Careers that Begin with "P"

Mike the Plumber helped me unclog my water heater last week. When Mike replaced our old water heater in 2001, he explained that routine maintenance would extend our water heater’s life up to ten years. This amounted to attaching a hose to the bottom of the water heater and letting the water drain down our driveway for 30 seconds a month. Neither my husband nor I routinely maintained the water heater, so when Mike had to poke a wire into the clog of sediment, and the wet sediment sprayed all over him, I felt a little guilty. I got him several towels to wipe off the gunk. I offered him a beer, but he settled for a Coke. I offered to wash his shirt, but he said it wasn’t necessary because he always brings an extra one. While Mike wiped his face and got the sediment out of his hair and ears, we talked about our children. Mike has been our plumber for years; our kids went to the same schools.

Mike told me the latest dilemma in his daughters’ lives has been about their majors. Mike said that his older daughter, who will be graduating in the spring, has decided she hates her major. He said she is very stressed about it and nothing he says to her seems to help. His younger daughter is equally stressed because she has to declare her major at the end of next semester and has not figured out what she wants to do.

I made Mike feel a little better when I told him that my sons were running pretty much parallel with his daughters. One son has told us he is not thrilled with his major with just another lap to go, and the other son is also undecided.

"What made you decide to be a plumber," I asked.

Mike told me when he went to college, he got a degree in anatomy because he wanted to be a doctor. By the time he got his undergraduate degree, he realized he did not want to spend any more time in a classroom, so he became a policeman. Then he got married and his daughters were born. After he was shot once in his shoulder -- he showed me the scar when he was changing his shirt -- his wife made it abundantly clear that, if he ever wanted to see his daughters again, he would find a career that did not require dodging bullets. Twenty years ago, a friend who owned a plumbing company offered Mike a job.

I asked Mike if he was happy doing what he does. He said he liked almost everything about it -- except when his clients do not maintain their water heaters.

Then, Mike asked, "Did you always want to be a writer?"

I shared my story: When I told my parents that I wanted to write for The Tonight Show, the response I got was, "Be a teacher. Teachers have jobs." Their logic was that it was more likely that I would get married and have babies than it would be to get a job writing for Johnny Carson. With teaching, they said, I would always have a career to fall back on. I did what my parents suggested, taught English for a bunch of years, had my children, and never ever ever wanted to fall back on education. I started writing while my kids were at school each day, and except for the obligatory rejection letters, it wasn't a half bad way to make a terrible living.

I told Mike that my husband had a different dream. Having grown up near the beach, he told his parents he wanted to go to the University of Hawaii to major in marine biology. His parents said, "Major in business. If you go to school anywhere near a beach, you will wind up surfing all day and never get a degree." There may have been some truth to that.

When I asked Mike what advice he has given his daughters, he laughed and said, "I don’t give them advice. They don't listen to me anyway." That sounded familiar. What Mike and I realized, however, was that we actually have given our children the same advice: "Do what you love, and if you can't do what you love, then love what you do." Unfortunately, this falls short of actually pointing someone in a direction, so it is probably no better than the advice we got from our parents.

After Mike left, I went on the internet and started investigating college majors and career choices. Many university websites have valuable information that is supposed to help a student pinpoint his or her direction. I decided that if I were making choices for myself, a website would not help me much.

Then I did a little more digging and found some information that I thought was pertinent to kids and adults who are confused about their futures. I learned that:

• Country singer, Garth Brooks, has a degree in marketing.
  


• Frank Capra, director of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, It's a Wonderful Life, and It Happened One Night had a degree in chemical engineering.
  


• Roger Corman, director of many films, including the original film version of The Little Shop of Horrors, received an industrial engineering degree from Stanford.
  


• Howard Cosell was a labor lawyer before becoming a sportscaster.
  


• Oscar Hammerstein II received a law degree from Columbia University Law School, but gave that up to write the lyrics for such musicals as The Sound of Music and Show Boat.
  TV host, Montel Williams, is a highly decorated former Naval engineer and Naval intelligence officer.
  


• Ashton Kutcher of Hey, Dude! Where's My Car? and That 70s Show majored in biochemical engineering.
  


• Weird Al Yankovitz got his degree in architecture.
  

Those are just a few of the examples I found. There were pages of them. I figured those few made my point.

Last night, my younger son, who is living in a dorm at his college, called me with a whole week’s worth of things to tell me:

First, his English professor liked his paper so much that she thinks it might be publishable. He said at first he thought that was a sign that maybe journalism might be a good major for him until he realized he really doesn't like to write.

Second, he thinks he is going to drop calculus because even though he did well in calculus in high school, he thinks he is already in over his head and maybe he should have listened to us when we suggested taking an easier math class his first semester.

Third, his roommate accidentally flushed the plastic thing that holds the toilet paper down the toilet. Realizing that when the plumber got there and found the plastic thing inside the toilet, that they might have to pay for the repair, they decided to fix it themselves. They went online and found a site about how to fix toilets. They shut off the water, unscrewed the toilet from the floor, and managed to pull out the toilet paper holder. While reaching up into the toilet, something rubber crumbled in my son's hand. He thought it might be a gasket or something, but he was not sure. They reattached the toilet anyway, and when they turned on the water, the gasketless toilet leaked. They called maintenance. When maintenance fixed the toilet, there was no charge since the repairman just assumed the leak came from wear and not from inexperienced, computer-educated plumbers.

I told my son about my experience with Mike the Plumber and about his daughters' dilemmas. My son said he still does not know what he wants to be when he grows up, but he thought it was cool that he could handle a plumbing emergency. Then he added, "I’m up to "P" this week. Hey, maybe, when I grow up, I'll be a paramedic, a plumber, or a pirate."

It made sense to me, but then again, I am his mother.

- - - - -

©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

(Originally published at the Irascible Professor - http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-10-30-06.htm )

I'm Easy!

My husband always tells people I'm difficult to buy presents for. He says he can't do anything right even when he's trying to do something special and unique. He says I don't give good hints. He says all these things about my weird taste.

There's no truth to anything he says. I'm easy. I'm so easy that EVERY husband should have a wife as easy as I am.

You see, I have a Red Jeep Wrangler. It's not my first Wrangler and it definitely won't be my last.

The Wrangler is a great vehicle. It's not a car even though the guy at the carwash charges me as if it is. It's not a truck. It's not an SUV. It's not a Mom Mobile. It's a Wrangler, and Wranglers are in a class unto themselves. Nothing else comes close to them, even though many try. In fact, even the Jeep manufactures are trying to change the specs on this classic vehicle. Unfortunately for them, the diehard Jeep owners who are considering a newer Jeep have been known to go into a dealership and ask them to put in crank windows instead of electric and to remove the new fancy features in order to bring their new Jeep back to its classic heritage. I am one of those people.

Let me tell you about my Wrangler, and with it, I will tell you how easy I am when it comes to buying presents for me.

Flashback to Valentine's Day 1998: My current Wrangler was a month old.

"Chocolate?" my husband asked.

"Gloss black grill guard," I replied. "The guy at the off-road place in the airpark knows which one I want."

Flashback to Birthday, 1998:

"Chocolate?" my husband asked.

"Deluxe sport handles and black mesh light guards," I replied. "I folded down the pages in the catalog in the bathroom. There's a coupon with a discount, too."

Flashback to Anniversary, 1998:

"Chocolate?" my husband asked.

"Front and rear slush mats," I replied. "And a black leather t-style hood bra."

The list goes on.

I'm so easy. All my husband has to do is pull into the off-road place or dial an 800 number, and my present is a done deal.

If they make it for a Wrangler, I've got it or I want it. I have dreams about light bars, side bars, air intake scoops, and safari snorkels. My husband knows this because I wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him about these dreams.

"Are you sleeping?"

"I was."

"I had another dream!"

"Let me guess. Was it about Jeep accessories?"

To put it simply, if my husband wants to buy me a present, without asking and ruining the surprise, all he has to do is buy more bells and whistles for my Wrangler. And if he's concerned about which accessory to buy, all he has to do is pay attention when I retell my dreams to him. I'm so easy.

I take excellent care of my Wrangler. My son's best friend always tells me he knows it's me in the red Wrangler coming down the road even though there are so many red Wranglers these days because he needs sunglasses from the shine. No one's Wrangler shines like mine. My 98 Wrangler could pass for brand new. If you have a cool Wrangler, it doesn't come without responsibility.

For Mother's Day last year, when he asked me what I wanted because I never give him hints or leave him lists, I told him he could wax my Wrangler. He was happy. I was thrilled. Soooo easy.

Unfortunately, my Wrangler obsession has created a monster.

My husband thought he could take our sons camping using my Wrangler. That included taking it off-road and getting it dirty.

It turned into an ugly scene. I stamped my feet and acted indignant, but he convinced me that taking his Mustang off-road was just dumb and dangerous.

"We can't do 45 degree angles in a Mustang," he said. "We'll get stuck....or killed! You wouldn't want your children killed in an off-road accident because we took a sports car instead of the appropriate 4-wheel drive Wrangler. Would you?"

So, I gave in.

When they returned, he said I "RUINED THEIR TRIP." That's in quotes because that's exactly what he said. I was home minding my own business, looking at off-road websites on the Internet, enjoying the air conditioning of my home and sipping iced tea, and I "RUINED THEIR TRIP."

It seems he was so afraid of getting my Wrangler dirty or (gasp!) scratching it, that he took the turns "like a wimp" and avoided all the "cool, macho trails" that all the other Wranglers were taking.

Which is why, a month ago, my husband traded in his Mustang for a second Wrangler. We are now officially a two-Jeep family.

His is a new, very hot color. It's this dark reddish color, but at dusk, it looks brown, and in the sun it looks plum. I forget what they called the color. It's unimportant. I think it is sienna or sierra or something like that. What is important is that my husband is happy.

He pulled his Wrangler into the garage next to mine on the day he brought it home and sang, "My Wrangler is taller than your Wrangler."

I wanted to hurt him, but I am not a violent person, so I just gave him a dirty look and said something about the color being sort of girlie.

This did not affect his mood. He and my younger son then took out the tape measure and proved it.

Two inches taller, in fact.

Of course it was; the tread on my tires has worn down. Mine is the old Wrangler. Mine is the used Wrangler. My Wrangler has been offroad. My Wrangler is in need of new tires.

My husband still looks at my Wrangler and sulks, though. In spite of his Wrangler's extra height, he still says, "You've got the cool Wrangler because you have all that neat stuff on it which I bought for you."

I've told him he'll have to wait like I did and start dressing up his Wrangler as holiday presents.

His birthday is next month. I think the first thing I'll get him a very cool aluminum front bumper I saw at the off-road place. I won't even ask him for hints. Or maybe we'll just pull into the off-road place in our separate but unequal Wranglers, and I'll let him pick out the one he wants.

And when it's my turn for the next present, I think I'll start having dreams about six-inch lift kits or roof racks. Hmmmm….a roof rack. After all, it just isn't right having both the oldest AND the shortest Wrangler in the family.

----end

Waiting for the Big "O"

(An Excerpt from Waiting in the Wrong Line)

The car is pulled to the side of a narrow dirt road almost hidden by overgrown foliage. A beautiful white sandy beach can be seen from the car through a small clearing, and waves are relentlessly eroding the shoreline. We are on the island of St. Martin in the West Indies. We are on our honeymoon.

And we’ve been fighting all week.

We have battled in restaurants.

We have bickered on the beach.

We have brawled in the waves.

Strangers hear us coming and going.

Strangers want to remain strangers.

Right now we are sitting in a rented car on the side of a dirt road almost hidden by overgrown foliage, and we have drawn a bright red boundary line down the middle of the front seat.

I am so mad. It is at least 90 degrees outside, but you can see the steam coming out of my ears, seeping out of the car, rising from the roof of our rented car. If this were a cartoon, there would be horns growing out of the roof of our car and a devil’s tail would be coming out of the exhaust pipe. The car would be rocking with body parts being thrown from the car windows.

Unfortunately, to make the week just perfect, our rental car is the lemon of all rental cars. The air conditioning doesn’t work. The radio is not attached. There is gum stuck on the driver’s side of the windshield and a spring is coming out of the passenger seat, right under my behind.

When we point this out to the rental agent, he says, with a thick accent, “Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

And, “Hey, Maan, it be all we got,” is all we’ve heard all week.

Orange juice with breakfast? “Papaya today. Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

Hot water in the shower? “Cold showers. Hey, Maan, it be all we got.”

This has not been a good week.

Of the three pieces of luggage we put on board the airplane, only two came off. The one we can’t find has my asthma medicine and my brand new expensive bathing suit in it. It took me a month to find that bathing suit, to find one that fit just right and was so comfortable and sexy. The lost piece of luggage also has my husband’s Tums. My asthma medicine is secondary. My new bathing suit doesn’t matter. My husband’s Tums? He’s a basket case!

“What am I going to do without Tums?” my husband frets.

I stare at him, wheezing, desperately trying to fill my lungs with air, hoping I can find an island pharmacist who will make a long distance call to my pulmonary specialist. I say, without a hint of nastiness, “Maybe you should lay off the spicy food this week.”

To which my husband agonizes, “I won’t make it without Tums!”

To which I reply in oxygen-poor gasps, tugging at my bathing suit that I had to buy from the store in the lobby, even though it is too small, “I guess you’ll have to live with heartburn, honey.”

It’s been a tough week.

Now we’re sitting in the rented car, on the side of a dirt road. I am tugging at my too-small bathing suit. I am wheezing. My husband has heartburn. We haven’t had a good cup of coffee in a week. And we are both pissed. We are pissed at the car. We are pissed at the hotel. And we are really pissed at each other.

My husband gets up this morning and says, “Let’s fix this vacation now.”

I nod my head, somewhat skeptically, but I agree. We need a quick fix for this honeymoon in hell.

My husband goes to the lobby to talk to the concierge. He comes back an hour later and he’s bubbling. He’s found a perfect place for us to go. He’s waving a hand drawn map. He says it’s going to be great.

I’m already upset.

Nothing on this island could possibly bring this level of excitement.

Then he starts, “The concierge says it’s called Orient Beach. It’s on the other side of the island. It will take about an hour to get there. It’s a nude beach.” My husband’s rambling now. “All the movie stars go there. Very private.” he continues.

“A nude beach?” I ask. “Why’d he tell you about it?”

“Well, we got to talking about surfing, and then he told me,” he answers. “And he said there were great waves.”

Surfing.

Great waves.

I should have read the scribbling in the sand dune.

“Great waves,” the concierge says to the boy who spent the summer of his freshman year in high school painting his mother’s house to earn money to buy his first long board.

“Great waves,” he says to the teen who hid surfing magazines under the mattress, to look at the waves, not the girls in the string bikinis.

“Great waves,” he says to the college student who memorizedEndless Summer.

“Great waves,” he says to the young adult who watched surfing specials on television instead of the Super Bowl.

“Great waves,” he says to the homeowner who wanted to decorate our living room around a poster called Sunset at Doheny.

“Great waves,” he says to the man I married who I have never seen on a surfboard.

My husband tells me “nude beach” and “movie stars,” expecting me to react with, “Wow, what a wonderful, fabulous, original idea you have,” and all he gets is a nasty look from me.

Being the wonderful sport that I am, and wanting to try to salvage this semi-miserable honeymoon in paradise, I decide to go along with it. We grab towels and sun block. My husband hands me the map, and we’re on our way to a beautiful nude beach where movie stars hang out, which just by coincidence has great waves.

We drive for an hour. The island is very green, very lush, and extremely humid. It is early when we leave. For miles we drive never seeing another vehicle. We pass many other beaches. The sand is white. The water rushing to the shore comes in long, lingering pushes against the sand. I imagine myself lying in the sand at the water’s edge. There are no people on these beaches.

We are, for the first time this week, chatting peacefully. We are even laughing. My husband doesn’t have heartburn and I am not wheezing. With some distance between the hotel room and us, this vacation is starting to look more memorable. I’m starting to think that maybe, for once, my husband has had a good idea that won’t turn into the Nightmare in the Caribbean.

Then I see the sign: Orient Beach.

The sign is large. It is brightly colored. Orient Beach.

Our day is about to be an adventure in paradise. “I got you here,” I announce, crumbling the hand written map and throwing it in the back seat.

My husband looks around. He looks at the sign. “This isn’t Orient Beach,” he says.

“Yes, it is,” I answer, pointing to the sign, “Orient Beach.”

“Nope,” he says. “This is Rient Beach. We want Orient Beach.”

“It is Orient Beach,” I continue, not having a clue what he is trying to say.

“Rient Beach,” he argues.

Now there’s an explanation here, an artistic interpretation. Imagine the word “Rient.” From the top of the “R” start an “O”. Bring it up and around the back of the “R” so that it looks like a giant “O” going around the word “Rient.” It is very clear to me. I can’t see the confusion.

I get out of the car.

“Get back in the car! This isn’t Orient Beach,” he says. He leans over the back of the seat and retrieves the map I just crumbled. “Why did you crumble this?” he mumbles. “I’ll get us there.”

“We are there,” I say. “Look at me.” He looks up.

As if my arm is a giant, thick, bold, black magic marker I am dramatizing the big “O” with my arm. I am drawing a giant “O” in the air. “See O … rient. ORIENT. See it? Don’t you see the “O”? Come on, think outside the box.” I am standing there drawing this giant “O” over and overagain in the air for my husband’s benefit.

“Get back in the car,” he says.

I go up to the billboard. I point to the “O” and draw a giant circle one more time.

“Get back in the car,” he says.

I go back to the car. I am standing next to his window. “Think of a giant ‘O.’ Now put the word ‘range’ in it. What have you got?”

Expecting to hear, “Orange,” all I get is, “Get in the car.”

“Orange,” I say. “Think ‘O’ plus ‘range’ is ‘orange.’”

He says nothing.

I try again. “Imagine the word ‘liver’ with a giant ‘O’ around it?”

“In the car,” he says louder.

I get louder, not liking the bossy tone he’s delivering. “Oliver. Think: ‘O’ plus ‘liver’ is Oliver!”

I push myself up on the hood, blocking the driver’s view. I am visibly enraged. With my finger, I write on the filthy windshield, “vulate.” Then I add the giant “O.” I am screaming. “Think. ‘O’ plus ‘vulate’ is ovulate.”

He has stopped talking.

“‘rgasm.’ ‘O’ plus ‘rgasm.’ Think!” I am writing “orgasm” across the windshield.
Screaming, “verload,” I yell and write. “‘O’ plus ‘verload,’ ‘OVERLOAD’.” I am now screaming over the engine. If anyone is hiding in the bushes, they’ve all jumped into the sea in fear of the mad woman on top of the hood of the car giving a spelling lesson to a baboon who can drive.

I get down from the hood. I open the car door get in, glaring at him, “You are such an AF!” I say.

“You mean ASS?” he says, trying to correct me.

“No,” I say. “You are an AF! ‘A.’ ‘F.’ ‘AF’.”

“What is an AF?” he asks.

“Sam, ‘AF’ with a big ‘O’ going around it. YOU ARE AN AF!” I say.

I turn my body away from him and stare out the window, trying to get a view of the great waves before we leave Rient Beach.

And then he shuts off the ignition.

“Oaf,” he says. “I am an oaf.” He meekly smiles, staring through the windshield with the words “orgasm” and “ovulate” and “overload” written in the filth.

I don’t say anything. We both silently get out of the car, grabbing our share of gear from the trunk and head toward the beach, and I swear, as we pass the “Orient Beach” sign, my husband says, “Ya know, that’s a really cool logo.”

---end

©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

The Contents of this blog – including all photographs – are COPYRIGHT PROTECTED and may NOT be used, distributed, shared, emailed, or copied in any form without the written consent of the author/photographer.

Originally Published In Traveler’s Tales – Whose Panties Are These?
Also Published at CommonTies.com and Sasee Magazine.

Whajaget?

“But there are advantages to being elected President. The day after I was elected, I had my high school grades classified Top Secret.”

Ronald Reagan

When my son was in first grade, his report card included a form from his Physical Education teacher with information such as how fast he ran the mile and how far he could jump. To gain perspective before I state the obvious, this son has grown to be a physically fit adult and has black belts in Karate and Shinkendo. Yet, according to the form, my son’s time was far below the lowest acceptable level for a six-year-old child. What was equally strange was that he had an S (for Satisfactory) on his report card in Physical Education.

We decided to meet with the Physical Education teacher because not only did he include the form, but he announced the students’ running times to the class and told all the children that anyone with my son’s time should practice running all the time so they could get faster. My son was spending a lot of time running around my living room for no apparent reason.

The Physical Education teacher, probably because he had never had a parent conference over a first grader’s mile running time before, didn’t share much with us at the conference. In fact, we were positive he didn’t even know who our son was.

To comfort our child, we tried to give him an adult outlook about the his lack of Superman abilities. “When you’re a grownup,” I said, “no one is going to stop you on the street and ask you how fast you can run the mile.”

My husband added, “Your teacher is a jerk.”

My sons have usually excelled in school academically. With one son now in college and one in high school, I know the math and science is much more difficult than anything I ever had to learn. As an educator with a specialty in English, I know my sons write much better than I did at their age. Regardless, I also know sometimes their grades and their achievements don’t match up.

For instance, at the French III level, my younger son should be able to speak some French. He knows a handful of nouns and can conjugate a few verbs, but he has chosen not to take French IV this year because, in his words, “If I get a real teacher, I’m sunk.” Yet, his grades have been consistently A’s in this course. When I asked him how he managed the grade, his answer was, “Extra credit.” Apparently, the teacher traded points for classroom donations. My son said he donated glue, pens, markers, notebooks, rulers, and an old unused lesson plan book he found in my closet.

To be fair, this son also has had teachers who made him work very hard for grades. His Chemistry teacher had him working and studying until the sun came up most of last year. His Algebra teacher rewarded his hard work accordingly. He consistently has difficult, challenging reading and writing assignments in his English classes including assignments during summer break.

Yet, as we know, all grades are not created with the same set of standards. Nor are all teachers.

At one point several years ago, I considered getting my certification to teach in Arizona. It was a weak moment; it was fleeting in nature. However, I did go through the effort of collecting the documentation that proved I went to college, graduated with honors, and went on to have a successful teaching career in another state. When my college transcript arrived, my son looked at my grades over my shoulder.

“Whajaget in Spanish?” my son asked.

“A’s,” I answered, folding up the actual report of my grades (which weren’t all A’s.)

“Were they weighted A’s?” my son asked.

“We didn’t have weighted grades back then,” I answered. “We didn’t have digital scales to weigh them. It was the pre-computer age and all we knew how to do was divide and go to the hundredths column.”

Later in the day, I found my son looking at my transcript which I’d left on my desk. “You didn’t get all A’s,” he said. “I see B’s here. This isn’t straight A’s. You’ve been lying to me all my life.”

I smiled coyly. “I got A’s in what matters.”

“I guess Philosophy mattered more than Biology,” he said. “I guess Advanced Writing mattered more than Shakespeare.”

This brings me to my point:

I recently had surgery. A mammogram showed some abnormalities, so I was forced to find a breast cancer surgeon. The doctor I found had outstanding doctor and patient recommendations, excellent manners, and took a great deal of time discussing my case with me. When she asked me if I had any questions, I said, “Just one. Whajaget in Breasts?”

I have a way of making people stop and scratch their heads.



“What did I get in Breasts?” she repeated.

“Yes, what grade did you get in Breasts?”

“Oh,” she smiled at an excessively nervous patient. “I got an A.”

“Was it weighted?” I asked.

She smiled at me. “You’re in good hands. And the odds are in your favor. I also got an A in Statistics.”

When I called my son at work a few days after the surgery to tell him that the results from the biopsy were back and the growths were benign, my son’s reaction was, “Benign is the good one. Right?”

“Yeah, that’s the good one,” I answered. Then I added, “By the way, whajaget on the verbal section of your SAT’s?”

----end





©1990 by Felice Prager. All rights reserved.





Originally published by the Irascible Professor.

Keeping Your Sanity - 20 Road Rules for Teen Drivers

According to the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, teenage drivers have the highest death rates per mile driven among all age groups, followed by elderly drivers and young adult males. In addition, most studies of motor vehicle crashes involving young people focus on drivers. However, much of the problem involves young people traveling as passengers.

My older son had the days counted from his 12th birthday. Two years before my other son turned 16, he knew his birthday was going to fall on a Sunday, which meant he would have to wait one additional day to get his driver's license. Although I did not have the days counted, I knew the event would come sooner rather than later, and I also knew I would never be fully prepared.

The idea that my sons would be driving two-ton vehicles on highways where people had fatal accidents was mind-numbing. Whenever I heard about an accident, especially an accident with fatalities and especially when they involved teens, I found myself hyperventilating and hoping the state I live in would change the driver's age before my sons reached it.

They didn't. They talk about it a lot, but they have never actually done anything about it.

Nevertheless, my husband and I decided that we would rather have our sons driving than have them as passengers in another teen's vehicle. We knew our sons were responsible. They got good grades and could be trusted. We did not know about their friends. Unless our sons lost that trust, I knew they would be driving at the earliest legal driving age.

There are parents I know who withhold the driving privilege with their own children for a variety of reasons. My husband and I did not feel that was necessary. However, we wanted to reinforce in as many ways as possible that driving is a privilege and not a right, and that the driving privilege can be taken away.

I also knew that, for my own peace of mind, I would have to set guidelines before they were driving, and there could be no deviation from the rules. Thus, I created my set of "road rules," which would let me rest a little easier when my sons were out in traffic. The following are the rules which have helped me relax a bit and have kept my hair from turning completely gray – so far:

The Rules

1. The car is not for "joy riding." If you break this rule even one time, the "joy" of driving will be so far off in the distance that even the best telescope with wide angle and telephoto lenses won't be able to get a picture of it.

2. "See this credit card with your name on it, my son whom I love? It is my peace-of-mind credit card. It has a small credit limit on it. It is for emergencies only. You can define an emergency as the car breaking down or your boss being out of the country on pay day. An emergency is not, "I really had to have that CD." The credit card is not for purchasing gasoline unless you reimburse me the moment you get home. In addition, child who was ripped from my loins, if there is a balance on the credit card, it better be car-related. Oh yes, and you're paying it. And you will pay it completely before you have permission to drive again.

3. This is a five-passenger vehicle. There are five seat belts for five passengers. Do the math. And when you drive Dad's pickup, the back of the truck is not for passengers. That includes your best friend's dog.

4. Curfews are to be strictly adhered to. Call if an emergency keeps you out past your curfew. "Allison was mad at me and we had to work it out" is not one of those emergencies.

5. You have a cell phone. Keep it with you, and keep it charged. Do not use it when you drive. Pull off the road to use it. Keep us informed of where you are, and if your plans change, let us know. We will do the same for you.

6. Fighting with your brother? You punched him? In the stomach? And then he tripped you? Gee, I don't know any adults who drive cars who still do that. Do you?

7. You have such a cool bedroom, and there are so many great things in it. It's a good thing it doesn't look like a pigsty. I don't know a single pig that has a driver's license.

8. You want a car of your own? Now tell me one more time about why you must sleep until noon instead of getting a part-time job. I always forget your reasons. They are so creative. (We will negotiate the purchase of a vehicle when you are working – not before. And, in case you forget, school work comes first.)

9. Tell me one more time why you got that "D" in Algebra? There is something wrong with that algebraic equation when it comes to driving.

10. You wouldn't break your poor mother's heart by doing one of those illegal things. Good. I didn't think you would.

11. Notice my light is still on, Honey? That's because I worry, even though you are a mature, levelheaded, young adult. It's not that I don't trust you. It's all the other nuts out there on the road that I don't trust.

12. No racing, practical jokes or giving your girlfriend driving lessons. Let your girlfriend's parents pay for driving lessons just like we did.

13. He who drives, contributes. If you can't afford gas money for some unexplainable reason, you can contribute in the category of Hard Labor. I am a great taskmaster. Our lawn is very long and the house needs a coat of paint. The gutters must be cleaned out occasionally, and that tree in the backyard needs trimming.

14. A ticket for speeding? Hand over the keys.

15. If you have a vehicle of your own, it is your responsibility to keep it in good shape. Oil changes, tire rotations and lube jobs are up to you. (We'll remind you if you forget.)

16. Don't leave me with an almost empty tank.

17. No one likes a dirty vehicle – inside and outside – especially your parents.

18. Are you tired? If you're tired, I don't want you behind the wheel. Call me – for any reason – and I will come and get you. And I won't ask questions. That's a promise.

19. You know how we always tell you how proud you make us when you do things well? Good. Remember that.

20. There are no exceptions to any of these rules.


©1998. All Rights Reserved.

Originally Published by IParenting -

Waiting for a Better Excuse - Fear of the Run-on Sentence

Dear Mrs. Prager,

I know you told us to go home yesterday and study the homonym and most commonly mixed up word list for a test today which was going to count for twenty-five percent of our grade this marking period and I had every intention of doing just that because you know how much I think about good grades and doing well so I can go to college and make something of myself and feel good about myself and make my parents proud of me so I got home and had some water and some carrot sticks because I am on a diet and I walked right past the chocolate cake that my mother made for my aunt's birthday and then I went into my bedroom to start studying because I really needed to because the whole list was so confusing and like I said I wanted to get a really good grade so I opened my notebook to the pages with the notes I took in class when you explained each of the homonyms and commonly mixed up words and I read the first one which was desert/dessert and I remembered what you said about the one you eat having two S's like two servings and I closed my eyes to force it into my head so I wouldn't forget it on the big test and all I could think about was not desert/dessert but the chocolate cake which my mother made for my aunt's birthday which I passed in the kitchen when I got my carrot sticks and water and I opened my eyes and I sat there sweating and breathing heavy because I didn't want to eat but I really wanted to eat some chocolate cake and I decided to go on to the next one on your list which was weight/wait and I knew the one with eight in it said how many pounds I wanted to lose so I closed my eyes to force it into my head and all I saw was the chocolate cake which my mother made for my aunt's birthday so I opened my eyes and I was sweating real hard now so I went to the next one which was waste/waist and I remembered you told us to make up tricks that work for us when we're trying to remember things and I looked at waste/waist and saw the little "i" in the middle of the one which meant the middle of my body kind of waist and wondered if I could lose enough weight so I could have a tiny tiny waist and I closed my eyes to try to force waste/waist into my head and there waiting for me in my brain was that chocolate cake dessert that my mother made for my aunt's birthday which made me stop forcing things into my head earlier when I was trying to remember desert/dessert and weight/wait and I opened my eyes real quick so I wouldn't think about the chocolate cake again that my mother made for my aunt's birthday and my mother makes the best chocolate cake and it's hard not to think about it when she makes it and the smell of her chocolate cake is all around the house and I looked at the list once again so I would get a good grade on the test and found the fourth set was their/there/they're and I looked at the examples I wrote to remember how to tell them apart and the first sentence example was "They brought their lunch" which made me think about supper because I skipped lunch and all I had since I had the Slim Shake for breakfast was the water and carrot sticks I had when I got home and THEY'RE not enough to fill anyone up so I started to sweat and shake and I went to the kitchen to have just one more carrot stick and some water and I couldn't help it because I swear a force greater than myself just took over my hand and forced me to drag my finger across the chocolate frosting and I sucked it off and then I fixed the mess I made with the frosting and I also grabbed a cookie on the way/weigh out of the kitchen which/witch was the official way/weigh of me ending the diet and this made/maid me sweat and feel horrible about myself because I/eye didn't really want to end the diet and I/eye did really want a thin waist/waste and I/eye wanted to lose weight/wait more than anything in the world except maybe doing well on your/yore test and I couldn't stop thinking of the chocolate cake that my mother made/maid for/four dessert/desert because it was my aunt's/ant's birthday and she was coming to/too/two dinner at our/hour house in an hour/our and now the cake was messed up and I broke my diet and I/eye was all sorts of depressed and I started to cry and I fell asleep and the next thing I knew/new was my mother was waking me up for my aunt's/ant's party and we stayed up really late celebrating with my aunt/ant so/sew I/eye never got to finish the studying and I/eye hope you/ewe can find it in your/you're/yore heart to give me another day to/two/too study because I/eye know/no I/eye can pass if you/ewe give me another chance oh please oh please and I/eye stay out of the kitchen and stop thinking about the chocolate cake that my mother made for my aunt's/ant's birthday. Oh please, oh please say yes, oh please. You/ewe don't know/no how it would/wood make a difference to my grade and my parents wouldn't get mad at me and I/eye wouldn't lose my phone and my parents wouldn't get on my case about being lazy and talking on the phone too/to/two much and daydreaming and sleeping my life away and everything would/wood be/bee nice and all and I/eye know/no you/ewe will say yes because you/ewe are my favorite teacher I/eye ever had ever for/four/fore always and always I/eye swear.

From your/you're/yore favorite student,

Kimberly Heather Jennifer Melissa Miracle Crystal Sunshine Smith

---
Originally published at the Irascible Professor: http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-05-17-02.htm
---
©2002 by Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved

Preparing an Emergency Preparedness Kit

Survival in nature is not always about life and death situations, but it can be. If planning your equipment and clothing improves your personal comfort and convenience and adds to the enjoyment of your trip, then they become essential benefits that may improve your experience and perhaps your chances for survival in the wild.

An emergency preparedness or survival kit is an item to be carried while exploring on foot. An emergency preparedness kit can be modified for road trips and other methods of exploration, but specifically, they are for hiking and climbing experiences. Whether you are engaged in a recreational activity or in coping with a survival problem, this simple, well-planned, homemade item can determine the outcome of your time in the wilderness. Emergency preparedness kits are not one-size-fits-all. Different locales require different items. A desert excursion requires different items than one in a cold area.

The most important factor in an emergency preparedness kit is that the kit contains what you need to take care of YOU until help arrives or until you are back in civilization. The most important aspect is to include items that can be used for many purposes. Single-purpose items usually are not very important unless they hold a significant value to you or your health.

A basic kit should fit in your pocket or backpack within a band-aid box or a similar metal or sealed plastic container. The following are some suggestions and possible uses for various items. You can probably think of many more that might suit your individual needs as well or better. Plan your kit intelligently. Think it through before you go. Know how everything works and what your plans are for each item. Make it your own and tailor it to your personal needs.

You may be tempted to buy a ready-made survival kit and some of these have some very useful items in them, but they are more expensive and may not fit your requirements. They also can be dangerous if you have not carefully gone through each item in the kit to know how they work and what their uses are. You may think you are prepared, but then if it comes to using an item, you may have a serious problem. In an emergency situation, you will not want to sit down and read a "how to" booklet. These store-bought kits may have items in them, however, that can be used in your kit. That is a viable option. If you plan your emergency preparedness kit yourself, the odds are that you will be thinking about how to solve a problem, not "what in the world is this thing for?"

Most items are easy to find in a drugstore or in an outdoor store. A good deal of the items can be found around your home.

1. A sturdy 2-bladed knife. A Boy Scout variety is a good example because it is multi-use. There are many knives available. You are looking for one that is small and practical for your kit.

2. Several large leaf bags for instant body shelter from the sun or cold weather. Retail stores do sell convenient solar blankets that will provide the same protection. They come neatly folded into small packages and are inexpensive. This is one instance where a store bought item may be superior.

3. A small mirror or a signal mirror.

4. A dependable magnetic compass and the ability to use it. You should not wait to be lost in the desert when you learn to use one.

5. Matches - 12 or more. Buy waterproof matches or waterproof them yourself by completely coating each match in wax or paraffin.

6. A police-type whistle. Make sure it works and works well.

7. A small magnifying lens.

8. Heavy thread - 100 feet of 8-strand for snares, shelter building, repair, and improvised clothing. Add a needle to this as it takes up no room. Add a safety pin. Again, this takes up no room and has many uses.

9. Water purification tablets - at least a dozen. The iodine variety is much more dependable than halazone. You should keep them dry. The iodine type can also be dissolved and used as an antiseptic.

10. Aluminum foil for signaling. Aluminum can also be formed into the shape of a cup or pot.

11. Razor blade - single edge.

12. Adhesive tape - for first aid purposes, clothing repair, tying, cactus thorn removal.

13. Balloons - several large, bright-colored ones for carrying water, signaling. Protect them against heat by powdering them and rapping them in newspaper. Replace frequently, as balloons will dry out.

14. Flint and steel - Practice using these to start a fire. This is something you must know how to do before you need to use them.

15. Candle stub - For drying out damp timber or for light. Wrap in foil and newspaper to prevent or at least to protect from melting in desert heat.

16. Pencil stub - Help rescue parties by leaving notes if you must move to another location.

17. Cigarette papers - For writing on, for fire starting, and for trail markers.

18. Fish hooks for fishing.

19. Alcohol wipes or similar items that come pre-packaged in drug stores.

20. Miscellaneous items – toothpick – permanent metal toothpicks take up little room, a cork, tweezers, comb for removing cactus thorns, emergency medication, aspirin, an inhaler, or Tylenol.

Other items that can be carried on a person are a belt knife, a good map of the area, thirty feet or so of strong nylon cord, a canteen, a watch, and a firearm with ammunition, if you are trained in its use. Consider carrying your gear in a small backpack. Weight carried in this manner is less tiring to the hiker. And always make sure you have plenty of water.

Put together this emergency survival kit before you need it. Think about the variety of potential dangerous situations you might find yourself in and mentally prepare yourself by knowing what you would do. Be aware of the multiple uses of each item in your kit. Even if your kit is never used, it is something you must have. The key to this kit is to improvise and think about possible problems BEFORE they occur. Keep the things in your kit small and keep it with you. The best kit in the world cannot help you if you have left it in the glove compartment of your car or back at camp. Being prepared can mean the difference between success and failure in the wild.

(Published at DesertUSA.com)

© 1998 by Felice Prager

Bedroom Battlefield - CAT WARS!

Their hissing takes me from deep, comforting sleep to sudden, unwanted consciousness. It isn't an unusual sound for this time of night in my home. Cat Wars have commenced in the bathroom adjacent to our bedroom. On some nights, I sleep right through these battle cries. On other nights, they wake me. The sounds never affect my husband’s sleep pattern. He hears nothing, or at least he pretends with enough skill to fool me.

The battlefield isn't always in the bathroom. Often it is in our family room on top of the couch. On occasion, it's in one of our children's bedrooms. Sometimes it's in the kitchen. It all depends on where the cats decided to stop, drop, and snuggle in for the night. There are nights when they snuggle under the blanket. There are nights when they end their day between our pillows. If UPS or Fedex has made a delivery, bedtime often begins within the emptied carton.

Like human siblings, brother and sister cat have devoted their lives to antagonizing each other over the littlest details of their feline existence. Mostly it's about which cat has the better place to sleep. I've sat and observed two content sleeping kitties become Cat Commandos From the Third Dimension in the matter of nanoseconds over who has the better set of legs to snuggle against.

Tonight they are fighting over a sink. We have two sinks in our bathroom; my husband has claimed the one next to the medicine cabinet as his, and I have the other. The sinks are identical, although I am sure mine is considerably cleaner. Each cat has settled into a sink. Each cat has curled up in a ball and has snuggled in for the night. At least that is how I left them when I got into bed, closed the light, and left the world behind me a few hours ago. Tonight, Mr. Cat is in my sink and Mrs. Cat is in my husband's sink. When I left them so I could snuggle into the space where I end my day, all was fine in their feline world. They were purring in semi-consciousness, dreaming of bugs, mice, catnip, canned dinner, and a full water bowl.

But a few hours have passed, and I am brought to consciousness by the sound of hissing. I get out of bed to make sure they are not doing something questionable, destructive, or potentially dangerous. It's a Mom thing. My mom-gene never shuts down, not even for the cats.

I go into the bathroom and observe Mr. Cat standing over Mrs. Cat. He is swatting her on the head with his clawless paw. There is no fear in each of his swats as Mrs. Cat hisses at her clawless, clueless brother, showing her teeth, and making it very clear that tonight she is sleeping in Daddy's sink and she is definitely not in the mood to play this game. She has no intention of moving. She is bigger than her brother. I believe it is referred to as being large-boned, or maybe it is her need to satisfy her Inner Cat Woman by filling her stomach again and again and again with gourmet treats and table scraps. In the world of feeling good about oneself, we refer to her as extra-medium rather than large or pleasantly plump. We do not want to injure her over-inflated self-esteem.

I decide the cats are safe, and I leave them to settle their own Cat Disputes. I have learned the hard way, with scars to prove it, that playing referee is a lesson in futility. As I am about to shut the light in the bathroom, I notice Mr. Cat swat Mrs. Cat one more time. Mrs. Cat rises to her feet, arches her back, lets out a loud hiss, and chases Mr. Cat through my legs, out of the bathroom, and down the hallway to the children's bedrooms.

As I cuddle under the blankets, the cats re-enter our bedroom, leaping over the bed, one still in mad pursuit of the other. I cannot see who is the chaser and who is the chasee, but I do hear my husband mumble something about cats belonging outdoors where God intended them and how good they would look stuffed. I have also heard my husband, on occasion, threaten the cats that he was going to give them back to those nice people who placed the "Free to a Good Home" advertisement. I have heard him mutter, "This isn't a good home. I'll just ask for my money back." These cats were "Free to a Good Home" almost a decade ago. I would hate to burst my husband's bubble by telling him that even if there had been a warranty, it has more than expired. Besides, I remember very clearly that he picked them out and that he had wanted a third, but ours were the only two left. I also have seen him whispering sweet nothings into both cats’ ears telling them that Mommy doesn’t love them half as much as he does.

Tonight, I just ignore him as the cats leap over the bed a second time. I pound my pillow to get the shape right and try to fall back to sleep on my side of the bed. I pull more than my share of the blanket to my side of the bed. It might be my imagination, but I think I hear my husband hiss.

© 1995 Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published by Cat Fancy Magazine.

Grand Canyon Skywalk

Before the Grand Canyon Skywalk even opened to the public, more than 2500 articles appeared about it in Great Britain, Germany, Italy, Japan, France, Australia, the United States, and other places around the world. Before anyone stepped out onto the cantilevered glass bridge, Popular Mechanics called it the “best of what’s new” in engineering. Ultimately, the Grand Canyon Skywalk has a lot of hype to live up to, and its fate will be determined by how tourists react to this new attraction. It has received a huge amount of national and international media attention, including having astronaut Buzz Aldrin lead the first walkers onto the Grand Canyon Glass Skywalk in a private ceremony on March 20, 2007. Since March 28, 2007, Grand Canyon Skywalk’s opening day, the lines to get onto the glass bridge have been long and interest has remained strong - despite the heat, the cost, the conditions in this remote area of Arizona, and the controversy surrounding the construction.

The Grand Canyon Skywalk is located at Grand Canyon West on the Hualapai Indian Reservation. It is not in Grand Canyon National Park as many have thought it was. In fact, it is a 3-hour drive from Las Vegas through Hoover Dam, a 6-hour drive from Phoenix through Wickenburg and Kingman, and a 5-hour drive from the Grand Canyon’s South Rim. Geographically speaking it is located approximately halfway between Las Vegas and the South Rim, but it is not easy getting there.

No matter what route you take, Dolan Springs Diamond Bar Road is at the end of your trip. This is a 15-mile unpaved and deeply rutted road. Since car rental agencies consider this off-road travel, you will be held liable if any damage to your vehicle is incurred. In addition, unless you are an off-road savvy driver or passenger, this is not for everyone.

Many who have visited Grand Canyon West’s Skywalk have opted to take advantage of a Park and Ride Shuttle Service offered from the Grand Canyon West Welcome Center located near Meadview, Arizona. This costs $10 per person and reservations are required.

There is also an entry fee of $49 per person into Grand Canyon West. This is called the “Spirit Package” which includes a permit to enter the area, photo opportunities with members of the Hualapai tribe in ceremonial regalia, Native American performances, transportation to a non-working mine and the glass bridge, and an all-you-can-eat western style buffet lunch. There are upgrades available to this package that include rim-side Hummer tours and horseback riding, helicopter rides down to the Colorado River, and pontoon trips on the river. These upgrades cost between $50 and $200 per person.

None of these fees includes actually walking onto the Grand Canyon Skywalk. That costs an additional $25 per person. Thus, the minimum cost for this excursion, is $75 per person. For the adventurous, it could wind up costing several hundred dollars per person.

The Skywalk is a U-shaped glass bridge jutting 70 feet past the rim of the Grand Canyon. The other side of the Canyon can be seen three miles away. The bridge is advertised as being 4000 feet high although it is said to be only about 2000 feet from the bridge to the Colorado River below which is already high above sea level. The Skywalk is not directly above the main canyon, Granite Gorge, which contains the Colorado River, but instead extends over a side canyon. The walls and floor are built from glass that is 4 inches thick. According to the press, the Skywalk is capable of holding 70 tons of weight, or the equivalent of 800 people weighing 175 pounds each. However, the permitted capacity on the Skywalk is limited to 120 persons at a time. Promotions claim that the Skywalk is sturdy enough to hold the weight of a dozen fully loaded 747’s, and strong enough to withstand winds up to 100 miles per hour and earthquakes.

Before stepping onto the glass walkway, all cameras, cell phones, keys, and other personal belongings must be surrendered so as not to puncture or scratch the glass. Visitors are given booties to wear over their shoes for the same purpose. Though the tourist is invited to bring cameras to the Skywalk, these are not permitted on the bridge. Souvenir photographs are available for sale.

Many visitors have been disappointed with the differences between the artist renderings and advertisements of the Skywalk and what the Skywalk actually is like. It is not as picturesque as the original well-know Grand Canyon National Park but it is still awe-inspiring.

To the dismay of many travelers, the site itself is also not developed yet as it is a work-in-progress. Those who have spent the money to see and walk on the bridge claim it looks more like a construction site. The site has at least 15 more years of construction ahead of it, at a minimum, to get it to be as the builders envision it.

There is also no nearby lodging available at this time. Tourists must go to Kingman which is one and a half hours away or to Laughlin or Las Vegas which is further just to find hotels. Some have opted to travel from Las Vegas or the South Rim via airplane tours to avoid the difficulties in finding lodging at the site.

To date, the Skywalk has experience long lines in blistering heat. Grand Canyon West is considerably hotter than Grand Canyon National Park. Since it is so far from civilization, there has been a shortage of water and food at times.

It is hoped that Grand Canyon West’s Skywalk Project will give an economic boost to the Hualapai Indian Tribe, who have battled widespread unemployment and poverty for decades. That is their dream though it is still far off. The concept was the dream of Las Vegas entrepreneur, David Jin, who, with the help of Las Vegas design firm, Lochsa Engineering, came up with this project.

According to Hualapai officials, the cost of the Skywalk alone will exceed $40 million when it is complete. This includes nothing but the Skywalk. Future plans for the Grand Canyon Skywalk Complex include a museum, movie theater, VIP lounge, gift shop, and several restaurants including a high-end restaurant called The Skywalk Café where visitors will be able to dine outdoors at the canyon's rim. The Skywalk is the cornerstone of a larger plan by the Hualapai tribe, which it hopes will be the catalyst for a 9,000-acre development to be called Grand Canyon West. This would open up a 100-mile stretch along the canyon's South Rim and include hotels, restaurants, a golf course, and cable cars to ferry visitors from the canyon rim to the Colorado River, which has been previously inaccessible. There are obvious protests to the environmental impact of such a project.

For varying reasons such as the above mentioned, there has been controversy about this project. From Native Americans to environmentalists, the project has been criticized.

Thus, the new Grand Canyon Skywalk has several shortcomings:

It is a long drive from anywhere.

Once you get there, the last 15 miles are bumpy and unpaved.

It is not in Grand Canyon National Park and the views are not as spectacular.

It is expensive.

Cameras are not permitted on the Skywalk.

Tourists are advised to bring sun protections (hat, sunglasses, and sunscreen) because the wait on the lines is long in the intense heat.

The project is environmentally unpopular.

It is a work in progress and resembles a construction site.

If tourists are willing to travel, brave the elements, and cover the cost of this excursion for a once-in-a-lifetime experience, it is important to understand the above variables before they go. Otherwise, it might be a better choice to wait for the site to be better developed.

That’s up to the individual tourist.

- - -

(This essay was published at DesertUSA.com in 2007.)

©2002, Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. This blog is copyright protected. No item on this blog, including this essay or any photographs, may be used without the author's express written permission.

"Kewl Ur Jets! This Aint Skool."

Yesterday, I saw the words fued and occured in the headline of a very popular Internet provider's news page. I looked them up in the dictionary to make sure I wasn't losing my mind. I was right. They were spelled wrong.

This morning on a major news station on TV, the moving news banner at the bottom of the screen included the word truely. I knew without checking that they didn't even take the time to reread the text.



I see errors like these and I start screaming, "Proofread! Proofread!" as the rest of the world is screaming, "Kewl Ur Jets! This Aint Skool." No matter what I do, no matter how much I try, I open my eyes and I see them. They stick out on the page like chocolate stains on a white wedding gown. To me, they are as evident as a bad hair day. Right there in front of my eyes, they are yelling at me, "Hey, look at us! We're misspelled, and you can't do a thing about it!"

In the back of my brain I'm thinking, "How did those people ever get their jobs?" I'm mentally wording sarcastic letters to the editor explaining that they can purchase a paperback dictionary for less than ten bucks. More importantly, I'm asking, "Doesn't anyone care anymore?"

I cannot tell a lie: I sweat the small stuff. True, I probably sweat more small stuff than ten or twenty people combined. I suppose correcting the spelling on my husband's love letters twenty years ago was proof of that.

It also doesn't help that, in mixed company and on a regular basis, I yell at the TV every time someone mispronounces or misuses a word. "There is NO th in height, you moron!" Perhaps the fact that my kids introduce me as NM, NM being a shortened form of Neurotic Mom, should be a sign that I should lighten up a bit.

But I can't.

And I don't think I want to.

OLD STAINS

I wasn't always NM. There was a time when I was NT: Neurotic Teacher.

In my first year of teaching, I prepared a list of words that bothered me when they were misspelled. I gave my students a copy of this list and told them I wouldn't tolerate these words misspelled in their work. (I said things like, "I won't tolerate…" when I was a teacher. It made me feel so powerful. The power of the red felt tip marker. The power of the old-fashioned grade book.)

However, with that word list, I didn't care if they glued the list to the back of the head of the person who sat in front of them. I just didn't want to see those words spelled incorrectly in my student's work. I explained the concept of first impressions to my students and told them that when representing themselves with the written word, it was fundamental to get it all right.



Take the word a lot. It's always two words, but many people incorrectly spell it as one. Knowing this, I'd have my students recite things like "A lot is always always always always always always always always always always always always TWO WORDS." And when someone spelled it wrong anyway, I'd go a little crazy. I'd dramatically jump up and down and bang my head against the wall. And then I'd plop a dictionary on the kid's desk.

"Find alot!" I'd say. I'd watch the kid flip through the pages, and then eventually I'd hear, "Hey, Miss Klein, it's not here."

"Of course, it's not there!" I'd dramatically emphasize. "It's not a word. It's TWO words."



Then I'd make the kid write a lot a few hundred times for practice - to help him remember for the next time.

Nowadays, that would be considered corporal punishment, but when I taught, it was considered reinforcement. And it worked. By the end of the year, there wasn't a student in my class who would spell a lot wrong again.

One day while I was still teaching, I went out for my 42-minute lunch break and ran into an ex-student at the deli where I got my coffee. By this time, he had become a CPA.

"Yo, Miss Klein," he said. "How ya doin? Ya know, you were wrong about a lot. It is one word."

"No, it's not," I said.

"Yes, it is," he said.



Then he explained that he had written a report for his boss. His boss called him into his office, told him the report was excellent, but suggested that the next time he correct his spelling prior to submitting it. His boss had the two separate words a lot circled in red on his report.

At that point, I realized I was fighting a terrible monster because a lot is always always always always always always always always always two words…unless your boss says it's not, especially if your boss is also the guy who writes your check.

NEW STAINS

Fast forward to now. My kid comes home from school. "I have to memorize the demonstrative pronouns," he says. I dig up from the cobwebs of my brain the words this, that, these, and those. My kid shows me a sheet the teacher distributed from which to study. On it he has the title Demonstrative Pronouns. Then he has this, that, these, and there.

"THERE isn't a pronoun," I tell my kid. "It's an adverb. He should have had those on your list."



"Not according to my teacher," he says.



"Want me to call him and explain demonstrative pronouns to him?" I ask.



"Please don't, Mom. Be a writer, not a teacher," he says.

"But he's teaching you wrong," I say.



"I don't care," says my kid. "He's the one who gives me my grade. You hung up your grade book when I was born. Remember? "

He writes my check.



He gives me my grade.

FUTURE STAINS

My kids communicate with me at times via email and instant messages. We are a 21st Century Family. For instance, my younger son is saving for a drum set. I have to be honest; I haven't been doing a thing to help my kid in this direction. In fact, my house is already too noisy.

The other day I received an email from this son with an extended explanation and photos of a $500 set of blue drums. In the explanation was something about how drumming helps a student's math scores. He also mentioned that for a mere $59, silencing covers could be purchased and shipped with the drum set. I thought this method of persuasion was very creative on his part.



I sent my kid an email back with, "Nice drums. So how many lawns do you have to mow to get $500?"



I sent him a second email, "Higher math scores are over-rated. When, in the real world, will you ever use calculus anyway?" I know my reply will come back to haunt me.

As my sons get older, life has them spending more time with friends and less time with us. We pass in the night. I know this is the natural progression. I compensate by making great meals that teen aged boys can't pass up no matter how hard they try. Then we eat as a family, and we talk, laugh, discuss, and catch up on the little details they feel comfortable enough to share. Then they leave.

Computers and the Internet have kept us close. Just last week, I was sitting here writing, and an Instant Message popped up:

Drums987: Ur fone wuz bz, NM. Im at ryans. Can i sleep over? His mom sez its ok w/her if its ok w/u.


I cringe at his ease at writing in Computer English and try to decipher what he's written. I take a deep breath. I try to recall the joy of childbirth. I try to recall all the hours that I spent reading to him. I think about the hours that I spent helping him with schoolwork. I try to remember all the essays I've proofread for him.


SurfPrincess12345: I don't understand. That's not English. Spell it right for the answer you want.


Drums987: Ur such a pain, NM!!!!!!!!


SurfPrincess12345: Sleep where? I can't hear you. Spell it right.

Drums987: MOM! Why cant u b like other moms?


SurfPrincess12345: That would be so boring. Now, spell it right or come home!

Drums987: U R such an NM.

SurfPrincess12345: So what else is new? Spell it right!

Drums987: I wuv u A LOT. Don't you wuv me A LOT? A LOT IS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS 2 wds..

SurfPrincess12345: I wuv you, too. Call me in the morning.

It dawns on me that this is a battle I cannot win.

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©2002 Felice Prager

Originally Published at the Irascible Professor - http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-03-10-02.htm