I Heart Cow

As we were driving to the Modern Art Museum of Ft. Worth to see the (unusual) Ron Mueck exhibit, we saw this sign on the side of a truck:

It's a crappy picture, as pictures tend to be when one is barrelling through a tight intersection next to a large truck while whipping out an action cam from a ginormous purse/tote bag (I had to dig) while singing, "raspberry beret. I think I lo-o-o-ove her". I was greatly moved by this singular phrase, so much so that I knew I needed to share this universal truth with all of you, my fellow man. A statement like this could, after all, change the face of humanity! So I googled it to find a better picture. I typed in "ice cream makes you pretty" and found that the slogan comes from a place called Henry's Homemade Ice Cream. fine. yay. I'll go there someday..yadda yadda..thbpth - jog on.. There wasn't a better picture.

BUT I also googled the phrase as an image and was OVERJOYED to find this:

I know, right?! It IS awesome!! Instruction #6 is especially informative, and I can't wait to observe the 'realistic head bobbing action' (#7)! They are going to L.O.V.E. me at the dinner party* tonight when I pull these instructions out of my ginormous purse/tote bag as party favors. This will show my newly met friends that this girl, indeed, knows how to kick it! Ya-yuh!

*Of course I'll take the camera.. They're lucky that I am not also bringing a pinata and my "Abba Gold" cd

It's that time

It's that time. School starts in a week and teachers officially report back on Monday, though several of us are already working and have been all summer. I always find it funny when Corporate Joe makes a remark like, "It must be nice to have the summer off," usually said with a hint of sarcasm in his tone that makes the statement sound more like, "Must be really nice to have so much vacation time where you do NOTHING and get paid for it while I work year round and only get a measly two weeks vacation time and that includes sick days. Jerk. (eye roll)"

So go be a teacher, dude. The system needs you. I have several other scathing retorts that I could mouth off to him, but generally I am good about swallowing that particular bile. And for the record, of course we don't get paid for our "vacation time". We get paid for our required clock time for the school year only, without overtime which inevitably good teachers HAVE to put in since papers, unfortunately, do not grade themselves. Most of us choose to stretch the wage over 12 months so that we don't, um I don't know, starve in the summer.

(sigh)

Please don't misunderstand. I have to acknowledge that to an extent, CJ is right to be jealous. Depending on the teacher, we can make each summer whatever we want it to be. I, for example, use my summer to feed my travel addiction and to read and sunbathe as much as I want. Also, this summer I happily attended two International Baccalaureate conferences, have had several meetings with the Fougs to plan for this year, have organized my lesson plan book for the entire year and have been to the schoolhouse to get my room ready. In July I had the opportunity to judge literary magazines for the Columbia Scholastic Press Association and decided to try it so that I can do better at advising our school's mag. Also, I've been reading different texts all summer so that I can vary the reading for my literature courses. Today I'll attend a senior level meeting.

There aren't many jobs that get a "do over" every 9 months, and the summer cleanses the palate and lets us catch our breath a little. Summer allows teachers the opportunity to reflect and revise so as to avoid last year's shit smear. Or as Rich wisely (and more eloquently) puts it, "They give teachers the summers off so that some of us will come back." Amen.

But I love the work. I love all of it. A lot.

So, hey CJ! You should be jealous. And even though I do feel a little bit sad that summer is ending, especially since it means that I'll have to stay put for a while, I am optimistic about this school year. Bring it.

Soneto 79 by Pablo Neruda

De noche, amada, amarra tu corazón al mío
y que ellos en el sueño derroten las tinieblas
como un doble tambor combatiendo en el bosque
contra el espeso muro de las hojas mojadas.

Nocturna travesía, brasa negra del sueño
interceptando el hilo de las uvas terrestres
con la puntualidad de un tren descabellado
que sombra y piedras frías sin cesar arrastrara.

Por eso, amor, amárrame al movimiento puro,
a la tenacidad que en tu pecho golpea
con las alas de un cisne sumergido,

para que a las preguntas estrelladas del cielo
responda nuestro sueño con una sola llave,
con una sola puerta cerrada por la sombra.

“Sonnet 79”

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two
together in their sleep will defeat the darkness
like a double drum in the forest, pounding
against the thick wall of wet leaves.

Night travel: black flame of sleep
that snips the threads of the earth’s grapes,
punctual as a headlong train that would haul
shadows and cold rocks, endlessly.

Because of this, Love, tie me to a purer motion,
to the constancy that beats in your chest
with the wings of a swan underwater.

so that our sleep might answer all the sky’s
starry questions with a single key,
with a single door the shadows had closed.

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
born Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Nobel Prize in literature 1971

Happy Birthday, Jen!!!

I remember when I was four and you were three and our moms lifted us over the backyard fence to meet. You were in a yellow jumper that tied at the shoulders and had blond pig-tails. I probably wore pea green. We stared at each other as we dug in dirt, from shovel to pail, and were silent.(I'll retell this story a billion times!) Who knew that that moment was the start of a life-long friendship that would withstand time, distance, devastating grief, Mr. Lambrecht, and 9th grade prom,and would, at the same time, foster oblivious joy, silliness*, song, and compassion? I am who I am in great part to your friendship. Thanks for that! I love you, Jen!

Happy Birthday!!!


* Silly in every form imaginable:
1. "I do this all the time!"
2. "The Olympic gymnastic champion is.." and dance class in my garage
3. "I'm allergic to cheese"
4. "I can't say that name"
5. "We'll tell the counselors that I was trying to kill a bug on the window, not trying to 'take-out' the air-conditioning"
6. "If there is someone in the house, come out now! We have a gun (sure it was the decorative rifle over the mantle..)"

7. Rod Turner.

8. Ubert and fence walking

9. The neighborhood pool and synchronized swimming

10. Driving my car in the rain.. through a red light.. very slowly..

11. That stupid flower bangs thing and the abusive hairbrush

12. "Avery thinks he is SO hot.."

13. "I just saw that guy I'm gonna marry.."

14. Sneaking over to your house to watch "Three's Company"

15. The clapper.

etc. etc. etc.

The Road Goes On Forever..

Thanks for a great time, Mom!!! Love you!

ick minus S

We are all aware that people are strange (when you're a stranger...), and I am constantly aware of that fact. I taught seventh grade, for the love of Mike, and have observed (sober) human beings doing things like smelling their shoes for pleasure, sticking pencils in their ears (also for pleasure), cutting their underwear out of their pants, and getting their heads stuck in sweatshirts then falling out of their chairs trying to get untangled. You may not know this, but some might even consider ME slightly strange. Fine. Whatever.

The point is that I'm not unfamiliar with human oddities and not very many things surprise me anymore.

But this did:

Scenario: Let's say that you have done your morning work out and you decide to hit the pool to relax and to finish your favorite poolside Janet Evanovich novel (the latest in the Stephanie Plum bounty hunter series). You're enthralled by the print. Will Stephanie die saving the kidnapped girl while sorting out her feelings for her loyal cop boyfriend, or will she forget herself and all rationality and (again) submit to the solicitations of the mysterious, sexy-as-hell bounty hunter who is currently in her bed? (What? It's a little break from all the serious stuff..)

Anyway, you're reading when you hear a familiar, but misplaced sound. It's a click of some sort. Your brain searches itself trying to figure out what that sound might be. You hear it again. When your brain draws a conclusion, all of the characters in the Evanovich novel pause, look at you, and simultaneously say, "Really? Here? No way! No one would actually..."and you HAVE to look up and see for yourself. And to your utter disgust and horror, you realize you're not imagining things. Your conclusion is right!? A grown woman is sitting on the side of the pool CLIPPING HER TOENAILS into the pool.

My question is: In what world is that OK?

I mean, I understand that any kind of public pool is unsanitary and that I may be the only person on the planet who actually adheres to the posted sign that says, "This is my ool. Notice there is no 'P' in it. Let's keep it that way." I understand what happens when people get water up their nose and have to blow it out. I won't even mention band-aids. Or bugs. Or hair. Swimming pools are gross, but also I know that CHEMICALS (the ones that burn your eyes red, singe your nasal cavity, and take off the outside layer of your skin) kill most of the nastiness. I take absolute comfort in the chemical burn because, really, what germ could actually survive that sort of nuclear holocaust? I've never seen the actual data, but I have thoroughly convinced myself (and don't tell me otherwise) of the validity of this argument.

But toenails? Seriously?

I can just imagine her thought bubble - "Wow. My toenails sure do need clipping. But I want to swim NOW!! I know! Throw the clippers in the swim bag! It will be like having a foot soak pedicure. Sweet! Two birds and one stone.. or something like that."

Unfortunately, that didn't prevent me from taking one more dip in the ool minus p. I pretended that the clippings stayed on her side and I didn't plan to swim over there anyway. As long as I constantly push water away from me, the clippings won't come over... Right?

Sick.

The End

Since the summer is coming to a close a little bit more quickly that I realized, this will probably be the last installment of

Notes on Traveling
Lesson 5: Sometimes Fear is a Good Thing?
Lesson 1; Lesson 2; Lesson 3; Lesson 4

When I was a kid I was afraid, A LOT. Mostly, my fears were semi-irrational and I was certainly more creative with my fears than most kids and their wimpy/predictable 'fear of the dark'. For example:

*As a child I was certain that the house would be devoured by fire, so I kept a an emergency kit-- stuffed animals, Payo (my security pillow), a flashlight, a butter knife(?), a map drawing (probably crayola) of the layout of the house, the mailbox meeting place, and detailed route information, detours in red -- in a zip-lock bag under my bed for quick retrieval, just in case. I made my extremely tolerant family conduct weekly fire drills with different plans of action should the fire be at this door, or maybe that one. (And yes, we did actually set off the alarm with a match each time, and yes, I did occasionally make us all crawl in case the smoke was too thick above.)

* For a while I was convinced that Mom, Dad, and the Putz were alien robots and that when I went to sleep they would morph into their true forms in order to ... I don't know.. do whatever dastardly things alien robots are wont to do. But I was more afraid that they would malfunction like that alien robot in the Superman III movie - with Richard Pryor? I really REALLY did not want to see that. People just don't recover from that sort of sight.

* In junior high, I knew the bad guys were coming for me. I knew that if I opened my blinds, I would be standing eye-to-eye with a deranged murderer, his face pressed up against the glass, or worse an angel! Or maybe I would see the ghost of the person who was buried underneath my bedroom in an unmarked grave because he was killed there and left to rot and no one knew about it because back then they didn't keep good records of stuff like that, and hey we did find an actual cannonball buried in our front yard which means that probably SEVERAL people died near and around our house... SO I didn't open my blinds or look out the window for a really long time. Uh. Actually, I still can't do it at night. Also, I PRAYED, eyes and hands clinched, that God would never show me an angel or a ghost, friendly or otherwise.

As I got older, my fears evolved into more logical ones, but were irrationally dealt with. I won't go into these.

The point is that I am a total 'fraidy cat.

I know now that I can control my fears, and I can talk myself down from some of them. (Yes, how very adult of me.) So I was very proud of myself for flying to London and being there alone for a while. I was ecstatic that I attended a workshop in Oxford by myself, but more than that had a BLAST and made new friends there. I wasn't at all afraid in Europe which may have been stupid since a small dose of fear keeps us (especially women) vigilant and safe.

But I was irrationally terrified sometimes in New York.

Mostly, New York is a loud city, and I have very sensitive hearing. Loud noises make me anxious, especially if said noises are a million sirens at night.. in New York. No one can go to The City without being constantly reminded of 9/11, but oddly in a stoic - no fear way. People LOVE The City and defy anyone to mess with it again. New Yorkers aren't afraid of anything anymore. They don't notice that there are cops on every corner with bomb sniffing dogs heeled at their sides. They don't notice the officer who walks down the aisle on the subway who is checking under seats, eyes constantly moving, who steps off of the train at each stop, looks both ways, says something into his walkie-talkie and gets back on - only to reopen the doors if he wants to double check. They don't notice that this is the forever norm, or that we can't go back.

We have become so accustomed to the fear, that it isn't fear anymore. It's life.

I was talking to a friend of mine whose little sister can't remember a time before orange alert. And it dawned on me that from now on, children will have to live in an orange alert world. What does that mean for them? What does it mean for our country? The world (which has been on orange alert FAR longer than we realize)?

Maybe I'm being over paranoid or pessimistic since I can't imagine returning to a time where we aren't afraid. And this is nothing new, seeing as the Cold War brought people to their knees - literally under their desks at schoolhouses.

I realize that probably in order for things to get better, worse things will have to happen, whether we are talking about another attack on "US soil", or whether we're talking about willingly giving-up our civil liberties and becoming a police state disguised as a safe haven.

The problem is our memories are short.
The problem is we make big guns and it is easier to point and shoot those guns than it is to negotiate.
The problem is we all want to be soldiers, both literally and figuratively, fighting for 'the cause' but are sometimes unsure as to what exactly 'the cause' is, and don't remember the rationale behind fighting for it.
The problem is we are fearfully reactionary beings and keep secret precautions under our beds.
The problem is we're afraid of angels.


And that scares the hell out of me.

Happy Blogiversary To Me!!

So today is my one year blogiversary! I've come a long way since my awkward 1st post one year ago. This year I have gone through a whirlwind of change: I can actually be still and meditate; I am evolving into an internationally minded teacher and learner; I am more confident in my writing and in my opinions and am more comfortable in the sharing of these; I was a moma for 10 weeks and celebrated her existence, and now mourn her departure; I allowed myself to need other people; I traveled across the ocean by myself and then cruised north; I changed my hair color at least 4 times and learned to accept my mothiness - the girl who would someday be a butterfly if it weren't for that way-too-attractive flame. Well, that AND the fact that she constantly trips over the silly up-side-down welcome mat at her doorstep..

My life is FULL!
(a whispered thank you.)
My life is full.

In celebration I am toasting the computer screen with a watermelon martini. Cheers! Or as Mom and her friends say,
"Here's to Texas, Heroes, and Friends!"



Thanks to Lisa and Jen who helped me birth and continue to nurture this LOVELY blog addiction.

I am so lucky to be able to reconnect with all of you guys, my family, and for you to connect with each other in this space.

And thanks to those of you, my Stealthily Silent Visitors, who are interested enough to keep reading.

Thanks to all of you for loving me in the true spirit of communitas and for adding brilliant color to the circus show that is this Viaggio. :)
I love you!

The Societe Anonyme:

MODERNISM FOR AMERICA

BRANCUSI --BRAQUE--CALDER--DUCHAMP--KLEE--KANDINSKY--MIRO--MONDRIAN--MAN RAY--STELLA
See some of the exhibit collection here.

FC Dallas 5, LA Galaxy 6

So, the media was practically hyperventilating and the marketing morons for FC Dallas were having sustained climaxes at the realization that David Beckham, the megastar of all things football in Britain (and really around the world), was leaving his team (Real Madrid where, for a while he was considered a 'has been' but also where eventually he redeemed his reputation by playing some amazing soccer and leading that team to supreme victory) to come to the states and play Major League Soccer for Los Angeles. And also, LA threw stacks and stacks of cash at him..

There were obviously major advantages surrounding this buy out for American soccer since we are typically seen as the "joke league" around the world. We don't play as fast as the Europeans, we don't handle the ball as beautifully as the Latin Americans, and we play with more integrity (as in not as many dives or headbutts) than several countries which, unfortunately, means we lose. Our league IS a baby league and we are slowly bringing up the level of play so as to be as competitive as the rest of the world.

So, bringing Becks to the states was supposed to boost American interest in soccer. His (gorgeous) body on the field was supposed to put butts in seats and was supposed to be one of the first steps in bringing several football megastars to the US in order to raise the level of competition. As it stands now we only export our major players, especially since most of our players have to work two jobs to sustain any kind of living here and they can make the same income by asking you if you "want fries with that."

The point of me telling you all of this is that MLS was getting their big break. Or at least the world would be watching to see what would happen to Becks and Posh. (Could they stand living in such uncivilized filth?) But also maybe they would see that MLS is not a big lazy side show missing its main clown.

Only it was on Tuesday night.

The game was SOLD OUT which was a HUGE deal since the stadium is usually only 1/4 full. I even have to admit that when I bought my ticket package, I requested the "Beckham game." Two nights before the game, I was..um. - I mean- people were painting their "Becks, I want to have your baby!" signs for the game, and the marketers for FC were busy patting themselves on the backs (handshakes and toasts all around) when the news came that LA decided to leave David Beckham at home.

WHAT?

We knew Becks was injured, and that we weren't going to see him "bend" anything. But he was at least going to be on the sidelines, right? Nope. Life. as. we. know. it. ended!!!

OK, OK. It wasn't THAT dramatic, but we were disappointed. And those of us who actually support MLS who went to the game anyway knew that this was a major hit to Dallas soccer. The team was really going to have to put on a show at this game for all of the folks who had paid to see Beckham and who were going to have to settle for (choke) Landon Donovan.

In short, the first half was a disaster! We were down by 3 within the first twenty minutes. We got it together in the second half and FC (after a beautiful bicycle kick goal that was called back) brought back their game and lost by one point in this, the most bizarrely fantastic soccer show in the history of MLS. And we didn't need no stinking David Beckham!

Click here for a more intelligent, comprehensive game report by Jamie F.


END NOTES:
1. I LOVE Juan Toja (#8) and his supersonic mullet.

2. Landon Donovan is an ungracious, nancy pants a-hole! And I will NEVER support him again, not even on the national team.


Guy sitting next to me: Did you see why Landon Donovan got that yellow card?
Me: Was it because he has an extremely large forehead?
Guy: (looking confused) No. It's because he shushed the crowd, pointed at us, and then pretended to slash his throat (while mouthing "game over") after he scored his last goal.
Me: I know. I saw it. (yelling) Suck my d____, Landon Donovan!
(sorry Mom. I did, in fact, risk my own yellow card at the game to yell this and it was in poor form. But I still mean it.)

3. Favorite fan signs at our Beckham-less game:
a. "Bench it like Beckham! "
b. "English exports:
2 million Harry Potter books - priceless.
250 million dollar football player - worthless.
Where the Beck are you? "


Pictures borrowed from 3rd Degree website, Reuters, AP, and my own camera.