Mogie's World

I Heart My GPS

2007-04-14T17:52:00.000-04:00

There is no way around the fact I am a geek. Not an Ubergeek who would know how to put the umlauts (2 little dots) over the “U” in “Uber,” or a geek who can talk someone through a complex computer problem, but I do LOVE technology and toys. The latest gadget I consider to be life-altering and fabulous is our GPS.

We’ve actually had a GPS in the family for around 10 years. It’s a little hand held item I bought my husband for boating. It’s pretty nifty and really just for nautical use. Our exposure to a land type GPS was last May when we took a trip to Atlanta for a friend’s wedding. We rented a car and were tickled to see it had GPS. Since I was the navigator, I was entrusted with getting the device going. Kind of like Sulu in Star Trek, or maybe Mr. Chekhov, a Russian like me. Yes, a geek reference.

Anyway, upon turning on the device we found it to have a female voice so as a nod to our Georgia locale, Arthur dubbed her “Scarlet.” I was able to quickly program in our destination about an hour away, and we left the rental car lot to head on our way. We were also armed with written instructions to our destination. As we drove down the highway, Scarlet was telling us things that did not match up with our printed out directions. Whom to trust. It was a tough call but I think we went written. Passing Scarlet’s recommended route, she would patiently state she was “recalculating.” I explained to Arthur what she was really thinking was “listen you damn Yankee assholes, I told you to take exit 11!” Later on in our trip, Scarlet kept trying to get us to leave our written instructions guiding us to our friend’s lake house, and turn onto Short Bridge Road. One day we figured what the heck, we’ll take Scarlet’s route. Sure enough, in what we interpreted as payback to our arrogant Yankee selves for ignoring her day 1, Short Bridge Road was indeed short; it stopped abruptly and would have landed us in a lake had we not proceeded slowly with caution. “Scarlet tried to kill us” we proclaimed! Overall, we left Atlanta sold on the value of a GPS and intent on getting one. As luck would have it, Arthur’s birthday was coming up, so that was his gift.

I love the damn thing. So much that we even got one for my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. Around the holiday season last year, it was amazing at getting me to various offices and hospitals I needed to visit for work. One night when both Arthur and myself were headed to different destinations and he claimed the GPS first, I borrowed my parents’ for the night. I see my boss using Mapquest and shake my head sadly. I’ve given him the sales pitch and think he will cave any moment.

The voice our GPS is set to use is English Emily. It’s funny to hear her not able to pronounce the “th” sound we enjoy, and giving a British spin to other words. In an effort to be supportive, Arthur even downloaded the sexy Latin voice of Javier for me, but found it only spoke Spanish. We were both disappointed. If Javier spoke English, I wonder if we could have programmed it to say my first name before he spoke. Maybe there will be a Jean-Claude who has a wonderful accent and says my name. If they did, I might just have to drive cross country for milk, making lots of turns along the way *sigh*

She’s Baaaaack…Well, Maybe Kinda

2007-01-05T21:50:00.000-05:00

The other day I got an email from my writer pal Frank that was short and to the point. It said something like, “8 months.” No, he’s not pregnant; he just retains fluid. The month reference was actually pointing out how long it has been since I last blogged. “No way it has been 8 months” I told my computer monitor, but after checking, and this pains me to say….Frank was right. Had someone asked me, I would have said 4 months, tops. But it has been 8.

There are 3 half finished blogs I keep meaning to complete. One was a mean-spirited, snobbish little rant on airline travel (I stand by my observations despite perhaps not being PC), the other on the new trend in line management. Those two have hope. The third covers the very gradual progress of my son Graham’s potty training, but to be honest, the best thing about it was the title I gave it, “Tales From The Little Chair,” a nod to the monster Tears for Fears album from the 80’s. Happily, I can report that Graham is doing yeomans work with the potty thing so the post would be quite dated. Just enjoy the clever title I had.

So here I sit, 3 days before Christmas, with the curtain preparing to close on Hanukkah, pondering something my husband told me a few days ago. Apparently there was a Zogby poll http://www.zogby.com/NEWS/ReadNews.dbm?ID=1213 where they found more people were offended by someone wishing them “Happy Holiday” than being specifically wished Merry Christmas. There are lots of reasons why, but I enjoy the “holiday” version best. To me it covers a longer period of time so you are wishing the person a nice holiday SEASON, from Hanukkah which often starts prior to Christmas, right through New Years. Happy Holidays can cover perhaps a whole month if the dates fall right! I love that. You cover a whole 1/12 of the year with one statement.

Maybe it’s easy for me as I am not attached to a particular faith, but at the end of the day, I don’t think it really matters. I try to just enjoy the fact that someone, and (maybe even a stranger) at least tried to be courteous and sent me a nice thought or two. Unless I’m pre-menstrual in which case people should just shut the hell up because they don’t know me or my belief system so don’t make assumptions about how I celebrate the over-commercialized season by shoving YOUR religion down my throat. I get enough of that from elected officials.

Anyway, Happy Whatever. In my undefined and non-non-tax exempt faith, that means be safe, healthy, and happy. The rest is gravy.

PS - Yes, I know I posted this after the formal holiday season,No, you may not have a full refund.Consider it a head start on next year. Always best to plan ahead.

The Storm Before The Calm

2006-04-19T18:02:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow at 4am, I am leaving my house to get to the airport so I can fly to Colorado for a little holiday. I made this same trek about 2 years ago and it was wonderful. I’ll be in Durango, visiting my sister and her family. Her kids are grown which means I won’t be put to work changing diapers.

Once I set foot on my first flight tomorrow (there will be a total of 3), I suspect I will get a minor headache. That’s what happens when I can decompress after a period of great stress. It’s nice to know what to expect form ones own body, but sucks to know it won’t be a good thing.

During my 5 day absence, my husband will be in charge of the homestead and that mean The Kids. While I cannot claim to be a great organizer or master planner, I have a good grip on what needs to be done around the house and for the boys. Among the things not on my list: cleaning, dusting, vacuuming. The things on my list: playing, getting them fed, keeping them healthy, following something of a routine. With my husband in charge that is the unnerving part – making sure he does certain small things that need doing. He’ll get them fed, but I worry about the “little things.” Little Things include making sure Harry has stuff for a snack, patching Graham’s eye for 2 hours a day. The RIGHT one. Not left. Right. Dropping off and picking up from school. Being ready by exactly 11:40 to greet the bus. Yes, it’s the little things that make up a day.

As part of my trip preparation, I have been doing laundry. As a testament to my determination to have things go well in my absence thereby assuring I am permitted to take more trips alone in the future, I have even removed the clean clothes from the dryer, folder them, and get this, put them in the proper room. Yes, I am going all out. Today after work I did the grocery shopping based on the list I had my husband provide. I put together a detailed daily schedule for the family to follow. Now, as I type I am preparing dinner. Well, I am preheating the oven. But it counts.

Still to be done: packing, locating a suitable backpack for carrying my books, toothbrush and various sundries on the plane. Weather this time of year can be anything from hot and sunny to major snowstorm, so that presents something of a packing challenge. Must still gather up all my paperwork. And cell phone charger. And too many other things to list here and still have time to actually DO them.

I have my etickets printed out. It still bugs me not to have a good old, fashioned plane ticket in my hand, the kind with multiple slips inside and you never know which one you need.

Perhaps the biggest stress inducer is the fact I must leave my house at about 4am to get to the airport with ample time for my flight. I am a freak and am not happy unless I am at the airport very early. My flight leaves at 7. Ideally, I’d be there at 5. But instead it should be more like 5:30-5:45. At that time of the day it should be fine. So, what time should I go to bed? Now way I’m getting in my 8 hours. And with the stress of knowing I need to get up at 3:30, I won’t be able to fall asleep. Hello medicine cabinet.

By taking the time to blog, I am wasting valuable prep time, so hopefully it’s worth it. I’m really doing it because my public demanded I post something. That means one person mentioned it.

Ok, I need to hit the blog button and get moving on some projects around here. Once I get to Colorado, there will be time to sleep but for now, I gotta keep moving.

Au revoir my public. Kiss Kiss. See you on the other side of my holiday.

Will Dolly Parton Write A Song About Me?

2006-03-25T22:43:00.000-05:00

It happened. After 8 years of full-time momhood, I have returned to The Work Force. It’s only been 2 weeks, a minimum of 10 hours a week (I've done 17.5 and 24 so far) but I do have a few things to report.

First of all, the job I got is working for a local company that makes prosthetics and orthotics. (Still working on proper latin for orthotic vs. orthosis vs. orthoses. So for now, I’ll go with the commonly used but apparently incorrect term “orthotic.") I got to know the good folks there while writing the content for their website. A few months I got an email wondering if I knew of anyone who might be interested in a marketing position at their company. Sitting at my desk reading the email, I practically stood up and did the Horseshack “Oh Oh Oh, pick me.” It took some time to bring it all together, but happily we did. I am employed.

I was at my last office type job for 2 years when I quit to find a job working for a print publisher in New York City. About 2 weeks after meeting headhunter in NYC, I found out I was pregnant. It didn’t make sense to purse a job that would involve a 3 hour a day commute at that point, so instead I became a full time nester. When Harry turned 1, I got a job in a local chain mega-bookstore 2 nights a week, and 9-5 Saturdays. That was great for 2 years but when I became pregnant with Graham, I was so sick I had to stop working. When Graham turned 1, I started working Saturday nights at a group home for teenage girls in crisis. I left after a year for various reasons, one of which was I simply could not keep up with the social habits of 15 year old girls who wanted to go see movies that started at like, 10:00. AT NIGHT!

So, unemployed, it got me started once again tinkering with writing. That led me to find out friend/neighbor Amy was a web designer, and I ended up doing some work with her, and I met the prosthetics people who are now my employers.

So, what do I want to report about my new job?

First, and most importantly, I am really tired. One day last week I actually worked 9 - 5:30. For someone who has grown accustomed to working in 15 minute spurts over the past few years, it was enormously draining but also very exhilarating. I have literally been ready to fall asleep with my head in my dinner plate. This is after working 24 hours in one week. I still get up early and do all the kid and house stuff I need to do, and then head off to work.

Second, I am very nervous. Never a great organizer, I find myself sitting at my work desk and trying to figure out where to put everything. And how should I track my projects? At my last office job 8 years ago, there was no access to high technology. We had those old one piece Macs with interoffice email. No internet. No fancy software. So, I have never worked in a “modern office.” Right now I am trying to organize myself via computer. Time will tell but so far so good.

Third, I am trying to do a bit too much. My mantra is “it’s a marathon not a sprint” but I am just so darn excited! I know that will fade a bit, but for now I am enjoying the experience. It feels great to be out among nice professionals, working in a truly fascinating field (I held a $50,000 computerized leg), and making some money.

So how I am celebrating my return to work? By taking time off in 3 weeks to go visit family in Colorado for 5 days. Some things are hard to give up.

It Must Have Been The Glare

2006-03-12T22:16:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday was a truly spectacular evening and one that’s hard to stop thinking about. At around 7:00pm, two close friends and I went to a local tavern to celebrate St. Baldrick’s Day. I mentioned this event a few blogs posts back, but just to refresh hazy minds, St. Baldrick’s is a charity where every year around Saint Patrick’s Day, folks hold events and get their heads shaved to raise money to help fight pediatric cancer.

The team I pull for is Team Brent. Team leader Brent, is a 3 year who has cancer. Anyway, last years’ event was great fun, and in just 2 weeks, Team Brent and the 30 or so shavees raised $87,000. That made them the #1 team in the nation. A local elementary school boy Stephen who heard about the event started his own team and raised around 20k! This year, the take is at $178, 000 and RISING. Checks are still coming in, and there should be nice corporate matching dollars showing up over the summer.

This year's St. Baldrick’s event came together with more planning than the American invasion of Iraq. It looked like there would be around 60 shavees, including one woman. I happen to know the woman who shaved, and she was tremendously excited to be a part of Team Brent. She had extra motivation because her teen age daughter has cancer. Her daughter was supposed to have the honor of shaving her mom, but debilitating headaches caused by her treatments kept her home. A very sad irony, because part of what the research being funded by St. Baldrick’s is working on is to develop effective treatments free from the current intrusive and long term side effects.

I’d like to blame the glare from all the bald heads for making me teary, but in truth I started getting emotional before the first hair hit the ground. First, was the amazing energy of the crowd, but the kicker was the speech given by Mike, Brent’s dad to kick off the event. Mike spoke from his heart and it was brutal in the best way possible. In a difficult and classy moment, Mike paid tribute to a little girl who lost her battle a few months back and vowed to keep fundraising, and creating awareness as long as kids are still dying of cancer. According to Dana, when Mike finished his speech, an additional 30 or so guys, and 2 women marched over to get shaved bringing the number to over 100!

Some other elements of the evening: Dr. Joe, pediatric oncologist extraordinaire was there and spoke, and 2 of Brent’s oncology nurses from Boston attended. I already felt I knew Nurse Jen a little because she has her own wonderful blog. http://www.jenniferspencer.blogspot.com I follow closely.

What best summed up the evening for me was a scene I spied from my perch overlooking the main floor. Right after a big, imposing fellow had finished getting his scalp shaved, he got up, went over to Mike, kissed him right on top of his shiny bald head, nodded, and walked away.

In my universe, next years’ event celebrates the end of St. Baldrick’s Day because no more children have cancer. Actually, I'm pretty sure that would be the wish in anyone's universe. But the only way to make it happen is fundraising and dedicated, talented researchers nurses, and doctors.

Here’s to Brent!!!! The toughest guy I know.

Damn, the glare is getting to me again….

Wolfgang In the Park

2006-03-06T17:08:00.000-05:00

In yesterday’s regional paper, a headline caught my eye. It read “Classical Music may drive away park vagrants.”

Here’s the gist of the story:

A neighborhood in the state capital of Hartford wants to drive drug dealers and prostitutes from a local park by piping classical music through speakers placed in the park. Activists proposed the plan “in hopes of annoying petty criminals so much that they’ll leave. As an added bonus, the music will make the park more pleasant for people who want to walk or eat lunch there.” Apparently, the idea was hatched after they tried the same thing in West Palm Beach, Florida and a 40% decrease in crime was reported.

Naturally some classical music lovers are incensed. The conductor of the Hartford Symphony declared the “idea vulgarizes classical music that is meant to be enlightening.” Musicologist Robert Fink says “it looks like a desperate plan. Beethoven is not going to save you,” then he went on to talk about great composers being viewed as “some kind of bug spray or disinfectant.”

So, “petty” criminals don’t like classical music. What about white collar criminals? I wonder if Kenneth not-yet-convicted-but-hopefully-he-will-be-soon Lay of Enron fame knows who Bach is? Michael Miliken the junk bond king? Is he a Snoop Dogg kinda guy? The whole music plan just strikes me as a very bizarre social experiment that implies people on the fringe or who aren’t well to do, are somehow offended by classical music. I wonder if it's racist? Should they just reclassify the category name from “Classical” to “Music for the Middle Class and Upper classes”?

While I have no empirical data to back me up, I happen to know of instances where classical music can actually incite violence and criminal acts. And it can happen among otherwise law abiding, middle class suburban dwellers. Look at me for example. I happen to love classical music and have a small but decent classical CD collection. But come holiday season, the mere threat of having to listen to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons can cause me to develop an eye tick and hightened affect. My usually low blood pressure may soar after the 47th time it comes on in during a shopping trip. My husband, also a classical music fan, spent part of his youth working retail and had to listen to it so many times, even now, twenty years later he cannot hear it without getting upset. Same with the usually lovely Canon in D, by Pachelbel. Such a beautiful song, but repeated listening can have me poking around the bookstore looking for books about weaponry. Yes, the misuse and abuse of classical music can ruin both high end retailers at holidays time and hangouts for drug dealers and prostitutes.

Here is a little conspiracy theory for you. Maybe, just maybe, it’s internet vendors plying brick and mortar retailers with holiday classic music mixes. Ingenius really. If the horrific overapplication of classical music keeps people from going into stores, they may instead shop online, thereby driving up sales. Brilliant!

I’d like to see a study of what music notorious criminals listen to. Perhaps most famously, Charles Manson stole lyrics from The Beatle’s Helter Skelter during a murderous rampage. I seem to recall serial killer Ted Bundy was a fan as well. Not sure about some of the other big names. But the article I read was about petty criminals, not the big leaguers. Makes me wonder what Dick Cheney has on his IPOD.

No, I'm Not A Doctor!

2006-03-02T22:45:00.000-05:00

Today I got a very nice thank you card from a friend whose bridal shower I attended last week. The first thing that struck me when I held the unopened envelope in my hand was the handwriting. It struck me as very grown-up. Inside the card was a lovely note scribed in that same hand. My handwriting isn’t like that.

My mom saves different things I have written since I was little, and since back then the only folks with computers were NASA and the government, it’s all handwritten. I spent a lot of time fighting with teachers and on occasion crying when teachers tried to change my pencil grip. The “acceptable” way hurt my fingers and gave me no control over the pencil. For a while, I had to put a colored rubber triangle about an inch and a half long on my pencils to help my finger placement. I cried. This went on for years. In addition to a bad grip, I could not for the life of me write in anything close to a straight line on a blank page. My sentences would all go from point A, to a downward angle of about 40 45 ish degrees by the time I reached the end of a sentence. Capitals letters were randomly thrown in the middle of sentences. Cursive and regular letters ran together. Content wasn’t bad but execution was horrible. At 41, not a whole lot has changed. I don’t do the random capitals anymore, and I tend to print so I stand a chance at reading what I wrote, but my handwriting is still not so great. In fact, it still resembles my 4th grade examples.

When my older boy Harry was in kindergarten, I did the standard very dignified parent’s night thing where you sit in your child’s wee little seat. I saw a cup filled with pencils and on one of the pencils I saw one of those evil rubber grip thingys that caused me such anguish as a child. I reached for the victimized pencil and what did I behold on the rubber grip: my son’s initials. My heart sank and I sat holding the pencil until the formal part of the evening had ended. When the other parents had left the room I approached Harry’s teacher with whom I am friends. I walked towards her holding up the pencil with the colorful rubber grip. “OHHH no” I said. “I was TORTURED with these as a kid and don’t want him to use this.” I then proceeded to show her the improper grip I have used (successfully) since childhood. She assured me it was a little experiment, and she wasn’t terribly concerned, but they had these things around and a few other boys were using them as well. She knew where I stood, so feeling re-assured she would not be making a fuss and forcing him to use the GRIP, I retreated.

Harry is now in 2nd grade and enjoys a very nice, classic textbook grip. When I look at his penmanship and comment how it’s better than mine he grins and occasionally taunts me. At the start of the school year, his teacher sent home an alphabet chart with each letter mapped out in arrows to show the “proper” way to form the letter. I enjoy watching him put care into how he forms the letters, and frankly, when he doesn’t use the approved method, I don’t much care. He’s trying hard and it looks better than my efforts so I leave him alone. He really does have a nice handwriting. And since my husband’s handwriting isn’t great, we know it’s not inherited.

Anyway, seeing my friend’s nice handwriting earlier today made me long for grown-up handwriting. It must be nice to see your words across a page and be able to easily go back and read it. If I try really hard, I can write a note Harry can read, but it’s not an effort I can sustain very long. And if I do, it’s exhausting. Using the computer is a godsend as far as handwriting goes, but I now find on those occasions I do need to write, my hand and fingers lack the stamina to write much. At this stage I probably shouldn’t care, but when I see a nice, legible handwriting I feel envy. I’d like to write like a grown-up too.

Someone once told me poor handwriting is a sign of vanity. Their theory held that self-important people scribble to make others work harder to read their brilliant words or some tripe like that. True, I have seen folks scratch out a word with no intention of coming close to making it legible and I’m ok with that. I do it when I sign my name. It’s a long one, and folks just need to see a signature, not read the letters. And as long as it matches how you do it every other time, it’s fine. Doctors are notorious for their poor handwriting, often caused by high volume and not enough time for effort. But I’m not a doctor and I can’t claim any good excuse for my poor handwriting. It’s just how it is.

I still struggle to read my own writing and utilize my improper grip but I wouldn’t trade it for a classic, school board approved grip even if I could. After all my tears, there is no way I could now admit my early teachers had a point. But at this stage of my life, I’d like to think that the words I am putting on paper have improved, even if my handwriting has not. It’s the content not the package that counts.

Thinking Outside The Checkbook

2006-02-23T22:50:00.000-05:00

In general I try to be a generous person. Usually the easiest way to try and make a difference is to write a check, and I am all for that kind of easy. But my reality is I don’t have a lot of money, so that makes the whole checkbook thing while possible, a bit embarrassing. I’m pretty sure I wrote a fair number of $5.00 checks in college, but that seemed ok. At 41, it seems silly. Forgive my shallowness, but that’s how it feels.

Not having dough to back me up, I’ve been forced to try and think outside my checkbook to try and be a charitable person who makes a difference. I’ve moved perhaps thousands of boxes of books at my local library over the past 11 years, and tried to help out friends in need when the call comes, but a bit over a year ago, I got involved with something that caused me to invest more of myself that I ever had before.

Around October of 2004, I got the heartbreaking news that a local woman’s 2 year old son had been diagnosed with cancer. Cancer. A two year old. The child’s mom Dana was a friend of my friend Jen, and I felt just awful. Shortly before I got that news, I had started to work with my friend Amy, a very talented web designer. Amy taught me a lot about site maintenance, and I provide web content for some of her projects and clients. Anyway, Jen let me know the family had a Yahoo Groups site set up to help keep people in the loop on how her son Brent was doing with his treatments as so on. Brent had neuroblastoma, and while there is not such thing as a good pediatric cancer, nb as I have come to know it, is particularly evil. Often kids are diagnosed at Stage 4 (very advanced) because it often does not present symptoms until the late stages. I tried to keep up with Brent news thru Yahoo groups, but found it a bit tough based on the format. I then I got the idea that Amy should make a website for the family, and I could maintain it! Amy is a good egg and went along with my plan, and Dana accepted our offer. I like to think Amy agreed to the site before I actually asked Dana, but the details feel murky at this point. Yeah, I must have checked with Amy first, right? I mean c’mon.

It took a lot of work, work but we got the site up and running and it was a hit. Not only did it save the family countless phone calls from well meaning and loving people who needed news of Brent, but it allowed everyone to feel involved. The site also allowed people to sign up and bring meals to the family, or contribute to the “Bodega” a friend of the family set up to accept contributions of goods needed for about 2 months of isolation Brent was to face for 2 brutal stem cell transplants. The site made a difference. In addition, the site has helped the family raise over $250,000 towards fighting pediatric cancer.

How else have I tried to make a difference? I try and donate blood on a regular basis. Ok, so I blew off my last scheduled appointment to see Jimmy Buffett, but I try! I’ve also started donating platelets, a more involved process that gives folks undergoing cancer treatment clotting material they lack to help them heal. I do that because a brave local girl and friend of Brent’s went thru a lot of platelets while fighting for her life. She lost. Another friend of mine lost her 2 year old nephew to a brain tumor. Crazy stuff. The other day, I saw my neighbors dog out free, picked him up, put him in the back of my car and brought him back to his house safe and sound.

What’s my point? I’m not trying to earn halo points since I’m not convinced about the whole angel thing. What I am trying to convey is the things I do to try and make a difference are basically FREE. They cost me time and energy and I have both those things to spend. Selfishly, trying to help makes me feel good. In my universe, I’d be able to write big honking checks and throw myself into good causes, but I live in reality. And the reality is it doesn’t take money to reach out and try to help others.

If you are someone who has their check book handy and a little extra cash, visit http://www.stbaldricks.org/team_detail.asp?id=1154&ud=15326617&cd=USCTBR06

March 9th, there is a big fundraiser for pediatric cancer. Heads will be shaved and a fun time will be had. I’ll be there, full head of hair, and leaving with a full head of hair. AND you can write a check or use a credit card to donate. Pediatric cancer SUCKS. Don’t want to donate, look around your community and see if there is something you want to get involved with. It doesn’t have to cost you a penny.

For last year’s St. Baldrick’s fundraiser, I made a donation of $20.00. Because my name is Abby, “A-B-B-Y,” out of the 85k or so raised, my name was at the top of the list of donors. I looked like a PLAYER. I chuckled every time I looked. For a short while, I felt like a genuine philanthropist. That was 20 bucks worth of fun and maybe it even helped.

In The Blink Of An Eye

2006-01-29T10:35:00.000-05:00

In my first blog entry, I said I didn’t know where this blog thing was headed, but was going to mess around with it anyway. The few things I have written about thus far have been silly, but today I feel compelled to write about something that seemed like a big deal at the time, but to my surprise, has kept growing. The event happened just yesterday, and it keeps knocking around my brain. As someone who tends to ruminate, I try and stay away from “what-ifs” since they can drive you batty, but I have been visited by the what-if monster on this one, and I have had a tough time making it go away.

Recently, a friend told me about a private swim school that sounded great. I gave them a call and was very excited to find out they had a spot available for my son Graham who is 3, so I grabbed it. Yesterday was his first lesson.

The school is held at an upscale hotel in an even more upscale town, so I was very content sitting in a nice poolside chair, letting the sun shine down on me on me thru the glass atrium roof, while I watched Graham having the time of his young life. His lesson was conducted during a major lull, so it was just Graham, and 2 instructors in the pool, and they were showering him with attention. Another mom was off in a corner far from the pool dressing her 2 boys who'd just finished their lessons. I’m guessing they were 3 & 4 years old. As I sat there with a grin on my face watching Graham, I noticed one of the little boys, still in his swim trucks wandering around. I started looking around the beautiful pool setting when I turned my head right and saw the bottom of the little boys feet disappearing into the pool. One second he was wandering, next second in the pool. There were no grown ups around except for me about 15 feet away, both instructors in the middle of the pool with Graham their backs to me, no one else in the pool or poolside, the folks running the swimming school in back at their office area, and a BIG “No lifeguard on duty sign.” This was not a good scenario. I’m pretty sure I yelled something like “he’s in the pool.” Had my performance been an Olympic event my lunge to the cement poolside would have been judged as “ugly,” “lacking grace, and “a disgrace to the American people,” all of which would be accurate. From my knees, I looked down and there was the little boy, going down. He was not fighting. I don’t recall seeing any motion. He was just sinking. Reaching in, I was able to grab his arm and pull him out of the pool. He came out of the water screaming. By then, one of the instructors saw the commotion and made his way over. He looked at me with his jaw open and eyes wide. The mother grabbed up her other child and ran over. The boy was frightened, but otherwise seemed fine.

I kneeled poolside for a few seconds in a state of shock. As best I understand it takes a bit of time for damage to happen when the brain is deprived of oxygen, and the boy was in the water just a few seconds, but they were a scary few seconds for both the little boy and this old girl. My pants and one arm of my turtleneck sweater were soaked thru, so I walked around a little from both nervous energy and trying to pull the clothes off my skin. The mom came up (son still screaming) and gave me a very nice thanks. The instructors thanked and complimented me. (In their defense, the lesson was over and it was no doubt the mom’s job to be supervising her child.)

When the mom and her 2 boys were leaving, they walked by me and she said “say thank you to the lifesaver.” In an aw sucks moment, I responded “someone else would have seen and helped him” and I meant it. But she smiled and said “but you did.”

Once Graham and I got home, my leg had stiffened up a bit and when I looked down I saw blood on the right knee area of my new Levi’s. I got a little pissed as I don’t often buy myself clothes and these were pricey pants. I told my husband what happened, and emailed a few friends interested friends about the lesson and what happened. Aside my my boo boo hurting, I didn’t give it more thought.

A few hours later when I closed my eyes to sleep, it was like the Zapruder film started running in my brain, only it contained the pool incident not the assassination of a president. My brain started to view the whole incident from every possible angle, and examine all the possibilities. I really just wanted to sleep. After a lot of tossing and turning and my trying to turn off the movie in my brain, it looked as if there was a distinct possibility that no one would have noticed the boy was in the pool for a dangerously long time. It turned the film in my brain into more of a horror movie than a documentary.

I’m not trying to claim to have done a grand thing here. It’s much easier to believe that someone else would have seen the situation, acted quickly, and brought about a happy ending. My point is really to try and exorcise the nasty “what-if” demon.

The incident also reinforced a belief I have held for a long time - things happen fast. It can be news someone tells you out of the blue, it can be because you turned your head at the wrong moment, or because weren’t looking in the right direction. Sometimes it's because of a decision someone else makes. Maybe it’s a force of nature. For better or for worse, your life really can change in the blink of an eye.

When it comes to raising kids, it’s tough to balance parental paranoia with allowing a wide range of life experiences. Things do happen fast. I guess part of a parent’s job is to be just a tad faster. Sometimes, if you're lucky, it may make a difference.

Minding the Kids

2006-01-24T14:40:00.000-05:00

When talking to my husband about some rule or standard that upsets me, I sometimes preface my preferred version with “In my universe…”

Now that you’ve had that fascinating glimpse into my mind, here is something that really gets me miffed. I recognize it is an incredibly unimportant and trite thing, but it still irks me.

I get upset when someone says their spouse, one half of the parenting team, are “babysitting” their own offspring. While I have heard the term babysitting used by women to explain that their husband would be watching the kids while she goes out, I’m sure there are husbands who refer to their wives as babysitting as well; I’ve just never heard it. It’s also not unusual to hear dads refer to themselves as “babysitting” for their own children. As best I can recall, I have never heard a woman refer to herself or another woman as babysitting for their own kids.

In my universe, the mother/father who stays at home with their child while their spouse goes out is not babysitting. He/She is watching their children, spending time with their children, overseeing their children. The parent is not babysitting. And what about single parents who are pretty much always watching their kids. Are they babysitting?

Here is what dictionary.com says about the word babysitter:

ba·by·sit·ter also ba·by-sit·ter

n :
A person engaged to care for children when the parents are not home
A person engaged to care for one or more children in the temporary absence of parents or guardians

Naturally, I did not include the below definition because it did not suit my needs:

A person who cares for or watches over someone or something that needs attention or guidance

There is a series of books called “The Babysitter Club” which I doubt feature parents trying to improve their babysitting skills. Red Cross offers a Babysitting Certification class that is probably not scheduled at 8pm weeknights so parents can attend after their long commute home from work.

In my universe where I make the rules and set the standards, if you are watching your own children, you are not babysitting. You are watching your kids. A certain percent may even be enjoying the experience. If you are fortunate enough to have grandparents, aunts, uncles, other relatives or even nice neighbors who watch your children while you and your spouse go out on the town (either together or apart), they are babysitting. The person you pay to watch your children: a babysitter.

In my universe, if you are the only adult home with your pre-adolescent child or children, it’s not called babysitting. It’s called being a parent. It pays less than babysitting but once the kids are in bed, you can control the remote, snack unsupervised, and chat away on the phone. When I was in my teens and an actual babysitter, I never had a boyfriend to sneak over. When my husband goes away for a night next month, I still won’t have a boyfriend to sneak over. Some things never change.

Almost Like Winning the Lottery

2006-01-19T17:48:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, my husband and I were talking about how our son Harry’s hair looks good, looks good, and the next day is too long and looks bad. So after school today, I took him for a haircut. When he was younger and hard to manage he got the twenty dollar cut at the old fashioned barber shop downtown where my husband has been going since he was ten. Now, for the past 3 years or so, it’s Supercuts. I walk out of there for just $11.95 plus tip so I find it tremendously thrilling and Harry enjoys it.

We had a very nice stylist named Denise, who was very attentive and into the cut. She was a good sport when Harry announced his ability to wiggle his ears, and kept displaying his skill while she trimmed around his ears as they went up and down, up and down. As I sat in the next chair keeping an eye on the cut, I noticed a big sticker running across the mirror in front of the chair I was sitting in. It said something like “Did we ask you if you wanted a shampoo treatment?” In smaller letters next to it, it said something like “if not, your haircut is free.” Well, Denise never asked! Never even HINTED. Could that possibly mean a FREE HAIRCUT for Harry? I was embarrassingly excited over the prospect of a free twelve dollar haircut. So, how to cash in on my good fortune? Denise was very nice and giving Harry a fine cut. I also figured that Supercuts is not able to offer a hearty income to its stylists. Would Denise get in trouble for not offering a shampoo service and forcing the shop to give a free haircut? Don’t get me wrong, I wanted the free cut. I could feel the extra money in my pocket. But I didn’t want Denise to get into trouble. I sat thinking about my approach, when I noticed another sticker on the mirror in front of Harry’s chair. This one said something to the effect “Did we ask you if you wanted a color treatment?” Like the other sticker it added “if not, your haircut is free.” Wow, they were serious about this free haircut stuff. I doubt many 7 year old boys need color treatments, but I figured this was my way in. I looked up at Harry’s mirror and said “Hey Harry, are you getting a color treatment today?” We all laughed. It was time to make my move. I swung around to my mirror and looked up at the big sticker. “Wow, free haircut for not asking about a shampoo treatment!” Denise was mid cut with her shears in one hand, comb in the other and she laughed. Not exactly what I had hoped for. Denise then started talking about a really good hair product for dandruff and I asked all kinds of questions thinking my suck up move might get me the free cut. Nope, I just learned about a dandruff shampoo you can also use on really dry skin.

The haircut complete, and Harry looking handsome, it was time to go. While standing at the register awaiting my final chance to score, a different stylist greeted a customer and asked very clearly “will you be wanting a shampoo or color service today?” I looked at Denise. Denise looked at me. She said “that’s $11.95.” I paid and gave her a tip. The free haircut had slipped through my fingers. Her jugular was there, healthy and plump, but I could not go after it. I whimped out. I lacked the killer instinct.

Ninety minutes have now passed since I paid up and I know now it’s for the best. I had planned to pay for the cut, so I wasn’t out anything. It would have been sweet, but I’d like to think my lack of assertiveness saved a nice woman her job.

But if it was a twenty dollar cut, she’d be toast.

The Jeff Corwin Betrayal

2006-01-18T14:15:00.000-05:00

I have a 7 year old son Harry, who is a very curious nature lover. When it comes to anything non-fiction, when he has a question he will not relent until satisfied. He grills me and my and my husband, forces me to look it up online, and reviews the various reference books we have laying around the house. I particularly enjoy that whenever he wants me to look something up online, he tells me “look up naked mole rat.com.” Back when his thing was dinosaurs, he asked me to look up stegosaurus.com. Everything of interest to him must end in dot-com. The kid can also ebay like a madman, but that’s another story.

Anyway, yesterday around dinner time I was in the kitchen doing the whole dinner prep/domestic thing while Harry was in the family room watching Animal Planet. His favorite nature show is “The Jeff Corwin Experience” so as I worked on dinner, he was very content watching Jeff and creating something beyond my abilities with legos.

For those of you not in the know, Jeff Corwin is a very enthusiastic herpetologist (snake guy) who travels all over the world and tracks and captures all kinds of animals. His enthusiasm flows from his pores, and he does a good job offering interesting and detailed facts. Jeff is also very goofy, playing tricks with the camera and making it look like he is in peril. He gets a lot of laughs from my son.

So, here is the scene. Me, at the kitchen sink able to hear the TV clearly but not very focused on Jeff Corwin, and Harry in the family room. A commercial break is coming up and Jeff does a voice over referring to a “horny” animal of some sort. Horny was the word that stood out. I froze at the sink. Did Jeff Corwin just say HORNY? No, no, no, it’s a nature show kids watch. Jeff wouldn’t do this to me. He wouldn’t say horny. I’m not entirely a prude when it comes to harsh language (I can drop the F bomb just fine), but Jeff’s use of term horny had me petrified. Because of him, I would have to answer the question “What does horny mean?” Harry is tenacious about getting answers so I didn’t dare leave my post at the sink for fear of drawing attention to myself. If Harry saw me, it might remind him he wanted to ask me about horny. So, I just stayed at the sink. I tried composing an answer in my head. “Well, horny means that a girl animal wants a boyfriend, and if it’s a boy animal, he wants a girlfriend.” Naturally, that could lead to other questions I am simply not ready to answer, nor do I think he is ready to hear. My so-so answer at the ready, I stood at the sink. I did not turn on the water. I made no noise for about 2 minutes. After the commercials were over and Jeff came back on, I was finally able to relax. With the program on again, I knew Jeff would move onto some other interesting animal or offer up nice scientific yet wholesome explaination of horny, sparing me.

Thanks to the hypnotic effects of building legos, I had really dodged a bullet that time.

But I know a whole battery of artillery is still on its way.

It's MY day!!!

2006-01-12T17:42:00.000-05:00

This is my blog. Welcome to it.

I actually set it up more than a year ago, and as I felt a good blogger should, I posted a test to be sure I had it set up correctly. The answer was yes, the blog was functioning as intended. That was the last time I blogged. Since it was a test and not actually an entry made up of opinion, circumstance or actual content, by most any reasonable standards, I remain a blogging virgin.

When I awoke this morning, I had no idea today would be “the day.” Yet here I am, blogging. Overall, I’d say that’s usually the best way to do things...to just do them. Just doing it (sorry Nike) can save valuable hand wringing time from thinking about it too much. Another benefit to “just doing it” (sorry porn people) is if you’re like me, your brain has trouble downshifting so the mere anticipation of attacking a challenge/highly anticipated project/dreaded chore keeps you awake in bed swearing you will not open your eyes to check the time, but opening them anyway only to be dismayed that only 4 minutes have past since you last broke your vow. You then get all stressed out because you KNOW you have to get up in 4 hours so become even more determined to fall asleep which only increases the stress that was keeping you up in the first place. Writing that makes me really hope you are not like me.

If you did happen upon my blog, blame Frank. In today’s 12 Step World, I guess I’m supposed to take responsibility for my own actions. But, since I’m not a 12 Stepper, I’ve decided it’s perfectly appropriate for me to blame Frank. I invite you to join me. Who IS Frank you ask? No, he is not a higher power unless you count geography. Frank is my writer pal from Canada. He is remarkably talented, supportive and an A1 pest. His primary topic to pester me about is writing. He knows I write, but he also knows I don’t show my writing to anyone (you’re probably thinking thank heaven for that and shut up Frank). Anyway, earlier today we were having one of our all-too-rare Instant Message chats when he mentioned I should have a blog. (Yes frank, I will post your blog address and website address.) I told him I did have a blog and had one for some time however, I had only ever posted a test. His limited finger shaking at this disclosure put the blog somewhere in the front of my brain and it has stayed there for a few hours now. I had a bit of time (not free time because I do have other stuff to get done) and decided to see what would spill out on my keyboard. So, this is it. My first blog post. I’m not even going to edit it. There is no way to know where this blog experiment will go, so I’ll just post this and see if it worked.

I am no longer a blog virgin. Now, I have just have one question.

Do I look different?

Here is the Frank info I promised www.frankbaron.com and for his blog http://fpbaron.blogspot.com/

Enjoy!!!!