I just found out through Red Room that beloved author of The Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger, has just passed away. Though this news didn't devastate me like finding out Kurt Vonnegut had died four years ago, it did spark a bit of fond remembrance for the man and the many characters he brought us, especially Holden Caulfield.
For the first time this year, I taught The Catcher in the Rye to my Advanced Placement English Literature class. Usually, we study Kate Chopin's novella The Awakening, but for the past three years, students have hated it and therefore ruined a perfectly wonderful story for me. So, this year, I decided it was time for a change and Salinger was the perfect choice.
The kids have really enjoyed this book and have fallen in love with Holden. I had forgotten how easily a high school senior, about to embark into the "real world," can relate to Holden Caulfield, the poster child for indecision and rebellion because he is not sure what role to play as an adult. As I remember J. D. Salinger today, what comes to mind is not only how much I enjoyed the book, but how much joy and frustration and understanding it brought to eleven students in my class.
What I remember is the looks on their faces the first time we read a few chapters: "Wow. Holden doesn't seem to be able to express himself without using the words fuck and damn," one student remarked, but quickly followed that comment with, "But I'm okay with that; we all cuss every now and then, just not as much as Holden." Or the time when a student couldn't help herself and exclaimed, "Man, I just want to take Holden by the shoulders and shake him. We all aren't sure what life holds, but we can't just sit and complain and make fun of everyone all of the time. What he doesn't see is that by avoiding the 'phonies,' he is becoming a phony himself: a lone, sad person, who life is passing by." These kinds of comments blow me away and would make Salinger proud. Not only are they understanding his message, but they are applying it to their own lives. What teacher could ask for anything more?
These are the memories I will have of Salinger; seeing him through the eyes of a teenager again. Teaching his book in class helps keep Salinger's memory alive for my students, and watching them dive into the world of Holden and Pency Prep. and surface with knowledge and understanding about their own position in life is what keeps Salinger's memory alive for me.
Thank you, J. D. Salinger, for your contribution to the literary world and the lives of eleven students at a rural high school. And thanks for adding to the memories of a grateful teacher.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Warning: Disgruntled Teacher Rant
I am getting a bit sick of one of my bosses belittling me! I tried to blow it off, but it really is getting to me. I think he has the need to show me who is boss on a constant basis. He swears that he doesn't hold grudges, but ever since I told this man (politely) that I disagreed with how he was asking me to do something, I've been on his shit list and have gotten written up for the stupidest things this year.
I got written up again yesterday for a late call in, which was related to my stomach pains; I was trying to make it to work that day, despite the stomach pains, but couldn't make it and had to call in one or two times late. At least I tried to get there!
And the write-up is anything but professional. He actually includes that "a simple phone call would have solved all of these issues." I was doubled over in pain from a well-documented illness, which I am currently under doctors' care to treat and have gotten sick bank leave from the district, yet, just a simple phone call could have solved all of his problems. My bad, asshole.
And the best part is, the write-up is riddled with irony, which as an English teacher, I love, even if the irony is not to my benefit, just for my amusement. The "memo" is entitled "Lack of Timely Communication Skills" and is dated January 21--a full week after the incident of me not being timely with my communication. If this caused such a problem, why wasn't I written up sooner to when the occasion happened? It makes no sense; he was lacking in timely communication to me to tell me that he felt a lack of timely communication on my part. Oh well.
I guess it's time to start looking for another job or hope they renew me and stay just to piss him off. I really would miss some of my colleagues and some of the classes I teach if I leave this school, but I can't work in an atmosphere where my boss is a constant bully and treats me in a condescending manner.
I got written up again yesterday for a late call in, which was related to my stomach pains; I was trying to make it to work that day, despite the stomach pains, but couldn't make it and had to call in one or two times late. At least I tried to get there!
And the write-up is anything but professional. He actually includes that "a simple phone call would have solved all of these issues." I was doubled over in pain from a well-documented illness, which I am currently under doctors' care to treat and have gotten sick bank leave from the district, yet, just a simple phone call could have solved all of his problems. My bad, asshole.
And the best part is, the write-up is riddled with irony, which as an English teacher, I love, even if the irony is not to my benefit, just for my amusement. The "memo" is entitled "Lack of Timely Communication Skills" and is dated January 21--a full week after the incident of me not being timely with my communication. If this caused such a problem, why wasn't I written up sooner to when the occasion happened? It makes no sense; he was lacking in timely communication to me to tell me that he felt a lack of timely communication on my part. Oh well.
I guess it's time to start looking for another job or hope they renew me and stay just to piss him off. I really would miss some of my colleagues and some of the classes I teach if I leave this school, but I can't work in an atmosphere where my boss is a constant bully and treats me in a condescending manner.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Logging In For Love
Well, I did it. I went ahead and declared that I am unable to meet a man that I am actually compatible with in my regular life when I joined Match.com a few days ago. It has been quite a journey since; I have been "winked" at, sent polite "no way, I'm not interested" notes, and emailed with such banal phrases as "wassup, girl? you hot?"
Needless to say, looking for love online can be very hard on the ego at times. I find myself staring at the "no new emails," "no new interests" boxes and then glancing at how many times my profile has been viewed in the last 3 days: 305. Three-hundred and five people looked at my profile and all but 10 or so said no thanks. I know this is a great process of weeding out men that I wouldn't want anyway, but it still puts a minor dent in my ego.
But being a part of an online matching program has its perks, too. I have found myself looking forward to logging on and seeing who might catch my interest and hoping that there will be a note saying "you've got mail" to borrow a used phrase. It has been awhile since I have really looked forward to something on a regular basis, and Match.com, along with writing this blog and joining Red Room, has helped to fill that void.
A second perk is that even though it started out slow and disappointing, Match has really come through for me, as I have begun chatting with two highly educated and very intriguing men. I am not usually an "online" person, but over the past week, I have logged close to 21 hours on the computer. I was very skeptical about Match at first: How do I know that person is who they say they are? How do I know they aren't just trying to set me up to rape and murder me? (Well, that might be a bit dramatic, but it is still something to keep in the back of my mind...I'm in the process of researching free background check websites right now).
But, seriously, as I got the chance to converse with men I was actually interested in and who seem interested in me, I realized that you can form a kind of connection online. It is not nearly as good as a face to face connection, but it can still allow for an exchange of ideas and feelings that are honest and real. It suddenly made sense to me that the way you can tell when someone is being fake when they are talking to you in person is similar to the way you can tell if they are being fake online. Overused phrases, cliches, and being too quick to jump to sex are all great signs that something is different between what we are looking for.
So far, I haven't seen any of these classic signs from the two guys I am talking back and forth with, so that is a good sign. I am looking forward to finally hearing their voices and then, ultimately, seeing them in person. I feel kind of like a high-schooler again, waiting for the boy I like to call, but in a way, it is a great kind of feeling that I am not willing to part with, even if it makes me feel a bit juvenile again sometimes. :)
Needless to say, looking for love online can be very hard on the ego at times. I find myself staring at the "no new emails," "no new interests" boxes and then glancing at how many times my profile has been viewed in the last 3 days: 305. Three-hundred and five people looked at my profile and all but 10 or so said no thanks. I know this is a great process of weeding out men that I wouldn't want anyway, but it still puts a minor dent in my ego.
But being a part of an online matching program has its perks, too. I have found myself looking forward to logging on and seeing who might catch my interest and hoping that there will be a note saying "you've got mail" to borrow a used phrase. It has been awhile since I have really looked forward to something on a regular basis, and Match.com, along with writing this blog and joining Red Room, has helped to fill that void.
A second perk is that even though it started out slow and disappointing, Match has really come through for me, as I have begun chatting with two highly educated and very intriguing men. I am not usually an "online" person, but over the past week, I have logged close to 21 hours on the computer. I was very skeptical about Match at first: How do I know that person is who they say they are? How do I know they aren't just trying to set me up to rape and murder me? (Well, that might be a bit dramatic, but it is still something to keep in the back of my mind...I'm in the process of researching free background check websites right now).
But, seriously, as I got the chance to converse with men I was actually interested in and who seem interested in me, I realized that you can form a kind of connection online. It is not nearly as good as a face to face connection, but it can still allow for an exchange of ideas and feelings that are honest and real. It suddenly made sense to me that the way you can tell when someone is being fake when they are talking to you in person is similar to the way you can tell if they are being fake online. Overused phrases, cliches, and being too quick to jump to sex are all great signs that something is different between what we are looking for.
So far, I haven't seen any of these classic signs from the two guys I am talking back and forth with, so that is a good sign. I am looking forward to finally hearing their voices and then, ultimately, seeing them in person. I feel kind of like a high-schooler again, waiting for the boy I like to call, but in a way, it is a great kind of feeling that I am not willing to part with, even if it makes me feel a bit juvenile again sometimes. :)
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Frustration, Acceptance, Obsession: My Journey Through Short Stories
When thinking about my favorite short story, many pop into my mind. I immediately think of "The Gift of the Magi" by O'Henry, my first glimpse into twist endings and the beauty of a short story that leaves you wanting more. At the time, the brevity of the short story bothered me; I like to burrow into what I read, and short stories allow just a quick dig in the sand when compared with a novel. But, as my literary tastes have changed, I find that I appreciate the talent, skill, and dedication it takes these writers to create an entire world and situation that can move you to laughter or tears or change your perspective on an aspect of life within so few pages.
Thinking about this talent causes my mind to travel to Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," which conveys so much through seemingly sparse dialogue and description. I teach this story in my Advanced Placement English class, and it is always such a joy to watch the students begin to unravel the symbolism, dialogue, and tone. When they make the connections, they grow closer to the text, just as I do; to me, the text begins to become overlapped with my student's discoveries, creating a new mosaic that merges with the text itself in my mind. Every time I read that story now, I see the excitement and discovery of reading it for the first time through my students, keeping the beauty and newness of the story alive forever for me.
This idea makes my mind land on what is probably my favorite: "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gillman, as it is the first short story that I found myself obsessed with. When I first read this piece in college, I remember thinking, I wish I would have written this story. The beautiful descriptions and ambiguous imagery of the room and wallpaper itself as a representation of feminist ideals blew my mind. This was the first time I not only had to, but wanted to read and re-read this piece, finding something different each time I sailed through it. I loved the ambiguous ending, where I practically danced in my chair, wondering if she had found her desperately sought freedom from oppression or if the freedom had broken her, leaving her trapped again in her mind as she goes insane.
Talking about this piece is a must and that is the other aspect of short stories that sucks me in. I love discussing short stories, as many more people are apt to read 15-30 pages rather than a 400-page novel. Though open endings often drive readers insane, I have grown to love these kinds of stories, as they force you to become part of it, as you use your own experiences and desires to interpret the ending. A neat way to see what makes people tick is to listen to their interpretation of a short story with an ambiguous ending. I should market this as a new way to test for personalities: you think the main character will succeed? You must be an optimist who is obsessed with feminist rights. You think she is insane? You are a realist, but you miss the idiosyncrasies of a female's mind.
My journey of initial frustration, then reluctant acceptance, and finally good-natured obsession with short stories has been eye-opening to me, and in many ways relates to my perspective on life itself. Even though I'm 31 years old, I still have moments of frustration with life, when nothing seems to go my way, but for the most part, I think I've come to accept that life is one curve ball after another, and it isn't the pitch that matters, but what you do when it is your turn to swing at the ball, figuratively speaking.
I am hoping that I am now entering the phase of obsession with life; lately, I've been trying more and more to "suck the marrow of life" as my buddy H.D. Thoreau would say. However, I am thinking more and more that like the short stories that become a new product once I share the experience of analyzing it with my students, my life must be shaped by those around me as well. A man is not an island; how true that is. And a short story is never just a story, but a shaper of life.
Thinking about this talent causes my mind to travel to Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," which conveys so much through seemingly sparse dialogue and description. I teach this story in my Advanced Placement English class, and it is always such a joy to watch the students begin to unravel the symbolism, dialogue, and tone. When they make the connections, they grow closer to the text, just as I do; to me, the text begins to become overlapped with my student's discoveries, creating a new mosaic that merges with the text itself in my mind. Every time I read that story now, I see the excitement and discovery of reading it for the first time through my students, keeping the beauty and newness of the story alive forever for me.
This idea makes my mind land on what is probably my favorite: "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gillman, as it is the first short story that I found myself obsessed with. When I first read this piece in college, I remember thinking, I wish I would have written this story. The beautiful descriptions and ambiguous imagery of the room and wallpaper itself as a representation of feminist ideals blew my mind. This was the first time I not only had to, but wanted to read and re-read this piece, finding something different each time I sailed through it. I loved the ambiguous ending, where I practically danced in my chair, wondering if she had found her desperately sought freedom from oppression or if the freedom had broken her, leaving her trapped again in her mind as she goes insane.
Talking about this piece is a must and that is the other aspect of short stories that sucks me in. I love discussing short stories, as many more people are apt to read 15-30 pages rather than a 400-page novel. Though open endings often drive readers insane, I have grown to love these kinds of stories, as they force you to become part of it, as you use your own experiences and desires to interpret the ending. A neat way to see what makes people tick is to listen to their interpretation of a short story with an ambiguous ending. I should market this as a new way to test for personalities: you think the main character will succeed? You must be an optimist who is obsessed with feminist rights. You think she is insane? You are a realist, but you miss the idiosyncrasies of a female's mind.
My journey of initial frustration, then reluctant acceptance, and finally good-natured obsession with short stories has been eye-opening to me, and in many ways relates to my perspective on life itself. Even though I'm 31 years old, I still have moments of frustration with life, when nothing seems to go my way, but for the most part, I think I've come to accept that life is one curve ball after another, and it isn't the pitch that matters, but what you do when it is your turn to swing at the ball, figuratively speaking.
I am hoping that I am now entering the phase of obsession with life; lately, I've been trying more and more to "suck the marrow of life" as my buddy H.D. Thoreau would say. However, I am thinking more and more that like the short stories that become a new product once I share the experience of analyzing it with my students, my life must be shaped by those around me as well. A man is not an island; how true that is. And a short story is never just a story, but a shaper of life.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
For the Second Time: Productivity=Happiness
I guess I understand now why people sometimes say to me, "Just start it, then you'll be fine. It can't be as bad as you think it is." To normal, productive human beings, this is the logical thing to think; they understand that no project or job is too difficult to tackle if you take it piece by piece and just get to work. However, when depression is riding like a monkey on my back, riling me up into anxiety over how much I have to do and how behind I already am, it is difficult to see anything logically, even if I also logically know it will help me. Strange, eh? Welcome to my world of trying to figure out the workings of my odd brain.
Today, however, I can feel the me inside me that lives without depression and anxiety clawing to get a foothold on the steep path back up out of the abyss. I finally took my own (and other's) advice and convinced myself that grading the giant stack wouldn't be so bad and might actually be accomplishable. Saturday, I started and I am slowly finishing this week and truthfully, though there were moments I wanted to gouge my eyes out from misspellings and missing commas, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it was.
Finally, I am beginning to think more like a normal, productive human and logically tackle what I have to do, regardless of how large the idea of it is growing in my head. Being productive does make you happier and now I understand why people always look at me askance, as they are probably thinking, "Why is this so hard? It is a simple concept." Now, I think I am starting to get it, finally.
Today, however, I can feel the me inside me that lives without depression and anxiety clawing to get a foothold on the steep path back up out of the abyss. I finally took my own (and other's) advice and convinced myself that grading the giant stack wouldn't be so bad and might actually be accomplishable. Saturday, I started and I am slowly finishing this week and truthfully, though there were moments I wanted to gouge my eyes out from misspellings and missing commas, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it was.
Finally, I am beginning to think more like a normal, productive human and logically tackle what I have to do, regardless of how large the idea of it is growing in my head. Being productive does make you happier and now I understand why people always look at me askance, as they are probably thinking, "Why is this so hard? It is a simple concept." Now, I think I am starting to get it, finally.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
A Refresher Course on Reality
I just heard a news report on James Cameron's latest *cough*-billion dollar movie, Avatar, that truly disturbed me. The report stated that the movie was having a strange effect on many audience members. Besides having "racial undertones", "hidden political agendas", and "a over-zealous focus on saving the planet", this movie also needs the warning label that it might cause severe depression or even, in some extreme cases, suicide.
According to the report, because Cameron's world was so realistically rendered and so beautiful in its relationship with its inhabitants, many movie-goers left feeling depressed about having to "go back to Earth", where mother nature is not nearly as valued and people seem to work against the basics of nature itself. When forced with the mess we humans have made on Earth, people mesmerized by Cameron's portrayal of a futuristic world cannot take it and want out.
Here's where my panties get into a bunch. These people are getting depressed about something that came from a man's imagination and inner cavities of the mind and don't see instead the ways we can change life here on Earth now. What about volunteering to build a house or serve at a soup kitchen or take a special interest in a student graduating? No, instead, let's go see a movie, get mad about what we can choose to change, and decide to kill ourselves. I guess in a way this is Darwinism at its finest; though it isn't too far off from the "suicide phone booths" described by Aldous Huxley in his futuristic novel, Brave New World, and that world was even more messed up than ours is currently.
What also gets my girdle in a grind is the fact that if we are so truly upset with where our choices have led us to this current state in relation to ourselves and our planet, why don't we use the *cough*-billions of dollars they gave Cameron to make this movie on improving our society? This way, at least people wouldn't have to feel the need to kill themselves after watching a movie. Maybe we could even get some decent housing built for our large and ever-growing homeless population and grow the number of people employed, taking care of our own for once, rather than just producing "entertainment" to numb the reality of our current state.
Not that I don't enjoy the mindless drivel of movies and TV and I will even admit that not all of these are surface entertainment, but some have intrinsic value as well for the populace. However, if movies are going to make us want to kill ourselves, then it is time to re-evaluate reality, especially our part in the current state AND the choices we still have to make in order to even get close to matching the future Cameron paints.
According to the report, because Cameron's world was so realistically rendered and so beautiful in its relationship with its inhabitants, many movie-goers left feeling depressed about having to "go back to Earth", where mother nature is not nearly as valued and people seem to work against the basics of nature itself. When forced with the mess we humans have made on Earth, people mesmerized by Cameron's portrayal of a futuristic world cannot take it and want out.
Here's where my panties get into a bunch. These people are getting depressed about something that came from a man's imagination and inner cavities of the mind and don't see instead the ways we can change life here on Earth now. What about volunteering to build a house or serve at a soup kitchen or take a special interest in a student graduating? No, instead, let's go see a movie, get mad about what we can choose to change, and decide to kill ourselves. I guess in a way this is Darwinism at its finest; though it isn't too far off from the "suicide phone booths" described by Aldous Huxley in his futuristic novel, Brave New World, and that world was even more messed up than ours is currently.
What also gets my girdle in a grind is the fact that if we are so truly upset with where our choices have led us to this current state in relation to ourselves and our planet, why don't we use the *cough*-billions of dollars they gave Cameron to make this movie on improving our society? This way, at least people wouldn't have to feel the need to kill themselves after watching a movie. Maybe we could even get some decent housing built for our large and ever-growing homeless population and grow the number of people employed, taking care of our own for once, rather than just producing "entertainment" to numb the reality of our current state.
Not that I don't enjoy the mindless drivel of movies and TV and I will even admit that not all of these are surface entertainment, but some have intrinsic value as well for the populace. However, if movies are going to make us want to kill ourselves, then it is time to re-evaluate reality, especially our part in the current state AND the choices we still have to make in order to even get close to matching the future Cameron paints.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Lessons Learned in the Emergency Room
If you can't tell by the title, today has not been fun. My day started at the usual time, 5:30 AM, with my usual wonderful wake-up call from my friend and colleague. I got up and started my day: feeding the cats, brushing my teeth, when I felt the evil stomach pains again.
I have had pains ranging from a dull, constant ache to a sharp, stabbing sensation in my right abdomen for about two months now. It seems to get worse when I have a lot of stress and anxiety, as well as when I breathe cold air, or sometimes when I eat. I have been to my regular doctor numerous times and every time I leave with the same pain, still not knowing what is causing it, even after a plethora of tests.
Anyway, after the stomach pains started again this morning, I took a quarter of a pain killer and sat down on the couch for a second to try to relieve the pain. The next thing I knew, it was 8:15 AM and the phone was screaming. My neck was sore and I was confused as hell. It took me a second to realize that I'd accidentally fallen asleep on the couch and was late to work. As I tried to get to the phone, I suddenly felt the sharp pain in my stomach return and I had a hard time standing up.
The secretary from my work was on the phone and she was worried; wondering where I was. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I think I mumbled something like My stomach hurts and I don't think I can walk. I'm going to the ER. I know she asked me if she could call someone to drive me, and in my stupor, I said I'd call my parents, not remembering that mom has a broken leg and dad (at the time) was still in Florida. I muttered something about lesson plans and hung up, feeling like someone was stabbing and twisting me in the side.
At that point, I realized that it was time to go to the ER. My whole hope of going today was to find out (finally!) what is wrong with me and causing this relentless pain. I waited until I felt a bit better and then drove to the ER, full of hope and confidence: these doctors of the Emergency Room would surely work as hard as House does on TV to find out what is wrong with me. Wrong.
No offense to the hospital staff; they were very caring and courteous, but they just did the same tests and said the same things that my regular doctor has been saying for two months: your tests so far look normal, but we won't know what is wrong for sure until you see the gastro-interologist (who, out of 5 offices in in the city could not book me an appointment any earlier than the end of January when I called in late November).
For the five hours I was there, I had an IV jammed into my wrist, my blood taken two times (because my blood "wasn't good enough" the first time; whatever that means!), my urine taken three times, and I had to call for four warm blankets as it was so cold in there! While I didn't learn anything new about what is causing my pain, I did manage to learn a few things--leave it to the teacher to always be learning! :P
First, I learned that it is incredibly difficult to sleep while you are in the Emergency Room; ironic, as you would think that would be the one place you'd need your rest. Second, I learned that in this particular ER, privacy is nothing more than a thin sheet held to the other side by a tiny tie and a shin-high curtain that keeps you and your business from everyone else.
I guess I should be grateful I learned something at least, even if it wasn't even close to what I hoped to figure out. Plus, I did get some more vicadin for the pain, so that is nice, though I'd rather be treating this issue rather than dulling it with pain medication. Oh well, at least I'll get a nice little pain medicine buzz tonight out of all of this. Lesson learned: don't expect House or Dr. Cox from Scrubs to be at your ER. It's not going to happen.
I have had pains ranging from a dull, constant ache to a sharp, stabbing sensation in my right abdomen for about two months now. It seems to get worse when I have a lot of stress and anxiety, as well as when I breathe cold air, or sometimes when I eat. I have been to my regular doctor numerous times and every time I leave with the same pain, still not knowing what is causing it, even after a plethora of tests.
Anyway, after the stomach pains started again this morning, I took a quarter of a pain killer and sat down on the couch for a second to try to relieve the pain. The next thing I knew, it was 8:15 AM and the phone was screaming. My neck was sore and I was confused as hell. It took me a second to realize that I'd accidentally fallen asleep on the couch and was late to work. As I tried to get to the phone, I suddenly felt the sharp pain in my stomach return and I had a hard time standing up.
The secretary from my work was on the phone and she was worried; wondering where I was. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I think I mumbled something like My stomach hurts and I don't think I can walk. I'm going to the ER. I know she asked me if she could call someone to drive me, and in my stupor, I said I'd call my parents, not remembering that mom has a broken leg and dad (at the time) was still in Florida. I muttered something about lesson plans and hung up, feeling like someone was stabbing and twisting me in the side.
At that point, I realized that it was time to go to the ER. My whole hope of going today was to find out (finally!) what is wrong with me and causing this relentless pain. I waited until I felt a bit better and then drove to the ER, full of hope and confidence: these doctors of the Emergency Room would surely work as hard as House does on TV to find out what is wrong with me. Wrong.
No offense to the hospital staff; they were very caring and courteous, but they just did the same tests and said the same things that my regular doctor has been saying for two months: your tests so far look normal, but we won't know what is wrong for sure until you see the gastro-interologist (who, out of 5 offices in in the city could not book me an appointment any earlier than the end of January when I called in late November).
For the five hours I was there, I had an IV jammed into my wrist, my blood taken two times (because my blood "wasn't good enough" the first time; whatever that means!), my urine taken three times, and I had to call for four warm blankets as it was so cold in there! While I didn't learn anything new about what is causing my pain, I did manage to learn a few things--leave it to the teacher to always be learning! :P
First, I learned that it is incredibly difficult to sleep while you are in the Emergency Room; ironic, as you would think that would be the one place you'd need your rest. Second, I learned that in this particular ER, privacy is nothing more than a thin sheet held to the other side by a tiny tie and a shin-high curtain that keeps you and your business from everyone else.
I guess I should be grateful I learned something at least, even if it wasn't even close to what I hoped to figure out. Plus, I did get some more vicadin for the pain, so that is nice, though I'd rather be treating this issue rather than dulling it with pain medication. Oh well, at least I'll get a nice little pain medicine buzz tonight out of all of this. Lesson learned: don't expect House or Dr. Cox from Scrubs to be at your ER. It's not going to happen.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Adult Tantrums
As a single woman without children, normally when I am in a public place and another person's child is throwing a fist-banging-leg-tromping-top-of-the-lungs-wailing tantrum, I want to gouge my eardrums out. No offense to those with children; I know they can be very unpredictable sometimes and that a fit here and there is bound to happen. However, these kinds of displays usually make my head feel like it is about to explode, and often times, I have been very tempted to intercede and just make funny faces at the kid until they get distracted and stop. I will also admit that at other times, I just want to go up to them and yell as loud as they are until it startles them into silence.
However, today when I witnesses a tow-headed child at Wal-Mart pitch one of the biggest fits I've ever seen, I had a completely different reaction. My day and week have been long and I have SO much to grade, so my stress level is at an all-time high right now, so you would think that this kind of display would annoy the crap out of me. But no. Instead, I felt jealous. I'd had a bad day, why couldn't I do that? I found myself considering throwing my own fit right at that moment. Just throw down the items I'd put into my basket and yell, scream, kick, and punch the air or floor until I'd gotten it out of my system.
I pictured the parent, mouth agape, staring at me in disbelief as their own kid finally behaved when shown up by such a better display of frustration and anger. I imagined the Wal-Mart greeter's smile turn into a look of horror as I thrashed about on the ground. Other customers might get into it as well, yelling as loud as they could or rolling around on the ground, demanding irrational things. While others might think I was deranged or something and might call a mental hospital and put a straight jacket and padded room into my future.
Regardless of the outcome, I think it would be very therapeutic to just let it all out through one really atomic tantrum. Why is it that when we get older, tantrums suddenly become taboo? I guess some could say it is that whole "ability to communicate their feelings and thoughts" rather than pitch a fit thing. But I personally believe that every adult should be allowed at least two gigantic tantrums a month if they need them.
I know, many men might say that women pitch fits all of the time. Many women could also say the same thing about men they know; regardless, even if a person is "bitchy" or "asshole-ish" or "argumentative" or "confrontational", you still usually never see them really throw a physical tantrum. Most adult tantrums take on a more verbal or emotional fit, unless senseless fighting after drinking counts. So, I propose we should be able to pitch a fit so retro that our inner child is looking for a fist bump.
Think about how much money could be saved on medication and therapy, or even on a gym membership, if you really let yourself get into it. So, the next time you see (or hear) another person's child going crazy, I would recommend joining in (at least in your imagination). I think I will.... :)
However, today when I witnesses a tow-headed child at Wal-Mart pitch one of the biggest fits I've ever seen, I had a completely different reaction. My day and week have been long and I have SO much to grade, so my stress level is at an all-time high right now, so you would think that this kind of display would annoy the crap out of me. But no. Instead, I felt jealous. I'd had a bad day, why couldn't I do that? I found myself considering throwing my own fit right at that moment. Just throw down the items I'd put into my basket and yell, scream, kick, and punch the air or floor until I'd gotten it out of my system.
I pictured the parent, mouth agape, staring at me in disbelief as their own kid finally behaved when shown up by such a better display of frustration and anger. I imagined the Wal-Mart greeter's smile turn into a look of horror as I thrashed about on the ground. Other customers might get into it as well, yelling as loud as they could or rolling around on the ground, demanding irrational things. While others might think I was deranged or something and might call a mental hospital and put a straight jacket and padded room into my future.
Regardless of the outcome, I think it would be very therapeutic to just let it all out through one really atomic tantrum. Why is it that when we get older, tantrums suddenly become taboo? I guess some could say it is that whole "ability to communicate their feelings and thoughts" rather than pitch a fit thing. But I personally believe that every adult should be allowed at least two gigantic tantrums a month if they need them.
I know, many men might say that women pitch fits all of the time. Many women could also say the same thing about men they know; regardless, even if a person is "bitchy" or "asshole-ish" or "argumentative" or "confrontational", you still usually never see them really throw a physical tantrum. Most adult tantrums take on a more verbal or emotional fit, unless senseless fighting after drinking counts. So, I propose we should be able to pitch a fit so retro that our inner child is looking for a fist bump.
Think about how much money could be saved on medication and therapy, or even on a gym membership, if you really let yourself get into it. So, the next time you see (or hear) another person's child going crazy, I would recommend joining in (at least in your imagination). I think I will.... :)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Meet Burt, My Insomnia
Many suffer from insomnia, but not many people ever talk about what their insomnia looks like. Some commercials tout insomnia as a frustrated man in a wrinkled, old-fashioned pajama set, trying desperately to count enough sheep as they jump over a fence to satisfy the sleep gods. Other commercials visualize insomnia as a blurry-eyed college student cramming for finals as he pours another Red Bull down his throat to intentionally keep sleep at bay, while he "gets some wings" (and, in one commercial, also gets some lovin'!). In a different vein, some singers make insomnia out to be a passionate gesture of pining over the one you love, who barely notices you, as you listen to sad music and write sad poetry as an offering to those who deem if sleep is in your future.
I wish these were the pictures that my brain conjures up on nights like these when I know I have to get up very early tomorrow, but just can't get my mind to shut down. But no, of course not. Instead, my insomnia takes the form of a garden gnome, very much like the Travelocity mascot, except it is dressed in all red and black and has glowing, fiery eyes that bore into my soul.
My insomnia (I'm not sure of his real name, but he will respond to Burt) likes to play hide and seek, but in a perverted, demented manner. Burt will disappear on me really quickly, leaving me yawning and stretching, thinking it is time to head off to bed, but that is where he gets me. Just as I head to my bedroom, my mind begins to scroll through all of the things I didn't finish today and everything that must now be accomplished tomorrow and I suddenly see Burt lunge up from under the bed, his beady, flashing eyes telling me immediately that sleep has just abandoned me. Tag, I'm it. And who would blame sleep for running away if there was a scary little gnome waiting for it every time it arrived? Not me.
So, as I try to get my mind to power off, Burt curls up around my neck, playing like he will pet my hair (something that makes me really relaxed), but then he slams his pointy gnome hat into my head and hits restart. Not fair. I just want to sleep, Burt, not take your demented little soul. I wonder if he feeds off of my sleepless hours, devouring my begrudged awake hours like they are a twenty-four hour all-you-can-eat buffet. If so, he should not go hungry tonight. :)
If I had a helper monkey to aide me in grading, maybe I could teach the monkey to attack Burt. Knowing Burt, though, he would just keep the monkey awake. Perhaps I can get Burt a Facebook or Match.com profile so he can find someone else to keep awake. I can picture the posting now: Burt enjoys long (and I mean LONG) walks on the beach at 2 am, and he won't be bothered by staying up late talking, watching old movies, and making love; that's just his style. He won't have much to do with you during the day, but at night, you won't know how to get rid of him. Ladies, call now before this catch is gone (and so is your sanity, due to lack of sleep).
Seriously, if anyone is interested, Burt is available; I think I've just about kicked him to the curb tonight...
I wish these were the pictures that my brain conjures up on nights like these when I know I have to get up very early tomorrow, but just can't get my mind to shut down. But no, of course not. Instead, my insomnia takes the form of a garden gnome, very much like the Travelocity mascot, except it is dressed in all red and black and has glowing, fiery eyes that bore into my soul.
My insomnia (I'm not sure of his real name, but he will respond to Burt) likes to play hide and seek, but in a perverted, demented manner. Burt will disappear on me really quickly, leaving me yawning and stretching, thinking it is time to head off to bed, but that is where he gets me. Just as I head to my bedroom, my mind begins to scroll through all of the things I didn't finish today and everything that must now be accomplished tomorrow and I suddenly see Burt lunge up from under the bed, his beady, flashing eyes telling me immediately that sleep has just abandoned me. Tag, I'm it. And who would blame sleep for running away if there was a scary little gnome waiting for it every time it arrived? Not me.
So, as I try to get my mind to power off, Burt curls up around my neck, playing like he will pet my hair (something that makes me really relaxed), but then he slams his pointy gnome hat into my head and hits restart. Not fair. I just want to sleep, Burt, not take your demented little soul. I wonder if he feeds off of my sleepless hours, devouring my begrudged awake hours like they are a twenty-four hour all-you-can-eat buffet. If so, he should not go hungry tonight. :)
If I had a helper monkey to aide me in grading, maybe I could teach the monkey to attack Burt. Knowing Burt, though, he would just keep the monkey awake. Perhaps I can get Burt a Facebook or Match.com profile so he can find someone else to keep awake. I can picture the posting now: Burt enjoys long (and I mean LONG) walks on the beach at 2 am, and he won't be bothered by staying up late talking, watching old movies, and making love; that's just his style. He won't have much to do with you during the day, but at night, you won't know how to get rid of him. Ladies, call now before this catch is gone (and so is your sanity, due to lack of sleep).
Seriously, if anyone is interested, Burt is available; I think I've just about kicked him to the curb tonight...
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Happiness: Deserved or Earned?
Depression is a fickle bitch. It can creep up on me so slowly I don't notice it coming, like a leopard stalking its unsuspecting prey in the dark. Other times, it lunges at me, devouring me in one quick gulp, much like a whale swilling krill. In one moment, I start to feel better, and in the next, I am back in the quicksand, barely keeping my nose above the seemingly bottomless pit of sand, clutching and dragging me under. I have been seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist for seven months now, and, at times, I feel like I am making true progress. But at other points, it feels like I will always be dealing with this in some way. That is a depressing thought (pun intended).
However, I have to go back to the idea of hope. I know I will find the right combination of medicine, therapy, stress relievers, and support eventually, but at times I feel selfish and want it now. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired, to use an equally exhausted phrase (again, pun intended). :)
Lately, I've been trying to visualize what being completely happy would look like for me. This is a much more difficult task than one might think. At first, my mind seemed to throw up a roadblock, as I couldn't stop wondering When was the last time I was really happy?. It wasn't the question that stopped me in my tracks, it was the fact that I couldn't think of an answer. Not even just right away, but after thirty minutes, my mind was still a blank. Don't get me wrong, I could think of a lot of happy moments, but try as I might, I couldn't come up with a really long stretch of time where I was truly happy, unless I went back as far as college, which was more than 10 years ago.
Needless to say, that realization was quite depressing. After having a good cry, I said to myself, Okay, now that you know this is an issue, let's find ways to fix it. I started making a list of what I thought would make me happy. Things like "find a life partner," "find a place to work where I am accepted and welcomed for who I am," "travel more," "paint more," "write more" were added to my list. Surprisingly, as I kept writing, I found more and more things that would make me happy. Making the happy list began to make me happy.
Until I started really looking at the list. It dawned on me that the common denominator to getting all of those things is me and my attitude and effort. When I want to work at it, I surprise myself at what I can accomplish, but the trick is getting back the motivation and desire to actually go ahead and work on getting these things in my life. There's where the depression comes back in. Depression tends to suck my motivation and passion dry, even from areas and activities that I used to love.
However, if I am going to knock this monkey off my back (or at least into a side-car on my motorcycle of life), I have to believe that being happy for a period of time longer than a day or week can actually be possible. I guess I'm just scared I don't know how to be happy any more. Sometimes I think being happy is scary in and of itself, as I'm not sure I would know who I am without the sadness that seems to have consumed the last 10-15 years of my life. Just typing that statement "out loud" makes me sad, but I think healing from depression is a lot like the 12-step program; the first step is admitting I have a problem. "Hi, my name is Ophelia, and I am addicted to sadness."
I know depression is a chemical imbalance in my brain, but again, guilt always drives me to wonder if I identify more with sadness than with happiness and therefore perpetuate my depression. Is it because I don't think I deserve to be happy? Is it just my cynical, "glass half empty" personality? Is it because I over-analyze everything and drive myself crazy with guilt if something isn't perfect? Is it that I worry that even if I obtain most of the items on my "happy list", I still might not be fully happy? Perhaps yes to all. Who knows?
All I know is I feel good that I am getting help and am going to remain hopeful that soon the right balance in my treatment will be found and I can start learning how to be happy again. Ironically, some of the kids I teach do a good job of showing me how to be happy and keep me feeling positive about how I am helping "mold young minds", just as they (hopefully) learn from me. Very circle of life, and more importantly, a happy thought to hold on to.
However, I have to go back to the idea of hope. I know I will find the right combination of medicine, therapy, stress relievers, and support eventually, but at times I feel selfish and want it now. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired, to use an equally exhausted phrase (again, pun intended). :)
Lately, I've been trying to visualize what being completely happy would look like for me. This is a much more difficult task than one might think. At first, my mind seemed to throw up a roadblock, as I couldn't stop wondering When was the last time I was really happy?. It wasn't the question that stopped me in my tracks, it was the fact that I couldn't think of an answer. Not even just right away, but after thirty minutes, my mind was still a blank. Don't get me wrong, I could think of a lot of happy moments, but try as I might, I couldn't come up with a really long stretch of time where I was truly happy, unless I went back as far as college, which was more than 10 years ago.
Needless to say, that realization was quite depressing. After having a good cry, I said to myself, Okay, now that you know this is an issue, let's find ways to fix it. I started making a list of what I thought would make me happy. Things like "find a life partner," "find a place to work where I am accepted and welcomed for who I am," "travel more," "paint more," "write more" were added to my list. Surprisingly, as I kept writing, I found more and more things that would make me happy. Making the happy list began to make me happy.
Until I started really looking at the list. It dawned on me that the common denominator to getting all of those things is me and my attitude and effort. When I want to work at it, I surprise myself at what I can accomplish, but the trick is getting back the motivation and desire to actually go ahead and work on getting these things in my life. There's where the depression comes back in. Depression tends to suck my motivation and passion dry, even from areas and activities that I used to love.
However, if I am going to knock this monkey off my back (or at least into a side-car on my motorcycle of life), I have to believe that being happy for a period of time longer than a day or week can actually be possible. I guess I'm just scared I don't know how to be happy any more. Sometimes I think being happy is scary in and of itself, as I'm not sure I would know who I am without the sadness that seems to have consumed the last 10-15 years of my life. Just typing that statement "out loud" makes me sad, but I think healing from depression is a lot like the 12-step program; the first step is admitting I have a problem. "Hi, my name is Ophelia, and I am addicted to sadness."
I know depression is a chemical imbalance in my brain, but again, guilt always drives me to wonder if I identify more with sadness than with happiness and therefore perpetuate my depression. Is it because I don't think I deserve to be happy? Is it just my cynical, "glass half empty" personality? Is it because I over-analyze everything and drive myself crazy with guilt if something isn't perfect? Is it that I worry that even if I obtain most of the items on my "happy list", I still might not be fully happy? Perhaps yes to all. Who knows?
All I know is I feel good that I am getting help and am going to remain hopeful that soon the right balance in my treatment will be found and I can start learning how to be happy again. Ironically, some of the kids I teach do a good job of showing me how to be happy and keep me feeling positive about how I am helping "mold young minds", just as they (hopefully) learn from me. Very circle of life, and more importantly, a happy thought to hold on to.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Short Story: "Missing" (Part Two)
Missing
Chapter Five
After a quick squawk of surprise out of Dewey, the socks soundlessly slipped off of the bookshelf and onto the floor. They snaked their way across the room towards his bed until they disappeared beneath it.
Joey couldn't believe his luck! Not only had he found the missing socks and keys, he also could follow Charlie and Dewey back to their hideout. What news he would have to report to Sergeant M.O.M.!
He quickly peeked over the edge of the bed and saw the socks rolling themselves into a tight ball against the wall. Dewey was having some trouble getting into a tight ball and he had to bite back tears because he was so scared about what was going to happen. Charlie kept whispering, "Just stay in as tight of a ball as you can and hold on. Everything will be fine, kid, just calm down."
All of a sudden, the wall seemed to shimmer and disappear, and the socks were swept into the shining hole. Joey blinked in surprise and when he opened his eyes again, the wall was just like normal.
Wasting no time, Joey scrambled under the bed. True to his name, he rolled and pulled himself into the tightest ball he could. Nothing happened. He squished himself together tighter and accidentally bumped his head against the wall. He started to feel tingly and was about to cry out for back-up from Sergeant M.O.M. when all of a sudden, he didn't feel like he was under a bed anymore.
Chapter Six
Joey stayed still for quite a time, still feeling a bit dizzy and funny all over. He was not sure what had happened to him or if he was ready to find out where he was. Slowly, he opened his eyes, not sure what to expect.
As his eyes focused, he first noticed that the space he was in was much larger than he had expected. There seemed to be things all over the place: puzzle pieces seemed to be dancing across the floor, along with a lawn mower and weed whacker who seemed to be dancing as well, if you could call it that. Instead, they just seemed to be spinning in a circle. Every once in a while, the weed whacker would rev up her blades as the lawn mower spun her around and then ended in a dip. It was a sight to see.
But there was more. An oven mitt and Lucky's old chew toy were busy catching up on the old times. Joey heard the oven mitt remark, "So, how is cousin pillow doing? I haven't seen him since the mom got new oven mitts."
"Well, he lost his wife to the dog, the same way I lost my best friend, Herb the penguin toy. Lucky ripped them both to shreds; stuffing was everywhere. It was horrible. I'm glad to be alive; I survived the attack of that dog with only a few scratches and one big hole," he pointed to his left ear, which was missing and stuffing was coming out of the hole. "I came straight to the hangout after that, where I've been hiding ever since."
Joey suddenly thought Lucky's current favorite toy, a stuffed monkey, and vowed to rescue it from this kind of fate. He decided that he would only give Lucky bones to chew from now on. Feeling bad, he scanned the room some more to see what other things had come to this hideout and find out why they were all here. He hoped it wasn't because they were all afraid of his family.
On the other side of the room, he noticed his dad's favorite hat, laughing like a hyena in the corner along with his mom's missing sweater and a scarf his grandma had given him last Christmas. They seemed to be reminiscing about a day that Joey's family had gone sledding.
"Ben, do you remember when the kid kept choking himself on you because his mom had wound you too tight around his neck? That was so funny!" dad's hat giggled to the scarf.
"Yeah, but Danny, you remember how awful that day was for me. That was the day I was permanently scarred and burned from the hot chocolate the mom spilled all over me!" Clarice, the sweater whined, using the sleeve to cover the brown stain that still proudly stood out on the front of her. "I know YOU had a good day, on top of the dad's head, totally protected from burning liquids and able to see all of the funny kids sledding, falling all over the hill," she said sarcastically to the hat, "but you could be a bit more kind about it."
Joey couldn't believe it! All of these things had been "lost" by his family a long time ago. But they weren't lost--they clearly were right here! But where was here?
Chapter Seven
He kept scanning the room, looking for clues. He didn't recognize the room as anything he had ever seen in the house before. The walls in here kind of sparkled, like the hole did under his bed.
He was so focused on the walls that he didn't notice he had crept out of the dark corner to get a better view. The noise in the room stopped as quick as Joey did when his mom found him sneaking a cookie before dinner. But as quick as the sounds had stopped, they started up again.
"Ahhhhh! A person!" one of the puzzle pieces squealed.
"How did HE get in here? What do we do? Abort, abort!" a troll doll screamed as he ran straight towards the wall. Just as he reached it, he curled himself into a ball and went straight through the shimmering wall. Others began to do the same.
"Wait!" Charlie, the green sock suddenly stood up and spoke. "We must find out how he got in here. Kid, explain yourself before everyone goes crazy."
Joey didn't know what to do or think. A green sock with a hole in the toe was asking him what he was doing, when HE should have been asking the questions. "I-I don't know. I just watched what you and Dewey did and poof, now I'm here. But, I think you need to answer some questions, like, where are we? Or, how did we go through a solid wall? Or, why do you guys run away to this hideout?"
"Okay, okay, calm down, kid. I can answer all of your questions, but you must promise never to reveal what you have learned today. If you do, we will never be able to be happy again in our private hangout, and in order to make you happy, we must have a chance to do some things for ourselves," Charlie stated calmly as he gently grabbed Joey's hand with his elastic part and led him to a seat.
Chapter Eight
The seat giggled as Joey sat on him and he jumped, but everyone laughed, saying "Gerry is so ticklish--don't mind him!" Joey couldn't help but laugh as he wiggled his legs to tickle Gerry some more; he just couldn't believe he was tickling a chair or talking to a sock, but it was all really happening!
"So, where are we?" Joey began.
"You're in our hideout. Most humans don't have enough imagination to be able to make it through. You're our first person visitor since 1978, when a next door neighbor found us by accident when she was playing," Charlie explained. "We're in the land of things; this is where we come when we want to see each other or just get a break from being used all of the time. I mean, we like helping your family out, but we need vacations and family reunions and barbecues to relax, too, just like you guys do."
"You have families and barbecues?" Joey exclaimed.
"Most humans never realize that us objects have families and lives of our own," Charlie began. "For instance, Danny, your dad's hat, has been in the hangout for about a month now. See, he has been recovering from surgery. One of his seams was torn and your dad wasn't getting him fixed very quickly, so he came here to get better.
"And your mom's keys have just made the cheer leading squad at their school, so they were gone for a week to practice at cheer leading camp," continued the green, holey sock. "Dewey is here so he can see his Aunt Clarice, the sweater. They live in different drawers, so they rarely get to see each other.
"The puzzle pieces are here for a geometry convention, but they are usually here. They're afraid of the dark and with being locked up in a box all day, they need a break. They also seem to think it is funny to wait until a person has most of the puzzle done and then disappear," Charlie rolled his eyes as he said the last part.
"I know!" Joey cried. "I spent two weeks last month looking for the nose and eye of the puppy puzzle I was trying to finish, but I never could find those two tricky pieces! Is that what you meant about 'playing tricks on the people'"?
Charlie ducked his head. "Yeah, but you weren't supposed to know about that. Now all of the fun has been ruined. We aren't trying to be mean, we just need some kind of entertainment every once in awhile, just like you do, Joey. For you and the other people, it would be just like watching sports on Trey, the TV."
"I guess that makes sense," Joey replied, still trying to wrap his head around all of this crazy new information.
"You know, though, Joey, we always keep an eye out. We know when you really need us, and when that time comes, no matter what we are doing, we come back. We might turn up in the last place you ever expected to find us, but we'll be there," Clarice crooned, as she gently patted him on the arm.
"That's good to know," Joey said, starting to feel more normal about talking objects who play tricks on him and his family. He had never thought about it, but things DID deserve to have fun and lives of their own. Joey's family and friends made him feel safe and happy, so why shouldn't these clothes, toys, and machines have that, too?
Holding out his hand to Charlie and then to the rest of the room, Joey said proudly, "I'm glad to have met you all today and learned so much. I promise your secret will be safe with me as long as you promise to always be there when we really need you. I better get back, though. I don't think my mom will think it is funny if I am missing for too long!"
Chapter Nine
The objects laughed and waved goodbye (or as best as they could as some didn't have hands), and Joey curled back up into a tight ball against the glimmering wall. He started to feel a bit funny again, but he quickly opened his eyes this time to find himself back on his bed.
He couldn't wait to tell Sergeant M.O.M.. Joey had promised the objects not to tell about what he had learned, but he was just so excited he couldn't help himself. However, he made himself promise not to reveal their tricks or how to get to the hideout; at least part of their lives would remain a mystery to everyone but himself.
"Joey," his mom said, coming into his room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, "You were missing in action, Captain Sleepy-pants! These dishes are getting out of control; I need your help!"
"But, Sergeant M.O.M., you won't believe it! I traced the missing socks back to their hideout, and I found your keys and sweater and Daddy's hat and Lucky's toy!"
"You mean you dreamed you did all of that," Mom said with a smile.
"No! I really did! There were puzzle pieces and my scarf from grandma and they were all talking about memories they had with us and about their own families and vacations and stuff!" Joey declared firmly, starting to wonder why Sergeant M.O.M. wouldn't believe what he saw. He looked around for some evidence to prove it to her, but he'd forgotten to bring those stray socks home!
"It's okay to dream or play imagination, sweetie," Joey's mom said as she got up to leave the room.
Joey thought hard and suddenly remembered the last thing Clarice said to him. He quickly scanned the room high and low.
"Wait!" Joey squealed, pointing to the ceiling fan. "Look, Sergeant M.O.M., just as I told you--there are the missing socks!"
Looking up, Sergeant M.O.M. got a look of disbelief on her face. "Good work, Captain Joey! Mission accomplished," she said as she got up on the bed to get the socks down. But, as she did, Joey heard her mutter, "Now, how in the world did these get up here?"
As she pulled Charlie and Dewey down, Joey could swear that he saw the big green sock with the hole in the toe wink at him.
Chapter Ten
Charlie and Dewey were reunited with their brothers in the sock drawer.
Mom found her sweater when she was getting the Christmas decorations out. Dad found his favorite hat when it mysteriously reappeared under the sink in the bathroom. Joey found the scarf from his grandma one day while he was cleaning out the dishwasher.
Lucky didn't get his stuffed monkey back, even though Mom swears she saw it in his underwear drawer one day, but he did get a lot of new bones to munch on rather than the stuffing from a helpless toy.
There was peace through the house, for the war with the laundry and dirty house was over, at least for this week, and everything missing in action was accounted for.
Captain Joey couldn't stop smiling.
He knew the secret. And if anything went missing again, he'd know where to find it.
Chapter Five
After a quick squawk of surprise out of Dewey, the socks soundlessly slipped off of the bookshelf and onto the floor. They snaked their way across the room towards his bed until they disappeared beneath it.
Joey couldn't believe his luck! Not only had he found the missing socks and keys, he also could follow Charlie and Dewey back to their hideout. What news he would have to report to Sergeant M.O.M.!
He quickly peeked over the edge of the bed and saw the socks rolling themselves into a tight ball against the wall. Dewey was having some trouble getting into a tight ball and he had to bite back tears because he was so scared about what was going to happen. Charlie kept whispering, "Just stay in as tight of a ball as you can and hold on. Everything will be fine, kid, just calm down."
All of a sudden, the wall seemed to shimmer and disappear, and the socks were swept into the shining hole. Joey blinked in surprise and when he opened his eyes again, the wall was just like normal.
Wasting no time, Joey scrambled under the bed. True to his name, he rolled and pulled himself into the tightest ball he could. Nothing happened. He squished himself together tighter and accidentally bumped his head against the wall. He started to feel tingly and was about to cry out for back-up from Sergeant M.O.M. when all of a sudden, he didn't feel like he was under a bed anymore.
Chapter Six
Joey stayed still for quite a time, still feeling a bit dizzy and funny all over. He was not sure what had happened to him or if he was ready to find out where he was. Slowly, he opened his eyes, not sure what to expect.
As his eyes focused, he first noticed that the space he was in was much larger than he had expected. There seemed to be things all over the place: puzzle pieces seemed to be dancing across the floor, along with a lawn mower and weed whacker who seemed to be dancing as well, if you could call it that. Instead, they just seemed to be spinning in a circle. Every once in a while, the weed whacker would rev up her blades as the lawn mower spun her around and then ended in a dip. It was a sight to see.
But there was more. An oven mitt and Lucky's old chew toy were busy catching up on the old times. Joey heard the oven mitt remark, "So, how is cousin pillow doing? I haven't seen him since the mom got new oven mitts."
"Well, he lost his wife to the dog, the same way I lost my best friend, Herb the penguin toy. Lucky ripped them both to shreds; stuffing was everywhere. It was horrible. I'm glad to be alive; I survived the attack of that dog with only a few scratches and one big hole," he pointed to his left ear, which was missing and stuffing was coming out of the hole. "I came straight to the hangout after that, where I've been hiding ever since."
Joey suddenly thought Lucky's current favorite toy, a stuffed monkey, and vowed to rescue it from this kind of fate. He decided that he would only give Lucky bones to chew from now on. Feeling bad, he scanned the room some more to see what other things had come to this hideout and find out why they were all here. He hoped it wasn't because they were all afraid of his family.
On the other side of the room, he noticed his dad's favorite hat, laughing like a hyena in the corner along with his mom's missing sweater and a scarf his grandma had given him last Christmas. They seemed to be reminiscing about a day that Joey's family had gone sledding.
"Ben, do you remember when the kid kept choking himself on you because his mom had wound you too tight around his neck? That was so funny!" dad's hat giggled to the scarf.
"Yeah, but Danny, you remember how awful that day was for me. That was the day I was permanently scarred and burned from the hot chocolate the mom spilled all over me!" Clarice, the sweater whined, using the sleeve to cover the brown stain that still proudly stood out on the front of her. "I know YOU had a good day, on top of the dad's head, totally protected from burning liquids and able to see all of the funny kids sledding, falling all over the hill," she said sarcastically to the hat, "but you could be a bit more kind about it."
Joey couldn't believe it! All of these things had been "lost" by his family a long time ago. But they weren't lost--they clearly were right here! But where was here?
Chapter Seven
He kept scanning the room, looking for clues. He didn't recognize the room as anything he had ever seen in the house before. The walls in here kind of sparkled, like the hole did under his bed.
He was so focused on the walls that he didn't notice he had crept out of the dark corner to get a better view. The noise in the room stopped as quick as Joey did when his mom found him sneaking a cookie before dinner. But as quick as the sounds had stopped, they started up again.
"Ahhhhh! A person!" one of the puzzle pieces squealed.
"How did HE get in here? What do we do? Abort, abort!" a troll doll screamed as he ran straight towards the wall. Just as he reached it, he curled himself into a ball and went straight through the shimmering wall. Others began to do the same.
"Wait!" Charlie, the green sock suddenly stood up and spoke. "We must find out how he got in here. Kid, explain yourself before everyone goes crazy."
Joey didn't know what to do or think. A green sock with a hole in the toe was asking him what he was doing, when HE should have been asking the questions. "I-I don't know. I just watched what you and Dewey did and poof, now I'm here. But, I think you need to answer some questions, like, where are we? Or, how did we go through a solid wall? Or, why do you guys run away to this hideout?"
"Okay, okay, calm down, kid. I can answer all of your questions, but you must promise never to reveal what you have learned today. If you do, we will never be able to be happy again in our private hangout, and in order to make you happy, we must have a chance to do some things for ourselves," Charlie stated calmly as he gently grabbed Joey's hand with his elastic part and led him to a seat.
Chapter Eight
The seat giggled as Joey sat on him and he jumped, but everyone laughed, saying "Gerry is so ticklish--don't mind him!" Joey couldn't help but laugh as he wiggled his legs to tickle Gerry some more; he just couldn't believe he was tickling a chair or talking to a sock, but it was all really happening!
"So, where are we?" Joey began.
"You're in our hideout. Most humans don't have enough imagination to be able to make it through. You're our first person visitor since 1978, when a next door neighbor found us by accident when she was playing," Charlie explained. "We're in the land of things; this is where we come when we want to see each other or just get a break from being used all of the time. I mean, we like helping your family out, but we need vacations and family reunions and barbecues to relax, too, just like you guys do."
"You have families and barbecues?" Joey exclaimed.
"Most humans never realize that us objects have families and lives of our own," Charlie began. "For instance, Danny, your dad's hat, has been in the hangout for about a month now. See, he has been recovering from surgery. One of his seams was torn and your dad wasn't getting him fixed very quickly, so he came here to get better.
"And your mom's keys have just made the cheer leading squad at their school, so they were gone for a week to practice at cheer leading camp," continued the green, holey sock. "Dewey is here so he can see his Aunt Clarice, the sweater. They live in different drawers, so they rarely get to see each other.
"The puzzle pieces are here for a geometry convention, but they are usually here. They're afraid of the dark and with being locked up in a box all day, they need a break. They also seem to think it is funny to wait until a person has most of the puzzle done and then disappear," Charlie rolled his eyes as he said the last part.
"I know!" Joey cried. "I spent two weeks last month looking for the nose and eye of the puppy puzzle I was trying to finish, but I never could find those two tricky pieces! Is that what you meant about 'playing tricks on the people'"?
Charlie ducked his head. "Yeah, but you weren't supposed to know about that. Now all of the fun has been ruined. We aren't trying to be mean, we just need some kind of entertainment every once in awhile, just like you do, Joey. For you and the other people, it would be just like watching sports on Trey, the TV."
"I guess that makes sense," Joey replied, still trying to wrap his head around all of this crazy new information.
"You know, though, Joey, we always keep an eye out. We know when you really need us, and when that time comes, no matter what we are doing, we come back. We might turn up in the last place you ever expected to find us, but we'll be there," Clarice crooned, as she gently patted him on the arm.
"That's good to know," Joey said, starting to feel more normal about talking objects who play tricks on him and his family. He had never thought about it, but things DID deserve to have fun and lives of their own. Joey's family and friends made him feel safe and happy, so why shouldn't these clothes, toys, and machines have that, too?
Holding out his hand to Charlie and then to the rest of the room, Joey said proudly, "I'm glad to have met you all today and learned so much. I promise your secret will be safe with me as long as you promise to always be there when we really need you. I better get back, though. I don't think my mom will think it is funny if I am missing for too long!"
Chapter Nine
The objects laughed and waved goodbye (or as best as they could as some didn't have hands), and Joey curled back up into a tight ball against the glimmering wall. He started to feel a bit funny again, but he quickly opened his eyes this time to find himself back on his bed.
He couldn't wait to tell Sergeant M.O.M.. Joey had promised the objects not to tell about what he had learned, but he was just so excited he couldn't help himself. However, he made himself promise not to reveal their tricks or how to get to the hideout; at least part of their lives would remain a mystery to everyone but himself.
"Joey," his mom said, coming into his room, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, "You were missing in action, Captain Sleepy-pants! These dishes are getting out of control; I need your help!"
"But, Sergeant M.O.M., you won't believe it! I traced the missing socks back to their hideout, and I found your keys and sweater and Daddy's hat and Lucky's toy!"
"You mean you dreamed you did all of that," Mom said with a smile.
"No! I really did! There were puzzle pieces and my scarf from grandma and they were all talking about memories they had with us and about their own families and vacations and stuff!" Joey declared firmly, starting to wonder why Sergeant M.O.M. wouldn't believe what he saw. He looked around for some evidence to prove it to her, but he'd forgotten to bring those stray socks home!
"It's okay to dream or play imagination, sweetie," Joey's mom said as she got up to leave the room.
Joey thought hard and suddenly remembered the last thing Clarice said to him. He quickly scanned the room high and low.
"Wait!" Joey squealed, pointing to the ceiling fan. "Look, Sergeant M.O.M., just as I told you--there are the missing socks!"
Looking up, Sergeant M.O.M. got a look of disbelief on her face. "Good work, Captain Joey! Mission accomplished," she said as she got up on the bed to get the socks down. But, as she did, Joey heard her mutter, "Now, how in the world did these get up here?"
As she pulled Charlie and Dewey down, Joey could swear that he saw the big green sock with the hole in the toe wink at him.
Chapter Ten
Charlie and Dewey were reunited with their brothers in the sock drawer.
Mom found her sweater when she was getting the Christmas decorations out. Dad found his favorite hat when it mysteriously reappeared under the sink in the bathroom. Joey found the scarf from his grandma one day while he was cleaning out the dishwasher.
Lucky didn't get his stuffed monkey back, even though Mom swears she saw it in his underwear drawer one day, but he did get a lot of new bones to munch on rather than the stuffing from a helpless toy.
There was peace through the house, for the war with the laundry and dirty house was over, at least for this week, and everything missing in action was accounted for.
Captain Joey couldn't stop smiling.
He knew the secret. And if anything went missing again, he'd know where to find it.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Short Story: "Missing" (Part One)
Yay! Snow day for me today and tomorrow as well! I ended up not feeling very well this morning and, as a result, slept today away (from noon--8 pm to be precise). So, I will need to spend most of tomorrow catching up on the grading I should have done today. I am feeling a bit better now, therefore, I have decided that I will spend tonight doing things I wanted to do so I will be forced to spend tomorrow doing things I really don't want to do, like grade sophomore essays.
This is a short story I am working on for younger kids called "Missing". I envision it as a beginner chapter book. This is what I have so far and I am working on the second part right now. Please feel free to critique away; constructive criticism is good for the soul (and for improving writing!). I will post the second part as soon as I get more grading completed and have more time to write for fun.
Missing
Chapter One
"Joey! Wake up, it's Sunday!"
Those were some of his favorite words to hear, along with "How many cookies do you want?" and "You don't have to take a bath tonight."
Sunday was Joey's special day of the week. Sundays meant helping his mom conquer the house. Most kids in the third grade hated doing chores, but Joey loved it because he got to spend special time with his mom, who worked a lot during the week. On Sundays, they worked hard, but they worked together, starting with making a big breakfast of cartoon-shaped pancakes stuffed with chocolate chips or sprinkles and topped with whipped cream, of course. Joey's mom always coated hers with a layer of whip cream and the running joke was where it would end up each Sunday; sometimes whip cream got in her hair, sometimes on her face, and one time, she even managed to get it all over Joey's hair when she laughed at his joke with her mouth full.
Joey could smell the pancakes already as he tumbled out of bed and down the stairs, all ready to be his mother's protector against the dirty dishes and stinky laundry. He was proud when everything was clean and put away. The house seemed to sparkle and his mom couldn't stop smiling, plus they always ended up with their sides hurting from laughing so hard all day long. Monday always seemed a bit blue when compared with the fun of Sunday.
"Captain Joey," his mom called from the kitchen, using his favorite nickname. It made him feel strong and powerful, ready to launch a thousand armed planes (or scrubbing bubbles) on an unsuspecting enemy. As he came into the kitchen, he saw his mom armed with a giant bottle of laundry detergent and a stack of dryer sheets.
"After breakfast, Captain, we must attack the laundry first. It seems to be taking over the entire house!" she said, pointing to the giant pile of socks, underwear, pants, towels, and shirts flooding out of the laundry room into the kitchen.
"Roger, Sergeant M.O.M.," Joey replied and began wolfing down a Mickey Mouse pancake smothered in chocolate chips and whipped cream, laughing as his mom tried to spear a piece of a Pikachu pancake, but only managed to get whipped cream all over her sleeves.
Chapter Two
As soon as breakfast was cleaned up, Joey and his mom began the assault against the laundry. Load after load of dirty, stinky clothes were thrown without mercy into the steaming water of the washer and were beaten around until they came clean. Straight into the dryer the loads went, only to be tossed around like mini rag dolls. When the laundry was under control, they began to clean the rest of the house, only stopping for a quick snack to refuel their energy and for Joey to watch his favorite cartoon.
"Captain Joey," his mom called as his show was finishing, "Report for duty! The army of clothes has surrendered, and we must fold them and put them away for good now."
With a grin, Joey raced into the living room and started folding like a madman. He had a feeling that if the kids at school could see him now, they'd make fun of him for sure, but he didn't care. He loved the smell of fresh, warm laundry, especially the towels and socks. There was just something about matching the pairs and folding them up into balls together that made him feel relaxed and happy. Maybe it was more the conversations he got to have with his mom that made folding laundry so great, but whatever it was, this was his favorite part of the day.
"Uh, oh, Captain, we've got a problem!" his mom shrieked, interrupting Joey's thoughts, as she held up the old two socks left: one long green one with a hole in the toe and a little white one covered with ducks.
"I'm not holding them hostage, if that's what you think, Sergeant M.O.M.," Joey replied, pulling out his pockets to show her.
"Well, then where could they have gone, Captain? Do you think they are on a spy mission? We better find them, and quick!" she replied.
Chapter Three
They searched the house high and low.
They looked in the dryer. Nothing. Joey got down on his hands and knees and looked under the dryer. Nothing--but a dime, which he pocketed, and some lint. He walked the same path Sergeant M.O.M. had walked when she had brought in the army of clean clothes for "questioning" (and folding), keeping his eyes glued to the ground, but he found nothing but a shoelace, a leaf, and an old piece of his gum that had stuck to the bottom of a chair.
He looked under the chairs and couches. Only a stale potato chip and a pen. He even checked to see if Lucky, their dog, had grabbed the missing socks. But no luck, not even with Lucky, who was just chewing an old shoe.
"It's hopeless, Captain Joey," Sergeant M.O.M. cried as she flopped into a chair. "We'll never find those socks, just like we couldn't find my keys or sweater or your dad's favorite hat. They're all just missing!"
"I won't give up, Sergeant!" Joey said stubbornly, and set out to finish his mission. He didn't want today to end on a sad note; he and his mom had such a good time, he didn't want two missing socks to ruin it. He looked high (on top of the ceiling fans and the kitchen cupboards); he looked low (under beds, dressers, and rugs), but there was nothing. Not a trace. Not even a clue.
"Wow," Joey thought out loud, "those socks are very clever, but they will not beat me. Olly, olly, ox in free," he called, hoping they might think he was playing a game of hide-and-seek and come out of their hiding spots, but nothing happened. He strained his ears to hear and his eyes to see the slightest sound or movement, but there was absolutely nothing.
Sighing, he lay down on his bed and curled up tight into a little ball. That's how he got his name; his mom thought he looked like a baby kangaroo when he was first born, as he stayed curled in a ball and looked like he could fit into a pouch.
"I always get blamed for missing things. Where does it go? What are those socks doing right now?" Joey wondered out loud. "They always seemed like trouble makers," he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Four
"Pssst. Hey, Dewey, the coast is clear! The kid's finally worn out from looking for us! Now comes the best part!"
Suddenly, a long, green sock slid out from behind Joey's bookshelf, followed closely by Dewey, the ducky sock. A tinkling sound filled the air as the socks were joined by a pair of golden keys.
"Thanks for walking me home," the keys jingled. "I've got to let my mom know I'm back from cheer leading camp, so I better get going. You boys have fun fooling the people for me," she jangled as she jumped off the shelf and out to the hook in the kitchen where she lived with her parents.
The jingling noises woke Joey, but he only opened his eyes a tiny sliver, so they'd think he was still asleep. He couldn't believe what he was hearing! There were mom's keys that had been missing for a few days and the two socks that had escaped the earlier laundry attack. He wanted to open his eyes and trap the socks, forcing them to talk, but he decided it would be best to pretend to be asleep and listen carefully to see what else he could find out about these missing things.
"So, what should we do now, Charlie?" Dewey asked. "Is this the part where we get to play tricks on the big people?"
"Yup. You have a lot to learn, little one," Charlie replied. "Now we can go hide back in the dryer, where the little boy first looked. That's always funny to see their faces! They think they are going crazy! Or, we could find a really bizarre spot, like in the bathtub or the refrigerator. That would be hilarious! A sock in the fridge!" Dewey laughed so hard at the last suggestion that he snorted a bit.
"Sshhhh..." Charlie cried, "don't wake the kid, you silly boy! We can't have any fun if the kid is on to us!"
"I-I'm sorry, Charlie," Dewey sniveled. "I want to have fun. I'll be quiet, I swear!"
"Yeah, well. Just make sure you don't wake him up. Otherwise, we can't go to the hangout."
"The hangout?" Dewey's eyes got big as he squeaked out his answer. "I've heard mom and dad talking about the hangout, but I've never been allowed to go yet. Besides when I'm worn and laundry time, I've never even been outside of my drawer before. My brother Huey might be missing me. Plus, I'm still feeling a bit dizzy from the dryer ride."
"Calm down, kid," Charlie replied, cool as ever. "You'll be fine, you'll see. Everyone goes to the hangout sometime. It's where we go when the people think we're missing. Come on, I'll show you," he said, grabbing Dewey's elastic top as he drug him away from the hiding spot of the bookshelf and towards the bed where Joey was sleeping.
This is a short story I am working on for younger kids called "Missing". I envision it as a beginner chapter book. This is what I have so far and I am working on the second part right now. Please feel free to critique away; constructive criticism is good for the soul (and for improving writing!). I will post the second part as soon as I get more grading completed and have more time to write for fun.
Missing
Chapter One
"Joey! Wake up, it's Sunday!"
Those were some of his favorite words to hear, along with "How many cookies do you want?" and "You don't have to take a bath tonight."
Sunday was Joey's special day of the week. Sundays meant helping his mom conquer the house. Most kids in the third grade hated doing chores, but Joey loved it because he got to spend special time with his mom, who worked a lot during the week. On Sundays, they worked hard, but they worked together, starting with making a big breakfast of cartoon-shaped pancakes stuffed with chocolate chips or sprinkles and topped with whipped cream, of course. Joey's mom always coated hers with a layer of whip cream and the running joke was where it would end up each Sunday; sometimes whip cream got in her hair, sometimes on her face, and one time, she even managed to get it all over Joey's hair when she laughed at his joke with her mouth full.
Joey could smell the pancakes already as he tumbled out of bed and down the stairs, all ready to be his mother's protector against the dirty dishes and stinky laundry. He was proud when everything was clean and put away. The house seemed to sparkle and his mom couldn't stop smiling, plus they always ended up with their sides hurting from laughing so hard all day long. Monday always seemed a bit blue when compared with the fun of Sunday.
"Captain Joey," his mom called from the kitchen, using his favorite nickname. It made him feel strong and powerful, ready to launch a thousand armed planes (or scrubbing bubbles) on an unsuspecting enemy. As he came into the kitchen, he saw his mom armed with a giant bottle of laundry detergent and a stack of dryer sheets.
"After breakfast, Captain, we must attack the laundry first. It seems to be taking over the entire house!" she said, pointing to the giant pile of socks, underwear, pants, towels, and shirts flooding out of the laundry room into the kitchen.
"Roger, Sergeant M.O.M.," Joey replied and began wolfing down a Mickey Mouse pancake smothered in chocolate chips and whipped cream, laughing as his mom tried to spear a piece of a Pikachu pancake, but only managed to get whipped cream all over her sleeves.
Chapter Two
As soon as breakfast was cleaned up, Joey and his mom began the assault against the laundry. Load after load of dirty, stinky clothes were thrown without mercy into the steaming water of the washer and were beaten around until they came clean. Straight into the dryer the loads went, only to be tossed around like mini rag dolls. When the laundry was under control, they began to clean the rest of the house, only stopping for a quick snack to refuel their energy and for Joey to watch his favorite cartoon.
"Captain Joey," his mom called as his show was finishing, "Report for duty! The army of clothes has surrendered, and we must fold them and put them away for good now."
With a grin, Joey raced into the living room and started folding like a madman. He had a feeling that if the kids at school could see him now, they'd make fun of him for sure, but he didn't care. He loved the smell of fresh, warm laundry, especially the towels and socks. There was just something about matching the pairs and folding them up into balls together that made him feel relaxed and happy. Maybe it was more the conversations he got to have with his mom that made folding laundry so great, but whatever it was, this was his favorite part of the day.
"Uh, oh, Captain, we've got a problem!" his mom shrieked, interrupting Joey's thoughts, as she held up the old two socks left: one long green one with a hole in the toe and a little white one covered with ducks.
"I'm not holding them hostage, if that's what you think, Sergeant M.O.M.," Joey replied, pulling out his pockets to show her.
"Well, then where could they have gone, Captain? Do you think they are on a spy mission? We better find them, and quick!" she replied.
Chapter Three
They searched the house high and low.
They looked in the dryer. Nothing. Joey got down on his hands and knees and looked under the dryer. Nothing--but a dime, which he pocketed, and some lint. He walked the same path Sergeant M.O.M. had walked when she had brought in the army of clean clothes for "questioning" (and folding), keeping his eyes glued to the ground, but he found nothing but a shoelace, a leaf, and an old piece of his gum that had stuck to the bottom of a chair.
He looked under the chairs and couches. Only a stale potato chip and a pen. He even checked to see if Lucky, their dog, had grabbed the missing socks. But no luck, not even with Lucky, who was just chewing an old shoe.
"It's hopeless, Captain Joey," Sergeant M.O.M. cried as she flopped into a chair. "We'll never find those socks, just like we couldn't find my keys or sweater or your dad's favorite hat. They're all just missing!"
"I won't give up, Sergeant!" Joey said stubbornly, and set out to finish his mission. He didn't want today to end on a sad note; he and his mom had such a good time, he didn't want two missing socks to ruin it. He looked high (on top of the ceiling fans and the kitchen cupboards); he looked low (under beds, dressers, and rugs), but there was nothing. Not a trace. Not even a clue.
"Wow," Joey thought out loud, "those socks are very clever, but they will not beat me. Olly, olly, ox in free," he called, hoping they might think he was playing a game of hide-and-seek and come out of their hiding spots, but nothing happened. He strained his ears to hear and his eyes to see the slightest sound or movement, but there was absolutely nothing.
Sighing, he lay down on his bed and curled up tight into a little ball. That's how he got his name; his mom thought he looked like a baby kangaroo when he was first born, as he stayed curled in a ball and looked like he could fit into a pouch.
"I always get blamed for missing things. Where does it go? What are those socks doing right now?" Joey wondered out loud. "They always seemed like trouble makers," he mumbled as he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Four
"Pssst. Hey, Dewey, the coast is clear! The kid's finally worn out from looking for us! Now comes the best part!"
Suddenly, a long, green sock slid out from behind Joey's bookshelf, followed closely by Dewey, the ducky sock. A tinkling sound filled the air as the socks were joined by a pair of golden keys.
"Thanks for walking me home," the keys jingled. "I've got to let my mom know I'm back from cheer leading camp, so I better get going. You boys have fun fooling the people for me," she jangled as she jumped off the shelf and out to the hook in the kitchen where she lived with her parents.
The jingling noises woke Joey, but he only opened his eyes a tiny sliver, so they'd think he was still asleep. He couldn't believe what he was hearing! There were mom's keys that had been missing for a few days and the two socks that had escaped the earlier laundry attack. He wanted to open his eyes and trap the socks, forcing them to talk, but he decided it would be best to pretend to be asleep and listen carefully to see what else he could find out about these missing things.
"So, what should we do now, Charlie?" Dewey asked. "Is this the part where we get to play tricks on the big people?"
"Yup. You have a lot to learn, little one," Charlie replied. "Now we can go hide back in the dryer, where the little boy first looked. That's always funny to see their faces! They think they are going crazy! Or, we could find a really bizarre spot, like in the bathtub or the refrigerator. That would be hilarious! A sock in the fridge!" Dewey laughed so hard at the last suggestion that he snorted a bit.
"Sshhhh..." Charlie cried, "don't wake the kid, you silly boy! We can't have any fun if the kid is on to us!"
"I-I'm sorry, Charlie," Dewey sniveled. "I want to have fun. I'll be quiet, I swear!"
"Yeah, well. Just make sure you don't wake him up. Otherwise, we can't go to the hangout."
"The hangout?" Dewey's eyes got big as he squeaked out his answer. "I've heard mom and dad talking about the hangout, but I've never been allowed to go yet. Besides when I'm worn and laundry time, I've never even been outside of my drawer before. My brother Huey might be missing me. Plus, I'm still feeling a bit dizzy from the dryer ride."
"Calm down, kid," Charlie replied, cool as ever. "You'll be fine, you'll see. Everyone goes to the hangout sometime. It's where we go when the people think we're missing. Come on, I'll show you," he said, grabbing Dewey's elastic top as he drug him away from the hiding spot of the bookshelf and towards the bed where Joey was sleeping.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Back to School Blues
The first day back to school after break is always about a million years longer than any other regular school day. I know I might be exaggerating a bit, but that is definitely how I felt today. It was nice to see the kids again, but after third hour, when my throat was raw from talking, and I was almost finished with my second Coke, and the kids were bouncing off of the slowly enclosing walls, I wished I taught Kindergarten so we could all have a quick nap-time. Don't get me wrong; I actually had a decent time today--I realized I do like teaching, just not the grading part. So, after a long day back, the last thing I want to do is grade more papers, but I must.
Does anybody have a helper monkey you wouldn't mind loaning to me to help me grade these papers? Perhaps someone who can help my cats grow an opposable thumb and a brain capacity big enough to score essays on Shakespeare? If you know of anyone, you know where to find me.
Does anybody have a helper monkey you wouldn't mind loaning to me to help me grade these papers? Perhaps someone who can help my cats grow an opposable thumb and a brain capacity big enough to score essays on Shakespeare? If you know of anyone, you know where to find me.
Friday, January 1, 2010
New Year's Hopes, NOT Resolutions
I think there may be some people who share my opinion on this: New Year's Resolutions are a waste of time. Even though the root word itself ("resolute") sounds so...well, resolute, or determined, or strong, most people I know only stick with their resolutions for a few weeks, if even a few days. This is not always because they no longer want to reach their goal, but because sometimes that "resolute" feeling doesn't stay strong and fades into the dusty cockles of the mind, not to be remembered again until New Year's Eve next year. So, even if you pick a firm-sounding word, you still have to actually act out your resolution, not just be resolute about declaring a personal goal on January 1st. It's not that I don't believe that resolutions can be accomplished; it's just that I know myself and quite a few other types of people, and from what I can tell, it's just not worth the guilt in the long run just to have something to get excited about declaring you're going to do when we "usher in the new year."
I have known for a while now that I detest New Year's Resolutions, but it hasn't been until this year that I've figured out what I prefer instead. I do think that the new year is a good time to take stock of my life and figure out what I think is going well so I can continue to nurture that, while finding and rooting out the problems so next year will be better. With that in mind, I have decided to start my own tradition of New Year's Hopes rather than resolutions. Hope, to me, is so much stronger and more dependable than resolutions. Resolutions take physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual energy to complete, while hope is just mental and emotional; the parts of being a human that I find easiest to connect with. Plus, it seems that hope is the only thing that keeps people going when times are rough.
Elie Wiesel managed to make it through 3 concentration camps at the age of 16 because he had the strong hope that he would be able to keep himself and his father together and alive throughout the entire Holocaust. He succeeded, too, and managed to keep he and his father from harm until a week before the camp was liberated, when his father's malnourished body could no longer survive and he perished from dysentery. Elie's hope then became to survive and create a new family apart from the tragedy he had witnessed. If he can still be hopeful after coming through the Holocaust, that seals it for me: hope is a pretty darn powerful thing. Hope lives in your mind, something no one has access to unless you allow them in, and for me, this will be how I try to view the new year: with hope.
My hopes for the Year of the Tiger are:
1)to laugh regularly.
2)to make new friendships and rekindle old ones.
3)to continue writing and enjoying the euphoria that comes with putting the right combination of words together that releases a pent up inner thought in my mind like a child letting a helium balloon float through his fingers into the clear blue sky.
4)to find a way to regularly paint and draw again.
5)to find a balance between self, work, personal, emotions, mood, etc.
I know they sound like resolutions, but as hopes, I avoid the guilt. I cannot fail unless I fail to hope that any or all of these things might be realized for me this year. It is easier to fail to do rather than to fail to hope. I know I can keep myself focused on these hopes, as they are responsible for reigniting my passion for life itself lately. Not bad, hope; keep it up. Mental workouts have always been more of my thing, anyway. :)
I have known for a while now that I detest New Year's Resolutions, but it hasn't been until this year that I've figured out what I prefer instead. I do think that the new year is a good time to take stock of my life and figure out what I think is going well so I can continue to nurture that, while finding and rooting out the problems so next year will be better. With that in mind, I have decided to start my own tradition of New Year's Hopes rather than resolutions. Hope, to me, is so much stronger and more dependable than resolutions. Resolutions take physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual energy to complete, while hope is just mental and emotional; the parts of being a human that I find easiest to connect with. Plus, it seems that hope is the only thing that keeps people going when times are rough.
Elie Wiesel managed to make it through 3 concentration camps at the age of 16 because he had the strong hope that he would be able to keep himself and his father together and alive throughout the entire Holocaust. He succeeded, too, and managed to keep he and his father from harm until a week before the camp was liberated, when his father's malnourished body could no longer survive and he perished from dysentery. Elie's hope then became to survive and create a new family apart from the tragedy he had witnessed. If he can still be hopeful after coming through the Holocaust, that seals it for me: hope is a pretty darn powerful thing. Hope lives in your mind, something no one has access to unless you allow them in, and for me, this will be how I try to view the new year: with hope.
My hopes for the Year of the Tiger are:
1)to laugh regularly.
2)to make new friendships and rekindle old ones.
3)to continue writing and enjoying the euphoria that comes with putting the right combination of words together that releases a pent up inner thought in my mind like a child letting a helium balloon float through his fingers into the clear blue sky.
4)to find a way to regularly paint and draw again.
5)to find a balance between self, work, personal, emotions, mood, etc.
I know they sound like resolutions, but as hopes, I avoid the guilt. I cannot fail unless I fail to hope that any or all of these things might be realized for me this year. It is easier to fail to do rather than to fail to hope. I know I can keep myself focused on these hopes, as they are responsible for reigniting my passion for life itself lately. Not bad, hope; keep it up. Mental workouts have always been more of my thing, anyway. :)
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