The Courage to Do...

I'm coming to a realization as I get older: I'm braver than most of the people I know.

I'm a "doer" - one of those people who gets up and does things. A lot of things.

I don't think this is because I am inherently more gifted or talented than others, or because I'm more brilliant than others, or for any other reason I can think of; it's just a question of sitting down and not doing something versus doing something - and I've never really been the "sit back and take it easy" type.

Take this fall, for example - I work full-time teaching six classes a day at a private high school. I'm also the mommy of an adorable two year old, a wife, and the loving owner of three dogs and a cat. Most of the people I know stop there - that's a full load. Me? I'm also teaching SAT prep twice a week after school, taking a graduate class at a college an hour away once a week at night, finalizing seven pieces for publication in an academic anthology on the 16th century, preparing a conference presentation on teaching literature for the VATE (Virginia Association for Teachers of English) conference in October, doing the makeup for the fall production at our theatre company, and acting in Children
of Eden, our winter musical, this November, which means rehearsals from now through then. On
top of all of that, I am also actively courting the proposal to get preggers again between now and Christmas.

Am I crazy? (Don't answer that. I know a lot of people who think I am absolutely insane. You're probably one of them. That's OK, I'm used to it by now.) I guess I just feel that we get one shot at this thing called life, and I'd like to have had one when all's said and done. I'd rather be a little tired from all that I've been doing and involved in than a little sluggish from having not done anything. I want to have the courage to love other people and to love my life enough that I'm willing to just jump in and do it. When it is all over, I don't want to regret not having done something. I don't want to wonder if I have wasted my life, if there were more I could have done. I don't want to be the pretty towel that looked decorative on the stove handle for years until I was replaced by a newer model - I want to be used up; a limp, smelly, bedraggled artifact that resembles what might at one time have been a pretty towel, but that has served its purpose.

It's kind of like my daughter's stuffed dog. Puppy was given to Anna when she was six months old, and they have been inseparable ever since. Puppy was once a plush, soft, caramel-colored thing with bright eyes and an inviting face. Now, two years later, Puppy is a thing of indeterminate color and definite smell. He's crusty where she's sucked on his tail and nose, his eyes are half worn off, and he's gotten quite limp from her having rolled all over him every night in her sleep (a future doer, my child cannot sit still even at rest.) But Puppy has given my child more joy, comfort, and happiness than all of the other toys we have bought her put together, and I imagine that Puppy will be with her long after the garage sales and Ebay listings in the future. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, Puppy is well on his way to being made "real."

That's me. That's my life. I may be exhausted, a bit faded and wrinkly 'round the edges, and not as bright and shining as I used to be - but I'm getting more and more real each day. I think it takes a certain courage to be willing to go for it. In the end, Puppy's fate is sealed - he is going to literally disappear, one little piece at a time. My child is going to love him to pieces. But oh - what a way to go. We should all be so lucky, and so brave.

America then and now...

I'm currently teaching Jewish-American literature this term to a group of highly sensitive teenagers, and the experience so far has been a profound one. These kids are really thinking about some of the larger issues involved in studying what is commonly referred to as a "minority group" through the literature created by people who are by heritage identified with it. We are reading E. L. Doctorow's Ragtime at present, and the discussion the other day took on a wonderful and thought-provoking twist.

Three of the students in the class are of Jewish heritage; as to the rest, they are descended from a hodge-podge of Christian sects - Baptist, Episcopalian, Catholic, Methodist. We have discussed the concept of the WASP in early 20th century America, of the inherent prejudices of the time associated with Catholicism, Irish in particular, and with Judaism, and compared them with today's conservative Christian views of the Muslim and Hindu communities.

My students discussed the modern tendency to identify primarily with their current lifestyle and the people with whom they have grown up, rather than with their religion. For the most part, the Christian students maintained that the phrases, "I'm a Baptist," or "I'm Catholic" come rolling out easily, by practice, but that they don't actually identify with this particular aspect of their identity; most of them rarely go to church and don't really practice religious traditions at home. My Jewish students claimed that they were more likely to follow Jewish law on a regular basis within the home and more likely to attend synagogue. They also identify strongly with the struggle for the preservation of a Jewish state; although only one of them has spent any extended time in Israel, all three of them are considering joining the Israeli army for a year or more when they graduate either high school or college. I asked why this might be: "What does this say about our various cultural heritages, about our ancestors' beliefs about community and what constitutes society? How does this relate to what we have been reading in Doctorow's book?"

The conversation that followed was a whirlwind of ideas and of critical thinking, as the students tried to apply their own experiences and thought about religion and community to the characters in the novel - the Jewish Eric Weiss, whose talent is only bankable so long as he hides his religious heritage from the public under the pseudonym Harry Houdini; Henry Ford, whose position as a WASP allows him never to stop for a moment to consider that there might be limitations to what he may accomplish on American soil, Father and Mother et al. and their comfortable middle-class existence, in which Younger Brother feels free to make comments on the immigrants of lowly aspect whom they pass on the streets; Emma Goldman, who uses her Jewish heritage and feminist doctrines as strengths, reaching out to other outcasts rather than trying to assimilate to a country that does not welcome them with the open arms promised, Freud and his disdain for the illusions presented to him when he visits, who comments to the effect that 'America is simply Europe in translation, with all of the best parts left out.' And, of course, dear Tateh, who pulls and pushes and makes it to the top in spite of his
heritage due to simple talent and a fabulous, innovative, distinctly American idea.

"What has changed?" I asked my students. They believe that Jews for the most part have been
assimilated into American culture, as of course also have the Catholics, but that the Jewish heritage, because of its origins in prejudice and in community, remains stronger than that of most Christian sects. they think that the Muslim and Hindu religions are "the new Judaism and Catholicism" in America, the new outcast communities. They don't think that the country has improved for immigrants, but that the situation has changed: in the 1900s, immigrants worked at the particularly dangerous and low-paying jobs in mills and factories that already-coined Americans didn't want, and now in the 21st century they are the migrant farm workers and the meat-packing warehouse workers, still working at the jobs already-coined americans don't want for the lowest possible wages and without much hope for an improvement in circumstance - no health insurance, no tax breaks, no public assistance.

They think that the upper classes still distance themselves and distract themselves from what is going on in the lower-class communities; they talk about aid and assistance and government sepnding and such, but they don't really do much to set things in motion. In Ragtime, the upper classes distracted themselves with spectacle, tennis, trips to the seaside, and scandals such as Evelyn Nesbit's "Crime of the Century." In our time, the upper classes distract themselves with concerts, the theatre, the ballet, the opera, with tennis and skiing and ballroom dancing and pilates/yoga classes, with vacations to island resorts and Europe, and with scandals like Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachay's divorce, or Britney Spears' quickie marriage. My students think the upper classes are more remote than ever from the lower,
despite protestations of aliberal mindset and fair practices, and that we have created more
distractions than ever before in our efforts to "color the world pretty."

My students have come to the conclusion that times have not necessarily changed in the past hundred years, although the circumstances have been altered. As Henry Ford's automobile line, Tateh's moving picture books, and the railroad industry were the "promise of the future" in 1900, so now we have electric cars, high-speed internet, and the airline industry as our current "future day". As the upper middle classes were comfortable ensconced in New Rochelle rather than downtown Harlem, so now the upper middle classes seem to be performing a mass-exodus to places like Colorado, Northern California, Western Maryland - still seeking escape from the crowds, the dirt, the crime, the truth of the cities they helped to found and continue to patronize and fund.

Finally, my students have come to the conclusion that the past is important and needs to be reexamined for a more truthful interpretation. They don't want to see extremes; none of this "America is going to hell" or "America is and has always been the greatest country in the world." They want to see a more moderate study, in which they can look at and analyze more elements and aspects, compare more between then and now, and see the natural progression of what has come to pass on these shores. They think things are bad, but they do not believe they are all bad, nor do they think they are worse than they have ever been. They would like to see politicians calm down and step off their platforms and stumps for a minute to speak about the truth, as opposed to about what is going to incite American sentiment (which my students can't define and don't believe is a real thing) at the polls. They think the media needs to calm down as well, and report the news without pundits and commentary, which should be left to the tabloid and editorial writers, as was the case in the early 1900s; they would like to see a greater distinction between news writing and commentary, and they would like to see that distinction more carefully demonstrated to the public at large, so that the average American doesn't get wrapped up in editorial commentary and believe it to be the news simply because it is on CNN. Finally, they would like to see this democratic society continue to take steps to become more democratic. They believe that if the Jews and Catholics of the turn of the century a hundred years ago are now mainstreamed, then so too can today's Muslim and Hindu cultures be assimilated in time. They don't think there is an easy answer, but then again, they don't think what the earlier minority citizens of this nation went through was easy, either.

I am proud of my students' work in this class to date, and I think that their observations have been keen. What does it mean to be an American in the 21st century? Have times really changed, or did we begin on an unalterable path upon which we continue to move inexorably towards what can only be an ugly end, a la Roman Empire? Define society. Define community. Define heritage. Define American. We ask a lot of our students...but how many of us out of school and working and living in America today can complete the above-mentioned exercise?

What is it all about?

 A wonderful Art teacher at our school has a funny way of beginning his stories, so a shout out to him as I begin this tale:

So no shit, there I was, up for my annual review.

(It's hard to believe I have been teaching at this school for almost five years now, but there it is. Five years! This is longer than I've ever stayed anywhere, being the daughter of a military family; we tend to be migratory, and get antsy after about two or three years in the same place, kind of like Canadian Geese. ) But I love my job, and I know I'll never get such a wonderful opportunity again, and somehow I've just sort of...well, squatted. The school is a private boarding school on a gorgeous tract of land, with enormous gray-stone buildings and a lake from which fog rises on cold, early mornings, and the settings alone feed my soul. Then, there's the work - as it is a new school, and I came on at the beginning, and it's a private school, so we don't have to contend with the ridiculous state standards, I have had the distinct honor, privilege and joy of building my curriculum from scratch. This is an opportunity teachers never get in the modern world, and I am not one to take my fortunes lightly. As the new buildings on campus go up one by one, so do my new syllabi come out of the laser printer. What I love about this is the challenge of meeting the needs of the students while balancing their needs with my passions. Allow me to share with you how I go about building my classes for this college-preparatory institution.

I begin with an idea - "Wouldn't it be cool to teach a class on Russian Literature?" Then, I make a short list of the works I would like to include in this class. Then, the real work begins. I download and print out every available college syllabus I can find online pertaining to the subject. I go through these with a highlighter and mark the works that show up repeatedly on the college syllabi. Then I compile a list of these and compare it to my own, which leads to final cuts and a book list for the class in question.

Next, I build my syllabus - a midterm and final exam must be scheduled, weekly reading quizzes and response papers, two in-class timed essays (practice for the SAT), three formal essays, and discussion circles each week. I organize and order the works we are reading
according to some plan of my devising - sometimes it's chronological, sometimes thematic,
sometimes it's according to length - ease them into longer works by starting with shorter ones,
or alternately, get the big works out of the way and make it easier for them later in the term.
Finally, I proofread the syllabus, finalize it, and print it out. Syllabus in hand, I then visit local
bookstores and libraries to start researching background materials for lectures and papers. The
entire process for any given course I teach can take about 100 hours. I teach 30 separate classes, all of which were created in this fashion. We are talking a lot of elbow grease here, and we haven't even begun the actual teaching and grading and evaluating. But I love doing it, because I truly feel that my kids are getting a college prep class, that they are seeing what they will see again at the college level - and this is something I never really believed when I was teaching public school.

The classes I teach are grouped into categories for easy transcripts and scheduling. They are as follows:

American Lit: Early American Writing, 1865-1900, 1900-1945, 1945-1975, and Contemporary.

British Lit: Middle Ages-17th c., The Victorians and Moderns, the Romantics, C.S. Lews & J. R.R. Tolkein, and Arthuriana.

World Lit.: Nonwestern survey, Asian Lit., Epic Lit., Indian Lit., and French Lit.

Writing/Performance: Classical-17th century drama, 19th & 20th c. drama, Shakespeare, Creative Writing, and Special Topics

Minorit Lit.: Jewish-American, African-American, lit. of Genocide, Women Writers, and Hispanic-American

Art History: Greek and Roman, Medieval/Renaissance, 17th-19th c., Nonwestern, and Modern/20th c.

This is a LOT of research and syllabus writing over the past four years!

(I also teach the SAT verbal prep classes and write a mean rec for college, BTW.)

Back to the original story. So no shit, there I was, going in for my annual review, in which I get to look at the course evaluations our students complete at the end of each term. I know not to expect a lot - I mean, these are teenagers, and no matter how hard you work to please them and to help them, they're...well, they're teenagers!

But I was in for a rude shock, and I do mean rude. And genuinely bizarre, frankly.

In the plus column, every class included several students commenting as follows: she's passionate, driven, enthusiastic, likes the subject matter, explains well, cares about the students. One kid wrote, "She's brilliant" (I blush) and one enthusiastic little darling wrote, "I LOVE HER!!!" (bless the child.)

In the negative column, again for every class, I received the following: "Arrogant, too hard, yells at the kids, talks off-topic, gives too much work, impatient."

OUCH. But that wasn't too bad, I mean I'm the teacher, they aren't supposed to loooove me as the authority in the classroom. No, what hurt was the few but stinging comments that stood out: "She's an evil wench." (OK, that was kind of funny, actually.) "She hates the students." (What?!?!) " "I hate her." (Hate? Wow.) And worst of all, "She's a liar." (Did the kid research that first?)

Anyway, the point is, the review went very, very well, I got all sorts of kudos and plaudits from my boss, a raise, love and pats on the back, admonitions to stay the course, and so on and so forth. So why do these naysayers' comments stand out in my head so much? I think it is because they seem so unfair. I am actually not arrogant - that would be my classroom demeanor. I have a hard time in large groups. I get insecure and very uncomfortable, and I am actually very shy. So the comedy and song-and-dance routine I employ is actually a cover up for these things, all of which are terrible attributes for the classroom teacher to possess at the high school level. It hurt my feelings that the kids took it (or said they did) as an arrogance. Evil wench - well, hey, I must have failed that kid. But hates the students? Where did they get that idea from? After everything I went through to get this job and everything I went through to do the job to the best of my ability, all of those hours and hours I spent creating curriculum that would get them where they needed to be, grading and evaluating, talking and talking and talking some more, listening, commenting, loving my babies, they think I hate them?! They have no idea how much heart and soul I put into this work and into them. The really rotten students don't know that I cherish their faults and foibles,
even as I'm trying to correct them. They don't know that I take them home with me at night and wonder about them on weekends. They don't get it. They never will. This is, I think, the crux of the hurt I feel. How can they not know? Duh - because they are self-absorbed teenagers and it's all about them!

It IS all about them. That's why I'm here. In former positions, I never really got the feeling we were there for the kids. At this job, I relish the fact that my whole job starts and ends with my darling babies. Maybe if they knew that, they would see where I'm coming from and get what I am doing.

Then again - passionate, driven, enthusiastic - maybe they do get it, after all.

My boss gets it, at any rate. I can now put gas in my car again!

Ovarian whosit-whatsits and Primtetime TV

 Okay, I admit it: I am a hospital drama junkie. ER, Scrubs; more recently, House, and especially Grey's Anatomy - I watch them regularly. (Well, okay, I don't really watch Scrubs all that often, especially if I can find one of the other shows on simultaneously.) Now, I hate hospitals and everything having to do with medecine, surgery, and needles above all, but somehow these shows have a major grasp on my psyche. (I say "somehow", but I know it's really all about the casting. I mean, let's be honest: who doesn't want to watch Noah Wyle, George Clooney, Patrick Dempsey, or Robert Sean Leonard for an hour? Who doesn't identify with poor Meredith Grey and her intern pals? We've all been at the bottom of the food chain in our respective jobs. It's sympathetic, man!) But I digress from my original purpose in writing this.

Having watched these shows on a semiweekly basis for about five years, I consider myself fairly well-versed in hospital drama. I have even made diagnoses on myself based on what I've seen - and, amazingly, I have frequently been right, which means kudos to those well-researched writers! So last week, when I woke up with terrible cramps and nausea, I racked my brain for the correct episode diagnostic. It wasn't the multiple-birth pregnancy one; never having been to Asia and not having any friends who go to exotic places either (more's the pity) I was pretty sure we could rule out the one about SARS; I hadn't been out in the street during any crazy bike rides so it couldn't be massive internal lacerations caused by being hit by a car attempting to avoid a bike ridden by a drunkard. Frankly, I was at a loss, and as the symptoms progressively worsened, I wished I had bought the complete ten-season DVD set of ER.

Eventually, the pain got so bad that I went to the emergency room. (Hey, it was a last-minute, desperate move!) They took all my vitals (Oh, how proud Dr. Bailey would have been of their efficiency! These weren't wet-behind-the-ears interns, no sir!) and then the doctor tried to palpate my abdomen (See? I lifted that right from the writers for ER. I told you they were great!) Unfortunately, I was so tender that I scooted up to the tippy-top of the gurney and squealed "don't touch me!" (neurotic guest star.) They hooked me up with an IV and Dilopid (sp?)...has anyone ever noticed how the anesthesiologist and blood guys are always the most cheerful? They're so thrilled about stabbing their fellow human beings with needles and handling drugs. I'm of the opinion that, like the mother who killed her husband's younger fiancee on Law and Order, they secretly indulge in their own products from time to time, but that's a different kind of drama. Back to hospital angst!

One thing that struck me as being vitally different between my beloved hospital programs and the real deal is the time lapse. Have you ever noticed how quick and snappy, efficient, even, those doctors in television emergency rooms are? They're in and out between commericial breaks. It's an inspiration for Americans everywhere, their efficiency. This is not the case in reality. My doctor, for example, let me sleep for two hours on the drug before he tried to check my tummy again. Then again, maybe he heard a tone in my voice that warned him that he had best let me be until I was good and woozy. I do not handle pain well.

At any rate, eventually the diagnosis came back: "Well, it could be either a kidney infection or a ruptured ovarian cyst," he said, consulting my chart. "But your blood counts are normal and your urine sample came up clean, so I'm leaning towards the cysts."

Oh, whoa, whoa, whoa. What?! Ruptured ovarian whosit-whatsit? I so do not remember that episode on any of the programs I habitually imbibe! "I have what?"

"A ruptured ovarian cyst. See, every month at ovulation, the follicles on your ovaries swell due to hormones. Usually they just go down of their own accord, but occasionally they can get blocked, and then sometimes they burst. That accounts for the swelling and tenderness. The fluid from the cyst is pressing against your organs."

Let me get this straight. "So, what you're telling me is, I have a popped zit on my ovary?!"

He laughed. (The doctors on ER or Grey's Anatomy would never laugh at a patient in such obvious distress! Maybe House would, though.) "Well, more or less."

Ewwwww. Gross! Chalk up another reason why being a woman can suck royally. It's not bad enough my face has to break out once a month, but my ovaries? And how is it that I have lived for thirty plus odd years on this planet and nobody has ever in all of that time mentioned that this happens? Boy, did my parents get gypped out of their taxpaying dollars in my public school system's health classes!

"Is it...is it serious?" I asked timidly.

"Not usually, no. Just monitor it for a few days. We can't really do anything about it except wait for the fluid to go down. In the meantime, we'll get you set up with a prescription for Vicoden and you should think about taking it easy for a few days."

Okay...Vicoden. Now we're talking language I understand. I've never heard of ruptured ovarian cysts, but they hurt like being in labor. (Take my word for that, don't go out and get one to see for yourself.) Vicoden is a good idea right about now. That, and some reruns of ER and Grey's Anatomy.

I'm thinking of writing up my experience with ruptured ovarian cysts as a screenplay for these hospital dramas. None of them have ever featured that storyline before. I think they have a responsibility to keep the viewing public abreast of such horrific possibilities. They have clearly been derelict in their duties. What, they give us the symptoms for SARS and massive head trauma, but not for cysts? Sheesh. I figure if they stagger the shooting schedules approriately, we should see one ovarian cyst episode per network per week for about a month. Hey, I'm looking out for the welfare of the American people, here. It's my civic duty. Besides, I'm looking forward to testing out my newfound medical jargon!

What's so Amazing About Really Deep Thoughts...?

 The title of this entry stems from Tori Amos, for no good reason that I can think of other than that it popped into my head and refused to go away. I love it when that happens. You get a scrap of dialogue, a comment, a lyric, a sound, some minor inkling of a thing, and it stays put. It's uncomplicated and not terribly profound; just a little thing that inserts itself into your subconscious, moves up into your consciousness, and sets up house there, and it is your job to figure out why it came and what to do with it while it stays. It's like a crossword puzzle - a mindless but generally enjoyable exercise in fitting the pieces together and seeing what you come up with.

If you really stop to think about it, this is something of an analogy to life itself. Things come and go - people, events, activities, places - and sometimes they are just entertaining and sometimes they are very important indeed, and it is our job to figure out why they are there and what to do with them. I think this is a task that in today's world has become much more difficult than it used to be, simply owing to the fact that there are such a multitude of things to pick and choose from on a regular basis, and we are so engrossed in trying to make it through the day that we sometimes miss what is most touching, most impactful, most useful to us; even if it is right there before our eyes, we so often fail to recognize the profound in the myriad of Other with which we are bombarded.

I planted roses in front of our house when we moved in two years ago. We were only renting the place, but there was a big, ugly bush of an indeterminate nature on the left-hand side facing the street, and I could see no good reason for its remaining there. So I yanked and pulled and dug and cursed and got good and dirty pulling the thing out by the roots, extracting it, making certain to leave no stray shoot to creep back in unannounced and undesired, and then I planted eight little rosebushes. It was March, so these little rosebushes lay dormant for a good bit, despite all of the water and fertilizer and rosebush food I lavished upon them, and I began to wonder why I had gone to the trouble in the first place if they were just going to sit thee and do nothing. (As a teacher, I have plenty of other things in my life that sit there and do nothing regularly; I was kind of hoping for a bit more on the nature front.) But then, around May or so, there was a new shoot on one of the bushes, and then on another; little reddish, curling leaves, new growth. And then, by June, a few of them were shooting towards the sky, getting tall and thick in the stems, looking more like rosebushes and less like shapeless, nameless plants of no discernible use. And then, mid-June of that first year, I got a single, beautiful, creamy white rose. Just the one, but it was a fragrant one, and it seemed to promise a lot more to come, as I paused on my way out the door to sniff at it. And then, about mid-July, there were more - two red roses on one bush, a pink rose on another. In August, one tiny plant that had failed to grow just withered and died. There was no reason for it that I could see - the other plants all thrived in the same spot - but this little rosebush, for whatever reason, just couldn't make a go of it, and I was sorry both for the bush and for myself. But the beauty and fragrance of the other roses blooming away did much to make this moment easier, and the roses and I continued on.

It is now the third year of roses chez nous, and much has changed. We have a two year old daughter. We lost our venerable old Persian cat to old age and sickness. We bought the house. The rosebushes have grown taller and thicker. But the flowers themselves, as they come and go, remind me that despite all of the change there is constancy, and that each new experience, just as each new rose, is both new and familiar all at once, and my responsibility in all of this is to weed, water, spray the pestkiller and, most important of all, to stop and smell the roses. I may like the smell and look of some of them more than others, but I need to be certain to at least remark upon each of them, because they are there and I caused them to be there; their purpose is to be beautiful and fragrant and this requires me to be present to witness that they have fulfilled this purpose. Sometimes, a bush we ourselves planted - like a person, an experience, or a thing - seems very important at first, but withers and dies and goes away, and we are best served by letting that one go in favor of those that remain. The rosebushes remind me that I should pay attention to my life and to the things that come and go within it, that I should look around and pause and reflect upon what I see and experience, because a life without consideration bears no purpose; like a crossword puzzle, the clues lead to answers but the final product is simply a series of right answers, and life should be more than that. A life considered is a whole entity, the pieces fit together and become coherent and it has meaning, purpose, clarity and profundity.

So - what's so amazing about really deep thoughts? Nothing, until the thinker examines them, reshuffles them, and organizes them so that they become amazing. I highly recommend rosebushes as a catalyst for this. Every morning on our way out the door, my daughter and I stop to smell the roses in our front yard. If I happen to be in a tearing hurry (and who among us is not?) I am not allowed to forget this all-important pause in the day - my two year old reminds me crossly, "Mommy, thtop to smell da woses wight now!" And so I do. Two year olds don't dwell on really deep thoughts. Everything is amazing to them, everything is part of the bigger picture, they haven't had time to second-guess and undermine their own consciousness. They don't really need Tori Amos, or crossword puzzles. But (at least in Anna's case) they sure love the roses.

No money down...?!?!?!

Okay, so, after a long and arduous journey, my husband and I are homeowners. Yup, you heard it: we own a home. Or, to be factually accurate, Bank of America owns our home and we will be paying them for the next thirty years. Which technically isn't so bad - I mean, that's the system. I'm okay with that. But the closing was hell. I'm not okay with how things went down at closing. In fact, I'm utterly appalled and horrified with how things went down at closing.

Ah, me - the innocent, naive, trusting one! There I was, on a sunny day in June, talking to a friend of mine who happens to be a teacher. The conversation went something like this:

Me: (sigh) "I'll never own a home."

Friend: "Why not?"

Me: " I'm a teacher! There's no way I can save enough for a downpayment."

Friend: "Oh, that's easy! Call Bank of America. They have a Neighborhood Champions loan for teachers. I think it's called Neighborhood Champions. Anyhow, it's a loan where you don't pay anything up front."

Me" Nothing? No down payment? No closing costs?"

Friend: "Nothing. Call [this person]. She took care of it for us."

Bells! Whistles! Banners and confetti! I called Bank of America. Conversation:

Me: "Hi, we'd like to buy our house, and a friend of mine told me YOU were the person to call."

BOA rep: "Oh! Okay! Well, let's see what we can do for you. Were you thinking of a fixed rate mortgage, or-"

Me: "Actually, we were told you have a teacher next door program? The one with no money down at closing?"

BOA Rep.: "We most certainly do. You're a teacher?"

Me: "Yes."

BOA Rep: "I can certainly handle that for you. And you want the Neighborhood champions loan?"

Me:" YES! That's the one. Where there's no money down, no closing costs, nothing like that?"

BOA Rep: "Yes, we can finance the closing costs into the loan itself with this mortgage, so you shouldn't have to pay anything out of pocket."

Me: " Yes. Sign us up."

Let's jump forward to closing, shall we? The place: My attorney's office. The time: 4:30 p.m. closing date. The players: Me, DH, attorney and attorney assistant.

Attorney assistant: "There seems to be a conflict between what you told us and what they have here in terms of closing costs."

Me: "Huh?"

Attorney's assistant: "Yes, they have you down for $3,271.11 in closing costs."

Me: " But that's impossible. They told us that there wouldn't be any closing costs! That was the whole point of going to Bank of America!"

Attorney's assistant: "Well, they have it listed here. Let me see if I can get her on the line."

Of course we did NOT get her on the line.

And it was closing date.

And we have already pushed back the sale twice.

And we are on a rent-to-own, time-sensitive plan right now.

And - did I mention - we have exactly 3,600.00 in the bank?!

OHMIGOD. Quel nightmare!

Assistant: "What do you want to do?"

DH: "Can we have a minute?"

Assistant: "Yes, certainly, take as long as you need. But just so you know, this should not have happened. If they told you no money down and no closing costs, then that's what it should have been. Someone should have alerted you before this. You're not the first people I've seen this happen to." (closes door) (thanks for those comforting words. I feel better for knowing other people get shafted regularly just like us.)

DH: "Well, what do you want to do?"

Me: nervous breakdown type syllables and sounds. "What, do they just think we magically have the money? I mean what would they do if we didn't have the money? They wouldn't get paid! Nobody gets paid until we close! Do they just think everyone is running around with four thousand extra bucks in their pockets? She said no money down at closing!"

DH: "Okay, focus. The point is, we DO have the money. So what do you want to do?"

Well, needless to say, there it was: Rock-Us-Hard Place.

No money down mon oeil, as the French say. Caveat emptor. Teachers get shafted. Call your local congressman. All that jazz.

We now have a mortgage and about $300.00 in the bank until next month, and it's August 10. I'm thinking of donating blood plasma and bone marrow to cover the difference.

The English language...

 Attention, readers and potential readers of my blog: I am depressed. Mortally, unequivocally, perhaps irreparably depressed. One of my students has informed me that "chill" has, in fact, officially become an adjective.

"Chill" - as in "That's so chill." Or, alternately, "S/he is so chill," rather than, "The Jello needs to chill in the refrigerator overnight." Chill, used in a grammatical fashion that does, in fact, chill my soul. The verb "chill," masking itself as an adjective for all the world to see, right there in Webster's. Or so my student said.

I confess: I am used to tossing student comments like this right where they belong: in my mental trashcan. Clearly, the editors of Webster's know better than to mess with Mother Grammar and would not permit such an event to transpire. But this time, for some reason, I was more concerned than usual, so I looked up the word "chill" in the latest edition of Webster's English Dictionary. I regret to inform you (in case you, too, were laughing away at my student's inane comment) that he was right. Chill is in fact now listed twice - once as a verb, and once as an...(GULP!) adjective.

And that's not all - as if that horror weren't bad enough, you can also find "bling-bling" in the dictionary. Who makes these decisions? Nobody polled me. I would have remembered a poll that read: "Do you wish to make the term "bling-bling" an official term in the English language? Circle one: YES/NO." I would certainly have remembered that!

Nobody ever seems to ask the American people about the English language. Some busybody editor of Webster's has decided to alter the path of the language I speak and teach without my knowledge, much less my assent. Never mind me, I'm just the daily instructor of proper English usage at my school; obviously I don't need to know about these changes to said language! Couldn't they at least have had a little blurb on the Today show or something?

("Blurb" is also now an official entry in the dictionary. I always assumed it was specialized writer's jargon, not to be confused with "short piece of writing," which is how I would refer to one in a formal essay.)

But I digress. My point is that as of now my students can tell me (with utter certainty that they are, in fact, using the proper terminology) : "The novel Huckleberry Finn is so chill!"

I am so depressed.

Murphy's Law and Modern Science

My new mantra is: "Never go on vacation." Or, perhaps, I should amend that to, "Never go on vacation if you are of Irish descent." There's this karmic individual, to whom we Irish folk refer as "Murphy." Murphy has these Laws he made up himself and by which all Irish folks' lives are governed (we should all be so lucky as to have the ability to force others to bend to our whims in such a fashion!) Murphy's Laws go something like this: "Anything that can go wrong will go wrong, at the worst possible time and in the most horrendous fashion possible." In other words, I'm talking about that Irish Curse.

One should always put a name to these things, no? It makes it so much easier to discuss them when we have a name to go along with the symptoms. I think this is why they created the term, "ADD". That stands for, "My parents never told me no, so I'm sure as hell not going to listen to some other grown up." ADD is a nice, simple moniker for this particular issue; everyone recognizes it. Just try an experiment: Go to a psychiatrist's office and tell the person behind that big, expensive mahogany desk, "Little [insert name here] won't listen to anyone. [S/he] is out of control. We've never told [him/her] "no" and now we can't seem to discipline effectively!" The psychiatrist is likely to drag your whole family in for a few sessions, clearly not understanding what you are trying to say and feeling (gasp!) that this may have more to do with family dynamics and roles than with the child in question's behaviors specifically. But if you throw at this person a simple, "I think Little [insert name here] has ADD," then you are guaranteed the appropriate response: Person with psychiatric degree and prescription pad will cursorily evaluate Little So-and-so, check a few boxes on a form when it is discovered that Little So-and-so has a penchant for destroying the expensive office in about ten minutes' worth of time (after all, Little So-and-so is missing out on all sorts of fun things back home to be here and is feeling disgruntled!) and write out that all-important prescription that will magically allow you some peace and quiet as Little So-and-so takes a breather for a few hours on his or her newly prescribed, mood-altering, hormone-regulating downers. It's too bad we don't have the same nice, neat, prescriptive answer to the Irish Curse, although I'm sure there are doctors and researchers in the UK working on it. In the meantime, I reiterate: if you are of Irish descent, do NOT go on vacation. No psychiatrist is going to be able to do anything with your Murphy complex. There aren't any formal prescriptions available - this would be why the Irish tend to drink frequently. Drunkenness, while not a solution, certainly helps to dull the pain Murphy's havoc can wreak. Frankly, until modern science catches up with the needs of the Irish-descended populace, I see no reason why Irish folks oughtn't to enjoy a good, stout Guinness or four, not given my own personal experiences with this Daemon.

What happened? The curious reader wonders. Never fear, I am not a cruel and heartless person who teases but never puts out. The story is as follows:

I have a friend who is going to Iraq for his third tour. (Lest you begin to feel sorry for this friend, let me assure you that for him, this is not a curse. He LOVES his job. He is looking forward to going, even. This is not a cry for pity and sympathy on his behalf! Don't lose focus, Gentle Reader, you are here to feel sorry for me, the Cursed One. Revenons a nos moutons.) This friend of mine invited my little family to head down to Nags Head for 24 hours on the beach to visit with him prior to his departure. (I realize that a trip to the beach does not sound tortuous, but I swear to you, you will begin to feel sorry for me soon.) I took a half-day from work on Friday, right before exams, and we headed down to the coastline. It rained like crazy the entire trip down; we even had to pull over a few times because we couldn't see past the water slashing on the windshield; what should have been a five hour jaunt turned into an arduous six and a half hour event.

We had a lovely day and a half visit with my friend. We took lots of pictures of my Darling Daughter's first trip to the beach. It was, in a word, Idyllic. On the way home, I was feeling rested, happy and ready for the arduous task of final examinations to begin on Monday.

Upon reaching our home, I opened the door and - ewww, what was that smell? Ah, yes - my darling sheltie had knocked over the garbage can. We're talking coffee grounds and two-year old, solid-food diapers all the way from the kitchen through the front hall. As we did not leave the fans or air conditioning units on and it is July, let's just say the smell was less-than-fresh. So, at almost nine o'clock at night, we dutifully put Darling Daughter to bed and scrubbed those floors with Murphy's Wood Oil soap (this is not an advertisement, but that stuff is amazing. It smells good, it feels good - all nice and oily - and it leaves a lovely sheen to your floors, at least until the dogs track all over it following the next rainstorm.) And yet-

"It still smells like something died in here," said I to my husband.

"It'll probably take a while for the smell to go away," he said comfortingly.

So, I popped online to check whether or not I had been cast in the fall production of our local theatre troupe. Alas, I had not even been made a Nymph, much less the White Witch. We had not gotten a confirmation email about the loan we are trying to take out to buy our house. I was not published in the New Yorker, although they "thanked me for my interest in contributing." Things in the email world were not going my way. And then, from the other room, my husband's voice, "Oh, God. Melle, come here."

What NOW?

"What" was my twelve year old Persian cat, Dimitri, who had peed on both couches in the family room before offing himself. (In the interest of not upsetting my Gentle Readers, let me say that from appearances, he went quietly and without pain. From the appearance of the couches, I would venture to say he even almost enjoyed his death. And twelve is a fairly advanced age for Persians with lifelong urinary tract and respiratory issues.) Still - my cat was dead. And not just dead, but clearly had died about ten hours earlier or more. And was crawling with fleas, which he was decidedly NOT in life, as we Frontline regularly.

"Oh, no. Look. Where did the fleas come from? Now we'll have to bomb the house." I regret that these were my last words before unceremoniously taking his poor, stiff little body outside for burial.

Upon coming in, I realized that the answering machine was blinking. We had three messages. Normal people might find this utterly normal, returning from two days away rom home, but no one calls us and actually leaves messages, so to have three is something. Only these were definitely not Ed McMahon messages. One of my former students had died the previous week, and we were only just finding out about it. I had missed the emergency meeting on Friday afternoon when they told the staff; I was driving to Nags Head in a pouring down, can't-hardly-see thunderstorm. Did I mention, I had to go in and administer final exams the next day?

We were only gone for 30 hours!

MURPHY! You jackass. I'll get even with you if it's the last thing I ever do. Modern science will break you, we will overcome, we will triumph, Mankind is on the verge of finding the prescription to eradicate your vicious machinations!

In the meanwhile, I'm going to have a Guinness...and I will NOT be going on vacation again. It's not worth it, if you're Irish.

It's a start...

Okay, so here I am beginning a page in Yahoo! 360...so far, this experience (the 360) has been somehwat disappointing, as nowhere within the parts I have to this point created do I actually see a satisfying representation of who I am and what I am about. It's frustrating to be told to describe yourself in 100 words or less, to list everything you like, admire, and care for in 100 characters or less - well, you get the idea. I'm too passionate for that sort of malarkey and entirely too complicated to be solved or even started in 100 characters or less! Unbelievable. I guess Yahoo! figures everyone setting up one of these pages is 16 years old and too busy text messaging to have time for m0re than a general and basic post.

I'm not 16 and I have never in my life 'text messaged'. (Those of you reading this may be shocked, appalled, or disgusted by this fact, given that we are in the digital age) But I just can't get into it, I really can't. Who decided we should all switch to online libraries and E-zines? Who's running this show now? Why didn't I get the newsletter that explained that everything I love and care about is being flushed down the drain, thank you very much, and I ought to just get over it? Well, since I haven't gotten that particular circular, I intend to keep right on living my way - and that includes a marked and intentional lack of cell-phonage.

My world includes dogs (preferably the cuddly sort, like shelties and golden retrievers) and cats, and babies. There are a lot of sports events. Books as far as the eye can see (preferably hardback and old, with cream colored pages and maybe even a little gilding on the edges!) Beautiful, calming music (or, alternately, music so loud and exciting you have to get up off the seat and dance). Lots of tea, plenty of red wine, chocolate and more chocolate. People who actually give two shits about philosophy and art and beauty and the political system and the future of the country and not just their own little selves. In my world there is a decided lack of money, materialism, capitalism and any other "ism" really.

Sound good? You're welcome to join me anytime. Pull up a chair, grab a cuppa and let's chat!