): What is your favorite food to eat?
E (as hobo/homeless person): I like spaghetti and meatballs and sushi a lot.
AJ: And where do you live?
E: Under the bridge, near the highway.
AJ: Do you have a cardboard box?
E: I have two. They’re very roomy.
AJ: What do you do for fun?
E: I look for places to live. And I walk a lot.
I am pretty sure AJ asked things about pets and favorite colors, which I thought was sweet. I bet homeless people don’t get asked about their pets and favorite colors very often.
They switched roles at one point, and E asked AJ similar questions. What struck me was how little either of them understood what it meant to be homeless. We live in a house with more toilets than family members. AJ’s parents are divorced, so she has not one but two houses to call home. To the two of them, being homeless meant nothing, in the same way that hobos are unlucky slobs and hillbillies are goofy.
I, however, do know what it means to be homeless. When I was a senior in college, my mother remarried and moved from my hometown in Florida to a big city in the Midwest. I no longer had a home to go to, and the bulk of my belongings from my childhood bedroom fit inside two white office storage boxes. One month after my mom moved, my roommates moved out of our shared college apartment with no warning or concern for our rental agreement. I handed their parent’s information over to my landlord in exchange for the termination of the lease and my share of the security deposit. Which meant I was free, but also that I had nowhere to go. I lived off campus at the time, and it never occurred to me to seek aid from the housing office, especially since I had less than three months until graduation.
I stayed on my boyfriend’s couch for a few nights and asked everyone I know if anyone needed a roommate, but mid-semester is not a good time to hastily change living arrangements. Lucky for me, my boyfriend’s uncle had a vacant apartment downstairs from his dental office, more like a basement with a sitting area, a closet sized bathroom, and a kitchenette than an actual apartment. He agreed to let me live there until graduation for the same amount of rent I had paid for my share of the apartment, which was $143 a month and all I could afford at the tail end of the school year.
As appreciative as I was for his generosity, I hated living there. His office building was located on a highway across from a small state park which was known more for its illicit activities than its natural beauty. One window had a bullet hole through it, and the unused kitchenette had become home to more than a few large roaches and their many tiny offspring.
The main storage room became my bedroom, with my second hand twin bed scooted against one wall while the rest of the large dark room was overrun with a collection of antique furniture and cardboard boxes. I never unpacked my clothes, since I didn’t have a dresser, but kept them in the boxes I had clustered around my bed. I would close the door to sleep because the bullet hole in the window freaked me out, but the darkness of the room with the door closed would freak me out worse. I didn’t sleep until after graduation.
I didn’t share my story with AJ or my daughter. Instead, I tried to point out that being homeless for most people is not a choice. While they may have made other poor choices that led to their current lack of living arrangements, they certainly didn’t think having no home is a lifestyle. I emphasized the need for us to be sensitive to other people’s misfortune and life circumstances, and also to appreciate what we have.
The next day, we walked for, and occasionally, with, the homeless. It was a cold, blustery afternoon despite the bright sunshine, and if it weren’t for the massive crowd surrounding us and leading the way, I would not have known where the hell I was, even though I’ve lived in their town for twelve years. The walk route followed the path that the homeless walk to find services, and along the way, the girls, acting as tour guides, would point out service locations as landmarks. We stopped at water stations along the route, and made conversation with friends we saw while walking. After we completed the three mile loop, MJ drove us to another sketchy part of town to get Blizzards from the Dairy Queen. And after that, we returned to our cozy, well appointed homes.
I don’t know if AJ and E had a better understanding of what being homeless means, or at least, the difference between a hobo, a hillbilly, and a homeless person. But I do know that even the free t-shirt made E a little sad, and with that sadness came a lesson that stuck somewhere in that spongy absorbent brain of hers. Raising the awareness of one child is still raising awareness, even if the benefit won’t be appreciated for years to come.
Well, the railroad connection is lost on my children. We have the same issue for hillbilly; the “hill” part has no meaning for them. The focus instead on the silly way it sounds. To my girls, hillbilly is a stupid word used for stupid people, and while it makes them dance around and stick their teeth out, it does not make them think of the Hatfields, the McCoys, or even any part of Kentucky.
But why the analysis of the misuse of hobo and hillbilly? A few weekends ago was the twentieth anniversary of United Ministries’ Walk for the Homeless. The three mile charity walk is a well attended event which raises oodles of money for different programs in the upstate of South Carolina, all geared to help the homeless both with their immediate needs and they long term goals. The event is so successful because of the support of area churches and religious groups which form large teams of walkers with a great fundraising capacity.
We learned of the walk not by the social action committee of our temples, since, shame on us, we don’t have one, but from my friend, MJ, and her daughter, AJ. MJ lives to serve her fellow man. She not only publishes a senior resource guide, she also volunteers in capacities not seen in the under 40 crowd. When she’s not supporting some cause or another, she is fostering that spirit of goodwill in her daughter.
The night before the walk, AJ slept over with my daughter, E. She came in and flopped on the couch, and the two of them began to play an imaginary game which revolved around the walk the next day. I sat behind them and acted as if I were engrossed in a computer game. I kept my mouth shut so they would forget I was in the room.
One of them pretended to be a reporter interviewing the other one who pretended to be a homeless person. If I heard correctly, the game was called “Interview with a Hobo.” Here are some sample questions and answers:
AJ (as interviewer): What is your favorite food to eat?
E (as hobo/homeless person): I like spaghetti and meatballs and sushi a lot.
AJ: And where do you live?
E: Under the bridge, near the highway.
AJ: Do you have a cardboard box?
E: I have two. They’re very roomy.
AJ: What do you do for fun?
E: I look for places to live. And I walk a lot.
I am pretty sure AJ asked things about pets and favorite colors, which I thought was sweet. I bet homeless people don’t get asked about their pets and favorite colors very often.
They switched roles at one point, and E asked AJ similar questions. What struck me was how little either of them understood what it meant to be homeless. We live in a house with more toilets than family members. AJ’s parents are divorced, so she has not one but two houses to call home. To the two of them, being homeless meant nothing, in the same way that hobos are unlucky slobs and hillbillies are goofy.
I, however, do know what it means to be homeless. When I was a senior in college, my mother remarried and moved from my hometown in Florida to a big city in the Midwest. I no longer had a home to go to, and the bulk of my belongings from my childhood bedroom fit inside two white office storage boxes. One month after my mom moved, my roommates moved out of our shared college apartment with no warning or concern for our rental agreement. I handed their parent’s information over to my landlord in exchange for the termination of the lease and my share of the security deposit. Which meant I was free, but also that I had nowhere to go. I lived off campus at the time, and it never occurred to me to seek aid from the housing office, especially since I had less than three months until graduation.
I stayed on my boyfriend’s couch for a few nights and asked everyone I know if anyone needed a roommate, but mid-semester is not a good time to hastily change living arrangements. Lucky for me, my boyfriend’s uncle had a vacant apartment downstairs from his dental office, more like a basement with a sitting area, a closet sized bathroom, and a kitchenette than an actual apartment. He agreed to let me live there until graduation for the same amount of rent I had paid for my share of the apartment, which was $143 a month and all I could afford at the tail end of the school year.
As appreciative as I was for his generosity, I hated living there. His office building was located on a highway across from a small state park which was known more for its illicit activities than its natural beauty. One window had a bullet hole through it, and the unused kitchenette had become home to more than a few large roaches and their many tiny offspring.
The main storage room became my bedroom, with my second hand twin bed scooted against one wall while the rest of the large dark room was overrun with a collection of antique furniture and cardboard boxes. I never unpacked my clothes, since I didn’t have a dresser, but kept them in the boxes I had clustered around my bed. I would close the door to sleep because the bullet hole in the window freaked me out, but the darkness of the room with the door closed would freak me out worse. I didn’t sleep until after graduation.
I didn’t share my story with AJ or my daughter. Instead, I tried to point out that being homeless for most people is not a choice. While they may have made other poor choices that led to their current lack of living arrangements, they certainly didn’t think having no home is a lifestyle. I emphasized the need for us to be sensitive to other people’s misfortune and life circumstances, and also to appreciate what we have.
The next day, we walked for, and occasionally, with, the homeless. It was a cold, blustery afternoon despite the bright sunshine, and if it weren’t for the massive crowd surrounding us and leading the way, I would not have known where the hell I was, even though I’ve lived in their town for twelve years. The walk route followed the path that the homeless walk to find services, and along the way, the girls, acting as tour guides, would point out service locations as landmarks. We stopped at water stations along the route, and made conversation with friends we saw while walking. After we completed the three mile loop, MJ drove us to another sketchy part of town to get Blizzards from the Dairy Queen. And after that, we returned to our cozy, well appointed homes.
I don’t know if AJ and E had a better understanding of what being homeless means, or at least, the difference between a hobo, a hillbilly, and a homeless person. But I do know that even the free t-shirt made E a little sad, and with that sadness came a lesson that stuck somewhere in that spongy absorbent brain of hers. Raising the awareness of one child is still raising awareness, even if the benefit won’t be appreciated for years to come.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Redirected Road Rage
An open letter to the people in front of and behind me on the drive home last night from my meeting:
Dear Sir/Madam:
Welcome to the road. You are sharing it with other people, so there are some basic rules of etiquette you need to remember.
To the person in front of me, your car has automatic transmission, which means you may use the same foot for the gas and the brake pedals. This is not 1953, and your Buick does not have a clutch. So please, do us all a favor and take your foot off the brake. I understand that the road is dark, and foxes and raccoons can appear out of nowhere, but destroying your brake pads isn’t the way to anticipate them. I was mesmerized by your three glowing red brake lights, and kept wondering when I was supposed to know the difference between you being overly cautious and when you actually planned to stop. Were you unsure of where you were going? Were you looking for a side road? If so, I would recommend, in the future, the purchase and usage of a GPS system. I did find out, however, that it was neither. You therefore must not know where to put your left foot. I know where to put mine; let me tell you. There is a little foot rest on the left hand side of your floor board. Put your foot there. Free up your brake pedal for more important things, like braking.
To the person behind me, I understand it was a dark road. After all, it was after nine o’clock in December. One can expect the night time sky to be a little dark under such conditions. And yes, this particular road does not have street lights. So I can see why you might have been tempted to use your bright lights the entire trip down the road. After all, foxes and raccoons can appear out of nowhere, but blinding the person in front of you, in this case, me, is not the way to go. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you are not the only one on the road. Even though you are visually impaired, I can see you just fine. Too fine, in fact. I felt like I was reliving a scene from “Mississippi Burning” or “Silkwood.” I didn’t know if you were going to run me off the road or pull me over and shoot me in the head. Lucky for me, it was neither. Your bright lights are most likely operated by a stem on one side of your steering wheel. If you are unsure where, take a moment to review your user manual before you leave your driveway. That way, you won't make the mistake of driving for miles blinding both the oncoming traffic and those unfortunate souls going in your direction.
The next time you are tooling down the road, take a minute to look at your dashboard. Is there a blue light indicating your high beams are on? Look down a second, and check the position of your left foot. Is it hovering over the brake pedal? If the answer is yes, then let someone else drive. You need some additional training in the operation of your motor vehicle. You are not road ready. And if the rest of us can’t see because we are being blinded from behind, or tell what the hell is going on while you ride your brakes, then how are we going to be able to tell when the foxes and raccoons appear out of nowhere?
Sincerely,
Everyone else on the road
Dear Sir/Madam:
Welcome to the road. You are sharing it with other people, so there are some basic rules of etiquette you need to remember.
To the person in front of me, your car has automatic transmission, which means you may use the same foot for the gas and the brake pedals. This is not 1953, and your Buick does not have a clutch. So please, do us all a favor and take your foot off the brake. I understand that the road is dark, and foxes and raccoons can appear out of nowhere, but destroying your brake pads isn’t the way to anticipate them. I was mesmerized by your three glowing red brake lights, and kept wondering when I was supposed to know the difference between you being overly cautious and when you actually planned to stop. Were you unsure of where you were going? Were you looking for a side road? If so, I would recommend, in the future, the purchase and usage of a GPS system. I did find out, however, that it was neither. You therefore must not know where to put your left foot. I know where to put mine; let me tell you. There is a little foot rest on the left hand side of your floor board. Put your foot there. Free up your brake pedal for more important things, like braking.
To the person behind me, I understand it was a dark road. After all, it was after nine o’clock in December. One can expect the night time sky to be a little dark under such conditions. And yes, this particular road does not have street lights. So I can see why you might have been tempted to use your bright lights the entire trip down the road. After all, foxes and raccoons can appear out of nowhere, but blinding the person in front of you, in this case, me, is not the way to go. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you are not the only one on the road. Even though you are visually impaired, I can see you just fine. Too fine, in fact. I felt like I was reliving a scene from “Mississippi Burning” or “Silkwood.” I didn’t know if you were going to run me off the road or pull me over and shoot me in the head. Lucky for me, it was neither. Your bright lights are most likely operated by a stem on one side of your steering wheel. If you are unsure where, take a moment to review your user manual before you leave your driveway. That way, you won't make the mistake of driving for miles blinding both the oncoming traffic and those unfortunate souls going in your direction.
The next time you are tooling down the road, take a minute to look at your dashboard. Is there a blue light indicating your high beams are on? Look down a second, and check the position of your left foot. Is it hovering over the brake pedal? If the answer is yes, then let someone else drive. You need some additional training in the operation of your motor vehicle. You are not road ready. And if the rest of us can’t see because we are being blinded from behind, or tell what the hell is going on while you ride your brakes, then how are we going to be able to tell when the foxes and raccoons appear out of nowhere?
Sincerely,
Everyone else on the road
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Confessions of A Cat Person
I have come to the realization that I am not much of a dog person. It’s not that I don’t like dogs, exactly. I like them just fine. I like to look at cute dogs, and to pat their heads, and to throw toys for them, or perhaps to watch them enjoy their toys all by themselves. But beyond that, I really have no use for them.
Picking up small dogs is awkward because of the possibility of accidentally touching canine genitalia. The big ones don’t have that same risk, but instead you just have to look at their junk. Jesus, put on some pants, would you? Think of the children. And when you aren’t looking at their stuff, they are nose deep in yours, sniffing. I don’t really want anyone sniffing my goods, thank you very much. I haven’t even gotten to the other things that make dogs a deal breaker, like picking up poop, waiting for them to poop, hoping they don’t eat some other dog’s poop. Dogs are too natural for me, with all that genitalia and poop. And don’t even get me started on the way they smell.
I know dog people will say that you have to have a dog to truly learn to love a dog. I grew up with a dog, so I have had some experience. His name was Gus, G-d rest his soul, and he was the kind of dog that everyone else in the neighborhood hated. My mother didn’t believe in responsible pet ownership, so she would just open the front door and let Gus roam free. He used this opportunity to knock over garbage cans like trash day was an all-you-can-eat buffet. He would stand in the middle of the road, staring down oncoming traffic. He pooped wherever he wanted to, and when feeling randy, would screw anyone or anything, the neighbor’s dogs, my mother’s dates. He was a humping machine. Once he even pinned down our male cat, who was even more confused than we were.
I could go on and on about Gus, but that’s for another day. After he passed away, my exposure to dogs was spotty until I started dating my husband in college. He had an English sheepdog with a skin condition and a stupid poodle named Cookie that his mother had driven crazy. Cookie’s diet consisted of Vienna sausages and Mighty Dog, essentially the same thing in a different shape, with the occasional pimento cheese covered Wheat Thin for color. She was fond of pissing on the den carpet, masturbating with a slipper, and going through my bag and removing articles that did not belong to her. Her acts of sabotage started small, like dragging out my toothbrush and chomping on it like a teething biscuit. Another time she raided my bag and extracted an expensive makeup brush. She upped her game when she went through my dirty laundry and dragged my black lace panties unto the middle of the den for my mother in law to discover.
The worst was the time we returned to my in law’s house after a dinner out to find Cookie chewing happily on something on the den floor (Cookie really liked the den). My mother-in-law moved in for a closer inspection, then hurriedly grabbed a Kleenex, picked up the offending item, and tossed it in the closest trash can. It turned out that Cookie had been rooting around in the bathroom trash can earlier that evening and had produced a used tampon that I thought had been wrapped and buried well, a used tampon that surely would have clogged an already feisty and temperamental downstairs toilet. I hated that freaking dog, probably as much as my mother in law hated me for menstruating at her house.
My friend MJ, on the other hand, loves dogs. She has a rescue Papillion that lives with her and a rescue Borzoi that lives with her ex-husband, since he kept the house and the accompanying large fenced –in yard. He doesn’t seem to mind, since her Borzoi keeps his rescued greyhound company. These folks are their own no-kill animal shelter.
Her Papillion, when not pooping on the floor and shaking nervously, is also a fan of the search and rescue mission. MJ just returned from a trip last week, and before she had a chance to unpack, her little dog liberated all her dirty panties. Being the thoughtful and intelligent creature that he is, he not only inventoried them, he even washed them thoroughly by hand, er, tongue. He lovingly and painstakingly went over every bit of fabric, making sure that the entire pantie was inspected and licked clean before discarding it and moving on to the next, ready to be put back in the drawer for another day. Think about that the next time someone's dog greets you by licking your mouth.
My cats are far from perfect. Sure, they knock glasses over and claw my furniture and chew on the girls’ toys and wake me up every night and scratch my hardwood floor tearing through the house after one another, but they are not interested in my genitalia at all, nor I in theirs, which is the way I like it. I would rather find that they left me a dead mouse, which means they are doing their jobs, then a used tampon, which means they are just nosy. And if I want to pick up their poop, I know exactly where it is. I don’t have to go looking for it. They might act like they don’t know their own names, but I do, so it’s a win-win. What they lack in loyalty they make up for in good-natured aloofness. I don’t have to walk them or bathe them or entertain them. They don’t require day care or sweaters or chew toys. I can leave them at home alone, and know that the furniture and my shoes will still exist when I return. And never once has either of them tried to fuck anything. They may not slobber all over me with wet kisses, but then again, they don’t slobber all over me with wet kisses.
So yes, I can see the alleged charm of a dog. By looking over the neighbor’s fence. Where, I am sure, there is a whole minefield of poop waiting for a child’s sneaker to discover.
Picking up small dogs is awkward because of the possibility of accidentally touching canine genitalia. The big ones don’t have that same risk, but instead you just have to look at their junk. Jesus, put on some pants, would you? Think of the children. And when you aren’t looking at their stuff, they are nose deep in yours, sniffing. I don’t really want anyone sniffing my goods, thank you very much. I haven’t even gotten to the other things that make dogs a deal breaker, like picking up poop, waiting for them to poop, hoping they don’t eat some other dog’s poop. Dogs are too natural for me, with all that genitalia and poop. And don’t even get me started on the way they smell.
I know dog people will say that you have to have a dog to truly learn to love a dog. I grew up with a dog, so I have had some experience. His name was Gus, G-d rest his soul, and he was the kind of dog that everyone else in the neighborhood hated. My mother didn’t believe in responsible pet ownership, so she would just open the front door and let Gus roam free. He used this opportunity to knock over garbage cans like trash day was an all-you-can-eat buffet. He would stand in the middle of the road, staring down oncoming traffic. He pooped wherever he wanted to, and when feeling randy, would screw anyone or anything, the neighbor’s dogs, my mother’s dates. He was a humping machine. Once he even pinned down our male cat, who was even more confused than we were.
I could go on and on about Gus, but that’s for another day. After he passed away, my exposure to dogs was spotty until I started dating my husband in college. He had an English sheepdog with a skin condition and a stupid poodle named Cookie that his mother had driven crazy. Cookie’s diet consisted of Vienna sausages and Mighty Dog, essentially the same thing in a different shape, with the occasional pimento cheese covered Wheat Thin for color. She was fond of pissing on the den carpet, masturbating with a slipper, and going through my bag and removing articles that did not belong to her. Her acts of sabotage started small, like dragging out my toothbrush and chomping on it like a teething biscuit. Another time she raided my bag and extracted an expensive makeup brush. She upped her game when she went through my dirty laundry and dragged my black lace panties unto the middle of the den for my mother in law to discover.
The worst was the time we returned to my in law’s house after a dinner out to find Cookie chewing happily on something on the den floor (Cookie really liked the den). My mother-in-law moved in for a closer inspection, then hurriedly grabbed a Kleenex, picked up the offending item, and tossed it in the closest trash can. It turned out that Cookie had been rooting around in the bathroom trash can earlier that evening and had produced a used tampon that I thought had been wrapped and buried well, a used tampon that surely would have clogged an already feisty and temperamental downstairs toilet. I hated that freaking dog, probably as much as my mother in law hated me for menstruating at her house.
My friend MJ, on the other hand, loves dogs. She has a rescue Papillion that lives with her and a rescue Borzoi that lives with her ex-husband, since he kept the house and the accompanying large fenced –in yard. He doesn’t seem to mind, since her Borzoi keeps his rescued greyhound company. These folks are their own no-kill animal shelter.
Her Papillion, when not pooping on the floor and shaking nervously, is also a fan of the search and rescue mission. MJ just returned from a trip last week, and before she had a chance to unpack, her little dog liberated all her dirty panties. Being the thoughtful and intelligent creature that he is, he not only inventoried them, he even washed them thoroughly by hand, er, tongue. He lovingly and painstakingly went over every bit of fabric, making sure that the entire pantie was inspected and licked clean before discarding it and moving on to the next, ready to be put back in the drawer for another day. Think about that the next time someone's dog greets you by licking your mouth.
My cats are far from perfect. Sure, they knock glasses over and claw my furniture and chew on the girls’ toys and wake me up every night and scratch my hardwood floor tearing through the house after one another, but they are not interested in my genitalia at all, nor I in theirs, which is the way I like it. I would rather find that they left me a dead mouse, which means they are doing their jobs, then a used tampon, which means they are just nosy. And if I want to pick up their poop, I know exactly where it is. I don’t have to go looking for it. They might act like they don’t know their own names, but I do, so it’s a win-win. What they lack in loyalty they make up for in good-natured aloofness. I don’t have to walk them or bathe them or entertain them. They don’t require day care or sweaters or chew toys. I can leave them at home alone, and know that the furniture and my shoes will still exist when I return. And never once has either of them tried to fuck anything. They may not slobber all over me with wet kisses, but then again, they don’t slobber all over me with wet kisses.
So yes, I can see the alleged charm of a dog. By looking over the neighbor’s fence. Where, I am sure, there is a whole minefield of poop waiting for a child’s sneaker to discover.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Tie One On
I never thought that taking a walk on a Sunday morning would involve dressing a teenage boy. Fresh air, maybe, some nice conversation with my walking buddy, some semblance of physical activity, although, let’s face it, we are not walking at any kind of clip that results in sweat. But teenage boys? I don’t even have one of those.
BD and I took our normal walk this past Sunday, after I dropped my daughters off at Sunday school. The air was warmer than it should have been on a November morning, and the acrid stench of burning leaves hung heavy in the air, respiratory issues be damned. BD lives in a neighborhood that is so white bread Middle America that you think you are walking on a set in Hollywood. It’s like being on Elm Street, only without Freddy Krueger. Cats are sunning themselves on front steps. Dogs are wagging their tails and chasing butterflies. The squeal of children and the hum of leaf blowers punctuate the air. Any second, you expect the Kool-Aid man to come bursting out of a garage, screaming, “Oh Yeah!” In fact, to further cement the illusion, BD leaves her older school age children at home and carries a walkie-talkie through the neighborhood in case they need her. Which begs the question, why not a string and two tin cans?
Anyway, the walk was a normal walk. For us, something odd always happens while walking, so expecting the unexpected is our norm. We had passed maybe three houses when I noticed the biggest slug to ever ooze out of the grass was working its way across the road. I am not talking a slug the size of a cocktail weinie. This thing was longer than my hand from middle finger tip to wrist. BD almost stepped on it because she thought it was a stick. We stopped walking and looked at it for a while, amazed and disgusted at the same time. BD decided that we couldn’t leave it in the road to get run over, as a slug of this size had clearly been alive for a while. For all we knew, that slug could have been the same age as one of our kids, certainly as old as someone’s kid. We couldn’t just leave it there to die.
But how to move it? Neither of us was interested in touching it, because, yuck, it’s a slug. BD suggested I get a stick. So I did. A small stick, a twig, really. I tried to scoot it over to the side of the road, but all it did was ball up to the size of a mini Three Musketeers bar. I couldn’t scoot it with the stick. I was merely taunting it. BD suggested a bigger stick. Notice BD had no interest in getting the slug out of the road herself, preferring to supervise my actions instead. The yard next to us, however, had no sticks, certainly none the size of, say, the slug. I found another twig, and calling upon my prowess with chopsticks, plucked it off the ground like a piece of sushi and flung it in the closest yard.
“That was my good deed for the day,” I said proudly as I tossed the sticks into the yard as I had the slug moments before. And we continued walking. We covered the usual topics, our children, our husbands, our in-laws, with an occasional rant on politics or religion. BD and I like to think we can discuss the bigger things as fluently as those from our own spheres. We thought no more of the slug, and kept walking at a less than brisk pace.
When we approached the mid-point of the walk, we passed a house where a mom and her teenage son stood on the front porch. She stood behind him, so I don’t recall what she had on, but he was wearing a suit and dress shirt. He called out to us, “Do you know how to tie a tie?” BD yelled back, “No, I don’t, but she does,” she meaning me. Now, I need to point out here that BD’s husband wears a tie every day to work. Mine, on the other hand, wears one maybe once a year. In fact, he specifically chose his career based on the fact that a tie is not required. (He wants me to clarify that the previous statement is not entirely true.) So while neither of us might know how to tie a tie, she certainly has more exposure to the process. I also did not grow up with a father at home, so there was no tying history from which to draw. I had to search the far corners of my memory’s attic for how to tie a tie.
“I’ll give it a try,” I said, walking across his lawn. “It’s been a while, but let’s see if I remember.” The teenage boy walked over to me, but his healthy dousing of cologne got to me before he did. I stood on my tip toes and tried to remember, around, around, up from behind and dive down the middle. I did what I remembered, and the poor boy looked like a hobo. BD suggested I try again, since it sort of almost maybe possibly looked like it was close to being right. I undid the whole mess and tried again. Around, around, up, then down. Pinch, tug, push. Voila. I tied a tie.
“How’s that?” I asked him.
“Pretty good, thanks!” He answered, then bounded back across the lawn and into his house.
BD and I continued our walk. I was filled with a sense of pride at my tiny little slice of community service.
“Who knew I could tie a tie? That's two good deeds in one day!” I said.
“I did,” she said. “You know how to do all sorts of things.”
I smelled my hand, which was covered in teenage boy cologne, then held it up to BD's face so she too could smell the folly of youth.
In some strange way, BD is right. I can do things that I wouldn’t think I could. Or that I don’t realize I can. I am sure we all feel that way, but when called upon to serve, we can conjure up a decent tie knot.
“Only in my neighborhood would someone stand on the front porch and wait for people to walk by to tie ties,” BD said.
“Yeah, in my neighborhood they would just go without, like loafers without socks at the country club. Besides, in my neighborhood, we never lay eyes upon one another. It helps us to imagine we are living on estates rather than in peeping distance of one another.”
I don’t know what you see or do when taking a walk, but me, it’s slugs and neckties and small opportunities for public service.
BD and I took our normal walk this past Sunday, after I dropped my daughters off at Sunday school. The air was warmer than it should have been on a November morning, and the acrid stench of burning leaves hung heavy in the air, respiratory issues be damned. BD lives in a neighborhood that is so white bread Middle America that you think you are walking on a set in Hollywood. It’s like being on Elm Street, only without Freddy Krueger. Cats are sunning themselves on front steps. Dogs are wagging their tails and chasing butterflies. The squeal of children and the hum of leaf blowers punctuate the air. Any second, you expect the Kool-Aid man to come bursting out of a garage, screaming, “Oh Yeah!” In fact, to further cement the illusion, BD leaves her older school age children at home and carries a walkie-talkie through the neighborhood in case they need her. Which begs the question, why not a string and two tin cans?
Anyway, the walk was a normal walk. For us, something odd always happens while walking, so expecting the unexpected is our norm. We had passed maybe three houses when I noticed the biggest slug to ever ooze out of the grass was working its way across the road. I am not talking a slug the size of a cocktail weinie. This thing was longer than my hand from middle finger tip to wrist. BD almost stepped on it because she thought it was a stick. We stopped walking and looked at it for a while, amazed and disgusted at the same time. BD decided that we couldn’t leave it in the road to get run over, as a slug of this size had clearly been alive for a while. For all we knew, that slug could have been the same age as one of our kids, certainly as old as someone’s kid. We couldn’t just leave it there to die.
But how to move it? Neither of us was interested in touching it, because, yuck, it’s a slug. BD suggested I get a stick. So I did. A small stick, a twig, really. I tried to scoot it over to the side of the road, but all it did was ball up to the size of a mini Three Musketeers bar. I couldn’t scoot it with the stick. I was merely taunting it. BD suggested a bigger stick. Notice BD had no interest in getting the slug out of the road herself, preferring to supervise my actions instead. The yard next to us, however, had no sticks, certainly none the size of, say, the slug. I found another twig, and calling upon my prowess with chopsticks, plucked it off the ground like a piece of sushi and flung it in the closest yard.
“That was my good deed for the day,” I said proudly as I tossed the sticks into the yard as I had the slug moments before. And we continued walking. We covered the usual topics, our children, our husbands, our in-laws, with an occasional rant on politics or religion. BD and I like to think we can discuss the bigger things as fluently as those from our own spheres. We thought no more of the slug, and kept walking at a less than brisk pace.
When we approached the mid-point of the walk, we passed a house where a mom and her teenage son stood on the front porch. She stood behind him, so I don’t recall what she had on, but he was wearing a suit and dress shirt. He called out to us, “Do you know how to tie a tie?” BD yelled back, “No, I don’t, but she does,” she meaning me. Now, I need to point out here that BD’s husband wears a tie every day to work. Mine, on the other hand, wears one maybe once a year. In fact, he specifically chose his career based on the fact that a tie is not required. (He wants me to clarify that the previous statement is not entirely true.) So while neither of us might know how to tie a tie, she certainly has more exposure to the process. I also did not grow up with a father at home, so there was no tying history from which to draw. I had to search the far corners of my memory’s attic for how to tie a tie.
“I’ll give it a try,” I said, walking across his lawn. “It’s been a while, but let’s see if I remember.” The teenage boy walked over to me, but his healthy dousing of cologne got to me before he did. I stood on my tip toes and tried to remember, around, around, up from behind and dive down the middle. I did what I remembered, and the poor boy looked like a hobo. BD suggested I try again, since it sort of almost maybe possibly looked like it was close to being right. I undid the whole mess and tried again. Around, around, up, then down. Pinch, tug, push. Voila. I tied a tie.
“How’s that?” I asked him.
“Pretty good, thanks!” He answered, then bounded back across the lawn and into his house.
BD and I continued our walk. I was filled with a sense of pride at my tiny little slice of community service.
“Who knew I could tie a tie? That's two good deeds in one day!” I said.
“I did,” she said. “You know how to do all sorts of things.”
I smelled my hand, which was covered in teenage boy cologne, then held it up to BD's face so she too could smell the folly of youth.
In some strange way, BD is right. I can do things that I wouldn’t think I could. Or that I don’t realize I can. I am sure we all feel that way, but when called upon to serve, we can conjure up a decent tie knot.
“Only in my neighborhood would someone stand on the front porch and wait for people to walk by to tie ties,” BD said.
“Yeah, in my neighborhood they would just go without, like loafers without socks at the country club. Besides, in my neighborhood, we never lay eyes upon one another. It helps us to imagine we are living on estates rather than in peeping distance of one another.”
I don’t know what you see or do when taking a walk, but me, it’s slugs and neckties and small opportunities for public service.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Better Than A Poke in the Eye
I survived my eye appointment. If you read back a year ago on my blog, you will see exactly how I feel about going to the eye doctor. Lucky for me, this year’s appointment was a routine one, with no dilation of anything. I barely even had to wait before my name was called, which disappointed me because I was all set to make a dent in the book I am struggling to read, and I also had not yet finished sneakily gawking and passing judgment on the other patients in the waiting room.
After being seated in the exam room, I perched atop the chair on my sitz bones, wondering how the office staff keeps things sanitary. Do they wipe the chair down after each patient? Just curious. I didn’t ask because I didn’t need an extra reason for them to think I was nutty. Instead, I answered all the history of me questions enthusiastically and mostly honestly. I even admitted I had dry eyes yet did nothing about it. I never use eye drops, which surprised her. What I didn’t say was that I opt instead to rinse them in my mouth and pop them back in my eyes, but then again, she didn’t ask me about that. She had me read the lowest line I could on the eye chart, which somehow always feels like entrapment. Then the optical assistant took my glasses to read the prescription and left me in the room, with its soft mood lighting and disturbingly accurate posters of eye anatomy and disease processes.
After a few minutes, she came back with my glasses and Dr. S. We went through the usual routine, where he starts by asking me the same questions the technician did. Wouldn’t it be faster to hook me up to a lie detector and just ask me once? After that fun, we got down to the nitty gritty, with that Victorian eye contraption with all its little lenses and gadgets. The only thing missing is a handlebar mustache and middle part with lots of Brylcreem, a look I think Dr. S could pull off. He again made me cover my eyes one at a time and read my way through the eye chart that I couldn’t see. Every letter I said aloud sounded wrong even to me. I really hate failing a test. After a while, he stopped me, then got up close to my face with the bright light.
“You have a dot on your left eye,” he told me. I was petrified. What did that mean? Cancer? Glaucoma? Macular degeneration? Oh wait, one of my contacts has a dot on it. The right one. The right one, which was floating around on my left eye.
“Oh, Jesus,” I muttered. “How embarrassing.”
Dr. S laughed. “I was wondering why your prescription changed so much. You’ve got the right contact on the left eye. No need to be embarrassed though. You are the second patient to do that this hour.”
“So you only treat morons here? Ugh. And I sat here with the nerve to complain about them being dry. No wonder I can’t see anything.”
“Really, you aren’t that special,” Dr. S said. Could he not have chosen a different way to say that? “I have patients do that all day.”
“He does,” the assistant said. “I do it too. I came in here last week and couldn’t see a thing. I had them in the wrong eyes the whole time!” So his staff is idiotic as well.
Dr. S went on, “No lie, I had a patient in here a month ago, complaining about how bad her right eye hurt, and how she couldn’t see anything out of her left eye. She went on and on about how I gave her bad contacts and how she couldn’t see a thing and her eye was killing her. I sat her down and had a look, and sure enough, she had four contacts in one eye. She just kept putting them in there. She had two on top of one another on the cornea, and then two more folded up like tacos kind of behind her eyelid."
I sat quietly, thinking, gee, Dr. S, it’s a good thing you’re not a gynecologist. But then I didn’t want to have to explain my comment to him. I saw myself describing the whole new tampon shoved in after forgetting to take the old one out, and even I had the sense to keep my mouth shut.
“So, you see, it’s not just you, I promise. It happens all the time around here. You’re the second one today, this hour. I have a long way to go.”
Dr. S left the room, and I said to the assistant, “You know, I can’t even see the dot when I put my contacts in. That’s why I get them switched around in the first place.”
“Just leave your glasses on to look for the dot,” she said. “Then take them off and insert your contact.”
Why didn’t I think of that? And at the same time, ugh, another step in the morning routine. As if leaving my glasses on for ten more seconds will make everyone late for school. I am so rigid in my routine that I can’t allow for a little extra help, even from myself. “Thanks,” I said. “That’s a good idea.”
The good news was my prescription hasn’t changed in years, and I still don’t need reading glasses. Finally, one part of me is stable. The bad part was that I made a fool of myself before I got get the good news. Oh well, it could have been worse. I could have said tampon to my eye doctor.
After being seated in the exam room, I perched atop the chair on my sitz bones, wondering how the office staff keeps things sanitary. Do they wipe the chair down after each patient? Just curious. I didn’t ask because I didn’t need an extra reason for them to think I was nutty. Instead, I answered all the history of me questions enthusiastically and mostly honestly. I even admitted I had dry eyes yet did nothing about it. I never use eye drops, which surprised her. What I didn’t say was that I opt instead to rinse them in my mouth and pop them back in my eyes, but then again, she didn’t ask me about that. She had me read the lowest line I could on the eye chart, which somehow always feels like entrapment. Then the optical assistant took my glasses to read the prescription and left me in the room, with its soft mood lighting and disturbingly accurate posters of eye anatomy and disease processes.
After a few minutes, she came back with my glasses and Dr. S. We went through the usual routine, where he starts by asking me the same questions the technician did. Wouldn’t it be faster to hook me up to a lie detector and just ask me once? After that fun, we got down to the nitty gritty, with that Victorian eye contraption with all its little lenses and gadgets. The only thing missing is a handlebar mustache and middle part with lots of Brylcreem, a look I think Dr. S could pull off. He again made me cover my eyes one at a time and read my way through the eye chart that I couldn’t see. Every letter I said aloud sounded wrong even to me. I really hate failing a test. After a while, he stopped me, then got up close to my face with the bright light.
“You have a dot on your left eye,” he told me. I was petrified. What did that mean? Cancer? Glaucoma? Macular degeneration? Oh wait, one of my contacts has a dot on it. The right one. The right one, which was floating around on my left eye.
“Oh, Jesus,” I muttered. “How embarrassing.”
Dr. S laughed. “I was wondering why your prescription changed so much. You’ve got the right contact on the left eye. No need to be embarrassed though. You are the second patient to do that this hour.”
“So you only treat morons here? Ugh. And I sat here with the nerve to complain about them being dry. No wonder I can’t see anything.”
“Really, you aren’t that special,” Dr. S said. Could he not have chosen a different way to say that? “I have patients do that all day.”
“He does,” the assistant said. “I do it too. I came in here last week and couldn’t see a thing. I had them in the wrong eyes the whole time!” So his staff is idiotic as well.
Dr. S went on, “No lie, I had a patient in here a month ago, complaining about how bad her right eye hurt, and how she couldn’t see anything out of her left eye. She went on and on about how I gave her bad contacts and how she couldn’t see a thing and her eye was killing her. I sat her down and had a look, and sure enough, she had four contacts in one eye. She just kept putting them in there. She had two on top of one another on the cornea, and then two more folded up like tacos kind of behind her eyelid."
I sat quietly, thinking, gee, Dr. S, it’s a good thing you’re not a gynecologist. But then I didn’t want to have to explain my comment to him. I saw myself describing the whole new tampon shoved in after forgetting to take the old one out, and even I had the sense to keep my mouth shut.
“So, you see, it’s not just you, I promise. It happens all the time around here. You’re the second one today, this hour. I have a long way to go.”
Dr. S left the room, and I said to the assistant, “You know, I can’t even see the dot when I put my contacts in. That’s why I get them switched around in the first place.”
“Just leave your glasses on to look for the dot,” she said. “Then take them off and insert your contact.”
Why didn’t I think of that? And at the same time, ugh, another step in the morning routine. As if leaving my glasses on for ten more seconds will make everyone late for school. I am so rigid in my routine that I can’t allow for a little extra help, even from myself. “Thanks,” I said. “That’s a good idea.”
The good news was my prescription hasn’t changed in years, and I still don’t need reading glasses. Finally, one part of me is stable. The bad part was that I made a fool of myself before I got get the good news. Oh well, it could have been worse. I could have said tampon to my eye doctor.
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