Sunday, February 18, 2007
Climb Ev'ry Mountain
I've not had a cigarette since Valentine's Day. I chose that day for two reasons, one of which is self-love. No, not THAT kind of self-love! The other reason is to honor my 87 year old grandmother (born on Valentine's Day), who doesn't even know I smoke. She's never smoked, never drunk alcohol.
I quit in '97 and didn't smoke for about five years. For the past five years, though, I've smoked every time I go out. I go out a lot. I've smoked every time I'm with my smoking friends. I see my friends a lot. In fact, I've erroneously called myself a non-smoker just because every week a few days go by when I don't smoke. (I can picture Dr. Phil sitting across from me on the stage, saying, "Are you KIDDING me??")
Friday was a mountain, for sure. I went to the club after school, as I do most Fridays. I went alone, for the Senora was otherwise occupied. Alone was good. I could sit there at the bar, catch my buzz, and concentrate on why I needed to get this first smoke-free buzz out of the way.
1. I pride myself on being fairly intelligent. Having asthma and smoking is not something an intelligent person does. I don't want people to shake their heads at my funeral. "Man, how could Chrissy be so stupid? What a waste."
2. I don't want to someday drag an oxygen tank around with me. I kept picturing all the places it would be inconvenient/unattractive: in bed with my husband, at school, on the dancefloor at my niece's wedding. I can't be a sexy yet capable and powerful older woman, a contender, so to speak, with an oxygen tank.
3. I don't want to lose my voicebox. Yes, that may sound dramatic-- not a surprise to those of you who really know me-- but my grandfather did have throat cancer, and I do have GERD already, which can lead to throat cancer. As Friday progressed and Tripper joined me at a party, I kept bringing this up. I turned to him, placed my index finger over my throat, and talked in a funny robot voice: "Hello, class. I'm your teacher, Mrs. Snow. This year we'll learn how to take tests so that none of you are left behind." Tripper grew weary of this new preoccupation of mine. "If you don't stop that, I'm gonna leave you behind," he retorted. "But I don't want a trach, " I whined. "You don't want a stoma," he corrected. "A trach's what they give you in an emergency." Oh, okay. That, too.
Keeping my reasons in mind, later that evening we attended a 50th birthday party for Flo, one of my first acquaintences in Sipesville. Flo managed the Irish pub in the same building as my apartment, and I spent many evenings working/relaxing there with her, the other waitresses, and Declan, the owner. Tripper and I, newly engaged, had attended Flo's 40th birthday party. I was a smoker then, soon be a non-smoker. I wanted to be a non-smoker for this party.
It was very difficult. Sitting at the club's bar alone was one thing, but mingling with old friends in a smoky bar was quite another. When I had been at the club, I knew I wanted to smoke. I knew this because ... well, it felt like sheets of water were dripping off my brain, leaving it dry and itchy. Now, however, it was as though my brain were covered in old paint, and I HAD to peel off that paint. Another hour passed, and the old paint had turned to concrete which had to be chiseled off. By the middle of the party, the concrete had morphed into an epoxy-resin type substance, impervious to everything except sweet, sweet carcinogens. It was as though chunks of me were floating away, and the only way to draw them back was to inhale, to caress a Marlboro or Salem Light in my mouth.
Sometime a few hours into it, I felt better. I stopped thinking of it. My brain actually felt normal, or as normal as my brain ever feels. I felt a little triumphant. It didn't hurt that I saw two women, women I don't see often. They're both just a few years older than I am, both fun, both smart, both like to party. They both look pretty old.
Now, logically I know that having good skin is nothing but a crap shoot. My friend Judy has smoked for 40 years. She has no lines around her lips. Her skin is firm. My friend Annie has never smoked but her lips look like they have. For about 100 years. Gambling has never worked for me, though, so I'll just add vanity to my list of reasons to keep climbing the mountain. I must be at base camp by now.
I quit in '97 and didn't smoke for about five years. For the past five years, though, I've smoked every time I go out. I go out a lot. I've smoked every time I'm with my smoking friends. I see my friends a lot. In fact, I've erroneously called myself a non-smoker just because every week a few days go by when I don't smoke. (I can picture Dr. Phil sitting across from me on the stage, saying, "Are you KIDDING me??")
Friday was a mountain, for sure. I went to the club after school, as I do most Fridays. I went alone, for the Senora was otherwise occupied. Alone was good. I could sit there at the bar, catch my buzz, and concentrate on why I needed to get this first smoke-free buzz out of the way.
1. I pride myself on being fairly intelligent. Having asthma and smoking is not something an intelligent person does. I don't want people to shake their heads at my funeral. "Man, how could Chrissy be so stupid? What a waste."
2. I don't want to someday drag an oxygen tank around with me. I kept picturing all the places it would be inconvenient/unattractive: in bed with my husband, at school, on the dancefloor at my niece's wedding. I can't be a sexy yet capable and powerful older woman, a contender, so to speak, with an oxygen tank.
3. I don't want to lose my voicebox. Yes, that may sound dramatic-- not a surprise to those of you who really know me-- but my grandfather did have throat cancer, and I do have GERD already, which can lead to throat cancer. As Friday progressed and Tripper joined me at a party, I kept bringing this up. I turned to him, placed my index finger over my throat, and talked in a funny robot voice: "Hello, class. I'm your teacher, Mrs. Snow. This year we'll learn how to take tests so that none of you are left behind." Tripper grew weary of this new preoccupation of mine. "If you don't stop that, I'm gonna leave you behind," he retorted. "But I don't want a trach, " I whined. "You don't want a stoma," he corrected. "A trach's what they give you in an emergency." Oh, okay. That, too.
Keeping my reasons in mind, later that evening we attended a 50th birthday party for Flo, one of my first acquaintences in Sipesville. Flo managed the Irish pub in the same building as my apartment, and I spent many evenings working/relaxing there with her, the other waitresses, and Declan, the owner. Tripper and I, newly engaged, had attended Flo's 40th birthday party. I was a smoker then, soon be a non-smoker. I wanted to be a non-smoker for this party.
It was very difficult. Sitting at the club's bar alone was one thing, but mingling with old friends in a smoky bar was quite another. When I had been at the club, I knew I wanted to smoke. I knew this because ... well, it felt like sheets of water were dripping off my brain, leaving it dry and itchy. Now, however, it was as though my brain were covered in old paint, and I HAD to peel off that paint. Another hour passed, and the old paint had turned to concrete which had to be chiseled off. By the middle of the party, the concrete had morphed into an epoxy-resin type substance, impervious to everything except sweet, sweet carcinogens. It was as though chunks of me were floating away, and the only way to draw them back was to inhale, to caress a Marlboro or Salem Light in my mouth.
Sometime a few hours into it, I felt better. I stopped thinking of it. My brain actually felt normal, or as normal as my brain ever feels. I felt a little triumphant. It didn't hurt that I saw two women, women I don't see often. They're both just a few years older than I am, both fun, both smart, both like to party. They both look pretty old.
Now, logically I know that having good skin is nothing but a crap shoot. My friend Judy has smoked for 40 years. She has no lines around her lips. Her skin is firm. My friend Annie has never smoked but her lips look like they have. For about 100 years. Gambling has never worked for me, though, so I'll just add vanity to my list of reasons to keep climbing the mountain. I must be at base camp by now.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
5 Slightly Odd Things
1. I used to be a conservative Christian. (Wait, I thought this was a list of 5 Shameful Things...) My high school research paper defended censorship in school libraries. I attended a youth group cookout where they wanted to burn my brand new Bryan Adams concert t-shirt. While visiting my aunt in NYC when I was a kid, she wanted me to harass a gay couple walking through Central Park. "They probably wouldn't say anything to you, Chrissy." Once I had a horrible kidney infection, and the church men annointed me with oil and prayed over me. I'm told it worked. I didn't remember any of this until recently, and now I only vaguely can picture the tall men in suits murmuring prayers, eyes closed, each placing his right hand on my back or shoulder. My mom says I was going to have to go on dialysis.
2. I'm not baptized. This is odd, I suppose, after reading number one on my list. Recently Carlin and Kelly had Baby Ruth baptized. Tripper was signed on as godfather. Tripper's Grandmother Vandervort was pleased, but mostly relieved. "Your great-grandmother let your grandfather go to war without being baptized! He always thought he was, but he wasn't. What if something happened??" I wisely said nothing-- a red letter day, for sure. At my church, infants weren't baptized. Instead, you chose to get baptized when you became born again. I guess I just never felt it. As I became older, the thought of our televangelist, red comb-over and all, plunging me into the baptismal in front of everyone became less and less desirable. It was the 80's, after all. I had failed swimming in junior high for the very same reason: it took too long to do the hair.
3. Sloth is my favorite deadly sin. I can watch Bridezillas for 12 hours straight, and have. I really want to be a person who has to get right up in the morning and work, work, work away before the day is wasted, but I can't. I like to get up, check email and blogs, eat breakfast, then take a nap. Thousands of years ago, I most likely would have been shunned, left to die upon the veldt.
4. I wouldn't mind being donated to science when I die. By donated to science, I mean the whole shebang-- eyes, organs, etc., but also my body. My limbs. My head. Yes, I could be a cadaver used for educational purposes by pre-med students. Tripper won't promise me this. He says if I go first, he'll have me cremated (another wish), he'll have a memorial party, he'll even allow Monster Ballads to be played. He won't, however, subject me to being taken to parties and wearing funny hats. He knows that this is the fate of cadavers. I say, why should my afterlife be any different than my actual life? He won't budge.
5. I'm not a huge fan of books, DVDs, stuff. Tripper has called me Der Fuhrer because of it. I got rid of a box of his paperback books, or pressured him to get rid of it, because we were moving, and they stunk. They smelled musty, mildewy. Their pages could hardly be turned. Another time, he brought home a box of a hundred books or so, books that his boss's wife wanted out of their own house. I was not pleased. Tripper, in his defense, has worked his way through most of them, but I think there are still dozens taking up space in one of our closets and on our shelves, shelves where we could put books and things we actually choose to have. When I get new things, I get rid of old things. If something comes into the house, something must exit. (Maybe that's why we don't have kids. Tripper's probably afraid that he'd have to go.) When Tripper's grandmother Suffolk moved from her house into my mother-in-law's home, we had to downsize an entire life. Someday we'll have to do this for my mother-in-law, and that will take years.
I'm slightly odd, it seems. I'd be perfectly happy lying in a state of sloth on the veldt, bereft of books and DVDs, just waiting for my unbaptized soul to leave my body.
2. I'm not baptized. This is odd, I suppose, after reading number one on my list. Recently Carlin and Kelly had Baby Ruth baptized. Tripper was signed on as godfather. Tripper's Grandmother Vandervort was pleased, but mostly relieved. "Your great-grandmother let your grandfather go to war without being baptized! He always thought he was, but he wasn't. What if something happened??" I wisely said nothing-- a red letter day, for sure. At my church, infants weren't baptized. Instead, you chose to get baptized when you became born again. I guess I just never felt it. As I became older, the thought of our televangelist, red comb-over and all, plunging me into the baptismal in front of everyone became less and less desirable. It was the 80's, after all. I had failed swimming in junior high for the very same reason: it took too long to do the hair.
3. Sloth is my favorite deadly sin. I can watch Bridezillas for 12 hours straight, and have. I really want to be a person who has to get right up in the morning and work, work, work away before the day is wasted, but I can't. I like to get up, check email and blogs, eat breakfast, then take a nap. Thousands of years ago, I most likely would have been shunned, left to die upon the veldt.
4. I wouldn't mind being donated to science when I die. By donated to science, I mean the whole shebang-- eyes, organs, etc., but also my body. My limbs. My head. Yes, I could be a cadaver used for educational purposes by pre-med students. Tripper won't promise me this. He says if I go first, he'll have me cremated (another wish), he'll have a memorial party, he'll even allow Monster Ballads to be played. He won't, however, subject me to being taken to parties and wearing funny hats. He knows that this is the fate of cadavers. I say, why should my afterlife be any different than my actual life? He won't budge.
5. I'm not a huge fan of books, DVDs, stuff. Tripper has called me Der Fuhrer because of it. I got rid of a box of his paperback books, or pressured him to get rid of it, because we were moving, and they stunk. They smelled musty, mildewy. Their pages could hardly be turned. Another time, he brought home a box of a hundred books or so, books that his boss's wife wanted out of their own house. I was not pleased. Tripper, in his defense, has worked his way through most of them, but I think there are still dozens taking up space in one of our closets and on our shelves, shelves where we could put books and things we actually choose to have. When I get new things, I get rid of old things. If something comes into the house, something must exit. (Maybe that's why we don't have kids. Tripper's probably afraid that he'd have to go.) When Tripper's grandmother Suffolk moved from her house into my mother-in-law's home, we had to downsize an entire life. Someday we'll have to do this for my mother-in-law, and that will take years.
I'm slightly odd, it seems. I'd be perfectly happy lying in a state of sloth on the veldt, bereft of books and DVDs, just waiting for my unbaptized soul to leave my body.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Feeling a Little Test-y?
I sit here at the computer in our new chair, bought at a real bargain from a friend-of-a-friend who sells office furniture. A real steal, except for the fact that in one of my blonde moments I wrote the wrong amount in the words-instead-of-numbers line on my check. I wrote that amount for about $50 more. Sadly, THAT's the amount the bank must go by. My mom, the Bank Queen, said she doubted anyone would catch it, and she was right...for a couple of weeks. GRRRR. I don't fault her, though. (We recently found out she did us a favor before the bank's great slaughter: we mentioned that we NEVER get fees for ATM machines, no matter which one we use. "I made you guys preferred customers," she said with a smile. Mama's always got your back, eh?)
At any rate, I should be in school right now. Students should be saying The Pledge. We should be getting ready for the state writing exams, where students prove they can memorize a formula for writing an essay, thereby remembering why they don't like to write.
Yesterday at lunch a colleague shared her desire to commit suicide. The kids were practicing their essay skills by responding to this former state prompt: Time Magazine is accepting suggestions for Person of the 20th Century. Write an essay persuading the editors to accept your choice for this award. Be sure to consider this influential person's contributions to society.
"They don't know when the 20th century was. They don't know what contributions are. They don't know what influential means. They don't know what Time Magazine is. I understand your mom is a great person, but I don't think she has influenced the world!"
So, today we should be administering the test, the first of three sessions. Instead, here I am, awaiting the storm of the season, a lulu which is expected to dump upon us anywhere from 10 to 18 inches of snow.
Today I also should be perusing Student Teacher Boy's unit plan for The Outsiders. Actually, I should have done that yesterday, but he didn't have it. He also didn't have all his lesson plans for this week. I wasn't happy. He also didn't have a bulletin board ready. Where, oh, where is that young man of promise, that stripling who performed excerpts of his award-winning guitar solo to "You Shook Me All Night Long" at the Snowball a couple of weeks ago?
Alas, I feel STB is weary and confused. He wants to create award-winning bulletin boards, bulletin boards on par with Andrew McCarthy's window displays from Mannequin. (He didn't get this reference.) I told him that anything he came up with would most likely be hundreds of times better than what my students usually see. He is paralyzed by perfectionism. He suffers from the dreaded Bulletin Board Block.
"I need to see some sort of unit plan, STB. I need to see your plan of getting through the novel. How long is it going to take? What sorts of activities are the kids going to do? Are you planning a test? A project? Skits? How many pages are you going to read a day? What do you want the kids to get out of this?"
"Yeah, okay." STB looks at the floor.
I don't want to be too hard on him. I try to remember that I wasn't the world's best student-teacher. I try to be a good role model. I attempt to "have his back" while making sure he doesn't land on his ass.
At any rate, I should be in school right now. Students should be saying The Pledge. We should be getting ready for the state writing exams, where students prove they can memorize a formula for writing an essay, thereby remembering why they don't like to write.
Yesterday at lunch a colleague shared her desire to commit suicide. The kids were practicing their essay skills by responding to this former state prompt: Time Magazine is accepting suggestions for Person of the 20th Century. Write an essay persuading the editors to accept your choice for this award. Be sure to consider this influential person's contributions to society.
"They don't know when the 20th century was. They don't know what contributions are. They don't know what influential means. They don't know what Time Magazine is. I understand your mom is a great person, but I don't think she has influenced the world!"
So, today we should be administering the test, the first of three sessions. Instead, here I am, awaiting the storm of the season, a lulu which is expected to dump upon us anywhere from 10 to 18 inches of snow.
Today I also should be perusing Student Teacher Boy's unit plan for The Outsiders. Actually, I should have done that yesterday, but he didn't have it. He also didn't have all his lesson plans for this week. I wasn't happy. He also didn't have a bulletin board ready. Where, oh, where is that young man of promise, that stripling who performed excerpts of his award-winning guitar solo to "You Shook Me All Night Long" at the Snowball a couple of weeks ago?
Alas, I feel STB is weary and confused. He wants to create award-winning bulletin boards, bulletin boards on par with Andrew McCarthy's window displays from Mannequin. (He didn't get this reference.) I told him that anything he came up with would most likely be hundreds of times better than what my students usually see. He is paralyzed by perfectionism. He suffers from the dreaded Bulletin Board Block.
"I need to see some sort of unit plan, STB. I need to see your plan of getting through the novel. How long is it going to take? What sorts of activities are the kids going to do? Are you planning a test? A project? Skits? How many pages are you going to read a day? What do you want the kids to get out of this?"
"Yeah, okay." STB looks at the floor.
I don't want to be too hard on him. I try to remember that I wasn't the world's best student-teacher. I try to be a good role model. I attempt to "have his back" while making sure he doesn't land on his ass.
