Life: On Air

Steph:1 God: 0

SkylarkingSLP — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 22:48:52 GMT

I’ve always had a hard time with the “God thing”. I grew up with my father hammering into my head that I was Jewish, yet my parents did nothing to instill the “faith” in me other than with words. As far as I was concerned, I was Jewish because I was told I was. During my early teen years, I was curious as to what religion was all about, mine in particular. So I joined a few groups, even studied with a rabbi, constantly questioning the Jewish tradition and why things are done the way they are. Many times I was met with what I deemed a non answer… ”Because it was written.” Said the rabbi “By who???” I queried. “It’s the word of God” he replied. “And man wrote it down.” I retorted. “Well, yes but it was what God said”. Now I’m no expert on history, but I’m pretty sure there were no tape recorders back then, so who is to say what did and didn’t happen? I know it’s all about faith, BUT… Why should faith be solely about God? I can be spiritual yet not religious. I can embrace my culture and traditions wholeheartedly without having to attribute it all to some invisible divine being that supposedly single handedly created everything I see, feel, touch, smell, and taste. Why should it make me a “freak” if I don’t believe what I have no proof of? You tell some people, that you don’t believe and suddenly you’re looked at as if you have sprouted a second head, or worse, that you are the very devil…here to bring death, destruction and pure evil in your wake. I was asked today if I had faith. Of course, I responded…Faith in people, love, nature, kindness and karma. Well, that just wasn’t good enough for this person who looked at me with genuine pity. This woman looked almost apoplectic when I told her I didn’t believe in God. As if without that belief, I might as well be dead inside. “You didn’t read the bible? The old and new testaments?” “Yes I have read them.” “And?” she said expectantly. “And what?” “Well didn’t that make you believe?” “They were good stories.” I side-stepped. A look of pure horror crossed her face. She then told me that in her country there is something called the “Moses fish”…half black, half white…split right down the middle. Supposedly it developed in the red sea from Moses’ parting of it. “That’s what made me believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that Moses was real” she said. “Really? You ate a 5600 year old fish and that made you believe?” I so wanted to ask her how it was prepared. Garlic and oil or a nice white wine sauce served on a stone Ten Commandments tablet? I guess I have the same issues with religions that other “non believers” have. There have been countless deaths and so many wars fought throughout history all in the name of religion. Whose God is the right one? Who are the “chosen” people? Who will be saved when the world goes to hell in a hand basket? But really, isn’t the world inches away from, if not already in hell anyway? I saw “Religulous” a few months back, and I kept thinking, yup, Bill Maher’s got it right. There are so many unanswered questions out there and NOONE has the answers. I think back to one of the movie scenes where some religious fanatic is telling Maher in detail about the afterlife…that when one dies, they’ll finally meet Jesus. That he will be at the right hand of his father wearing golden robes. There’ll be angels there and three of them will be playing trumpets. And Bill’s reaction? “How the f*ck do you know? If I don’t know, then you don’t because you surely don’t possess mental powers that I do not!” Exactly! I understand that I might be in the minority not having a belief in a divine being, but it’s my choice. In a way, I have a belief not to believe. So that counts for something, I suppose. I have no issue, of course, with what anyone’s take on this sensitive topic is. To each his own is my motto. I just can’t stand when people try to shove their viewpoints down my throat. I think that more than anything makes me want to rebel even more and say, nicely of course, “stick it!”

FED up!

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 14:16:00 GMT

One of the things that bothers me to no end is seeing morbidly obese children: babies, toddlers, elementary schoolers, and teens. If there is a medical condition associated with the weight problems, I get it and I’m understanding, but more often than not…there is no such problem at all. Several times this past week, I happened to be in the same places as these children and their aiding and abetting parents. The kids scream and tantrum for what they want, and their moms and dads absentmindedly shove crap food into their mouths to shut them up. When I see a dangerously heavy youngster with a chocolate stained mouth and shirt grasping candy bars or McDonald’s Happy Meals in their hands, I am disgusted. Their parents are doing these children no favors at all. I was in a restaurant the other day and there was a heavy set family gorging themselves on cheese fries and hamburgers. After dinner they had mounds of gooey desserts brought to the table. I had my eye on the eight year old daughter who ate with as much gusto as her folks…and when they were about to leave, the child started running around the other tables until her mother called: “C’mere honey…want some chocolate?” and the girl trotted over to the table where she stood there obediently, mouth open while Mom popped in half a bar of Hereshey’s. Yesterday, on the subway two chunky children got on the train each grasping large bags from Dylon’s Candy Shop with their hands digging into the goody pouches relentlessly as if they couldn’t get the sugar into their mouths fast enough. Mom just looked on with a simpy smile. I have several; students at my school who I service for speech. They are all grossly overweight. They have a difficult time walking up and down the stairs and can barely participate in gym class. They bring snack to school each day and once I was in the classroom when snack time began and one of these children took out a bottle of “bug juice” and an entire sleeve of Oreo cookies. I immediately went to the guidance counselor and told her about my concerns. We called the parents in and spoke to them about healthy snacks for their children during the school day. The conversation fell on deaf ears as the next week, the student once again brought a large bag of death to munch on. I, of course, blame the parents. McDonald’s and Burger King are cheaper meals to purchase than wholesome fruits and veggies and most of my students’ families are in the very low income bracket…but still. There has to be a way around this. In fact, in many cases, letting your child remain obese and not doing a thing to help them eat better and exercise more can be a considered a form of abuse. Yet a good portion of the parents claim its a cultural thing...the heavier you are, the more healthy and wealthy you appear. Hmmm, quite the fallacy, huh? I also point the finger at the sedentary lifestyle we all seem to lead: spending countless hours at the computer, surfing the web, playing online games, or sifting in front of the television watching movies, shows or playing Nintendo. Whatever happened to children riding their bikes in the park? Playing tag? Or even participating in team sports? It’s all gone in this electronic age. These children barely know how to interact with other kids since they spend their time playing by themselves on their various game consoles. And don’t get me started on the fact that half of my students never read books for pleasure. It’s a sad state of affairs and ultimately, physically and intellectually dangerous.

Pay Per Play

SkylarkingSLP — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 22:36:10 GMT

I’ve been thinking about getting a new MP3 player. Mine is so old that the software isn’t even compatible with Vista. I’m considering the iPod since everyone and their mother has it and they swear by iTunes, but I think about the whole paying for my listening pleasure crap and I think…why do we have to pay for music??? I mean, really! The tunes are out there on the radio for all to hear. It goes over the airwaves for anyone who wants to listen free of charge. Yet, if we want to own a particular song we have to download it at .99 cents per item or risk visiting the file sharing websites where the fear of God has been put into many for extraordinary fines levied…if caught. But who wants to risk that? And who the hell has $50,000per song to hand over? Surely, not I. Now I understand completely that the artists whose songs we are “stealing” want their due for owning their masterpieces, but once again I say…it’s free on the radio! Let’s go back in our minds to our youths. How many of us had an all in one stereo or hand held tape player pushed up to the radio to press record every time a song we loved came on the air? We did it then and there were no fines for that. Why was that not a crime, yet sharing music is? How many times have we swapped CDs with friends to make copies? Is that wrong too? Probably…but I guess there’s no way for the music bigwigs or the government to track that.

Sweet Melissa

SkylarkingSLP — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 15:37:55 GMT

I met a Melissa when she was barely 16. She was dating a friend of my boyfriend’s at the time and we were around each other quite often. I was ten years her senior, but it was obvious there was something very special about her. Tall and statuesque, with long blonde hair, bright hazel eyes and a sweet smile. The girl was drop dead gorgeous and any modeling agency would have snapped her up in a heartbeat. But more than that, she had a kind heart and a charming innocence about her. I liked her immediately. We continued our friendship for many years. She experienced all the things a teenager into young adult does: the drama, the boy problems, the family issues, the crazy partying phase. She was like my little sister and someone I wanted to protect and advise so that she wouldn’t make the mistakes I made in life. But just like any of us, we have to experience living and learn the lessons for ourselves. A few years ago, I felt things were getting out of hand. She was her own person and no matter what I said or how I tried to be there for her, it was like it all fell on deaf ears. I worried for her all the time and the constant angst I felt on her behalf took its toll. One morning, as I was getting ready for work, I received a call from her…she hadn’t been to sleep and she was definitely loopy in her behavior. She was over at a neighborhood derelict’s house and had been partying all night. “I looooove you, Steph….” She kept saying over and over. I was so torn between going to get her and drag her ass back home and just leaving her where she was. I chose the latter. I called her later that day and she was recovering from the previous night. I was so relieved that she was safe, but at the same time…I was done. I couldn’t continue our friendship under the circumstances. It was just too frustrating and nerve wracking. Time passed and I thought of her often and hoped she was well and happy. Then Facebook started to be the “thing”. I looked her up, found her, and sent her a message. We corresponded that way for a few months, and finally got together for drinks. It was so amazing to see her! She blossomed even more into a poised and lovely young lady. Melissa completed college and was working steadily. It was refreshing to see that she got her act together. We talked for hours, catching up on our lives and realized our bond was so strong, the years apart melted away into nothingness. We have so much in common. We have the same twisted sense of humor, love the same movies and TV shows, have the same insatiable need for learning new things, we’re both word geeks, and we both appreciate and value one another. Now I speak to Melissa daily, see her a few times a week. At this point, she is MY savior, MY rock, and the one I turn to for advice, companionship, and understanding. Even though I still feel like her big sister, I also know she is my best friend. I truly couldn’t fathom my life without her. I look forward to the new adventures we will surely experience and the growth of what is already a solid bond, getting stronger every day. I love you, my darling girl!

Keep Back 20 Ft.

SkylarkingSLP — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 21:07:34 GMT

I am a walking disaster area I’ve decided. I poke fun at those who seem to have a black cloud following them around, but when I take a closer look at my history, I wonder if I don’t suffer from the same ailment. Back in college, I was heading out for a night on the town with my roommates. We were all standing on the corner waiting for the light to change, when suddenly my knee gave out and I fell right off the curb…rending my clothes and bloodying up my perfect outfit. Not too bad, but apparently a predictor for things to come. Fifteen years ago, I walked out of the back door of my apartment building, stepped down one stair and was rammed in the ass by the heavy glass door swinging shut. I tripped down the remaining two steps, cracked my ankle on the way to the ground and landed on my knee, shredding it to bits. After hopping back upstairs, dripping blood, I realized that I couldn’t move my left elbow. After a hasty visit to the doctor, I found out that I damaged three out of four limbs and was relegated to cast, sling, bandage, and ankle brace for the rest of the summer. About 10 years ago, newly assigned to my current school and trying desperately to bank sick time for a rainy day, I woke up one Monday morning with splitting pains in my side. I didn’t go into work that day or the next. I couldn’t do anything except lay in a fetal position and crawl on the floor to make my way to the bathroom. On Wednesday, still in pain, I haphazardly got dressed and actually took the subway to work. I walked into the school went straight to the nurse’s office where I promptly collapsed to the floor. Rushed to the emergency room, and enduring many tests, the doctors concluded nothing was amiss, yet I was writhing in pain and out of work for the rest of the week. Then…BOOM! The pain disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Four years ago, once again, I woke up with an excruciating pain. This time it was my hip. I got out of bed thinking it was just sore from sleeping wrong and fell right to the floor. Thinking it would go away on its own; I made my way to work and realized there was no way I could get up and down the stairs. I was given an elevator key and limped awkwardly through the next three months. I must have looked so pathetic, that while gimping through the streets of Manhattan one evening, a homeless man actually took back his outstretched hand and raised it to the night sky instead and began to loudly pray on my behalf “Oh Lord…help this poor young woman to walk!” I was mortified. A scary MRI and weeks of physical therapy revealed and relieved nothing and eventually the pain subsided and I regained full use of my body. Last year. lest we forget, I broke my left pinky toe in a freak Wii Bowling accident. Nothing like being out of state with a broken bone, hobbling around for the next two weeks on crutches away from the comforts of home. That was actually my first bone I actually broke...the others were hairline fractures, torn ligaments, and sprains. Needless to say, I've stayed far away from Wii games ever since! Two weeks ago, I narrowly missed being hit by a truck while getting into my car. I stepped back and the heel of my shoe caught on a crack in the gutter. I went down, just missing the wheels of the truck and tore up my left leg from knee to ankle. Driving home with gravel and God knows what else stuck into the open wounds of my leg was not a pretty sight or a good feeling…it strung like a Mother F-er! Which brings me to today. I woke up this morning with a gooey feeling in my ear and my face stuck to the pillow. When I could focus finally, I realized the sticky substance was blood and it was oozing out of my left ear. I couldn’t hear anything from that side. Panicked, I called my mom’s ear nose and throat guy to get an emergency appointment. Once again, nothing could be found as the cause of the problem except for a guess of a scratch in my ear canal that opened up while sleeping and obstructed the passageway with a blood clot. I was given ear drops and a promise that no “critters” had crawled in nor was there any damage to the tympanic membrane. So here I am, feeling like I have a starring role in 20,000 leagues Under the Sea, shaking my head and pulling at my ear lobe trying desperately to relive the stuffed up feeling and turning to the right anytime someone tries to talk to me, screaming like an old lady “Talk into my good ear!” I mean really….screw it all…I’m taking a nap and hoping I wake up cured.

Living Ghosts

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 14:14:33 GMT

I’ve been a teacher in the same school for 12 years. The highlight of the academic year is the graduation. The fifth grade teachers and students work diligently for the last 6 weeks toward making the production as wonderful and new as possible: learning songs, practicing speeches and writing poems. For the first few years, I watched the graduation with a curious eye and no real emotion. I didn’t know the children that well after all. But as time went on, the kidlets I saw in Kindergarten were quickly growing up. Before I knew it, it was their turn to war the cap and gown and head off to Junior High School. Every June I stand near the aisle with my camera in hand and a beaming smile to wave and cheer them on as they made their way to the stage. Like a mother hen I find myself swelling up with pride as tears start to form and threaten to spill. This year I noticed so many of my former students in the audience watching their siblings graduate or just being there to say hello to their former teachers. A few came up to me, towering over me in height and giving me a tight squeeze. Some were already parents themselves, some were on their way to graduating High School, and still others had already completed college. “Oh you’re still here?” they’d say. And I thought “Yup…I’m still here.” It’s a strange thing being a teacher in the same school for so many years. You feel like a surrogate parent while the students are in your care. Then they grow up and move on leaving you behind to await the next group of children. As time passes, you become a part of the school’s very essence, and after a while you feel like a living ghost walking the hallways forever chained to the building and becoming part of its bricks. We’ve lost a few teachers over the years. Some passed away while they were still working, and others died just after retirement. I wonder if their presence somehow remains in the school. Is that where deceased teachers go? Back to their classrooms watching over their replacements and wandering the halls at night? Sometimes I think it may be time to move on from the school and search out another, but what would really change? I’d still be caring for and teaching children and eventually just be absorbed into the new building and that’s how it would be year after year, until retirement age is upon me. In a way, it’s a little sad.

Black Cloud Beth

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 17 May 2009 12:15:39 GMT

I have worked with the same school psychologist for over 10 years now. We actually share an office space. She is one of the nicest, smartest, and most caring individuals I have ever met…unfortunately she seems to be living under a black cloud that follows her everywhere she goes. She’s like the walking Murphy’s Law. We’ve dubbed her BCB: “Black Cloud Beth”. With a slight audiological impairment, she wears hearing aids to amplify the sounds around her…and oftentimes forgets to take them off when she’s on the office phone, thereby emitting a spine tingling squeal that makes the person on the other end of the line cringe. Weak knees and ankles, force her to wear braces on her legs. Sensitive to bright lights, she constantly wears very dark glasses throughout the day. She wears no makeup, has short, hacked hair (that she cuts herself), and dresses in odd color combinations: purple running pants, yellow button-down oxford shirts, red shoes…all of which have stains on them. Beth is constantly tripping, falling, and knocking things over. At least once per month she comes into work with some new bruise, ailment, or tale of woe. Taken in money schemes, car accidents, getting locked out of her house in the rain, getting lost on the highway, being stood up on dates, forgetting to go to meetings, misplacing important papers... I remember about seven years ago, BCB was testing a 2nd grader in her room. I was in the other office seeing a group of 5th graders when I saw the little one leave the office. Moments later we all heard a loud crash and then the lights in her office went out. I called her name and she answered. “Are you ok??” “Yeah…” “Why are the lights out?” No answer and then…”I dunno.” I got up and walked over to her office door and peered in through the window. She wasn’t there. “Where are you?” “I’m here.” Came her muffled voice. “Where?” and I opened the door and looked down to find her on the floor, table on top of her, papers everywhere, and she was still a sitting position in her chair! She must have hit the light switch on her journey to the floor. I couldn’t help myself…I burst out laughing. I tried to help her up, but Beth was laughing so hard I couldn’t manage. I ran next door to get someone to help. He walked in and got so hysterical, tears were coming to his eyes as he was doubled over with shaking guffaws. A few years after that, she was working on the computer with all the doors to our office space opened. Sitting at the desk with a 75 font on the screen, typing away with her red pants, pink shirt, green shoes and some sort of thick purple pipe cleaner wrapped around her head and tied on top like bunny ears. Something about a toothache and the pipe cleaner thingy eased the pain…needless to say it was sight to be seen as teachers, janitors, and kids all gathered at the doorway. The other day, Beth had to renew her driver’s license, so she decided to go during her lunch…which as we know is a mistake because there is nothing “quick” about the DMV. An hour and a half later, she returns to work all frazzled. “So, what happened” the office people inquired. “I failed the eye test” She muttered “You’re kidding! Don’t tell us you need new glasses” I said “No, I just needed another shot at it…” She then settled down to eat her lunch: three large lettuce leaves, a can of sardines, a blackened banana, black coffee, and a handful of nuts…all of which she spread out in front of her on a rickety table as we all looked on in horror from the smell and the knowledge that something was going to spill or she would knock over the piping hot coffee pot in the process. We all started to talk about various topics and then the conversation drifted back to the DMV eye test. “I’m curious…how diminished is your eyesight?” one of the other co-workers said. “It’s ok…I mean, I can see…” “But how do you see?” “I see…fine.” “Do you see colors?” “Yeah” I held up my arm and pointed to my shirt. “What color is this?” “Dark.” I held up a piece of paper then “what color is this?” “Light.” “My hair?” “Dark.” We all looked at each other, mouths slightly open in disbelief. ‘Do you see facial features?” “Yeah.” “Describe me then.” “Um…you look like a…person.” I smiled a big toothy grin and asked “Am I smiling?” “Yeah.” I stuck out my tongue…”How about now?” “Yeah…you’re smiling.” “Humor me…describe what you see.” “I see a …circle…” “A circle??” “Yeah, and a stick…” “I look like a stick figure to you??” Yet another co-worker decided to get in on the conversation…a slightly heavy set woman. “What about me? “You look like two circles…” Beth said “…one on top of the other.” We all burst out laughing as did she...and then…Beth knocked the coffee over. God love her!

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 17:55:37 GMT

I just watched a news piece on the internet about a case in California where a woman is suing her co-worker for helping her out of a car after a very bad accident. The woman suing is now a paraplegic and feels she would have been better off if her friend had not helped her at all. Better off? She very well could have died instead…is that better? There is a Good Samaritan Law in many, if not all, states that is supposed to protect you if you choose to step up and help someone in need. Yet this law apparently has loopholes….if the outcome of the brave action is not to the liking of the victim, they can lash out and hold the other responsible for their misfortune. In a crisis, we have to act fast. We don’t have time to call our lawyer and ask if our good deeds will go unpunished. A split second could be the deciding factor between life and death. So, do we all step back, grab our cell phones and call 911 in hopes that the appropriate people will arrive in time to take control of the situation? Think to the man on the New York City subway platform who jumped down to help someone who had fallen on the tracks with the train barreling towards him. If he stopped to call for help, the man would have been crushed. Consider the woman and her child who were trapped in their car during a flash flood and would have surely drowned if not for the kindness and quick thinking of the man who risked his own life to save them. What if that man had run to the local store to use their phone to call for assistance? There would have been a double funeral to attend instead of a celebration of life and heroism. So where does that leave kind people? It makes them have to think twice about helping another for fear of legal action. I think this is shameful. So now, should the notion of “peace on earth and good will towards men” be changed to “peace on earth if you’ll directly benefit from it and good will towards men if there is no chance of a lawsuit”?? No one has a crystal ball and can predict what will happen after the fact, but for me, I would damn well want someone to aid me in a time of need!! And, I know I would do the same for another. I sincerely hope, people don’t begin to ignore their instincts, because if that happens, we’re all screwed. Happy Holidays.

Transfer of Love

SkylarkingSLP — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 22:12:38 GMT

There are a few notions that I live by: Don’t ask questions you really don’t want the answers to, don’t give your opinion unless asked, you can’t be all things to all people, and be wary of those who don’t like animals. Now I understand the people who like furry creatures, but just don’t have the time or the inclination to own them. These are the ones who lavish attention on puppies and kitties on the street or at their friends’ houses. But there are those strange folk who make a face when you tell them your dog or cat sleeps in bed with you; or scoff when you tell them you just spent a thousand dollars or more at the vet to cure your fuzzy buddy; or shake their heads in confusion when you tell them your furry best friend of 17 years passed away and you’re getting another baby to ease the pain. Those people I just don’t trust….they must be missing the “love of animals” gene. After Clio passed, I was moping around the house and through my days. I would get misty-eyed every time I fed Calvin and there was only one bowl to serve. I sobbed at my computer while trying to find a suitable urn for my baby’s remains. I had a heavy heart when I went to sleep and my purring bedmate was not with me. I wished I could have another kitten, but with Cary’s allergies, I didn’t want to voice my thoughts. But during one weak moment, I mumbled to myself about how nice it would be to have another kitty in the house. I know I said it in the quietest of voices and the television was blaring in the background…but Cary heard me and he was all over it. “That’s a great idea!” he said. I looked at him like he just sprouted a second head. “What about your allergies?” I countered. “What’s the difference between having one cat or two? I’m already on meds for Calvin…I think you should get another kitten. You’ll transfer your love to the new cat and the pain of Clio’s death will lessen to almost nothing.” So, we started looking that night on Petfinder.com. We made lists and bookmarked the contenders. The next morning after sending e-mails to a variety of shelters and foster homes, we looked through our responses and had a game plan. There were two kitties I was interested in and they were at the same shelter…the only issue was that the place was located in southern New Jersey, almost three hours away. Cary wasn’t dissuaded in the least, and we got up and out bright and early and made the long trek to Vineland, NJ. Cat number one was in quarantine and couldn’t receive visitors, so it was on to cat number two: a sweet 11 week old dilute calico fuzz ball. They led me to the cage and bright green eyes accompanied by a high pitched “mew” greeted me. I immediately fell in love. We took her into a private room and played with her for a while, but there was no question in my head. This would be my new baby! I filled out all the forms, supplied my references, and left a deposit. She had to be spayed before she could be released to me, so we left empty handed and I anxiously awaited the call from the shelter all week to let me know when I could go back and get her. As it turned out, it took longer than expected. She developed a little cold and had to be put into foster care until she was well enough for the surgery. Finally, the call came and we were set to pick her up two weeks after our first visit. I was like a nervous new mommy: kitten proofing the apartment, buying toys, food, and scratching posts. The excitement must have been catching because Cary seemed just as thrilled as I was. I could hardly contain myself on the long ride into Jersey, but soon enough we were there and my little darling was brought out and placed into my waiting arms. She took to her new home quite well and within three days, she was acclimated to Calvin and our big doggie as well…even standing up for herself when the situation called for it. As of now, she’s pretty much the reigning princess in our domain and has both Cary and I wrapped around her little paws. In honor of Clio, who was named after the muse of history, we named her Calliope, the muse of epic poetry and Clio’s sister. It seemed fitting. We’re absolutely in love with our new family addition and so thankful for the chance we had to adopt a rescued cat and give her a charmed life and a good home. Many blessings and thanks go to all the shelters, foster homes, and other rescue organizations for the wonderful work they do in caring for the abandoned, lost, and stray animals everywhere. So if anyone out there is looking for a new pet, please consider adoption from a shelter. So many are in need of loving homes and this kind of good deed is most rewarding…at least to us it certainly is.

Good-bye My Love

SkylarkingSLP — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 14:59:27 GMT

It is with a heavy heart that I share the sad news of my beloved Clio’s passing. I knew eventually she’d be with me only in spirit, although I never wanted to believe that day would come. The reality of it has still not entirely set in. I find myself in bed, reaching out to find her silky fur in my sleep. I ready her pills and food dish for her morning meal, only to remember suddenly, she is not here. The seventeen years she spent by my side contain the most precious times and happiest moments of my life. Although the pain of losing her is something I'll carry with me forever, I realize that I am so lucky and blessed to ever have had a friend like her. I am thankful that Clio and I were able to be together until the very end of her life. That was a promise I always made to her, and it is a comfort to know that I was able to keep it. And in return, she was constantly there beside me. Any time I needed someone to hug, someone to talk to, or someone to simply sit on the couch with, I knew I could depend on Clio. I will miss her springy steps as she greeted me when I came home after a long day’s work; her company in the bathroom as I relaxed in the tub reading a book or doing a crossword…the way she hoisted herself up, resting her front paws on the rim to purr loudly in my ear and nuzzle my hair. She was my constant bedmate snuggling her warmth into my body as I held her paw while sleeping. Her affectionate head-butting and raspy kisses on my nose and eyelashes made me smile every day. I am ever grateful for how much joy she brought to my life. So, Clio: Thanks for the years, thanks for the memories, and most of all, thank you for being my friend and constant, loving companion. I am quite certain there will never be another one quite like you. You will be in my heart always. I'll never forget how much you meant and will always mean to me. I love you my darling, beautiful princess. May you find peace and happiness wherever you may be and I hope one day I will see you again. Clio: July 15, 1991 – October 29, 2008

EIEIO

SkylarkingSLP — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 19:07:03 GMT

I never get to go on class trips at my school. The Annex is the only site where I even have the opportunity to join in on the fun, but they never seem to schedule outings on days I am there. This past Friday I lucked out and was able to spend the day at Green Meadows Farm. I was so excited when I woke in the morning. I donned a pair of old jeans, a fleece hoody, comfortable walking shoes, and sprinted the two blocks to the school. The kidlets were just as happy to be visiting the farm as I was and we all waited in anticipation for the buses to arrive to take us there. One student was absent, so I even had a partner for the journey! We grabbed our bag lunches provided by the school, boarded the big yellow bus, buckled ourselves in and were on our way. Now it’s been a good five years since I rode on a school bus. I totally forgot how bumpy the ride could be. Every small crack felt like a pothole, and every pothole felt like a crater! I was thoroughly nauseated by the time we pulled into the parking lot…that is until the farm smells wafted in through the open windows of the bus. I breathed shallowly willing my senses to become acclimated to the assailing odors. The students all started to squeal “ewww….I smell doodie!” No kidding. We unloaded the class and took our partners’ hands. I was paired off with one of my speech students, a sweet little boy who is rather shy and very quiet. I caught him smiling up at me every so often and then looking behind him at his classmates beaming as if to say…”Ha! I’ve got the BEST partner!’ Funny, I was thinking the same thing. Our first stop was to visit the puppet theater where a huge handheld Farmer John told us all about the workings of the place and the animals we were going to see. It was a fun show with a lot of humor thrown in about the rules we were to follow: stay with your group, use the sanitizers provided after handling the creatures, no scaring or squeezing the animals… With that last bit, all the teachers turned and gave a hard look to a little boy who is now a first grader. Last year, in Kindergarten, this child absolutely tortured the poor animals. Thankfully, since then, he has grown up a bit and was on his best behavior. We walked through some mucky ground until we reached the chicken coop. All sorts of hens raced around in dizzying circles, I’m certain, in order to get away from the throngs of children trying to pick them up. I was going to stay out for this one, but my partner dragged me in and raced over to a little white chicken clucking away. He picked it up with the skill of a seasoned farmer and mumbled something about having chickens at his grandmother’s house in El Salvador. He held out the clucking bird who stared up at me with beady eyes and a silent promise to peck me to death if I dared to touch her. I reached out and stroked her soft feathers with two fingers. I never pet a chicken before and it was super cool! Our next stop was to the fuzzy bunnies. Groups of ten students were ushered around a crate where several rabbits were placed inside so we could all see and touch. A few of the kidlets became excited and began to pick them up and have pretend rabbit battles. “NO!” all the teachers shouted. “Put the bunnies down!” We then arrived at the duckling and chick crates. All the children oohed and ahhed at the sweet little baby birds. I reached out to stroke a duckling, but they kept getting scooped up and away from me. I must have looked heartbroken, because Ann, one of my teacher friends, walked over with a quacking duckling in hand and let me cuddle the downy yellow imp. I think I fell in love. The sheep were next and I adamantly dug my heels in the mushy ground and refused to go inside. My partner started to pull at my arm and then a group of miserable students got behind me and pushed until I found myself surrounded by these dirty looking baa-ing things. Not happy, I started to walk towards the exit gate, but the sheep were following me! I backed away and made a turn for a second exit, but still they were all behind me…the kids laughing and pointing as I squealed and began to run. Yea…sheep run too! Not wanting to make a complete fool of myself I stood in statue still in a corner and waited for our time to be up. I had three sheep leaning their heavy bodies against my legs, completely trapped until one of the farm workers took pity on me and escorted me out. Time for the hayride! We all piled on and chose our hay bale seats. The tractor started up the engine and we lurched forward, students laughing and shouting. I nearly fell off my bale and I looped my arm around one of the slats to keep my balance. It certainly looked more fun than it actually was. My poor butt was completely sore by the time the 15 minute ride was over. I couldn’t even will my legs to move so I could disembark and had to be helped down like an eighty year old woman. It was noon and the lunch area loomed ahead. Someone handed me my bag of school food and I opened it to reveal a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, chocolate milk, crumbly cookies, and a bag of sliced apples. I ate the apples and handed the rest off to another child. I had lost my appetite somewhere between the sheep and the hayride… Our last stop wad to the pumpkin patch. The children made a mad dash for the piles of orange bulbous veggies (fruits?). I slowly picked my way through to find one that was a nice shape and easy to carve. Three times I missed my chance as some other school’s students got to the ones I wanted before me. The other teachers had theirs already and I knew they just didn’t care what it looked like, but darn it! I did care. Finally, I made my choice: not too big, but plenty heavy. I lugged that thing back to the bus, buckled in and endured the bumpy ride back to the school. I was absolutely exhausted when I sat down in the classroom. I looked up at Ann who said “So, now you’ve been on a trip with us…not so much fun, is it?” I shook my head and agreed it wasn’t. Soon it was dismissal time. Cary picked me up at school and looked at my haggard face. “How was the farm?” “E-I-E-I-O” I responded tartly and thrust my pumpkin into his hands.

Change is Good?!?

SkylarkingSLP — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 14:15:18 GMT

I absolutely cannot believe how much clothing I have! Things that I love and wear often, items I have for those special occasions, stuff that I adored but can’t part with, out of date fashions that I hope will come back in style one day, classics that you just can’t get anymore, my “skinny” wear, mistake purchases with the tags still on, and the ol’ “What the hell was I thinking??” duds. I have been shifting, folding, storing, donating, dumping and purging for the past several weeks in a vain attempt to make room for my honey who is moving to NY to live with me. I have managed to clear out a small dresser, a built in with 4 shelves, and an entire closet…but I need more space for my things! No matter how many times I move things around, the crap still takes up the same amount of area. Basic physics: Something I never was very good at. And the coat closet?? My goodness, how have I acquired so much outerwear? I counted 17 jackets, coats, and wraps stuffed into my tiny hall closet. I gave about 5 away, but there’s more to be done. My boyfriend says he only has three cold weather items he’s bringing. Surely, I can stuff those in with the rest of mine…can’t I? Of course, the clothing is just one battle. I also have books, paperwork, knick-knacks, bottled water, soda, bulk popcorn and snacks that have been very happy lining the walls, stacked in corners, and put on unused chairs. That all has to be shifted as well. He only asked for a small area of my apartment to set up his office space. That same region will be used to keep his 130 lb. Great Dane/St. Bernard mix penned up when we’re not at home. Ah, the dog. I’ve always wanted one, but this is no canine. Portia is practically a pony! Then there’s the issue of my cats. My two babies 7 and 17 have been with me since they were kitties. They’ve never lived with a dog and the only time they’ve ever seen one in this house was when my friend brought over her small puppy. Clio and Calvin were none too pleased and waited patiently, in hiding, until the intruder left. Will my little lovelies spend the remainder of their lives under the bed? Will they learn to coexist or will they one day find the bravery to approach Portia who might very well use them as squeaky toys? Of course, the fact that Cary is insanely allergic to cats is a problem as well. We’ve purchased an expensive air purifier, made a pact to vacuum daily, and he’s on heavy doses of Claritin D which makes his heart race faster than Michael Schumacher’s Ferrari on his winning lap. Thank goodness there’s a hospital within spitting distance in case of cardiac arrest. I have been so busy between work and house concerns that I haven’t even stopped to really think about the fact that I will be living with someone for the first time in my life. I’ve been on my own completely since my Junior year of college…that’s roughly 17 years of MINE! My space, my bed, my bills, my loud music, my choice of television/movie viewing, my phone calls, my free bathroom… And before that, it was only me as a child in my parents’ house. I never had to share anything. It will be a challenge to be sure, but one I am willing to take on happily.

Driving Daisy Almighty to Shawshank

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 02:17:06 GMT

I’m worried about Morgan Freeman. I know he survived the car accident in Tennessee and is recovering nicely. But still, he isn’t a young man. And when he dies, who will do all the important voiceovers for commercials, movies, and TV shows? I grew up with him on the Electric Company, mesmerized by his role in Driving Miss Daisy, Seven, and his recurring character of Dr. Alex Cross in the James Patterson adaptations. I was soothed by his dulcet tones in The Shawshank Redemption, War of the Worlds, and now in the Visa Olympic commercials…not to mention, who better to play God in Evan and Bruce Almighty?? I think the powers that be need to get together and have Morgan record every single word in the English language, so that when he does depart this earth, proficient sound editors can put his voice to any future dialogue written and, in essence, he can live forever.

Wii- Don't try this at home!

SkylarkingSLP — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 15:06:18 GMT

Video games have never been of any interest to me aside from the Ms. Pac-Man and Centepede arcade games I played when I was a kid. I never got into the whole Nintendo-X-Box-Wii craze...probably because I am, in essence, uncoordinated using anything but a computer mouse. Give me more than one button to push and I quickly morph into spaz mode...my brain just doesn't fire the proper signal to my limbs and I turn into a flailing mess. I remember when Wii was first introduced and there were reports of people getting so into the games that they would send the remote flying into their television screens or chucking it at their game partners' heads..then the strap was added, so those little misshaps wouldn't occur. Hanging out in Chicago, I was introduced to Wii sports games. Boxing was fun, but bowling was even better. It took a few tries to figure out the movements, but impressingly enough, it was just like doing the real sport, albeit virtually. I played my first game of bowling and beat my opponent...Ha! Eat that, Cary! I was eager to try my hand at it again. We had a small gathering of friends over last night, complete with a couple of pre-pubescent kidlets who mesmerized me with their coordinated talent at Mortal Kombat. Time for bowling and I jumped at the chance to play and show off my never before realized skill at the game. I used to bowl in grammar school, so I have my "form" down solidly. First frame...8 pins and a spare. Second...Strike!! By the third or fourth frame, I was getting cocky. My turn again, and I held my hands in front of me and gracefully executed my stellar technique and armswing...until...BANG...my left foot hit something solid. I dropped onto my right knee not wanting to screw up and gutter the ball...I got 7 pins down and then the throbbing started... I held it together with a smile on my face as I passed the remote to someone else and told them to finish the game for me. I sat on the couch, eyebrows knitted in obvious duress, sweetly asking for my stash of painkillers and some water. Soon after, the company dispersed and I let out a wail of agony. My pinky toe was smashed for sure. The swelling was immediate and the prospect of walking was completely shattered. After icing it on and off for a couple of hours, Cary helped me up the stairs and into bed, foot raised and a pair of old crutches fished out of the garage by my side. Third day into my ten day trip and I'm a friggin' cripple! So much for all the fun activities planned. The next week is gonna be movie watching, ordering in, and surfing the net. Thank goodness I'm comfortable where I am...negotiating the stairs should be fun, but the crushing reality is that my Wii days are over as fast as it begun.

Danger: High Voltage

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 18 May 2008 01:12:49 GMT

I’ve heard every house has a heart complete with its own personality and quirks. Some homes are warm and cozy, others cold and stark…and then there’s my place, which appears to be possessed and in cahoots with my cat, Calvin, in trying to “off” me. Yes, it’s that time again…my annual battle with the apartment I live in. In the four years I’ve owned my place, this is the third year that something major has gone wrong. Flash back to summer 2006: the huge hole in the side of the building that was not only growing plant life, but letting in water by the gallons from the crazy rainfall we had that year…water that went directly into my apartment, turning the walls into cottage cheese, harboring mold and warping the floorboards into a mogul like ski course. Summer 2007: moisture that was never sopped up from the previous year’s menace caused the wooden floorboards to crack and lift once again, dangerously tilting my bedroom furniture, crashing into the newly painted walls and making middle of the night trips to the bathroom an exercise in agility. Fall 2007: Some brainiac from the planet "Smartron" flicked a lit cigarette off one of the terraces, which amazingly enough landed on mine and into the flower pot causing a small fire, singing the leaves and melting the plastic pot it was in. Dirt everywhere and disgusting burnt plastic smells stayed in my apartment for close to three days. Now it’s Spring 2008, and last night was a doozy. I fell asleep rather late and as I was finally drifting into my REM cycle, I heard a loud *pop*. Dismissing it as one of cats’ nocturnal antics, I rolled over in bed and tried to settle back in. Moments later, my nostrils were met with an acrid smell. My eyes popped open and tried to focus on the cable box to check the time…it wasn’t there. I shifted to see the alarm clock by my bed and that too was blank. I gingerly stepped out of bed to get the emergency flashlight from the living room, and I noticed the whole apartment was pitch black. I looked quickly into the hallway, and saw that the lights were on there, so it all must be coming from my place. I made my way over to the fuse box and flipped the switches on and off to no avail. The smell of something burning assaulted my senses. I began to panic… I grabbed my cell phone, keys, and Clio (who was purring loudly in her sleepy state) and ran down to the lobby to ask the doorman to get one of the porters right away. The guy came up to my place and covered his nose at the smell. He went directly to the fuse box and played with the levers until finally, the lights came back on. I asked if we should call the fire department but he assured me all was well and I should just hang tight until morning when the electrician could come up and have a look. Needless to say, I was not consoled. I spent the night on the couch, trying to stay vigilant in case it happened again and burned my house to the ground. Come morning, the head custodian arrived at my door and saw that although the electricity appeared to be working, one wall was completely “dead”. Of course, this was the wall I had my phone and computer attached to…and not having either working was making me increasingly agitated. He poked around the outlets, but couldn’t find the source of the problem. I moved my phone and hooked up my computer to another outlet across the room via a hefty extension cord and was told he’d try again tomorrow. So far so good though…no outages since then, but hell the day ain’t quite over yet. Meanwhile, I shudder to think what colossal damage 2009 will bring.

Caffeine Jitters

SkylarkingSLP — Fri, 16 May 2008 19:47:59 GMT

When the weather gets warmer I take pleasure in a few things: light weight clothing, longer daylight hours, blossoming trees, and my all time favorite: iced-coffee!! Yesterday was a stellar day for that. Not only was it a perfect and sunny 72 degrees, but Dunkin Donuts was having their free iced coffee day. From 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. every DD in town was offering this tasty treat. Here in NY, DDs are about as plentiful as Starbucks locations, so I plotted my course through the day making sure after each speech session, I would pass one and stop off to get what was mine. I was like a woman possessed, frantically pulling up to the curb in a lopsided park to rush out and order my 16 ounces of cold caffeine and sugar every hour and a half. By the time I was on my way home, I was WIRED and my bladder was near exploding, but I just had to make one last coffee stop before the deadline. Mission completed, I began my journey home, driving one handed as I sucked the straw and chatted on the Bluetooth, twitching slightly from the rush. I rounded the corner to enter my garage, when I saw this huge city bus barreling up the road headed my way. My block is an uncomfortable squeeze for two midsized cars as it is…and it’s certainly not on a bus route. I had to blink in earnest to make sure what I was seeing was real and not some iced coffee hallucination, but there it was still coming straight at me. I veered my Honda as close to the parked cars on my side as I would dare, feeling helpless with nowhere to go. I thought about unbuckling and lunging into the passenger side of the car, but there was no time. I clenched my eyes shut and muttered a string of curses that would make a sailor blush and then I started to squeal: “pleeeeeeeeeeease don’t hit meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!” I held my breath as the bus passed by, peering out of one eye, squinting up at the driver in a silent plea to let me live. I kid you not, there was about an inch of wiggle room between me and that steel beast. Everything went in slow motion, the huge front tires sliding by, the smiling faces and bold print of the advertisement plastered to the side, the rear lights …all mere inches from my face. I realized I was clutching my coffee cup in a death grip and biting down on the straw. As the final part of the bus slid by, my whole car *tharumped*. The rear tires pushed into my little auto causing it to rock. The cup in my hand exploded as I squeezed it in fear dribbling cold coffee down the front of my shirt. I was immediately shaken from my trance. I stared open mouthed at the departing bus in the rear view mirror. I was in utter disbelief that I made it out unscathed. Too freaked to even get the license plate number, I slowly made my way into the garage and parked. Not a scratch on me or my car, I thanked the powers that be, tossed the ruined plastic cup into the trash and spent the rest of the evening shaking off the day’s events while coming down off my caffeine high.

A Lady Down to her Fingertips

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 11 May 2008 00:16:25 GMT

There was only one person on my father’s side of the family who I felt a close connection to from the time I was little through my adult years. A beautiful brunette with lips painted a cherry red, her signature white lace gloves, and a classic Chanel style. A lady down to her fingertips, her name was Rebeline, but she was known to us all as “Needie”. When I was very young, Aunt Needie, Uncle Harold, Susie and Michael, their two teenage children, lived in my neighborhood in a corner house with a picket fence enclosed front yard. I would have my birthday parties at her home, and spend Thanksgiving and Passover there as well. We had a small family and her modest sized house was perfect for such intimate gatherings. Being the youngest in the clan certainly had its perks. I was the favored niece, who was indulged to entertain everyone with my impromptu singing performances at age four. I was doted on and showered with darling little gifts of dolls and sweet treats. Aunt Needie was like a grandmother to me. When I was five, they sold their house and moved into a Fifth Avenue apartment in Manhattan. I loved visiting her there, running through the house with her dog Scottie, and looking out at Central Park from her terrace. She had many dinner parties where family and friends gathered to talk, laugh, and share memories of the “old days”. Harold was ever present serving drinks from the bar and talking about politics with the men folk. He would look over at Needie, stop what he was saying for the briefest of moments and you could see a warmth come to his eyes. They were very much in love. One winter when I was six or seven, Aunt Needie asked me to spend an entire weekend with her. We played games with Susie and Michael, watched TV, and in the morning after a heavy snow fall, we all bundled up and went sledding in Central Park. Chilled to the bone from my snow drenched clothes, Aunt Needie plopped me into her huge bathtub, filled it with bubbles and sang songs with me as I warmed up. A few years later, her daughter was moving and had to ship her dog, Murphy, to her new destination. Susie and I had an incredibly fun afternoon out on the back stairs decorating Murphy’s crate with shiny acrylic paint. Of course that wasn’t nearly as much fun as painting each other’s skin, hair and clothing silver and gold, which we did with gusto. Needie grinned at the sight and promptly whipped out the turpentine to get me cleaned up before (as she said) “Your mother has a fit!” In the mid eighties, after her children went their own way, Harold and Needie moved yet again to a smaller apartment on Park Avenue. I liked the new place, but Fifth Avenue was where most of my childhood memories were made. She still had dinner parties a few times a year, still doted on me, although she now had other nieces and nephews and grandchildren of her own to split her attention with. She left her job as a school librarian, but continued to volunteer in schools and donating money to the NYC public library. Harold died a few years after my father passed. It was very hard on Needie, but she went on with her life, always impeccably dressed, making daily plans with her friends and became very close with Mom. They used to attend dinner theatre every week and once in a while, I’d tag along. Needie became ill with Lyme disease, and her health deteriorated rapidly. She couldn’t walk on her own and was soon using a cane, making her jaunts around the Manhattan streets she so loved difficult. A wheel chair replaced the cane a few years after that. We didn’t see Needie very much anymore. In late August 2007, Mom and I coaxed Needie out to dinner with us. She ate delicately and sipped red wine in her Chanel suit. It was a beautiful evening filled with laughter and so many stories. It was the last time I saw her alive. Aunt Needie passed away in December just shy of her 86th birthday. I remember sitting on the couch in my living room when Mom called to tell me. I hung up with her and just sat in silence. Quiet tears fell while flashes of her cherry red smile and easy laughter flooded my mind. Two nights prior to the funeral, our small family, made even smaller by death and distance, gathered together to say good bye. Photo albums time lining her entire life were laid out on tables for us to look through and reminisce. My aunt was so easy to adore that every co-worker still alive, every nurse and rehab specialist Needie ever had, every domestic attendant who worked in her home, her hairdresser, her manicurist…all were there. The funeral was held on Park Avenue not far from where Needie lived, the same place Harold was honored ten years earlier. When her son, Michael, got up to speak, Needie and Harold’s black and white wedding photo was projected on the wall behind him and Moonlight Serenade lilted through the chapel. He spoke about their 50th wedding anniversary when they danced to that very song. It was so hauntingly beautiful, I had only to shut my eyes to see their images swaying to the music. We all made our way to the cemetery and watched as the coffin was lowered into the cold ground beside Harold:”Proud American” etched on his headstone. As sad as it was, it just seemed right. They were together again at last.

Puppy Love

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 22:13:55 GMT

Hallelujah! After 2 1/2 years, Mom is officially out of her old apartment. She hasn’t been living there since she bought her place in my building, but instead has been using the two bedroom, 2 bathroom dwelling as an expensive storage facility. The silliness of paying rent on top of a mortgage and maintenance is at last at an end. Every week or so, she would come to my apartment with a bag of my old belongings in hand: old clothes, notebooks, textbooks, pictures, and teeny bopper magazines. Usually, I would sift through these things and end up dumping them in the trash. If I hadn’t thought about them in 20 years, I certainly didn’t want to clutter my apartment with them now. But her last trip brought me back something interesting…a bag full of letters. My goodness, I can’t believe how many there were. It seemed foreign to me to have to read actual handwriting when I’ve been so accustomed to e-mails. There were letters from friends I remembered from my youth, and others that I had no idea who the hell they were! Some were from people I must have met in passing, others from my acting days and a smattering of notes from interested young bucks. What caught my interest the most was a bundle of correspondence from a boy I met when I was traveling around Egypt and Israel back in 1984. His name was Anthony. A blond haired, brown eyed 14 year old from England, who I fell into immediate puppy love with while cruising down (up?) the Nile. Seeing the postmarks, I realized we had written back and forth for nearly a year. And, oh, the drama of it all! It’s amazing how teenagers earnestly try to mimic adult love affairs. There was a bunch of hand written letters and mushy greeting cards all with iridescent, sparkly sticker hearts decorating the envelopes. He professed his undying love to me in each one. And also in almost every exchange, he was begging me to come visit him at his summer house in Italy. This I remember vividly: the crying and screaming matches I had with my parents begging them to let me go. Of course, I wasn’t allowed to travel to Europe by myself at that age and thus, never saw him again. I never understood why they were so against this until I read his letters with an adult’s eye. Yeesh! A 15 year old adolescent boy with raging hormones only had one thing on his mind, and I was too innocent to realize it. Thanks Mom and Dad! I still have my old high school yearbooks to look though. That should be an interesting trip down memory lane. I will relive my infatuation with the senior I was so desperately in love with. There is an entire folder stuffed with journal writings, pictures and letters attached with that one. Hmmm…I wonder whatever became of him?

Childhood's End

SkylarkingSLP — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 01:38:05 GMT

I got started with my love of Science Fiction with Arthur C. Clarke. Today, he has passed from this world to the next. I will cherish the memories of my youth as I eagerly devoured the pages of his books filled with wonderment and awe inspiring ideas. "Sometimes I am asked how I would like to be remembered," Clarke said recently. "I have had a diverse career as a writer, underwater explorer and space promoter. Of all these I would like to be remembered as a writer." And so you shall... Thank you for Childhood's End, 2001: A Space Oddyssey, Rendezvous with Rama, The Songs of Distant Earth, and all the other stories I have read or have yet to read... Rest in peace.

Got Milk?

SkylarkingSLP — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 03:09:55 GMT

I’ve been working in my school for a decade now and thankfully, I’ve never gotten in trouble nor admonished by anyone. About twice per week, I stroll into the lunchroom after the morning bell to greet the cafeteria workers and get a small 8 oz. container of milk for my coffee. I’m always met with smiles and hearty “hellos”. But last week, it was a different story. I made my usual small talk, went into the fridge and took my paltry container and suddenly a hair netted, scowling face was in view. “I love the way you just breeze in here…” “Pardon?” “You just come in and smile and take milk. It’s so disrespectful…” Again…”Pardon???” She went on and on about the milk. And I just stared openmouthed. I apologized profusely and explained that in ten years no one ever mentioned anything about a milk shortage nor had anyone denied me when I asked. I even offered to pay the 40 cents for the product… Plus, after each school day is done, the unused milk containers are then opened and poured down the drain. Talk about being wasteful! Alas, nothing I said seemed to warm her cold heart. And after all was said and done, she extended her hand to me, shook mine, and made a show of opening up the refrigerator and saying magnanimously “And now you can have some milk…” I wanted to kick her. I didn’t know what the woman’s name was, but I found out later that it was the mother of one of our teachers…the one who gives her daughter free breakfast and lunch from the cafeteria when we all have to pay for the food. Had I known, I might have said something…but in retrospect, I’m glad I kept my mouth shut as I might have been carted away by the food service police. Needless to say, I have taken to bringing a small amount of milk from home in a little Tupperware container as I am loath to even walk into the cafeteria for fear of being taken out back and beaten by the Milk Nazi.

Dirty Girl

SkylarkingSLP — Sat, 26 Jan 2008 00:40:21 GMT

About two weeks ago, one of my co-workers comes up to me, bends down and closely examines my neck. “What eees dat?” she inquires in her heavy Nicaraguan accent. She touches the area near the hollow, I think its called the “jugular notch” (my anatomy is a bit rusty). “Joo better look at dat”. So, I run into the bathroom and take a peek. There’s a small brown blotch visible. I touch it…its smooth. I take a paper towel and some water and wipe at it a bit. It’s still there. Ok, so now I’m nervous. The bell rings to signal dismissal time. I leave the building, get into my car and immediately call Ann. “What does skin cancer look like?” I ask. For the next week, I was asking everyone I could grab to look at my neck and tell me if its something I should worry about. The mark wasn’t fading or getting worse, but it was there and that was enough to set me off. I took to wearing turtleneck sweaters, grateful for winter, but every evening when I came home, I’d rip off my top and examine the area. I investigated dermatologists and made the earliest appointment available which is for next month. Yesterday, I had my annual physical with my internist and I decided to ask him his opinion. He looked at the blotch, brow furrowed, and said “Wait a minute…” he went over to a counter, grabbed an alcohol swab and rubbed at my neck so hard, I thought I was going to choke. He pulled the swab off and showed me. It was stained with something brown. “It’s gone” he said. Well, shit, if only all things could be “cured” so easily. I laughed all the way home at this typical Steph story. I called Ann. “Guess what? I don’t have skin cancer…I was just dirty.”

All Messages Erased

SkylarkingSLP — Sun, 18 Nov 2007 16:53:05 GMT

I’m a saver. Mostly of correspondence. Whether it be in the form of letters, cards, e-mails, IM chats or phone messages…I tend to keep them. I have things dating back to junior high. Hell, I even have old notes passed in class still folded up and worn. Back when answering machines were audio tape and not digital, I saved the used cassettes. The ones that mean the most to me are the sound of my father’s voice and that of my friend Ted. They’ve both passed on, and its good to know I can hear them speak whenever I want to…although I now would have to dig out my mini cassette player to do so. I bought a new phone answering system over a year ago, but haven’t set it up because of the saved messages I still had on the old one. The earliest message I had was from 5 years ago. Ex boyfriends, old friends…I never listened to them, but I just wanted to know they were accessible. Yesterday, when I was deleting a message from one of my friends who I already returned the call to, my finger twitched slightly and I pressed the button twice instead of once…the automated robotic male voice announced: “all messages erased”. I stood there staring at the machine, waiting for that sinking feeling of dread and loss to settle in, but it never came. Perhaps it was high time I let the past go. Maybe I’m ready for a fresh start. And I think I will begin by hooking up my new answering machine still in its dusty plastic encasement.

May the Force Be With You

SkylarkingSLP — Wed, 10 Oct 2007 02:05:11 GMT

Ok, so I’ll admit it. I’m a nerd. A knowledge hungry, word game playing, sci-fi fanatic. And I love Star Wars. Every time it’s on cable, I can’t help myself. I have to watch: in order, random order, episodes 4-6, followed by 1-3, or vise versa. And if there’s a marathon? Look out. I’ll be letting all my calls go to voice mail for the duration. I prefer the original three though, and I suppose that’s because it’s a fond reminder of my youth where I sat wide eyed, mouth agape, staring at the big screen thinking “This is soooo awesome!”, “Han Solo is a babe!” and “I wonder if I can get my hair to look like Princess Leia’s?” That famous bar scene, our heroes getting trapped in a trash compactor, “that’s no moon, that’s a space station!”, “Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”, when we first meet Yoda in the Dagobah system, Jabba’s lair...I could go on and on… The newer episodes have its charm, but not the classic feel of the Carrie Fisher, Harrison Ford years. The special effects, both visual and sound, are even better on a flat screen TV with surround sound. Although I’ll never forgive LucasFilms for Jar Jar Binks, nor for the CGI tricks that transformed Yoda so thoroughly that he’s barely recognizable as the doddering but brilliant Jedi master. C’est la vie. So there you have it. I just had to come clean. And …wait…what’s that? I hear a siren off in the distance getting louder and louder. The Geek Police must have finally caught up with me. I’ll write to you from prison, unless of course it’s Dungeons and Dragons night…

The Neverending Summer

SkylarkingSLP — Mon, 08 Oct 2007 17:02:47 GMT

New York seasons are pretty much delineated. Granted, we have long, cold winters and brutally hot summers, peppered with short springs and autumns. But here we are nearing mid October, and fall is nowhere to be seen. I was finished with summer a month ago and ready for the slow change into breezy, cool weather and so looking forward to the colorful changing leaves and wearing earth tones. The fact that I can lounge out on my terrace and still get a tan is mind-boggling. At this rate, we’re going to go straight from this unusually warm weather into a deep freeze. I shouldn’t complain because I’ll inevitably be bitching about frost bite and wind chill soon enough. In the meantime, changing my wardrobe over from thin pants and tee shirts to fluffy sweaters and boots will have to wait a while longer.

Is it June yet?

SkylarkingSLP — Thu, 30 Aug 2007 03:10:15 GMT

What happened to my summer vacation?? How is it possible that it has come to an end? Tomorrow is the first day back at work and I’ve been arguing with myself all day… “You have to go.” “But I don’t wanna!” “Tough!” I’ve tried to cram everything into the last week: lounging at the pool, shopping, seeing friends, all in effort to make the last few days stretch as far as they could go. No matter how I willed time to stop…No dice. I’m usually well rested and raring to get back to work, but all day I’ve had anxiety about the upcoming year. Of course, there’s always a bit of uncertainty as to what changes and challenges are ahead, but I don’t think I’ve felt this way in years. I have no desire to see the school building, let alone my co-workers. I don’t feel like giving the recap of my summer umpteen times nor do I want to hear about everyone else’s. I can't stand the idea of all day meetings where absolutely everything is thrown at us. I'm tired just thinking about setting up my room, moving furniture, decorating, and getting all my supplies out of storage. I’ve got a stinky attitude, I know. And that’s just not like me. With any luck, by the time the kidlets start coming in on Tuesday, I’ll be out of my funk and have a smile on my face. In the meanwhile, I’m on my third cup of Tension Tamer tea and I guess I’ll spend the remainder of the time before I go to sleep convincing myself that I really do want to go to work. Wah wah.