Felice Prager Writes Funny

I'm Easy!

2012-02-01T08:20:00.000-07:00

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

The Math-Challenged Dieter

2012-01-15T09:10:00.001-07:00

I received a phone call from the health and beauty reporter at a local newspaper.

"I read your essay in Chicken Soup for the Dieter’s Soul, and I thought I could get an expert quote and some feedback from you about a theory I'm researching," she said.

The essay she was referring to is cute and easy to read, and I had sold it a few times to a few different periodicals before the Chicken Soup folks sent me a contract. The article does not make me an expert. In fact, I have written a lot about the success I had dieting and have made a little pocket change from it, but it still does not make me an expert. Losing a lot of weight just gave me a reason to shop for new clothes. According to this reporter, however, being in a Chicken Soup book made me worthy of being interviewed.

What she needed from me was a quote. "I'm doing a story about how the math part of dieting makes it hard for people to lose weight if they aren't good at math. I think everything that people count from calories to steps can intimidate people who want to lose weight. I'm looking for someone who can say something about how numbers make losing weight difficult. Maybe you know someone who failed at dieting because she hated counting how many calories or carbs she was eating. Maybe someone didn't like measuring portions or weighing food."

"I don't think being good or bad at math has anything to do with losing weight," I said.

"Experts say it does," she said. "Experts in the health and beauty field say it is why so many people fail at diets. They hate math. They hate numbers. So the diets don't work!"

It's kind of scary thinking there's a group of people out there who believe that being bad at arithmetic is going to lead a person to an inevitable fate: Permanent Irreversible Fatness.
My mind started wandering, as it often does when I'm talking to silly people about silly things. I envision the new topic on news broadcasts being "PIF – Permanent Irreversible Fatness – the disease that goes after those who never learned to add and subtract without using their fingers. Details at 5!"

I returned to the regularly scheduled broadcast as the reporter continued, "They've just discovered that counting calories helps you lose weight!"

"Are you serious?" I asked her. I was referring to the "just discovered" part of her statement, but in retrospect, I think she thought it was news to me.

"If you count calories and keep your caloric intake low, according to the experts," she repeated in a new and more serious way, "a person will lose weight! If you don’t count calories, you will fail at your diet."

"That's not new," I told her.

"Well, it's a new theory," she replied.

"It's not new," I repeated.

"Well, it doesn't matter if it's new or not," she said, "because if you're bad at math, then you can't keep track of calories and you're going to be fat."

I was wheezing at this point. There's something about comments like this that sets off my asthma more than a field of pollen-producing plants. I reached for my inhaler and started scribbling down her comments because I knew there was an article in this conversation. I was thinking that sooner or later, the health and beauty experts would be pointing their fingers at math teachers across America, saying, "You are the cause of a generation of fat people. Billy is FAT because BILLY CAN’T ADD!"

"So what you're saying is that if you can't add, you will lack success in dieting?"

"Yupper, you have to be good at math to keep track of all those calories, carbs, or whatever you’re counting. That's what the experts say. If you can't keep track of sit-ups and crunches, you're doomed."

"Does it work backwards?" I asked her.

"I don't understand," she replied.

"Well if you're bad at math right from the start, does that mean you'll be fat. If you're fat, does it mean that you're predetermined to be bad at math? Is it commutative?"

"Which one is commutative again?" she asked.

I didn't answer her.

"So can I quote you?" she asked.

"I didn't say anything to be quoted yet," I said, "but if you need a quote, try this: 'I don't agree with your theory. It doesn't make sense. It's silly. Losing weight has nothing to do with being able to add or subtract or even do long division. Dieting isn't about math, it's about really wanting to lose weight. It's about not putting garbage in your mouth. It's about exercise. It's about self-control. Not math. Plus, you can buy a calculator for under five bucks if you are really mathematically impaired.'"

"Yeah, but the experts say that it's hard to remember to keep track and write everything down," she said.

"Like I said," I repeated. "If you want to lose weight, whether you have to add, write something down, or maybe keep track of how many sit ups you do, if someone really wants to, the person will figure out a way. It has nothing to do with math."

"So you don't think it’s harder to lose weight if you're bad at math? You don't think being bad at math makes a difference?"

"You can quote me on that," I said. "One thing has nothing to do with the other."

"But. I mean if you're on a diet and you want to lose weight, when you have to count all those calories, and keep track, like it makes it so hard for some people."

"Then those people can go on a low carb diet," I told her, "because all you have to do is count up to twenty at first to stay under twenty carb limit at the Induction Phase, and some of the lowest carb foods have zero carbs. Zero carbs means zero math."

My humor was wasted on her.

- - -

©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.

This essay originally appeared at the Irascible Professor - April 10, 2007.

I Jumped the Biggest Turtle

2012-01-01T15:14:00.001-07:00

Some of us have the eye. Some of us have the ear. Some of us have both. When we hear or see them, they give us that fingernails-across-the-chalkboard sensation. They can be found on TV, on the Internet, in advertisements, in magazines, and in newspapers. Without mentioning names, they have even been found in love letters. We who have the eye, the ear, or both vow we will not be part of it. We will strive for perfection. We take oaths in secret societies and grumble a lot. We will respect the language. We will follow the rules and not stray. We swear against the use of word shortcuts and emoticons. We will not succumb to the mass hysteria of abbreviated laziness. We will not substitute "u" for "you", "r" for "are", or "luv" for "love". We will not type "cuz", "prolly", or "w/o". Our writing will be without phrases like "CUL8er", "imho", and "brb". We will not follow the crowd. If we have to, we will stand out in the hurricane sharing the same grammar umbrella. Perhaps we will drown, get blown away, get pneumonia, or at least get very wet. So be it when the argument has grammar rules as the foundation.

My name is Felice and I am a grammarholic.

Hello, Felice.

Lately I have been getting hives because of commas and enunciation. It does not take much to set off the allergic reaction. Sometimes it can be capital letters. Sometimes it can be spelling. This time, all I needed was one innocent, unsuspecting student who mumbled, almost incoherently,

"Grammar is dumb."

"Grammar is not dumb," I replied with the same "is not" "is too" "is not" mentality I used when I was her age. Grammar criticism reduces me to my most infantile state. I pout. I kick things. I thrash around on the floor. I go off on tangents and become incoherent.

"Using proper grammar, proper spelling, and proper enunciation make a big difference in the meaning of what you're trying to communicate and how others see you," I expounded. "What you say or write is often the first impression people may have of you." An experienced educator should have known better. She would have realized that I had turned off this student right there, but I could not leave it alone. Not me! I had to pick. I had to probe. I had to turn a tiny booboo into a major wound. I had to make a point to an unreceptive audience in spite of my better judgment. With that, I continued to enlighten this puzzled pre-teen whose specialty is four-word sentences, Orlando Bloom trivia, and mascara application. I used examples which I have had stored within the minutiae of my mind forever. I suppose it's kind of like the word "minutia", a word I would have gotten right on the SATs had it come up. It did not, and for the last three decades, I have tried to throw "minutia" into every conversation about minutiae that I possibly can. This time I was using a storehouse of sentences I had collected about misplaced letters and commas.

First, I wrote this in blue on the white board. I wrote the comma in red:

Fetch the paper, boy! Fetch the paperboy!

"Do you see the difference?" I asked her.

"Fetch?" she asked. "What's fetch?"

"Don't you have a dog? Haven't you ever asked a dog to fetch something?"

"I like cats," she said. "Cats don't fetch."

I erased the sentences, and I wrote another example:

Felice was a lighthouse keeper. Felice was a light housekeeper.

"Yeah, so?" she said.

"Look at them carefully," I responded.

"I don't see the difference," she said.

I explained the difference.

She sighed and looked at the clock.

"My mother has a maid," she said. "You should get a maid."

"I can't afford a maid," I told her.

I showed her another:

I jumped the biggest hurdle. I jumped the biggest turtle.

"I don't get it," she said.

"Read them out loud to me," I instructed.

"I jumped the biggest hurdle. I jumped the biggest turtle," she quickly muttered without distinction.
They both sounded the same the way she read them.

"Enunciate the words," I instructed.

"Enunciate?" she said. "Is that like Email?"

"Pronounce the words clearly," I clarified.

"I jumped the biggest hurdle. I jumped the biggest turtle," she said again.

They both still sounded the same.

I read them to her making sure I exaggerated the words that could be confused.

"That's what I said," she whined.

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

I looked at the clock and sighed.

"Try this one," I suggested.

What is that in the road ahead? What is that in the road, a head?

"Yeah, so?" she said.

"Read them both."

She did.

"Enunciate! Pause when you see a comma," I said.

She gave me a look.

My own children often give me the same look.

I sometimes give my children that same look.

I am not allowed to give that look to my students.

"Work with me," I said. "Read the sentences clearly."

"So there's a head in the road. Big deal," she said. "Can't we do something else? This is boring."

"Life is boring," I said profoundly. "I'm trying to teach you something valuable."

"Is it time to go yet?" she asked.

"One more," I told her. "Then you can leave."

Can you see anybody there? Can you see any body there?

"They're the same," she said.

"No, they're not," I said.

"Yes, they are," she replied. "Anybody. Any body. Same thing. You're really obsessing about the same thing."

"No, I'm not," I said.

"Yes, you are," she replied. "Anybody. Any body. You're making something out of nothing."

"No, I'm not," I said.

"Yes, you are," she replied.

I think I scared her when I started to cry.

QUIZ IT: ARIZONA

2011-12-01T06:06:00.001-07:00

QUIZ IT: ARIZONA

BY FELICE PRAGER

QUIZ IT: ARIZONA
is a fun and fact-filled book for the visitor to the Grand Canyon State and the Arizonan alike.

QUIZ IT: ARIZONA
includes amusing and fascinating information about the state of Arizona ranging from a town called Why to an original Diamondbacks owner who is an avid Yankee fan to Muhammad Ali to the Make a Wish Foundation to Famous Good Guys and Bad Guys to Giant Saguaros and Incredible Insects and Arachnids.

QUIZ IT: ARIZONA
is an entertaining trip through the unique state of Arizona with a few laughs and without being a formal guidebook.

EXAMPLES OF QUESTIONS FROM
QUIZ IT: ARIZONA:

"Standin’ on the Corner" Park in Winslow, Arizona was built in honor of what famous situation?

Where in Arizona can you make plans to meet someone on the corner of Ho and Hum and take a walk down Easy Street?

Who or what is Kokopelli?

On June 6, 1936, the first barrel of this product produced in the United States rolled off the production line in Nogales, Arizona. What product was this?

In what town in Arizona can you find The Satisfied Frog, The Town Dump, The Lazy Lizard, The Horny Toad, Big Earl’s Greasy Eats, Hammerhead Jack’s, and Big Bronco Wild West Emporium?

Why does Arizona opt out of Daylight Saving Time?

What toy did John Lloyd Wright, son of architect Frank Lloyd Wright invent?
In regard to Arizona, what do Barry Bonds, David Spade, Amanda Brown, and Brenda Strong have in common?

This Arizonan was the first woman to rob a stagecoach, escaped from jail, and was a writer for Cosmopolitan magazine. Who was she?

Who is Arizona's Digital Goddess?

and MUCH more…….

PURCHASE YOUR COPY TODAY!

http://www.QuizItArizona.com

Also available on Amazon - paperback and Kindle.
Be sure to purchase the second edition.

©2009 Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved. No Portion of this Page may be copied or used in any format without the Author's Written Consent.

Blame it all on the bloomers

2011-10-01T16:16:00.000-07:00

Perhaps there are women who grew up in the 1950s and '60s who have fond memories of gym class. They may tell wonderful anecdotes of bonding with other women while running track, climbing ropes, jumping over the pommel horse, and playing basketball. But when I think of those days, I start to hyperventilate and require a quick dose of reality. So I call my oldest girlfriend, and she reminds me that I no longer have to wear my blue bloomers.

Physical education was a school requirement in the 1960s. Five days a week, we had to dress out for PE. That meant we had to wear our blue bloomers, white sneakers, and white socks.

The "bloomers" were the gym suit our school required. It was a cornflower-blue cotton thing with an elastic waist and snap closures. I never understood the color choice, since the school colors were orange and black. I could have dealt with black much better.

The gym suits were carried at a local store. Every September, the store had an increase in sales because groups of moaning teenage girls would flock into the store to purchase the uniform.

The boys didn't have to wear uniforms for PE. They wore black gym shorts and a school T-shirt. The year after I graduated, the school approved black shorts and a school T-shirt for senior girls. But that was too late for me. I wore my blue bloomers until the week before I graduated.

Once the suit was purchased, we had to sew our names over the right chest pocket, using white thread. My gym teachers would not let us abbreviate our names, which wasn't a problem for me, but Anastasia Karchanaski and Katherine Philipowizc were not happy.

On my first attempt at the sewing project, I carefully spelled my name over the pocket with my ballpoint pen and began to sew. Midway through the project, my girlfriend came to visit. Seeing what I was doing, she mentioned that her mother had given her uniform to her father's tailor to sew on her name.

She looked down at my attempt and said, "Uh-oh!" Apparently, I had written my name over the wrong pocket. For the entire year, my name was sewn over one pocket and written in dark ink over the other. I wasn't the only one who made that mistake, though; many other girls also had their names sewn over one pocket and written over the other.

Sneakers were another issue. The teachers wanted us to make sure they stayed white, so we had to polish them with white shoe polish. If our white sneakers were soiled from use, we were supposed to polish both the cloth and rubber portions of the shoes to make sure they looked new. I actually polished my sneakers several times, but only because I wanted them to appear as if they had been dirty – even though they never were.

We were supposed to launder our uniforms weekly. I never did. I made it my goal never to sweat in class because we were given only five minutes to change and shower. There was no way I could change and shower in such a short amount of time.

Once a year we square-danced in PE class. The movable wall that separated the boys' gym from the girls' gym was pulled back. We were paired off. Then we would honor our partners, do-si-do, and allemande right and left in our never-been-laundered blue gym suits while we tried to avoid stepping on our partners' toes with the whiter-than-white sneakers.

My girlfriends and I tried every way we could think of to break the PE class rules. For instance, we tried to keep our stockings on under our uniforms and socks because it was such a difficult task to put them back on – especially when they were stretched out. That worked until the teacher tapped me on the shoulder one day and said, "Miss Klein, you have a run in your leg."

We also cheated at anything that required counting. President Kennedy's Council on Physical Fitness publicized its national goals, but the numbers coming from my gym class were flawed. When we did sit-ups, for example, one girl held another girl's ankles and counted. It wasn't unusual for the counting to sound like this: "1, 2, 8, 11, 13, 14, 15, 19, 20, 25, 31..."
I really disliked gym. Had it not been for the written tests, I'm not sure I would have passed.

We had the same rotation of activities each year. Once winter began, I knew I would have to contend with gymnastics. I watched girls gracefully approach the balance beam, placing one foot in front of the other, pointing their toes. I had a hard time not falling off. I watched girls on the uneven bars. I excelled at hanging by my legs, upside down, saying, "But Miss Lee, I'm dizzy and I'm going to throw up."

It was not as if I wasn't athletic. I swam well enough to become a lifeguard. I could ride a bike. I could skate. I just wasn't good at gym. Maybe it was the cornflower-blue bloomers

©2005 Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved.

Versions of this article appeared at CSMonitor.com and Loti.com.

"Kewl Ur Jets! This Aint Skool."

2011-09-15T18:16:00.002-07:00

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.

- - -

©2002 Felice Prager

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

Finding My Humor (Repost)

2011-08-30T09:00:00.000-07:00

(Note: This is the first column I wrote and sold after 9/11.

Finding My Humor

By Felice Prager

　
"I'm holding up well. We all are. I was home all of last week but tried to go into work today. I was able to get into the building, but we didn't have any power or phones, so I went home. It was pretty strange downtown. The smell of burning was everywhere and there were still ashes drifting around. Strangest thing was seeing the soldiers though. On my way home, I stopped by the deli where I get my breakfast every morning to make sure everyone was OK. They were a block closer and at street level. They were all fine. We hugged and cried. Very emotional. The building guy said ConEd was working grid by grid. I won't go into the city tomorrow but probably will try again Wednesday. I need to think of other things. How are you? Written anything lately? I could use a laugh."

(Email from a close friend who worked near where the World Trade Center used to stand.)

　
Through dark clouds of smoke, I open my eyes slowly, take a deep breath, and decide I must go on. I must be wise. I must look ahead from the darkness and the horror. I must remember. I must be strong.

I receive an email from my oldest friend who is still living in New Jersey.

"Do you remember when we hid under your bed during the air raid drills when we were in second grade?" she asks. I was just telling my kid about that last night. Air raid drills. A hundred years ago. A different world ago. Wearing pedal pushers and Keds, giggling with my best friend as we played with dolls during a safety drill, beneath the lavender bed frill on my lavender carpet. "Your father brought us cookies," she writes. "And then he told us not to make crumbs because your mother would be mad."

In my self-imposed solitary confinement, I must force myself to go out. I must not be alone. I must reach into my humanity and be part of the whole, not a piece floating on the edge. It is not a comfortable fit for me. With the world turned upside down, my thoughts have been squeezed beyond recognition and my heart has been emptied.

My older son comes into my office with a gold pencil sharpener in his hands. It is a replica of the World Trade Center. We got it while visiting family back east in 1991. We took the Path train under the Hudson River into the city and went to the top of the tower. The helicopter he could see at eye level mesmerized my younger son, but he says he doesn’t remember the trip at all. He doesn't remember his comments about cars looking like Matchbox cars below. My older son remembers his ears popping in the elevator and that it took a long time to get up to the top.

"Want this pencil sharpener for your desk?" he asks. "Maybe it will inspire you. Maybe it will help you write."

Self-motivation drives writers in various ways. With me, I know what I have to do to get in the mood. I know what works for me. It usually doesn’t take much. I love what I do, so getting in the mood to do what I love isn’t difficult. When I’m not stimulated enough to be creative, I know tricks to get there. However, the occurrences in the world have sent me soaring downward, and like everyone else, I keep reaching for a lifeline, and my hand keeps missing it. I am drained of emotion and full of emotion. I am confused and angry. I have more emotions going through me than I can control, and I’m afraid. Beyond that, I feel guilty.

I hear others talking, explaining, looking for words, "It’s hard," they say. "It’s just really hard."

It is hard.

"What do you remember most about New York?" I ask my husband. We haven’t lived there in more than a dozen years. "I mean besides the obvious. Besides the theater and the restaurants. Tell me some things you remember. I need something to hold onto. Tell me something funny you remember about New York."

I am looking for my humor. In the turmoil and sadness, it’s been buried deeply, and I’m feeling guilty even trying to find it. Where I can usually find words and twist them into humor, there are none. My words are mundane and trite. My words are cliché. At best, my words fit poorly.

"I remember when we you used to meet me in the city after work. Before the kids were born. When we used to go to the theater or dinner. You always insisted on wearing stupid shoes, and you always complained that you couldn’t walk because your feet hurt."

I did wear stupid shoes. I couldn't walk.

"That’s what you remember?" I ask him.

"You wanted something funny," he says.

"You find my foot pain funny?" I ask. "I wanted to look good for you. Those shoes were very fashionable."

"You did look good," he says. "You looked great. You just had to stand still the whole time."

I laugh and feel guilty laughing.

We watch some TV. We see the haunting images. We sit in silence.

"Remember the dessert at Windows on the World?" I ask. That was the restaurant at the top of the World Trade Center. "The best chocolate pecan praline mousse I have ever had."

We watch a bit more and my younger son comes in the room. He has a picture he’s printed out from something he's seen online. "Look at this," he says. "It was in the news." He shows us a picture. "People are saying they see the image of the devil in the smoke." It's a picture of the enormous clouds of smoke when the towers fell and within the smoke, there are definite shapes. I squint my eyes and see how they can see the shape of a devil, but shake my head at the thought.

My husband looks at the picture. "Adrienne Barbeau." He says. "That’s what I see."

"Jenna Berman," says our younger son. "That’s what I see."

"Who is Jenna Berman?" I ask.

"Period Four. Near the door. Blonde. Hot."

"Oh, he sees Jenna Berman in his Cheerios," my older son says.

We look at each other and there is some levity, but it’s short lived.

It's early in the morning, with the sun behind me. I head over roads with names like Squaw Peak and Dreamy Draw. I am in my Jeep. The top is pushed back. I see 200-year-old saguaros surrounded by concrete growing out of modern cement structures. I see pencil palm trees soaring above the world. I see architecture, crisp, new, and inventive. I am speeding. My foot is pushing, pushing, pushing on the pedal. The wind is blowing my hair into a river flowing behind me. The adrenaline is pumping me up to the place I need to be.

While driving with my senses in overdrive, I know I am going to get there. I will get my drug. I will have a great day of writing once again. I hope. My pad on the passenger seat with the pen in my hand, I am driving one handed, scribbling thoughts, words, sentences. I am getting past all the dysfunctional places I hate thinking about and getting those words onto paper. Whether or not I will be able to read them later is questionable, but it doesn't matter.

I’m sitting at a red light behind a white Dodge Grand Caravan. I can see through its rear window that the driver is a blonde woman and that there are two bouncing toddlers in the backseat. The children are not in car seats and from the height of each of their bounces, I can tell that they aren’t wearing seatbelts. The woman is putting on mascara with her head bent, keeping her cell phone tight between her shoulder and her ear. The traffic light turns green. She continues talking on the phone and applying her makeup while she drives through the intersection. She is drinking a can of Coke without a straw. I watch her bring the can to her mouth several times, tilting her head back to take a drink, presumably taking her eyes off the road. Every few minutes, I also see this multi-tasking wonder woman turn her head 180 degrees to yell at her children. She’s driving above the speed limit, and she is not staying in her lane.

Very out of character, I don’t get angry.

I’m singing again where I haven’t been able to sing. I’m harmonizing with Dave Matthews, occasionally getting a whole stanza of lyrics right. I’m bopping, even if slightly out of rhythm. With my blinker as warning, I calmly pull past the Caravan of Confusion. I don’t even give the driver of the Caravan the finger. Instead, I wave the small American flag I have on the passenger seat. She points to the flag on her car and gives me the thumbs up sign.

The volume on my CD player is on high, front and back speakers are pumping, woofers and subwoofers are earning their keep, and I can’t wait to get home. There are words screaming out of my head. I can’t scribble them down fast enough at the red lights. I can’t save the thoughts. They’re spilling out of my ears and out of my mouth. They’re sweet. They’re ripe. They taste so delicious. I want to seal my mouth shut so I don’t lose any of them. My heart is thumping. My head is screaming. The fear of losing them is panicking me. Gotta write. Gotta write.

I get home and write for hours. When I read back what I've written, I'm very disappointed, but at least there are words.

My younger son comes into my office after school. "I came up with a great way for you to support our economy," he says. "It's your patriotic duty. It's the American thing to do."

He puts a catalog in front of me. There are a bunch of tee shirts on the page. "I want this one," he says. The tee shirt is black with white lettering. It says, "What if the Hokey-Pokey IS really what it's all about!"

"Well?" he asks. "Can I have it? It's for America. It will help improve our economy."

I give him one of those looks that mothers reserve for sons. It's a look that can be interpreted many ways. My son interprets it internally and leaves my office, but he's laughing. "I knew you'd like that shirt," he says as he leaves the room.

I'm looking for my humor and it's appearing in small doses and on tee shirts in catalogs.

My humor is coming back.

But it’s hard.

It’s just really hard.
　
　
©2001 by Felice Prager.
　

Getting on the List

2011-07-01T08:46:00.000-07:00

Normally, my cats leave fur and furballs in their wake as signs that they are alive and well. Occasionally, I will see them stampeding down the hall after an unsuspecting moth that inadvertently flew through an open door. A few weeks ago, I watched as ButtercupOfTunafish sat by my closed front door, waiting patiently while a scorpion pushed its way through the tight seal into our cool, air-conditioned home; then she smashed it. However, since the release of the Cat Challenge List, my cats have been hiding under beds. They are depressed and embarrassed because their score was too low to make the list.

It is all my fault.

I have considered hiding under the bed with my cats.

Several months ago, my inner cat woman wanted to know where my five furry felines ranked compared to other cats. In other words, I wanted to know if I was providing my cats with the best home available. I decided to test them.

Over the years, I have tried to provide my cats with the best possible stimulation. I talk to my cats and include them in family activities. They have the best learning toys including a five-foot high, multi-level condominium. They even have a box filled with shiny wrapping paper that will not tear. I hide treats in the box so the cats can find them. My house may look like a jungle, but my priority is providing the best possible learning environment for my kitties.

On test day, Samson, ButtercupOfTunafish, CleopatraQueenOfDenial, and Zorro let me test them. Peaches, on the other hand, did not cooperate; she would not leave her food bowl long enough to take the test. Peaches likes to eat. She excels in eating. She does not excel in testing or cooperating. (Peaches is large, but we call her extra medium so as not to affect her self-esteem. Peaches always feels good about herself.)

Thus, four cats took the test out of a possible five. That is the information I used in my evaluation. I did not consider how the cats actually performed on the test; I just used the fact that they took it.

This is similar to the method used in NEWSWEEK’s “Best American High Schools” list. I figured if the method was good enough for NEWSWEEK, then it was good enough for my cats.

The formula for the “Best American High Schools” list was created by Jay Mathews, a Washington Post reporter and NEWSWEEK contributing editor; he has been creating this list for NEWSWEEK since 1998. According to Mathews, “We take the total number of Advanced Placement, International Baccalaureate, or Cambridge tests given at a school in May, and divide by the number of seniors graduating in May or June.” That is the only data used to determine placement on the list. Performance on each test was not a factor. According to Mathews, “If I could quantify all those other things in a meaningful way, I would give it a try. But teacher quality, extracurricular activities and other important factors are too subjective for a ranked list. Participation in challenging courses, on the other hand, can be counted.” Mathews claims, “I decided not to count passing rates in the way schools had done in the past because I found that most American high schools kept those rates artificially high by allowing only top students to take the courses. In some other instances, they opened the courses to all but encouraged only the best students to take the tests.”

With my cats, I permitted all of the cats to take the test since all are permitted to participate in the advanced stimulation I provide. I did not count their performance on the tests. I just counted who took the test vs. how many cats I have. If only Peaches would have participated, my cats would have been at the top of the list. However, twenty percent of my cats chose to nibble on Tasty Feast instead. Twenty percent of my cats slept with her face in the food bowl.

Mathews has also stated that, “Test scores, the usual way of rating schools, are in nearly every case a measure of parental wealth and education, not good teaching. Every study shows that if your parents fill their house with books, include you in conversations and take you to plays and museums, you tend to score well on standardized tests even if your school is not the best.”

According to Mathews, my cats have an unfair advantage. I tend to go overboard when it comes to parenting. I spend money on stimulating cat toys before I spend money on things for myself.

When Mathews was asked why famous public schools (Stuyvesant in New York City, Thomas Jefferson in Fairfax County, Virginia, the Illinois Mathematics and Science Academy in Aurora, Illinois., or Whitney High in Cerritos, California) are not included on his list, Mathews reply was: “We do not include any magnet or charter high school that draws such a high concentration of top students that its average SAT or ACT score significantly exceeds the highest average for any normal-enrollment school in the country. This year, that meant such schools had to have an average SAT score below 1,300 on the reading and math sections, or an average ACT score below 27, to be included on the list…The high-performing schools we have excluded from the list all have great teachers, but research indicates that high SAT and ACT averages are much more an indication of the affluence of the students' parents.”

If Mathews was creating the Cat Challenge List, I suppose my home would have been disqualified. Not only do I provide my cats with extra stimulation, but I am a licensed teacher. Right there, my cats have an unfair advantage. Plus, it is a well-known fact that my cats are innately smart which further disqualifies them. I picked them out. They were the most active kitties in each of their respective litters. CleopatraQueenOfDenial tried to climb out of her cage right before our eyes and got to the top before her siblings!

Mathews had more rules and regulations for his NEWSWEEK list, but as soon as I realized my cats would be disqualified because of me, I stopped reading. I did not read the part about how many AP teachers disapprove of Mathew’s list. I did not read the part about all the think tanks that have made public statements denouncing Mathews’ findings. I did not read about how poorer school districts are paying the test fees for their students. I just tore up the magazine and stuffed each page into the cats’ shiny paper box for them to rip apart. They liked this. They came out from under the bed to show how they feel about my choice of reading material.

One more thing: as for labeling high schools the “best” in America, Mathews offered this explanation, “My list of best film directors may depend on Academy Award nominations. Yours may be based on ticket sales. I have been very clear about what I am measuring in these schools.”

Using Mathews’ logic, I have decided to create my own “best” list for my cats. I will judge them on how close they snuggle with me at night. The closer they snuggle, the higher they will be on the list.

Last night, Samson slept on my pillow above my head, CleopatraQueenOfDenial slept by my feet, Zorro slept on my left side, and ButtercupOfTunafish slept on my right side. Peaches slept right on my chest. It was hard to breathe, but I know she felt bad about the food bowl thing, so she chose to participate this time and I did not push her off.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/18728337/site/newsweek/
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/18754326/site/newsweek/

(Originally Published by The Irascible Professor - May 2007)

Careers that Begin with "P"

2011-05-15T01:37:00.000-07:00

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.

- - - - -

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

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

2011-05-01T12:39:00.001-07:00

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

Neglected Disabilities

2011-04-15T08:50:00.000-07:00

It was about four PM. I was home alone. I was sitting on the bed that used to belong to my son before he got married and moved to another state. Three of my five cats were looking out the window, and I was watching them as they stalked a bougainvillea leaf as it was being moved by a breeze.

I am easily entertained. Some have referred to me as a cheap date.

I had opened the window so the cats could smell “spring.” They like how "spring" smells. Then the bougainvillea leaf started moving in the breeze and the entertainment began. The cats were darting back and forth in front of the window as the thin red leaf caught bursts of air. I was tempted to go outside, retrieve the leaf, and bring it inside for them to tear to shreds, but I knew my cats were having more fun watching and chasing the leaf, and giving them the leaf would simply end the game too soon.

Suddenly, the cats stopped short and assumed the position of fear and distress. Their hair stuck up. Their ears were alert. Then they scooted under the bed.

I then heard the source of their fear and distress as well. Clackity clackity clackity clackity. (That is my best attempt at onomatopoeia.) A young boy was coming down the hill on his skateboard. Each time the wheels hit a sidewalk seam, the board went clackity clackity clackity clackity.

What made the occurrence significant was the fact that the boy on the board was simultaneously talking on his cell phone while navigating the hill. I know the kid because I used to tutor him. He had been labeled ADD, and his mom had come to me for help. He was a very nice kid and well behaved, but he tended to prefer watching bougainvillea leaves float in the breeze rather than watching his math teacher create math magic on the white board.

It made me think. Since I am unable to drive my car and talk on my cell phone at the same time, I found it interesting that my ex-student with a documented disability could balance on a skateboard going downhill fast -- occasionally jumping a curb -; while simultaneously talking on his phone. Yet, despite all the hours of quality one-on-one tutoring he had, he probably is still counting on his fingers and toes. I also know in my heart that he will go through life unable to deal with fractions, despite my best efforts.

We all have things we can't do. I could never climb the ropes in PE class. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get my arms and legs to work together well enough to conquer the task. There was no disability I could find to get me out of rope climbing in PE, and the best I could do was feign a sprained ankle -- complete with a doctor's note. I was stumped by calculus but the best I could do was major in English because I couldn't claim a calculus disability. Though I could memorize the Gettysburg Address in third grade, memorizing the correct lyrics to songs has always been a burden. Yet, there is no disability that keeps me from being embarrassed at karaoke bars.

I have a million of these undiagnosed but very real (to me) disabilities. We all have them. The difference is that we only hear about the ones written about in books. Call them whatever you want -- disabilities, gaps, shorts. We may all have them; some of us just deal with them better than others, I suppose.

I am now going to reveal a handful of my undiagnosed disabilities just to prove my point. The important thing to remember is that I, Felice Prager, am a survivor. Despite my shortcomings, I am choosing to see success despite my deficiencies. You probably are, too. You just don't know it yet.

CLWEAS – aka Can't Leave Well Enough Alone Syndrome. Those who have CLWEAS don't know when to stop. They tend to pick the scab until it is infected. They tend to want to get to the root of something even if it means the need for a plumber or electrician in the end. They nag their kids to the point of insanity. They say things like, "Do you want more?" and fill a dish despite a negative response. They call too often and when the calls aren't answered, they write letters and send gifts. When they help their sons move into an apartment, they buy enough tea and chicken soup mix to last several decades just in case of flu of epidemic proportions. Tea bags and chicken soup have indefinite shelf lives. When it comes to education, a person with CLWEAS will check answers obsessively and possibly not hand in the exam fearing there is an error that was missed. As a writer, proofreading becomes an activity that never ends. Rewriting is inevitable.

CPITWS – aka Can't Pee in the Woods Syndrome. Those who have CPITWS avoid camping trips, exploring the wilderness, and car trips on roads that post signs like "Next Stop: 50 miles."

WDIPTDTS – aka Where Did I Put That Damn Thing Syndrome. Also Known as WDIPTDTAS -- Where Did I Put That Damn Thing Again Syndrome. This condition tends to eat up a lot of time and is one of the most frustrating disabilities. A person puts something down in a very logical place and then it disappears. It happens with earring backs, notes, lists, bills, credit cards, homework, documents of major importance, $50 bills, and eyebrow tweezers. People with WDIPTDTS and WDIPTDTAS are firm believers in conspiracy theories and know that the physics theory that matter cannot be created or destroyed blah blah blah is a fallacy – and have dozens of backless earrings to prove it.

IJHTHAFFD – aka I Just Have to Have Another Furry Friend Disorder. This condition is best detected in the home. Just count the pets. If it goes beyond two or three, IJHTHAFFD may be at the root.

(An aside: Yesterday, while planting a few cacti in my backyard, I found a hole under our mesquite tree. From experience, I knew the hole was either the home of a snake, a rodent, or a rabbit. I thought: "Six foot rattler!" since we have had those in the past, so I ran like the wind for the garden hose, attached the power nozzle, and got close enough to spray into the hole but not close enough to get eaten. I also had my cell phone ready so I could call the snake police. The snake police are number one on my speed dial. Then a baby bunny popped out. It was two inches -- newborn, probably. And it was sopping wet. I felt so bad. I ran to get lettuce and carrots while the baby bunny dried off in the sun. When I got back, another baby bunny had joined it. I named them Jack and Jennifer. I scattered the lettuce and carrots and kept saying things like, "I’m so sorry! Now go back in your hole so your mommy can find you." I took a picture with my cell phone and sent it to my son -- the one who used to take scorpions and centipedes outside instead of killing them because "they are beneficial, mom." He wrote back and said, "Since you almost killed them, you should keep them." I didn’t respond since I like furry faces but I know jackrabbits don't make good pets -- we've done bunnies before and the only thing I remember is that they create a lot of poop and then they eat it. I went outside this morning to inspect the bunny hole, and it seems that Jennifer and Jack Rabbit have two other siblings: Jillian and Bob. All is well. They like lettuce but prefer what falls off the mesquite tree. ANYWAY, I looked up Sonoran Desert bunnies online and it said that 80% of them are dead within a year -- their life expectancy being two years -- because they get eaten by almost everything. Sometimes, people who think bunnies are snakes tend to drown them. End of aside.)

TTMS – aka Talk To Machines Syndrome. Those who have TTMS tend to see inanimate objects as audiences. They think what they say to machines will change things. They tend to personify. They are often not aware that they are doing this and have been known to say things like, "Come on, finish perking!" to coffee machines and "Please don't freeze!" to computers. Some suffering from TTMS have said that the inanimate objects have menacing personalities and tend to be vindictive.

DCFBD – aka Diet Coke for Breakfast Disability. This is sometimes referred to as "Do as I say, not what I drink." People with DCFBD know it is not healthy. They don't care. They are even known to finish off the warm, flat can of Diet Coke that was left on their desk the night before.

SATDS – aka Share All The Details Syndrome. People who have SATDS tend to tell a story, include all the details, and leave nothing out -- even when they are not asked. The syndrome tends to waste time, keep a person from staying on task, and alienates friends and relatives.

OMGOMGOMGS – aka as Oh, My God! Oh, My God! Oh My God! Syndrome. This occurs when a large insect or arachnid is in the vicinity of the person afflicted. They get up on furniture and scream, "Oh, My God! Oh, My God! Oh My God!" until a brave person comes in and smashes the creature. These people often suffer from SATDS, with a twist. When they Share all the Details, the insects and arachnids get larger with each telling of the tale. In the end, the insect or arachnid takes on the appearance of the supernatural and develop menacing personalities similar to those in TTMS.

IIDWIDIWFIS – aka If I Don’t Write It Down, I Will Forget It Syndrome. These people have very good memories. The problem is that they can't remember what they need to know when they need it. They function well with lists but tend to also suffer from WDIPTDTS -- so they cannot remember where they put the list.

CRWTISFD – aka Can't Remember What The Initials Stood For Disability. Those who have CRWTISFD can spout off initials like ADD, ADHD, SCUBA, and MRSA, but cannot remember what the initials represent. In fact, they often ask those using the initials what they stand for, but they have known to become indignant when others ask them to translate initials into real words.

There are many other syndromes, deficiencies, and disabilities. Some are mild and some are severe. With all of them, it depends on the degree to which a person has it and how well they learn to cope. I am doing well with mine. I just take it a day at a time. I inhale and exhale and always have my trusty hose by my side along with my cell phone. But don’t ask me to use both of them at the same time. I'm having a tough time with CDTTAONMHHITS -- aka Can't Do Two Things At Once No Matter How Hard I Try Syndrome.

© 2002 by Felice Prager. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This essay, any part of this essay, or any item on this blog may not be used in any form without the author's express written permission.

(This essay originally appeared at The Irascible Professor - http://irascibleprofessor.com/comments-04-11-08.htm)

Just the Fax

2011-04-01T16:06:00.000-07:00

Just the Fax
by Felice Prager

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Hello. Lotsa Lox Restaurant. Home of the Giant Bagel. How may I help you?

Jennifer: Hi! Is this the restaurant with the giant bagel in the window?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Yes, it is. We're the Home of the Giant Bagel.

Jennifer: Can you fax me a menu?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Excuse me?

Jennifer: Can you fax me a menu?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Oh, fax you a menu!

Jennifer: Well, can you?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Sorry, that would be impossible.

Jennifer: Impossible?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Yes, impossible.

Jennifer: Why is it impossible?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Because we don't have a fax machine.

Jennifer: You don't have a fax machine?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: That's what I said.

Jennifer: How can you not have a fax machine?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: We just don't.

Jennifer: Everyone has a fax machine.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Apparently that's not true.

Jennifer: Excuse me?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: I said, "Apparently, that's not true."

Jennifer: Why not?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Because we don't have one.

Jennifer: Why not?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Because we don't need one.

Jennifer: Everyone needs one.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: We don't.

Jennifer: Well, you apparently do.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: No, we don't.

Jennifer: Yes, you do.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Why do you say that?

Jennifer: Because if you had one, you could fax me a menu.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Well, next time you're here, you can pick up a menu.

Jennifer: Can you have your delivery boy drop one off?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Sorry.

Jennifer: Sorry?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Yeah, we can't have our delivery boy drop one off.

Jennifer: Why not?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Because we don't have a delivery boy.

Jennifer: Why not?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Because we don't deliver.

Jennifer: You don't deliver?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: That's what I said.

Jennifer: Why not?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Because we don't.

Jennifer: You should.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Oh, yeah?

Jennifer: Yeah. How can you make any money if you don't deliver?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: We make lots of money.

Jennifer: How?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: People come HERE to eat.

Jennifer: Excuse me?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: People come here to eat.

Jennifer: They do?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Yes, they do.

Jennifer: Why?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Maybe because we don't deliver.

Jennifer: I guess that makes sense.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: It does to me.

Jennifer: No fax. No delivery. The next thing you'll tell me is you need reservations.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Normally.

Jennifer: I don't know how places like yours can stay open.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: We've been here for fifteen years.

Jennifer: No kidding.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: No kidding. We've been in business for fifteen years.

Jennifer: My boss wants a bagel for lunch.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: You can come pick one up.

Jennifer: He also wants me to be here to answer his phone.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: I'm sorry I can't help you.

Jennifer: He's gonna be mad if I leave the phones. He might even fire me.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: I can't help you.

Jennifer: Hey, are you hiring?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Hiring?

Jennifer: Yeah. A girl has to think ahead. I think I'd like to work for you. Do you have any openings?

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: We're always looking for people willing to work hard.

Jennifer: Well that's me!

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: Come on by then and pick up an application.

Jennifer: I can't do that. My boss wants me to answer the phone.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: You can stop by after work.

Jennifer: Hey, I have a better idea.

Lotsa Lox Restaurant: What's that?

Jennifer: Can you fax me an application!

Bedroom Battlefield - CAT WARS!

2011-03-15T09:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Originally published by Cat Fancy Magazine.

Keeping Your Sanity - 20 Road Rules for Teen Drivers

2011-03-01T12:42:00.000-07:00

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 -

Real Life 101

2011-02-15T18:54:00.000-07:00

The moon must have been void or maybe Mercury was retrograde these last few months. That is how my older brother used to explain mechanical breakdowns during his astrology phase. That was in the days before computers, so I never actually looked up what void and retrograde meant. However, if it took the moon being void and Mercury being retrograde for mechanical problems thirty years ago, based on the list of repairs my son has had to endure, maybe Jupiter, Saturn, and Neptune are also retrograde or void or just spinning out of control in another galaxy.

Since June, every time my cell phone has rung and caller ID has told me it was my younger son, I have been answering with, "What broke now?" It is a joke, of course, and he knows I am kidding, but since he moved out of his dorm and into his own apartment, he has been plagued by real life's little inconveniences. In my son's case, though, I have been trying to act like a cheerleader so it won't get him down, because I truly believe he has had more than his fair share. Without attending a single lecture or lab, he has already learned volumes about surviving in a world where, if you don’t stand up for yourself, you might be stepped on and squished. Welcome to the School of Hard Knocks.

My son found the apartment on his own. Where I would have neurotically used a checklist of pros and cons to determine which apartment was best, my son, who tends to learn things the hard way, opted to do it his way. He showed me the piece of paper on which he took notes. These notes consisted of details about rent, amenities, and square footage plus the words “Good Karma” and “Bad Karma” written next to each complex he visited. He eventually opted to move to a place called the Bali Lanai because it had new wood floors, was being completely renovated, was within biking distance of campus, and because Bali Lanai sort of sounded like Dalai Lama, which in and of itself has to be the Best Karma of all.

During the weeks preceding his move, he was excitedly nervous. This was a giant step. He lived in the dorm last year with a roommate. Now it was just him with his pet tortoise. He prepared by shopping for furniture and packing up his belongings. I prepared by shopping for bathroom and kitchen things a person needs to start out and by mentally planning how I would decorate my new guest room.

When we saw the apartment the first time, there were workers all over the property. They were renovating what seemed to be a severely run-down complex. They were putting on a new roof and painting the walls. The pool at the complex was getting a complete overhaul. They were re-landscaping and repaving. According to the leasing agent, as each old tenant moved out, the vacated apartment got new carpeting, new appliances, fresh paint, new screens, and new countertops. As an incentive to sign a lease, the first month's rent was free.

My husband and I helped him move. I was put in charge of getting his kitchen and bathroom in order, and my husband and son lifted and hauled hand-me-down furniture, boxes, and some new furniture he purchased that they would assemble. I put a huge effort into pulling in my mothering reins and not hovering, the theory being that a college education doesn't just take place in a classroom.

My son has been on his own for two months, connected to us via instant messages, text messages, and occasional visits to do laundry at my house because he doesn't want to waste his quarters in the dirty washing machines and driers that management hasn't gotten around to replacing yet. The following are the life lessons my son has learned in the last sixty days:

Roaches 101 – No matter how much paint is put on walls, how many cans of insecticide are sprayed, how much roach bait is placed in your cabinets, how many products you store in plastic containers, and no matter what they said at the leasing office about pre-treating the apartment for potential insects, roaches will be your co-tenants. They and several generations of their friends and relatives will not sign the lease or pay rent, but they will inspect everything you have in your cabinets and show up whenever you have company. Eventually, you will be able to crush a roach from 30 feet by flinging a shoe at it. You will also have nightmares about the vengeance of roaches larger than Godzilla, and you may awaken with a roach on your face.

Air conditioning 101 – The air conditioning unit will not be working on the day you move in. The temperature on moving day will be 115 degrees. The maintenance man will eventually fix your air conditioning by replacing the compressor, but he will ignore 25 years of rust in the drip pan. Eventually, on another 115-degree day, the air conditioner unit will leak all over your new vinyl floors (that looked like real wood to a 20 year old.) It will take management ten additional days to repair the leak because the part needed will no longer be made. The repair will require cutting out a section from your ceiling. Replacing the ceiling will take another month, mostly because the walls have to dry out, and you cannot be home to let the dry wall guy in because you have classes, labs, and a job so you can pay the rent for your luxury apartment.

Plumbing 101 – When you take your first shower, you will find it odd that it takes about three hours for the water to drain from the tub. The Liquid Plumber your mother provides won't break through the clog. The handyman will quickly try to repair it because your dad is there helping you unpack and build your new Ikea bed, desk, and futon and because your mom is hovering over him, tapping her toe on the floor and mumbling about who she will call if it is not immediately fixed. The handyman's snake will break while in the pipe. A licensed plumber will be called who gets the snake out and sort of clears the drain. When you see the plumber the next day, he will say, "Hey, your apartment was NOTHING, man! We had to remove the floor in the other apartment with the backed up drainpipe in order to replace the section of pipe that was clogged. Lucky you!"

Plumbing 102 – Sooner or later, after two months of showering, the clog will back up again, and unless you let the repairmen rip out your bathroom, you may be showering in water up to your ankles until the lease is up.

Ikea 101 – This course is also called You Get What You Pay For 101. The odds that you have to make several trips back to the Ikea on the other side of town in rush hour traffic are high. Even though you thought you had the right boxes, two of the five bed boxes in their warehouse-like setup were for a queen-sized bed and the other three were for a full-sized bed. They were marked correctly but they were put in the wrong bins and you assumed the people at Ikea were good at furniture filing. The bed will be partially built when you realize the error, forcing you to disassemble the bed because you started building the bed and then realized it was too large for the mattress you purchased. You will have to admit to your mother that she was right about keeping all the receipts.

Hanging Things 101 – Hanging even the simplest of things will require several trips to Home Depot and taking extensive notes about how to drill into concrete walls and what anchors to use You will learn that anchors aren't just for boats.

Landscape Crew and Floor Installation 101 – Landscapers always start their mowing at 5 AM on the first morning you have no work or classes and you can sleep late. On the second morning you can sleep a bit later, they will begin renovating the apartment above you that involves ripping up the old floor and putting in a new one. With the renovation, the roaches upstairs will move into your apartment.

Friends 101 – Your best friend will help you move. He will help put together lamps and furniture, and he will keep you company on your many trips to Ikea. Your other friends will arrive to help after all the work is done and head right to your refrigerator.

Roommates 101 – Sometimes having a roommate is better than living alone and sometimes living alone is better than having a roommate. There are no right answers with this one. When you complain about it either way, your mother will cross her eyes and quote Gilda Radner: "It's ALWAYS something."

Cooking and Shopping for One 101 – It takes awhile to learn how to shop and cook for one. If you really think it through, you will become adept at cooking several courses in one pan and making several different main courses from the same ingredients. You will know that rice and spaghetti can be made in bulk and have a long refrigerator shelf life. You will accept all leftovers and doggie bags. And when your mom calls and says, "I’m making a roast. Wanna join us?" you will gladly accept her offer.

Pets and Leases 101 – If you decide to sneak a new kitten into your apartment (that requires a deposit on cats and dogs,) you will eventually have to fork over $300, especially if your new kitten likes to sit on the windowsill looking out and the apartment leasing agent happens to see him.

Parents 101- If you are lucky, they will be a phone call away and will happily be there to help keep your spirits up when Life 101 gets tough. They may offer to take you out to eat and listen to all your tales of woe about apartment life. Yet, when it gets so bad that you consider moving back in with them, don't be surprised if they don't start doing cartwheels.

(Originally published by the Irascible Professor.)

Whajaget?

2011-02-01T12:37:00.000-07:00

“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.

Counting to a Billion

2011-01-15T14:00:00.000-07:00

I received a very peculiar phone call last week. The man’s voice sounded unusually similar to that of my Great Uncle Seymour, which is why I didn’t hang up in the first place. The call started with, “Hello, Sir or Madam,” (At this point, I had a hunch it might have been a recording, but I was committed.) “You have just won one billion dollars!”

At the words, “one billion dollars,” my latent listening skills went into over-drive.

“Yes, you, Sir or Madam, have won a billion dollars! All you have to do to keep your winnings is stop everything you’re doing the minute the money arrives at your front door and count it, one bill at a time to check for accuracy. The money will not be yours to spend or invest until you, Sir or Madam, have counted every single one dollar bill in the billion that will be shipped to your home, office, or alternate address. There will be a C.O.D. charge for postage and handling which we will charge to your credit card. Please, Sir or Madam, at the sound of the tone, provide us with your name, address, telephone number, credit card number with the expiration date, social security number, and your mother’s maiden name. Thank you and congratulations, Sir or Madam. This has been your lucky day. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.”

Okay, now before anyone begins to think I was born yesterday, I didn’t fall for the scam. And I knew I was in error thinking it was my Great Uncle Seymour. He still tries to slip me a twenty-dollar bill every time I see him at a relative’s wedding, but I know he’s on a fixed income, so a billion dollars is really pushing it.

The phone call did make me think, however. The idea of winning a billion dollars simply by counting it began to fester in my brain. Things often fester in my brain.

So I started doing the math. I used a calculator to check for accuracy.

I made the assumption that I did, in fact, win that billion dollars. And, as in the phone call, it would be mine only after it was counted. I would do this alone without assistants or a money-weighing machine. I would be diligent and efficient, taking no breaks. I would count until I was finished.

I figured I could count a bill a second. That seemed reasonable. In a minute I could count $60, which would be $3600 in an hour. I kept multiplying. $3600 per hour times 24 hours would be $86,400 per day. If I continued for 365 days, I’d be at $31,536,000 at the end of the first year.

Thirty-one and a half million dollars and I still haven’t slept, eaten, showered, used the phone, paid my bills, paid my income tax, or gone to the bathroom! But those would be only minor inconveniences. I’d have a billion dollars waiting for me! Yippee! A billion dollars would be mine. I’d drive expensive cars and eat in the finest of restaurants. I’d have a maid! I’d be doing the Dance of
Joy in my mansion on my own island in the South Pacific.

Back to counting one bill at a time, one bill per second.

At five years I’d have counted out $157,680,000.

At ten years, I would be at $315,360,000.

At twenty years, I’d be more than halfway there, having counted $630,720,000.

I figured it would take a little less than 32 years to get to a billion dollars. The year would be 2032, and the money would finally be mine.

True, I’d have a Charley horse from sitting so long, my hair would be gray, my hands would be permanently cramped, I’d have developed a nervous twitch, and I’d be over seventy years old, but the money would be mine.

Unfortunately, I’d also have stopped writing for 32 years. This, more than any of my bodily functions, would be a major problem. I might get the label of the world’s most efficient procrastinator. People might say I deliberately counted the money just to avoid facing the day-to-day struggles of being a writer.

But the money would be mine.

Yesterday I had a thought. If I typed a word a second without a break, I’d have a billion words written in 32 years. Then I was thinking I could type really short words like “a” and “an” and “it” and “in” and be done in half the time. Then maybe, I could finish my novel. I could even write another novel, or even two more novels.

The idea of typing a billion words began to fester in my brain. Things often fester in my brain.

* * *
©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, or copied without the consent of the author or photographer.)

Close Encounters of the Canine Kind by Felice Prager

2011-01-01T07:00:00.000-07:00

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE CANINE KIND

My Dog, The Matchmaker

by Felice Prager

My dog, Tiffany, a large white Samoyed, greeted me at the door as she always did with her leash in her mouth. I was already drenched from the storm we were having. It had been raining for days with no end in sight. My hair was matted down, and all I really wanted to do was jump in the shower and warm up. However, walking Tiffany was necessary and part of the responsibility that comes with dog ownership, although it was not what I wanted to do at that moment. I attached Tiffany’s red leash and rushed her downstairs on the elevator hoping we would make it to the curb on time without my excited dog having an accident. It was embarrassing when that happened.

Typical of my dog, when it was raining, she took the most time to find just the right spot to do her thing. I kept saying. "Hurry up, Tif! I’m freezing. Look at my hair! I’m drenched. Come on, Tiffany. Get done already." She continued to sniff every rock, every tree, and every puddle.

Just then, I saw Sam’s car coming down the boulevard. We had been introduced by mutual friends who lived in the same building as we lived in several weeks before and nothing had come of it, but I thought I saw a hint of interest in him. I was definitely interested. He was handsome and tall and from the few words we exchanged, he seemed intelligent and interesting. I tugged Tiffany back behind a bunch of trees and hid. "Come on, Tif," I said quietly, "I like this guy. I look horrible. Help me hide. Don’t bark. Shhhh. Be a good girl." Together we spied as Sam parked his red Prelude at the curb and ran toward our building with his attaché case held over his head.

That’s when I formulated my plan: I was going to "accidentally" bump into Sam while I was running out of the high-rise apartment building to the curb with Tiffany while he was parking his car. Only this time, my hair would be perfect and I would not be sopping wet.

I began my vigil from my 18th floor apartment window on the first sunny day after the storm. I arrived home from work and waited for Sam to pull up to the curb. As I saw his car approaching, I ran like a maniac to the elevator with Tiffany. Yet, when I got to the street, Sam was not there.

No matter how hard I tried, I kept missing him each day. I would get to the curb and see that he had parked his car and was nowhere in sight. We never bumped into each other. Time after time, I would grab Tiffany’s leash and attach it, but the elevator was too slow for me to accidentally run into this guy I liked and wanted to know better. Or the elevator would stop at every floor for other passengers.

I decided it might be more effective if I were already walking Tiffany when he parked his car. I sort of knew what time he got home. Tiffany had to be walked anyway. What difference did it make, as long as my hair looked good? I would call to him, "Sam, hi. We were introduced by Jerry and Maddy at their party last month. Remember?"

Unfortunately, that didn’t work either. I walked Tiffany for hours and never timed it correctly. It seemed Sam’s schedule had changed, or maybe he had a business meeting --- or a new girlfriend who was eating into my courtship time with him.

Then, one day, as I was taking Tiffany downstairs for a walk on a different schedule, the elevator stopped on the fourth floor, and Sam stepped in. He was as handsome as I had remembered.

"Hey," he said. He seemed genuinely happy to see me again.

"Hi!" I responded, totally forgetting my planned conversation. I had practiced it in front of the mirror for the occasion when our paths crossed.

"What a great dog. What’s her name?" he said.

"Tiffany," I said. Conversation was a foreign language to me.

With that, he bent over to pet her. "Hey, Tiffany! You are a pretty girl. Is Mom taking you for a walk?"

Tiffany jumped up and grabbed onto his leg. The elevator stopped at the lobby where we both were planning to get out, but Sam couldn’t move.

My dog would not let go of his leg. I kept apologizing. He kept saying it was okay. And Tiffany held onto Sam’s leg, not letting him move an inch.

Then the door closed, and the elevator started going up again.

At this point, Tiffany let go of Sam’s leg, rolled on her back, and spread her legs.

"Bad, Tiffany!" I said with a complete lack of sincerity.

"It’s okay," Sam said. "I guess she didn’t want me to leave." If he only knew!

Sam and I rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor. Other people got on.

Then the elevator started its descent again. When we reached the lobby again, Tiffany pulled me off. Sam followed. We walked together for a long time on the boulevard that afternoon. At one point, Sam asked for the leash and he ran with Tiffany giving her a great workout.

We were married several months later.

That was twenty-five years and several pets ago. When asked how we met, Sam tells people, "Get this! We met on an elevator. Her dog grabbed my leg and never let go." I have never let on that this was a planned canine encounter and Tiffany was my accomplice.

(A version of this essay appears in Chicken Soup for the Soup - What I Learned from the Dog.)

Lost Innocence

2010-11-15T09:42:00.000-07:00

Mr. Bernard was the only male teacher at the small elementary school I attended. When we were told we'd be in his class back in 1963, there was a lot of giggling among the girls. A man for a teacher? And he was cute! It was almost unheard of then, but there he was standing before us ready to teach on the first day of school. He was just out of college, and we were his first students.

What my memories do hold is that Mr. Bernard followed my class right through high school. After our fifth grade year with him, he was transferred to the junior high that I eventually attended. There he taught science. Then he was transferred a few years later to our high school where he taught a variety of earth science and physics courses; he also coached track and cross-country.

I never had him as a teacher again after fifth grade, but he looked after his first class of students like a parent. He knew the names of our brothers and sisters. He knew our parents. It was like family. He even attended our graduation with his wife and new baby. I received a graduation card from him where he inserted a candid shot of me from fifth grade. When I ran into others who were in this fifth grade class, they also said they received graduation cards. Each had a black and white snapshot Mr. Bernard had saved. In those days, the world was smaller and less transient, so he was able to follow his first students through that point just as we were able to watch his life unfold.

What I remember most about fifth grade with Mr. Bernard is when John Kennedy was shot. My own children are now linked to the world with TVs and computers in their classrooms. If something happens, it is almost immediately known and they watch it on the classroom TV. In 1963, there was none of this. I think there was one television in the entire school building. The world was very different.

The memory is so vivid. I was sitting in the second row, second seat from the window. I was wearing a plaid dress with a white collar. I was wearing ankle socks. I hated that my mother made me wear ankle socks. I liked boys and boys made fun of girls who still wore ankle socks. Mr. Bernard was teasing my best friend about the pronunciation of the world "acre." She had read it aloud as "ac-ree." Apparently, she had never seen this word in print before, and she just couldn't see the word in her mind. We were all having fun. We were all learning. Perhaps I was thinking I might have pronounced it "ac-ree," too. My friend wasn't embarrassed; there was gentle teasing with Mr. Bernard in charge. And the realization that the word she'd struggling over was "acre" made my friend laugh at herself, without contempt, without feeling bad.

And then the principal was standing at the classroom door. He motioned for Mr. Bernard to come to him. They spoke for a few minutes; Mr. Bernard's back was to us. It was like one of those movies where frames are shown, slow motion, one still at a time. Mr. Bernard finally turned to us, and he was crying. Our teacher was crying. Then he told us about John Kennedy and the motorcade. He told us all he knew.

The rest is a blur. We were so young. The world back then for fifth graders was one filled with innocence. We silently followed Mr. Bernard to the auditorium where the larger room filled with each classroom of children, and we all watched and listened to the reports on a small black and white TV that was set in the middle of the stage.

John Kennedy was shot.

Then, John Kennedy was dead.

We were dismissed early. My family's black and white portable TV stayed on all weekend. My mother cried a lot that weekend. I watched and cried as well, but I'm not sure ultimately what the pain was about. I can theorize today about the loss of innocence or the sadness in the world, but it was so long ago.

I was helping my mother dust our apartment when Jack Ruby became visible from the crush of people and shot Oswald. My memories are in slow motion and more of colors and sounds than of events. I remember our TV was light tan and on a gold rolling cart. I was wearing green pedal pushers. It's funny how I can see these details. My mother's hair was jet black at the time. Even though my mother usually had the record player on with her 33's playing Frank Sinatra or Tony Bennett, during that weekend, the sound recorded in my mind is that of news broadcasters' voices; Walter Cronkite for some reason is the voice I hear, but it could have been anyone.

Many times in my adult life, the words, "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" have been part of our conversation. Everyone who was alive then has an answer and can tell a story. Perhaps every generation has an event like this. Maybe it was my first time being aware that I was connected to the world, and the world wasn't a perfect place made up of perfect people, and the ultimate sadness that thoughts like this bring.

I remember dating a man for awhile before I met my husband. He was taking me to meet his older sister and her husband.

"Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" someone asked.

"I was at NYU."

"I was driving to work, listening to the radio."

"I was watching TV."

"I was in Mr. Bernard's fifth grade class. It was the first time I saw a man cry."

----

Previously published by the Front Porch and Loti.com.

My Ever Steepening Learning Curve

2010-11-01T03:25:00.000-07:00

It was a glorious day when I saved Hyrule. For weeks, I guided Link through mazes, caves, tunnels, and dungeons into the depths of the Underworld. As I approached the conclusion of the final maze and was ready to come head to head with the most evil of the continuous legion of thugs, I put the video game on pause, gathered my easily impressed elementary-school-aged children to observe the Master, and rescued Princess Zelda from the evil Ganondorf. My children rejoiced with me. We danced around the TV and harmonized along with the Link Theme Song. Then, on the screen before us, a miracle occurred! We realized the game was only half over – the game included a Second Quest!

As my children grew, the complexity of their games increased. The Nintendo game creators, in what I translate as a focused attempt to make me feel incompetent and to allow my offspring to gain the upper hand in all things electronic and technical, added additional buttons to the game controls. When the games went 3D, I retired – undefeated. I told my children that I no longer had the time to waste on games, but the truth was, the games became too difficult for me.

I know I am not alone.

Recently, we renewed our contract with our cell phone service provider, and along with the new contract, we were able to upgrade our phones. My husband, as the primary member on the account, received a free new phone. My new phone, which I did not need because my old phone was working perfectly, was semi-free because I chose the red phone to match my Jeep. The red phone cost an extra $69 above the free phone offer. The new leather case and car charger (since cell phone manufacturers never make the old cases and chargers compatible with the new ones) were a discounted additional $29. I also splurged on a memory card since my son told me the phone I chose had limited storage capacity. I assume I will now be able to store my winter wardrobe on my new phone. To justify the expense, I told my family that the new phone and its accessories could qualify as a Mother's Day gift.

Unfortunately, the original phone I ordered online was defective, and despite having my "network" following me around town, I had to stop working, leave my office, and go to the cell phone store for a new (refurbished) replacement. While waiting for my salesperson to program my replacement phone and transfer my personal data from the defective phone to the hopefully not-defective one, I watched another customer enter the store and hand his defective phone to another salesperson.

"Have you ever seen anything like this on a screen before?" the flustered man asked the clerk indicating what my poor nosey eyesight saw as a giant frown face on his screen.

"Nope," the salesman responded, "can't say I have."

"Well, can you make it go away?" he asked.

His salesman disappeared into the same magic back room where my salesman had gone earlier.

Then, the man looked at me and said, "I hate admitting defeat to technology – especially when it costs me more than my first car."

I nodded in agreement and said, "I admitted defeat when I saw how thick the bilingual instruction manual was."

"My kid could probably fix it," he said, "but he’s too busy partying at college."

We went back to minding our own business after that; however, that short impersonal conversation led me to an epiphany.

In the world of technology, I have become an antique. I have value, but it is in the eye of the beholder.

Lately, I am finding more things that are too complicated for me to deal with…or maybe, I am gadget-overloaded. Maybe I am tired of reading manuals that start with, "Never place your phone in a microwave oven as it will cause the battery to explode" and "Do not handle the phone with wet hands while it is being charged. It may cause an electric shock or seriously damage your phone."

Maybe it is time to shut off my power.

Twenty-five years ago, when the school where I worked installed its first computers, I bravely (before the publication of DOS for Dummies) learned how to "C colon backslash" on a screen without windows. Over time, I learned how to build websites, set up spreadsheets, compose professional documents, and competently add things to motherboards. With each new electronic accessory, I gained a new set of skills.

I have never had problem with cell phones, DVD players, coffeepots, all-in-one remote controls, electric pencil sharpeners, teller machines, faxes, printers, scanners, air purifiers, or other electronic devices with which I interact daily until recently.

When I was in high school, my dad, who used a manual one-armed-bandit adding machine with a coil of paper tape for his business calculations, brought home the first handheld calculator I had ever seen. My dad liked gadgets, too. I still own that Texas Instrument calculator although it has not worked for years. I cannot bring myself to discard something that cost my dad over one-hundred pre-inflation dollars.

In the early 1980s, I remember being wowed by a Brother portable electric typewriter that I could fit in my attaché case. I bought it without comparison shopping or knowing what the future would bring. I thought it would help me produce dittoes for my classes. (Raise your hand if you remember dittoes. Raise both hands if you ever cranked a non-electric ditto machine.) A few years ago, I sold the useless typewriter that only printed on unreadable thermal paper that is no longer made. I sold it on EBAY for several hundred dollars less than its original cost.

I have outlived dozens of personal computers, fax machines, printers, scanners, stereos, VCRs, game consoles, and other electronic devices. I remember my first PC cost more than I paid the obstetrician when our first son was born. I tried to donate it since I never got around to turning it into a planter, but no one wanted it. With each upgrade, I learned more and realized how technically savvy I could be.

But Sunday night, when both TVs in our house stopped working at the same exact time, I was stumped. Between my brand new cell phone not keeping a charge and randomly speaking to me when it had not been spoken to and the two dead TVs, I was ready to apply my senior citizen discount to the nearest home for over-the-hill computer nerds.

First, I had to wait three days for a repairman. This was during the NBA finals.

For three days, I tried rebooting the system at every opportunity. For three days, I searched the internet for reasons why two TVs would lose their cable signal simultaneously but still be able to show movies from a DVD player. For three days, we missed exciting basketball, fair and balanced news, and reruns of Frasier, Sex in the City, and Two and a Half Men.

It took Jason, the twenty-something-year-old cable guy, exactly five minutes to find the problem.

Apparently, I knocked the plug out of the outlet that connects our cable boxes to the cable signal when I was getting a piece of luggage from a rarely entered closet.

Now, I am scared. My husband, who usually compares me to my mother, despite my best efforts at concealing all hints of wrinkles, didn't make fun of me when I told him how I "broke" the cable. He was also exceedingly kind when I told him I was unable to open the bucket of chlorine tabs because I couldn't figure out exactly how to use the screwdriver and hammer to remove the tamper-proof plastic tab. But then again, he also depends on me to defrag his hard drive, turn his cell phone to vibrate at the movies, and program the clock on the coffee maker.

- - -

(Originally Published by The Irascible Professor - September 9, 2008)

Borderline Stupidity

2010-10-15T08:27:00.000-07:00

I am reposting this essay from 2005 because it is still relevant. (As a preface, please note that this was announced in July 2007: "In a joint release, Morgan Quitno Press announced that it has been acquired by CQ Press, a division of Congressional Quarterly of Washington, DC. Scott and Kathleen Morgan, editors of Morgan Quitno’s annual state and city statistical reference books and owners of the privately-held company, will continue to edit the publications in collaboration with CQ Press.")

Borderline Stupidity

by Felice Prager

When we were relocating from New Jersey to Arizona almost two decades ago, our relatives told us all the reasons why moving was not a smart decision.

"No doctors," they said.

"Mayo Clinic," I replied.

"Too dry," they said.

"Seven days of rain a year," I said to my cousin whose hair was beginning to frizz on that 98 degree, 98 percent humidity day so long ago.

"Too hot," they said.

"Air conditioning," I replied.

"Too hot," they said again, as if saying it twice would make it a better reason.

"Swimming pools and a year-round tan," I replied.

"Horrible schools," they said, knowing where my Achilles heel was hidden.

"I taught in a horrible school," I replied, "Don't you remember when I ordered $5000 worth of new books and supplies for the next year, and all I got was a yard stick and a package of ditto masters?"

Despite the best attempts of our relatives at dissuasion, we moved.

For the most part, my sons, who received their entire K-12 education in Arizona, had good teachers; and, the curriculum usually was rigorous and challenging. For example, the other night I asked my son why he was doing Greek homework since he is not taking a foreign language this year. His reply: "Mom, it's calculus." If standardized testing is a barometer, my children have done exceptionally well on these national tests, consistently scoring above the 90th percentile. In fact, my younger son is presently deciding which college to attend next year, and part of his decision is being based on the size of the academic scholarships he has been offered from excellent universities in and out of Arizona. From my perspective, Arizona's schools and teachers are not very different from those with whom I worked elsewhere. Good genes and good parenting aside, my sons have thrived in the Arizona school system.

With that in mind, in a recent and highly publicized survey, Morgan Quitno Press named Vermont the "Smartest State" in its Education State Rankings for 2005-2006. Vermont was followed by Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Jersey, and Maine, all in the Northeast. The losers ("losers" is the word used by CNN) were Arizona -- in last place, Mississippi, New Mexico, Nevada, and California. Four of these five are in the Southwest [1].

I am acutely aware that Arizona has its share of problems, but I visited the Morgan Quitno Press web site because, as a person who never takes surveys at their face value, I needed to see just how their rankings were determined. If someone is going to call my state the dumbest, I wanted to know how this was decided.

A few years ago when Florida was listed by Morgan Quitno Press in forty-seventh place, columnist/humorist Dave Barry wanted to know why Florida was not number 50. This was in the days of chads and Al Gore, and as a Florida resident, with his tongue planted firmly in his cheek, Mr. Barry had the same questions as I did.

For the record, I was not requesting a change in ranking; I simply wanted to know how it was determined that Arizona was the dumbest state in the USA.

Morgan Quitno Press - "Reliable Rankings for 16 Years."

As explanation, Morgan Quitno Press of Lawrence, Kansas (not far, I am told, from where Dorothy and Toto lifted off to find the ruby slippers and flying monkeys) produces annual announcements that designate our country's:

Safest City - Newton, Massachusetts

Most Dangerous City - Camden, New Jersey

Smartest State - Massachusetts in 2004 (before Vermont got the honors this year)

Most Improved State - New Hampshire

Most Livable State - New Hampshire (before the floods, I assume)

Healthiest State - Vermont

Safest State - North Dakota

Most Dangerous State – Nevada (home of the one-armed bandito!)

Each designation was based on data collected by Morgan Quitno Press and released in print or on CD "for as little as $3.49 each." For their "Smartest State" designation, they calculated winners and losers using a complicated procedure based on 21 factors that were divided into positive and negative characteristics. "Rates for each of the 21 factors were processed through a formula that measures how a state compares to the national average for a given category. The positive and negative nature of each factor was taken into account as part of the formula. Once these computations were made, the factors then were assigned equal weights. These weighted scores then were added together to determine a state's final score." Among the characteristics weighed were:

Graduation rates

Dropout rates

Student-teacher ratio

Class size

Teacher salary

Expenditures for instruction

Student achievement

Attendance

Positive outcomes

Strong student-teacher relationships

School district efficiency [2]

The credentials of the founders of Morgan Quitno Press are impressive. They have "years of experience in and out of government and in working with data." Scott Morgan, as an example, was Staff Counsel on a U.S. Senate Judiciary subcommittee in the 1980's, served as Chief Counsel to Senator Dole's 1988 presidential campaign, served as Chief Counsel to the Kansas Governor, and, after one year in private law practice in Kansas City, has devoted all of his time to Morgan Quitno Press [3].

I am not looking to make waves, at least not the tsunami type. However, I do have some objections with their findings. Using numbers and statistics is a starting place, but ignoring key variables/handicaps leads to erroneous conclusions. Arizona still may be the dumbest state, but by omitting the following information, these rankings hold no weight, despite what they say on the news: "ARIZONA IS THE DUMBEST STATE – DETAILS AT 6 PM – HECK, THEY DON'T EVEN SET BACK THEIR CLOCKS!"

Here are some facts that Morgan Quitno Press did not include in their analysis:

FACT #1: In 1982, the Supreme Court ruled (Plyler v. Doe) that states and school districts cannot deny free public education to illegal alien children residing in the United States [4].

The international border between Mexico and the United States extends about 2000 miles along the states of California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. There are approximately 350 million legal border crossings every year [5]; and, it is estimated that illegal crossings account for over one million people a year. (As a point of reference, the length of this border is approximately the same distance as it is from Phoenix, Arizona (#50) to Montpelier, Vermont (#1).) Currently, the government has not yet estimated the costs of educating the children of recent legal and illegal immigrants, but it is generally accepted that the immigrant population is growing, and that the undocumented component is significant. This directly affects local and state education budgets, which have not been able to keep up with increases in enrollment and classroom overcrowding caused by this inflow.

According to the Federation for American Immigration Reform (FAIR): "The total K-12 school expenditure for illegal immigrants costs the states nearly $12 billion annually, and when the children born here to illegal aliens are added, the costs more than double to $28.6 billion. This enormous expenditure of the taxpayers' contributions does not represent the total costs. Special program for non-English speakers are an additional fiscal burden as well as a potential hindrance to the overall learning environment. A recent study found that dual language programs represent an additional expense of $290 to $879 per pupil depending on the size of the class. In addition, because these children of illegal aliens come from families that are most often living in poverty, there is also a major expenditure for them on supplemental feeding programs in the schools [6]."

According to Don Collins, a member of FAIR's board of directors, "The average native-born-headed household in Arizona now bears more than $700 a year in additional costs to provide education to illegal aliens and their children, an estimated $810 million a year." This number does not include the burden of paying for health care for illegal immigrants that threatens to bankrupt many Arizona hospitals and clinics. Incarcerating illegal aliens costs Arizona taxpayers an additional $80 million annually [7]."

Other Southwestern states have similar burdens. In fact, Arizona isn't even at the top of the list for estimated costs of educating illegal alien students and U.S.-born children of illegal aliens - California leads at 15%, and Arizona, Colorado, Nevada, and Texas follow with 10% - but it is an expensive handicap, nonetheless, and it affects school budgets, school spending, and overall outcomes.

FACT #2: The National Center for Education Statistics reported that nationally, Native American students have a dropout rate of 35.5%. This is about twice the national average and the highest dropout rate of any United States ethnic or racial group. Among minority populations in Arizona, Native American students have the highest dropout rates [8].

According to the United States Census Bureau, Vermont has a population of 621,394 of which 24.2% are under 18 years old. That is approximately 150,000. Of that, 0.4% are American Indian or Alaskan Native. TRANSLATION: There are approximately 600 American Indians or Alaskan Native under the age of 18 in Vermont.

Arizona has a population of 5,743,834 (more than nine times that of Vermont) with 26.6% under the age of 18. That is approximately 1.5 million people. Of that, 5% are either American Indian or Alaskan Native. TRANSLATION: There are approximately 75,000 American Indians or Alaskan Natives under the age of 18 in Arizona.
In my neck of the reservation, using this category to rate the quality of education in a state that has 600 students in a cultural group known for its high dropout rate to one with 75,000 in this same cultural group is like comparing dollars to wampum.

In addressing the problem of dropout rates, it is inevitable that Arizona's expenditures will outweigh that of Vermont. When the money for this comes from education coffers, something somewhere else will be cut; it is an expensive handicap and one that affects the total budget significantly.

FACT #3: According to the United States Census Bureau, 25.9% of Arizona's population speak a language other than English in the home, whereas Vermont has 5.9% of its population speaking a language other than English at home. In Arizona, there are 75%more of a much larger population base not speaking English in their homes. Being from the smartest state or Kansas is not a prerequisite for seeing how problematic this may be to a state's overall educational system.

FACT #4: A critical detail that accentuates the burden of education in Arizona, once again, can be obtained from the United States Census Bureau. Since 1990, the population of the United States increased by 13.1%. Vermont's population, again not to pick on Vermont but to point out the absurdity of these rankings, increased 8.2.

Arizona's population increased 40%. With increased population comes the burden of educating the children. Thus, add to this picture overcrowded older schools, new schools with limited budgets and lack of supplies, and all the other variables which go with new school start-ups. If you draw a giant dollar sign, that should help describe the situation in Arizona.

A forty percent increase in population in fifteen years is hugely significant, and has to be factored into the equation.

Doth the Lady Protest Too Much? She Dothn't.

It could very well be true that Arizona is the dumbest state, but in making a list, it is misleading not to include the above data. Though Morgan Quitno Press comes up with some valid assertions, they are based on their limited criteria, which omit handicaps some states have.

The question about smartest and dumbest has to include what states are doing about their educational problems (taking into consideration that all states have unique situations), and the effectiveness of these programs. The question about smartest and dumbest also must include comparable finances backing these programs.

Regardless of the label, Arizona is working hard at improving.

In order to comply with the federal No Child Left Behind Act, state report cards must be made available to all parents. I received my copy of this report card last week from Arizona's Superintendent of Public Instruction, Tom Horne. Within the brochure, results of the AIMS test were listed. AIMS is Arizona's Instrument to Measurement Standards (AIMS), a test which provides educators and the public with valuable information regarding the progress of Arizona's students toward mastering reading, writing, and mathematics standards. Within the report card brochure, these were detailed by race and ethnic group. Though there were different results between races and ethnic groups, the fact was clear that each group was surpassing the AMO (Annual (federally mandated) Measurable Objectives) and prior years [9]. Vermont's report card, obviously also required by No Child Left Behind, had similar results but on a much smaller scale [10].

Arizona's inherent problems will not disappear, but when judging a state as a whole, if this diversity is not accounted for, then the outcome is flawed and irrelevant. --

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] http://cnn.netscape.cnn.com/news/package.jsp?name=fte/smartstates/smartstates

[2] http://www.morganquitno.com

[3] http://morganquitno.com/aboutus.htm

[4] http://www.gao.gov/htext/d04733.html

[5] http://mexico.usembassy.gov/mexico/eborder_mechs.html

[6] http://www.fairus.org/site/PageServer?pagename-research.researchf6tad

[7] http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/tribune-review

[8] http://www.ihs.gov/FacilitiesServices/AreaOffices/Phoenix/phx_feature200502.cfm

[9] http://www.ade.az.gov

[10] http://www.state.vt.us/educ/new/html/maindata.html

©2005 Felice Prager.

The World According to Señor Poje´

2010-10-01T05:10:00.001-07:00

What I said was, "Which part of 'NO' don't you understand?" but what my son said he heard was, "I'd just love to have a tarantula living in my house." I've considered having his hearing checked, but instead, I was deciding which piece of furniture was the highest off the ground so that when Señor Poje´ opened the latch on his tarantula cage and came looking for the mean lady who wouldn't give him a home, I could be high enough off the ground to jump to my death rather than being eaten alive by an irate arachnid.

It's when my son used school as his reason for needing Señor Poje´ "just until school starts" that I became suspicious. "It's for school," had always worked in the past with things like expensive calculators, software, and top-of-the-line backpacks. However, I had him this time! I mentally went through his class schedule.

"Gotcha! You don't have science this year!" I said.

My son countered with, "Remember, my biology teacher from freshman year? He keeps pets in his classroom. I'm going to trade Señor Poje´ for a letter of recommendation for college."

Thus, Señor Poje´ was alive and well and eating crickets in a cage on a shelf in my 17-year-old son's bedroom until the third day of school this year. I wrote up a formal contract and had my son sign it just in case his freshman biology teacher said he had enough class pets. "He's going back out in the desert where he belongs if you can't find him a home," I said. My son nodded and signed on the dotted line, but I knew he was already at Step Five when I was just coming to terms with Step One.

On the third day of school, Señor Poje´ found his new home in the biology lab at my son's high school. There was no need to negotiate for a letter of recommendation. A few teachers enthusiastically told my son they would write letters for him. Not one of them required an arachnid as payment for services rendered.

We have gone through the class pet thing a few times. Caring for the class hamster for a weekend in first grade led to the adoption of a series of pet hamsters. When I learned the average life-expectancy of a hamster is about two years after a $100 vet bill for which I was told that there was nothing one could do to stop the blood coming from Xena, Warrior Hamster's rear end, I told my son to find a more cost-effective pet.

That's when the hermit crabs moved in. My son fed them garbage and discussed how hermit crabs are environmentally important. We watched them move in and out of shells until they finally shed their crusty outer bodies one last time, shriveled up, and died. I saw nothing environmentally important about hermit crab bodies rotting in my son's bedroom.

There were several fish which kept living and living and living. These were not class pets. These were school fair prizes. My son did not actually do anything to win these. He simply batted his eyelashes and his teacher handed him a plastic bag with two gold fish in it.

Then there were those swimming things he brought home from the drainage ditch by his elementary school playground. They started as a school experiment, and then my son volunteered to continue the science project in his bathroom at home - in my house. The swimming things lived in a fish tank with a giant rock in it so the swimming things could become tadpoles and then toads which needed to eat things that others pay exterminators to get rid of. I believe my older son added aftershave or cologne to the water in hopes that the tadpoles would die and he would have more counter space, but that's debatable because they did not die and eventually my son, the science experiment caretaker, was forced to put the frogs back by the drainage ditch because they were starving to death. They did not like store-bought bugs. At least that's how I interpreted my lack of desire to keep buying them.

My older son never got into unusual pets. I think that's because when he was in third grade, his teacher made him mount and identify bugs for a project. I watched as he scooped bugs from the pool, and with tweezers, collected his bugs. He was okay until he had to push the pin through the bug to mount it. I believe Tarantula Boy did that for him. I certainly did not. I was fine with all of this because it was "for school" until a scorpion he found at the bottom of the pool proved that this species will outlive man. With the pin pushed through its back, after spending a good deal of time at the bottom of the pool, the scorpion came out of its water-induced coma, pulled his body -- pin and all -- out of the cork board, and was found walking on my son's pillow.

For years my sons have heard me mutter things about school projects, class pets, and hands-on science experiments.

It's not as if my sons have been pet-deprived. We have four cats. We have always had cats. If you look at my carpet and find a stain, I can name the creator of that stain in four notes. We have more litter boxes in my house than bathrooms because the cats do not share. My husband and I share a bathroom. I could say I won't share, but that won't get me my own litter box.

I blame the unusual pets on teachers. I know I am a teacher, too, but I specialize in English, so I am above reproach. English teachers do not do parts of animal anatomy; English teachers do parts of speech. However, just point me toward a science classroom or an elementary school classroom, and I will bet something is alive or has been alive in a cage or a tank within that classroom at some time in that teacher's career. You are guilty! Admit it! You are why Señor Poje´ and the other menagerie of unusual pets have lived in my son's bedroom. You are why my son could not mow the lawn last week when he had to go to PetsMart to buy crickets for Señor Poje´ because that was part of the terms for his adoption by the biology teacher. And you are why my son has left the spot on his shelf open because Señor Poje´ is returning at the end of the school year. "You said he had to be out by the third day of school," said my son, "but the contract didn't say a thing about his return engagement."

©2005 Felice Prager.

Originally published by the Irascible Professor

Finding My Humor

2010-09-10T22:10:00.001-07:00

(Note: This is the first column I wrote and sold after 9/11. I normally repost it around September 11 every year, but I think it is more appropriate to repost it now.)

Finding My Humor
By Felice Prager

I receive an email from my oldest friend who is still living in New Jersey.

Grand Canyon Skywalk

2010-07-01T09:24:00.002-07:00

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.)

Real Math - What if they gave a test, and nobody passed?

2010-04-01T13:02:00.001-07:00

Real Math - What if they gave a test, and nobody passed?

I am standing in the fruit department at Safeway. I have narrowed my choices to three cantaloupes. They are all pretty much the same: same size, same firmness, same coloring. I pick each one up and give it the “squeeze and sniff” test. I wonder to myself, “How many other people have sniffed the end of this cantaloupe? How many fingers have squeezed this melon rind?” I also try to recall where I learned how to do this. Did I watch my mother at the supermarket squeezing melons? It definitely isn’t something that was inborn, except I’m sure there are men out there who will swear they have a sixth sense, the melon sense. For me, I’m sure it’s something that took practice. I’m sure I didn’t always do it right. With experience I’ve become quite adept at the art of choosing my melons. Regardless, I put the cantaloupes back on the stand; I can’t eat melon while I’m on the Atkins Diet.

I like supermarkets. I spend a lot of time there. I find comfort in being near things I can’t eat. Plus, the people at the supermarket know me by name. “Thank you,” says the clerk, (glancing at my credit card receipt,) “Mrs. Prager. You’ve saved $11.56 by shopping at Safeway today.”

“If I’ve saved $11.56,” I reply, “where is it?”

My response leaves the clerk dumbfounded. “Can we help you to your car with your bags, Mrs. Prager?”

I don’t even correct his use of “can” instead of “may” --- I am on my best behavior at the supermarket. I need Safeway more than Safeway needs me. “Thank you, but I can load my own groceries,” I say with my polite supermarket smile.

Back in my Jeep, I examine my receipt. How could this meager amount of low carbohydrate food I just moved from the shopping cart be worth $100? (And how much fat did I burn moving it?) This gets me thinking about math. I start multiplying and dividing in my head:

If Felice works five hours, how much per hour does Felice have to earn to cover the $100 she just spent at Safeway on foods that definitely need some fiber in them to make them seem worthwhile?

I always find satisfaction in knowing I am able to solve for unknown variables.

Felice has Q pounds to lose. Given her highly resistant metabolism, she is only losing 1.5 pounds per week during her extended Induction Phase of the Atkins Diet. If she sticks to her diet, how many pounds will she have lost in six months, and will she fit into that expensive bathing suit she bought in 1993 and never wore. Will the bathing suit still be in style? And will her husband ever find out?

I’ve been thinking about math a lot lately. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think about math. Maybe it’s that it is almost income tax time. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m paying out-of-state tuition for my son to attend a state college in another state so that he can be with his girlfriend. Or maybe it’s what I read in the newspaper.

This was in the Arizona Republic (Jan. 25, 2004):

“On Monday, the State Board of Education will consider making it easier for this year's eighth-graders to pass the AIMS (Arizona's Instrument to Measure Standards) math test they'll face in April. “This is the correction of an error,” Arizona schools chief Tom Horne said. “The problem is the way the test is scored.” In the past four years, no more than 21 percent of Arizona's eighth-graders have passed the AIMS math test, well below the passing rate of students who take the test in other grades. To pass, eighth-graders must get 78 percent of the 50 math questions correct. State officials want to change that passing score to about 72 percent, allowing students to miss three more questions. Had the change been in place in 2003, Horne said, 32 percent, instead of 21 percent, of Arizona's eighth-graders would have passed the test.”

Two years ago, when my kid was in eighth grade, he passed the AIMS test. He didn’t need a three questions gift to get over the bar. He did his homework, went for extra help when he didn’t understand, and worked hard.

“It’s 2 AM on a Tuesday morning, and Felice can’t sleep. She’s not hungry, but she just needs something to eat. She goes to the refrigerator and finds the half can of Diet Rite Cola she didn’t finish. She chugs it down. “Nope,” she says to herself, “I need something to chew.” She goes to the cabinet and finds the bag of pecans halves she bought at Safeway earlier in the day. According to Dr. Atkins’ New Diet Revolution (page 174) one ounce of pecans equals approximately five grams of carbohydrates. If one ounce, according to Dr. Atkins, is equal to thirty-one nuts, and Felice eats fifteen and a half pieces, does Felice count these carbohydrates for Tuesday or for Wednesday? And did Dr. Atkins count a pecan half as one nut or do two halves equal one nut? Did Felice eat two and a half grams or one and a quarter grams of carbohydrates?

This was in the Arizona Republic (Jan. 14, 2004) a few weeks ago:

“Students who excel at math say a love for the subject and their parents' support are among the reasons they do so well…Parents can help by letting children gravitate toward the areas of math they like best, math experts say. Some children like variables while others are good at geometric shapes. ‘Let them go with their interests,’ said Bill Butterworth, associate professor of mathematics at Barat College of DePaul University in Lake Forest, Ill. Butterworth, who judged the high school math competition in Phoenix, said game shows such as The Price Is Right help children develop math skills of strategy and probability. He recommends parents work with their child's teachers and check out what math resources are available through the school. Many schools hold family math nights. Sophomore Jake Gottlieb of Scottsdale looks for math's real-life applications. When he was a child, he would play McDonald's restaurant with his mother, making ‘purchases.’ At age 3, he could count to 100. When he was 7, his parents bought him $100 in stocks so he could practice percentages. He sold the stocks about a year ago for $3,000.”

Maybe I was doing the right thing when I used to let my kid, with my supervision, make transactions at the store. When I owned my own business, I’d show my sons how invoicing worked. My sons knew what the “bottom line” was before they could ride two-wheeled bikes.
When hiring employees for my business, I used to ask two questions. They helped me decide who could think enough not to make a stupid math error when making a sale.

These were the questions:

1. If an item that costs $9.99 is on sale for 50% off, about how much will it cost?

2. You have to give a customer $26.25 in change. From the list below, what is the way you will use the least amount of bills in giving the customer change:
-two ten-dollar bills, one five-dollar bill, one one-dollar bill, and a quarter.
-One twenty-dollar bill, one five-dollar bill, one one-dollar bill, and a quarter.
-One twenty-five dollar bill, one one-dollar bill, and a quarter.

Job seekers answered “C” for the second question more times than I want to admit, and figuring out “about how much” for the first question took a pencil, paper, and time, and many times, their answers were far from five dollars. I would watch in amazement as they added or subtracted or multiplied or divided; then I’d show them the right way to estimate it in their heads and tell them I’d call if an opening became available.

My kid got both questions correct without my help. He was eight at the time.

So, what does this say? Nothing.

Yeah, nothing.

The proof was in the Arizona Republic (January 21, 2004) again:

“Scottsdale's newest reality TV star apparently has chosen fame and possible fortune over a career as a Catholic schoolteacher.Randi Coy quit her job Wednesday as a first-grade teacher at Pope John XXIII Catholic School Community in northeast Phoenix.Coy, 23, appears on the Fox show, My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiance, which debuted Monday night with 19.6 million viewers nationwide. Coy had been on unpaid administrative leave from the school since Thanksgiving…On Friday, Coy told The Arizona Republic that she was unsure about her future."I'm young and I did this for the experience, and who knows what's going to happen?" Coy said. "But right now, I'm just taking it day by day. And hopefully, yes, definitely I'd like to go back to teaching. I'm just going to see what happens."But on the first episode of the six-episode series, Coy mentioned the difference between her teacher's salary and her potential $500,000 prize.”

I’ve been thinking about math a lot lately.

My son called the other night. This is the son who is going to an out-of-state college for which we’re paying out-of-state tuition. Apparently, he and his girlfriend are planning to go to Florida for Spring Break. They have it all figured out. They’ll get a cheap fare on plane flights and they’ll stay with her relatives. My son did not mention sending us any money to cover the cost of his car payments or auto insurance. Nor did he mention any other expenses they’d have in Florida beyond getting there.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time thinking about math.

©2004 by Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved.

Originally Published by the Irascible Professor.

Protecting Your Pet in Desert Environments

2010-01-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

The desert, with its extreme heat, lack of precipitation and water sources, and unique exotic native plants and animals, is a deceptively challenging place to live, especially for those with pets. With the development of the desert, people often forget that the desert can be dangerous, if not deadly. It is the responsibility of the pet owner to take extra precautions with pets to protect them in the desert’s harsh environment. It is always err on the side of caution in the desert Southwest. Following these guidelines should help most pet owners keep their pets safe and healthy. For the most part, these guidelines are common sense.

1. On hot days, leave your pets at home, if possible. Your pets are safest and healthiest in their normal habitats. It is better for your pet to be lonely for a few hours than to subject a pet to the extremes of a desert environment.

2. Leaving a dog, cat, or any pet in a car, even with the air conditioning on, is only asking for trouble. Interior vehicle temperatures can reach 160 degrees or higher. Opening a window will not provide enough ventilation to cool a pet. Pets can die or suffer permanent brain damage in less than five minutes at those high temperatures. In addition, there have been horror stories where pets have accidentally put vehicles into gear. The car has rolled and the pets and humans have suffered the consequences. A pet will be healthier and happier at home.

3. Don’t tie up a dog anywhere. This is considered animal cruelty and is illegal in many areas.

4. For those who enjoy hiking with a dog, make sure your dog is in good physical condition before you attempt the outing. Prepare as you would for any hike, but add to your list of needs the requirements for your dog such as extra water. Bring a portable pet water bowl and damp towels in a plastic bag. Give your dog rest time in the shade no matter how well conditioned your pet is. Just because you are rested, it does not mean your pet is. Consider a longer rest to protect your pet. Since dogs cannot communicate physical distress until the situation is serious, be a careful observer of your dog’s needs. Train your dog and make sure the trail you choose is dog friendly. Pick up after your dog, for obvious reasons. Remember: heat exhaustion is very common with dogs. Early signs include rapid breathing, heavy panting, and salivating. Other signs include fatigue, muscle tremors, and staggering. Don’t allow your dog to get to this point, and if he does, take the dog to a cool, shady place and apply wet towels or cloths to help the dog’s body cool down. Try to give the dog small amounts of water and immediately contact a veterinarian.

5. If left outdoors, which is not advised, make sure your pet has access to shade during the entire day. What may be shady in the morning may be a hot, sunny spot as the day progresses. This is true of doghouses and other pet shelters, as well. Your pet needs shade to stay cool. It is possible to purchase items that help shade your animal including pet tents. It is well worth the investment for the safety of your pet.

6. Never leave your pet attached to any type of leash – even tethered lines. The danger of your dog being tangled and strangled is ever-present.

7. Leaving your pet outdoors on hot days has another disadvantage: it is common for a hot sunny day to turn into a violent summer monsoon storm, complete with lightning, thunder, flooding, and violent rushing water. Never leave your pet outdoors if there is a chance of a lightning storm.

8. When summer rain and monsoon season begins, desert toads (Colorado toads) emerge from their burrows. These are highly toxic to dogs. The dog may be interested in the toad because of natural curiosity, or the toad might go to your dog’s bowl of water. Any contact, including drinking the water in which the toad has been, can be fatal to your dog. Newly developed areas have these toads. You will not always see them since they spend much of their lives beneath the ground. Check your yard frequently for them before allowing your pet out in the backyard.

9. Pets are vulnerable to drowning. Though you can potentially teach a dog to swim its way to a step if it falls into a pool, the best answer is to keep all pets away from pools. Keep gates locked around pools, Jacuzzis, and hot tubs. If you keep a cover on your pool, make sure it can hold your pet’s weight in case your pet decides to walk on it.

10. Keep your pets away from hot grills. The danger is obvious.

11. Check the heat of the pavement before walking your dog. People who have moved here from other areas and new pet owners are often unaware of just how hot the pavement can get. If you cannot keep your hand on the pavement, it is too hot for your pet. Booties are available for this purpose, but even these are not always a good alternative on the hottest days. When in doubt, let your dog protect its feet by walking on grass or in the shade. You would not expect your dog to walk on hot coals. That is what the summer pavement is like on hot days.

12. Hot weather makes everyone thirstier but also raises the evaporation rate. Provide a larger bowl that will not tip over. If the water is outdoors, leave it in a shady area so it stays cool. Automatic watering bowls tend to stay cooler. There is a variety of new products available the refill pet bowls automatically and well worth the expense. If necessary, leave more than one bowl for a pet. If you have multiple pets, provide multiple bowls. In addition, wash the bowl well because evaporation tends to leave algae and calcium deposits.

13. Do not feed your pet outdoors. Besides the obvious, that pet food can spoil in extreme heat, pet food, especially dog food, attracts other predators such as skunks, javelinas, coyotes, bears, bobcats, and mountain lions that are a danger to your pet. The food is also an attraction to the poisonous desert toad.

14. Make sure your pet’s vaccinations are up-to-date.

15. Keep your pet indoors during celebrations such as the Fourth of July. Fireworks tend to frighten pets. Occasionally, in fear, they will bolt and get lost. It is also possible for a stray firecracker to wind up in your yard, potentially injuring your pet.

16. If javelinas (Wild boar) visit your property, keep your dogs away from them. Though they may seem harmless, they can inflict severe bites. They have poor eyesight and startle easily. If you are walking your dog and encounter a group of javelinas, keep your dog close to you and leave the area.

17. Rattlesnake bites can be deadly and require immediate veterinary attention. There will be immediate, painful swelling around the bite area. Keep your pet as calm as possible and transport it to the vet immediately. If you know your pet has been bitten but cannot identify the type of snake, the vet can administer a test to check. The Humane Society of Southern Arizona offers Snakebite Avoidance classes. Preventative measures include keeping your dog leashed, avoiding walks at night in the summer when snakes are more active, and not allowing your dog to investigate bushy areas, rocks, or areas where snakes may be hiding. Rattlers are territorial, so if you see one, avoid that area in the future.

18. With Gila monsters, leave them alone. Gila monsters are not aggressive and will only bite after being provoked, but the bite of a Gila monster is severe, painful, and poisonous. Gila monsters hibernate and are sometimes trapped in the yard of new homes that were built during the winter.

19. Tarantulas are not dangerous despite how scary they may appear. They leave their burrows at night during monsoon season in search of a mate.

20. Scorpions can inflict painful stings. Clean up rock and brush piles from your home and do not allow your pet to dig under rocks to avoid being stung. Some believe certain pets are immune to scorpion stings. Even if this is true, which most believe is not the case, the sting is painful. If your pet is stung, do as you would a human. Apply ice to the area and contact your veterinarian for further advice and monitoring.

21.Valley Fever is a disease caused by a fungus that occurs in the soil of the Southwest. It can afflict both humans and many companion animals, but it is NOT transferred between them. It general causes problems when the immune system becomes overwhelmed. The severity varies greatly and there is no vaccine, just treatment. Symptoms include fever, weight loss, and cough, but these symptoms can be caused by other problems. If you suspect your pet has Valley Fever, consult your veterinarian for assistance.

22. Letting your cat or small dog out by itself is the sure way to lose it, even in a fenced yard. In addition to coyotes, there are bobcats, hawks, and owls that are big enough to carry off a small pet. Even if it feels like you live in suburbia, don’t forget that this is a desert. Wildlife moves along washes – looking for a meal – and if you leave your small pet outdoors, it might spell your pet’s demise.

23. If your pet is an indoor pet, such as a hamster, a tortoise, or any other small animal kept in a cage, keep it that way. These animals do not fair well outdoors. Their bodies are not suited for the heat and if they are, by keeping them indoors, their needs have changed.

24. The chance of poisoning a pet accidentally is higher during the spring and summer. Fertilizers, herbicides, insecticides, and fungicides can be dangerous or even fatal to pets. If your lawn or yard has been treated, keep your pet away from the area. Pets are good at finding poorly stored chemical products and chewing up the containers and eating and drinking the contents. Pet owners should be especially vigilant about storing these products.

25.Some groomers believe the best way to keep a dog cool in the summer is to give the dog a close grooming. Though this may seem like a logical solution, it isn’t for most breeds. A dog’s fur is protection from the cold, the heat, and the elements such as the sun. For some breeds, long hair keeps them cooler than removing it. If you are considering a haircut for your pet, thoroughly research your breed and lean toward not getting the pet’s fur removed if the dog will be out in the sun. Like a human, the dog can get a severe sunburn and have no way of communicating this pain to you.

There are other basic rules for specific animals such as horses and animals suited for desert life such as giant tortoises. If you own one, become an expert about caring for your pet in the desert. Your pet will appreciate it and will have a better chance of surviving.

(This piece was published at DesertUSA.com.)

Preparing an Emergency Preparedness Kit

2009-10-01T08:49:00.000-07:00

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)

Mom Goes On The Line

2009-07-01T10:30:00.000-07:00

I received three e-mails from my mother today. This is unusual because until today, my mother didn't own a computer. She's watched me work on my assorted computers that occupy my office and my kids’ bedrooms. For us, computers are a way of life. For my mother, computers have been frightening machines that collect way too much dust.

The first e-mail from my mother said, "Believe it or not---I'm on the line. It took a long time. Call you later. Mom." I figured by "on the line" she meant "online" and laughed at her interpretation. As a little girl, I remember my mother putting someone on hold by saying, “hold the line.” Then again, to my mother, there was a phone line, a clothes line, and A-line dresses. “Online” was never a concept she learned. “Online” just happened.

“Welcome to the club,” I replied in my e-mail. “Have fun exploring.”

The second e-mail came several hours later. It said, "I'm just learning, so don1t mind the mistakes. I bought a Dell like you suggested. Eventually I!ll know what I!m doing. gIVE mE A lITTLE tIME. Love you- Mom." This was all written in the subject line of the email. The body of the email was empty.

With a little interpretation, I saw what my mother did. So used to typing on a Smith Corona keyboard, she let her fingers decide which keys to press instead of looking at the keyboard to see the computerized differences.

I didn't want to burst my mother's bubble and tell her that she might never know what she's doing on a computer. So I sent her a reply explaining that the apostrophe and quotation marks are not over the 1 and 8 anymore like they used to be on her old Smith Corona typewriters. I explained where they were and a few other intricacies of the newer keyboard. Then I told her that the message didn't belong in the subject line. I told her where to put it. I told her to have fun and explore this new cyber-world. I told her about bookmarking favorite places, using a virus scanner, avoiding pornography, and other simple things. I worried that I was putting too much into an e-mail, but then again, I had wished I knew someone when I started out using mine who could walk me through the tough stuff. I told her I hoped the beginning is interesting and relatively easy for her. I told her not to be afraid. I told her that unless she messed around and tried to upgrade the inside of her computer like I do, she'd be fine. I don't think she'll try to see what's inside the box. And if she does, which I doubt she will, I can fix it for her.

I also sent her a second email with some links to some of my published work online, things she has never read because she could not access them without a computer. My mother has seen most of my print publications; until now she has missed everything on the Internet.

When I was in elementary school, my mother was one of the few moms who worked outside the home. In the late fifties and early sixties, other mothers stayed home. Mine worked because she had no choice. Life sometimes forces us to make those decisions. Some mothers made cookies; I don’t have any memories of my mother baking. Instead, my mother typed my school reports for me.

In my case, the situation was ideal. The office where my mother worked was across the street from my school. She was often able to coordinate her lunch with mine, and I was none the worse for it. I always had a ride to school, and for lunch, we would visit a local coffee shop and eat grilled cheese sandwiches together. I'd have my chocolate egg cream; she would have her black coffee, no sugar.

It was so long ago, but I can still visualize her office with the modern machines that impressed me so much back then. I have always liked machines. This probably explains why I love my computers so much and why my sons had no arguments when it came to purchasing Nintendo, Super Nintendo, Nintendo 64, Playstation, Xbox, and the other game machines they have wanted. The only problem for my sons was getting Mom to stop playing so they could.

In my youth at my mother’s office, I liked trying to figure out how her machines worked. My mother's office had great modern machines such as assorted electric typewriters, phones with five lines, a manual adding machine with a slot machine-like pull arm, and a Xerox machine that needed pink paper placed on top of white paper all placed in a hard plastic sleeve just to make one copy. These copies were always too dark or too light and looked nothing like the original, but there was no alternative and I was the only one I knew who could ask her mother to make copies of things. My mother never said no since she was in charge of ordering supplies at this office.

I remember when I took typing in high school, a required course for all academic students going on to college or secretarial school, and I finally made it to 40 words per minute; my mother was doing 65 words or more at the time. She never made mistakes. I tested her once at 80 words and no errors. She was an incredible typist. In those days, fixing errors required specialized typewriter erasers that tended to rip the paper if pressed too hard against the print. Sometimes it required starting from scratch. In those days, carbon paper made barely readable copies, and they served the purpose because if another copy was needed, my mother would type it again. In those days, my mother typed the addresses, one at a time, on the letterhead and on the envelopes. Billing clients took several days. In those days, my mother was the master of her trade. She typed fast and rarely made an error that she couldn't fix with ease.

My mother’s third e-mail was a reply to the one I had sent filled with, what I thought, were helpful hints. It was also written completely in the subject line. “Why did they move the apostrophe and quotation marks? There was nothing wrong with where they were. I’m going to write Dell a letter about it. Love Mom.”

Today my mother took a big step. She is on the road to being computer literate in a world very alien to the one where she had been a super star. With as much tact as I could muster, I told my mom where to find the apostrophe and the quotation marks, and she told me, in a 21st century e-mail, what I could do with them.

-----end

This essay has been published in several places including The Front Porch, Sasee Magazine, and Chicken Soup for the Working Mom's Soul. aka MODERN MACHINES.

Republished In 2006 in Memory of Marcella S. Klein.

Surviving in the Sonoran Desert from A to Z

2009-04-01T08:08:00.000-07:00

To someone who is just casually observing, the Arizona desert is a strange yet beautiful place. It has some of the most unusual landscapes, wildlife, and plants in the world. The sun shines and things grow. The shadows are mystifying and the desire to explore more is always there. What is over the next ridge? What might I miss if I do not look?Yet, for the unwary, unsuspecting, uneducated visitor who makes too many mistakes, it can be a very unforgiving place as well. One small mistake can turn an afternoon drive off road or an overnight camping trip into a tragedy.

There is a reason cartoons are drawn with human skeletons and animal remains left scattered on the desert floor beneath the desert sun. You can die in the desert!With so many people moving to desert areas or traveling to a desert region for a vacation, it is important to share the truth about desert life and desert adventures. It is also important so safety precautions can be taken to help prevent potential disasters. Man has turned a lot of the desert into Suburbia, but it is still the desert – though camouflaged, and the desert can be deadly. Even being caught on the side of a road without enough water can become potentially dangerous. Yearly, residents of the Sonoran Desert hear helicopters flying overhead, searching the desert arroyos for a winter visitor or careless resident who had not returned from an outing. Regularly, the news carries stories about someone who climbed a cliff and could not negotiate his way back down. Stories abound about people in flooded washes during monsoon season, people who never suspected the severity of a desert environment.Even the experienced hiker can be in a dire situation. Fortunately, most hikers travel prepared for emergencies so they survive and they learn from their errors. With a bit of knowledge, however, and a lot of common sense, tragedies can be avoided completely. There is no such thing as being too prepared when you are in an environment that can pose potential danger. After all, surviving in the desert is nothing more than plain old common sense with a few added bells and whistles.

Rules for Desert Survival

A. Share your plans. Tell someone where you are going and when you plan to be back. Let them know your route and the type of vehicle and communication methods you will be using. Leave a map and do not change your plans without letting someone know. Leave the following information n writing with someone who will be contacted upon your return: ---Your route ---Information about your vehicle ---Information about with whom you are traveling---Potential health issues anyone who is with you might have---What type of emergency supplies you already have with you, including medications.

B. Do not depend on a cellular/mobile phone in these situations, as they do not always work when away from civilization. If you are in doubt, check with your service provider or the link below to confirm coverage areas. It is wise to be doubtful about the promises made about battery life and coverage area with cell phones. Err on the safe side.

C. An alternative to a cell phone is the rental or purchase of a satellite phone. A satellite phone or satphone is a mobile phone that communicates directly with orbiting communications satellites. The handsets can be the size and weight of the original mobile phones of the 1990s. They also have a large retractable antenna. Two large satellite networks cover the US: Globestar and Iridium. Satellite phones work better than cell phones although they require a clear view of a large percentage of the sky to get a reliable connection.

D. A CB or ham radios is another option. Ham radios have the potential to work from very remote locations; however, they are a very do-it-yourself proposition and they require a government license. They also require training and informed gear selection to be of use.

E. Today’s technology provides the adventurer with some newer options. Handheld GPS devices are available. These can provide topographical maps, aerial photography, and satellite imagery for the desert traveler. An example is the Earthmate GPS PN-20 with Topo USA 6.0 National & 1GB SD Card/Reader. This device is low-cost, has high-sensitivity, and delivers capabilities previously unavailable at any price.

F. You can also purchase a personal locator beacon (PLB) - emergency life saving devices that are used when all else fails. A PLB is a small transmitter that sends out a personalized emergency distress signal to your nearest rescue service. They are becoming a highly effective and internationally recognized way of summoning help though they are used only in life threatening situations.

G. Make sure you are using a vehicle that is meant for the desert terrain. If your vehicle does not have offroad capability, it is unwise to make the trip. Make sure you are skilled at maneuvering this offroad vehicle in unusual terrain. Many people buy vehicles with four-wheel drive and assume owning the vehicle makes them an expert. Offroad driving requires the proper vehicle and knowledgeable experience using it in rough areas. Classes are available for those wanting to learn the how to’s of offroad driving. Since many problems in the desert start with a car that breaks down due to ill repair, be prepared for everything. Make sure your car is in good condition with good hoses, a spare tire, spare fan belts, necessary tools, extra gas, water, and oil. A tune-up is wise prior to offroad adventures. Using a mechanic who is informed about the proper maintenance of an offroad vehicle is a wise choice. Make sure your tank is full to begin with. Bring extra fuel.

H. Listen to your body. Bring sufficient water for each person traveling with you. A good judge is one gallon per person per day. With water, the rule is more is better. You can always drink it when you get home if it is not used, but if you do not have it when you need it, it can be a matter of life and death. With water, make sure you drink it as needed. Rationing water can become very dangerous. Often when a person is dehydrated, the thinking processes malfunction. Drink what you need. Don't tell yourself you'll save it for when you really get thirsty. That just doesn't work in the desert. Soda is not a substitute for water as it tends to dehydrate the person drinking it.

I. Respect the heat. If water is limited, keep your mouth SHUT. Do not talk, eat, smoke, drink alcohol, or eat anything salty. Limit activity.

J. Be prepared for emergencies. Have adequate first aid supplies including proper medication for anyone who requires it. If someone is diabetic or asthmatic, it is vital to have the proper medication and enough of it with you. Bring more rather than less than you need.

K. Stay with your vehicle if you have a problem. It will be the first thing found by searchers because it's much easier to detect from the air. In addition, your car has many things to help with your survival such as mirrors, hubcaps, a horn, a battery, lights, a lighter, gas, oil, and floor mats. Raise the hood and trunk of your vehicle to show distress. Pilots and rescue workers look for this as a sign of emergency.

L. Make sure you have a flashlight and check its batteries often. A flashlight without batteries has no value. Your best bet is to put new ones in the flashlight as a safety precaution and bring extras. This is a good time to be over-cautious. An investment in a better quality flashlight might be worth your while in the end. And remember – a cheap flashlight is a cheap flashlight. You get what you pay for.

M. If you are absolutely positive about the route to help either via a GPS device or your confident knowledge of your location, and feel you must leave your vehicle, make sure you leave a note for rescuers telling them who you are, when you left, and the exact route you plan to take. If you don't know where you're going, stay put.

N. Know the desert. Do not sit or lie directly on the ground. Improvise a sunshade and elevate your body. Think creatively with the supplies you have. The ground can sometimes be 30 degrees hotter than the free air temperature. Use a car seat or something to raise yourself at least a foot and a half off the surface. There is also a greater possibility of having a problem with a poisonous insect or snakes when you are directly on the ground. In addition, if your car is hot, it will send the heat to you, so if you can, stay away from the vehicle until it cools down.

O. Protect your eyes with sunglasses. Even though the glare doesn't seem to make a difference, it will impair your distant vision and hamper your adaptation to night vision. It can also cause severe headaches. If you have no sunglasses available, improvise with a sun shield made from cardboard or cloth, a hat, or a bandana. Applying charcoal, soot, or oil around your eyes may help.

P. If you have lip-gloss, use it. Do not lick your lips, as it will hasten chapping and splitting.

Q. Dress properly. Wear the proper foot protection and keep your body covered. The sun can be a killer. Change your socks regularly. Change them even if you are changing to used socks. Sunning and aeration of socks and undergarments have a marked freshening value, physically and psychologically.

R. Do not remove clothing in an attempt to stay cool. This hastens dehydration. Wearing clothes helps you avoid sunburn as well. Cover up your arms, legs, and face as best you can. If you have sunblock, use it.

S. Keep your eyes opened. If you see a dust storm coming, lie down with your back to the wind, covering your head with your clothes to keep dust out of your eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Make sure you think about the worst case scenario with all situations.

T. If the weather is cool, get a fire started. Always bring waterproof matches.

U. A roadway is a sign of civilization. If you find a traveled road, stay on it. You might find other people on a road who can bring safety to you or you to safety.

V. Keep an eye on the sky. Flash floods may occur any time thunderheads are in sight, even thought it may not rain where you are. Weather changes in the desert quite quickly at times. Do not remain in dry washes (arroyos) which can flood and be quite dangerous, if not deadly.

W. Try to stay under control. There is nothing more dangerous than blind panic.

X. In any survival situation, everything you do must be preceded by the thought: Am I safe in doing this? If there is any question, don't do it.

Y. Use common sense! Lean toward experience if you are not capable. Hire a guide if you must, but never undertake something that you are simply not prepared for.

Z. THINK!

(Published at DesertUSA.com.)

Xeriscaping - A Blooming Backyard Desert

2009-01-01T07:29:00.000-07:00

To some, a garden must be lush and green with flowers, plants, manicured lawns, bushes, hedges, and trees. We had one of those when we lived in New Jersey. Our chores included mowing, raking, trimming, removing weeds, and maintaining. It was a labor of love, and it looked beautiful.
When we moved to Arizona’s Sonoran Desert, however, we were aware that maintaining a garden would be nearly impossible. How could we get color in a backyard when water was a commodity and daily temperatures would burn most plants?
But when we built our house, the landscapers we hired tried to re-create New Jersey in our backyard – and we tried to maintain it. We had a lawn that we mowed when it was 110 degrees F. in the shade.
We filled bare patches with grass seed where the sun burned the old. We planted things only to realize that if something isn’t indigenous to the area, it’s difficult to keep it alive. We installed a drip-irrigation system, but one by one, our bushes and plants died.
Then we had a revelation. We decided that since we saw beauty in the desert, we would focus on that instead of trying to re-create what worked in another part of the country. We would have a picture-postcard desert paradise right in our own backyard.
The concept is called xeriscaping. The idea is to decrease the harsh effects of the desert climate and increase energy efficiency by understanding the challenges and options available.
We opted for the most minimalistic approach. We wanted our yard to look natural – like the desert it used to be before man stepped in. We wanted people to see our yard as a continuation of the desert arroyos adjacent to it.
We started by removing the lawn. It was not environmentally correct by any stretch of the imagination to use so much water. In its place, we decorated with sand, stones, and boulders.
We transplanted cacti that had outgrown pots and put them into the ground. We did research and learned which plants required full sunlight and which required shade or defused sunlight.
I opted for plants that needed little or no watering. The concept was that if it needed more than a bucket a month, it didn’t fit into the plan.
In fact, after planting the cacti, I became very aware of when we had rain or lacked it. I watered each plant (during the hot summer) on the first of the month – unless it had rained.
What I noticed over time was that I rarely had to water anything if it belonged in the desert. Natural rainfall was enough. Overwatering tended to rot the plants’ roots.
Cacti that grew just a little in pots, grew huge in the ground. Some even flowered, which hadn’t when they lived in pots. What started as rocks and some little plants is now a cactus garden of enviable proportions.
Many cacti also have another positive trait. If a cactus becomes overgrown, you can carefully remove a piece of it and plant it elsewhere. These cuttings grow into brand-new plants. In fact, if someone is visiting and comments on my cactus garden, I say, “Which is your favorite?” and I send them home with a cutting from it.
Like most Arizonans, we also have a swimming pool, which most of us who live in the desert find to be a necessity when it’s 115 degrees F. outside. Having xeriscaping helps me feel less guilty about the water a pool uses.
My favorite of all my plants is my cereus in the front of my house. When we planted it about 20 years ago, it was roughly 18 inches high and had only one stalk.
I have a photo somewhere of my sons standing next to it on the first day of school – both pretty miserable because vacation is over. In the photo, both boys are taller than the plant was at the time.
Today, the plant is taller than my house and has about 20 arms. I watch this plant more than all the others. It often gets scattered buds on the various arms. As these become larger, they bloom. The last time the cereus flowered, we had 61 flowers – yes, I counted – a few opened every night.
It takes about 10 days from start to finish for one bud to become a flower. The flower opens slowly at sunset into a five-inch white flower. I’ve read that bats like them. In the morning, bees are drinking their last taste of nectar, and by about 8 a.m., when the sun is on them, they have completed their life cycle.
One morning, I went out to get the newspaper and there was one flower opened. As I stood and admired it, a new neighbor walked by with her dog. She asked me what type of plant it was and I told her. She said that she planned to relandscape her property with a more natural look than the previous owners had.
Later that day, I went to her house and handed her a small cutting from my cereus plant. I explained the plant’s history, and together we planted it in her front yard.

When she asked me what she had to do to keep it alive, I told her the truth: “Leave it alone. Admire it. Appreciate the beauty of the desert.”

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(Originally published by the Christian Science Monitor - September 22, 2008.)

Oasis Park - A 50-year-old Oasis in the Desert

2008-10-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

Residents of Oasis Park in Scottsdale, Arizona, have different stories about how they discovered their particular mobile home community and why they stayed. One current resident was on her way to California with her husband 34 years ago. Doctors advised her husband to move to a warmer, drier climate because he was suffering from shrapnel wounds from World War II. The couple stopped at Oasis Park to visit relatives, and fell in love with it. They were torn about leaving. On the morning they were supposed to leave, there was a large earthquake in California. That quickly helped them decide to call Oasis Park their home.

National Geographic magazine photographed Oasis Park for an article about palm trees. In 1959, Jack Bailey’s Queen for a Day flew Mrs. Doris Herbison from Oregon to be Queen of Scottsdale’s annual Parada del Sol; she and her husband were guests at Oasis Park. In 1969, Time magazine featured Oasis Park in a story about immobile mobile home parks, a 1950’s trend that succeeded in some areas and not in others.

Oasis Park is now over 50 years old and has become eligible for historic status. Though HUD once estimated that mobile home communities only had a life span of 14 years, Oasis Park and a few others like it have been the exceptions to that rule. Oasis Park is still a thriving community.
Oasis Park was created in the mid-1950s by a developer who carved almost 15 acres from a Scottsdale, Arizona cotton field into lots, built a clubhouse, and christened the whole place The Oasis. When it was originally built, it was flanked by more cotton fields and it was across the street was a drive-in theater that has been replaced by office buildings. Its history has been pieced together by current residents (some who have been there almost 40 years) from scraps of paper found in the mobile homes when they became residents.

In 1957, the first residents began to move in. At the time, Oasis Park had shuffleboard courts, a putting green, a 54-foot heated pool with a rock waterfall, a library inside the clubhouse, an on-site hobby shop for men, and a pink laundry room with matching pink washers and pink dryers for the women. The amenities alone help categorized the mobile home community as upscale. Eventually 95 couples filled the park, maneuvering massive 55-foot mobile homes into their designated lots. Residents were required to add ramadas to the existing structures, and some opted to add more than what was required.

In the early days, there were weekly potluck dinners usually preceded by fancy cocktail parties. Men and women dressed up. The men wore coats and ties, and the women wore elegant gowns or long Mexican dresses. On other occasions, residents proudly showed slide shows after returning from exotic vacations. There were parties to celebrate everything from Halloween to anniversaries to birthdays, and inevitably, memorial services for residents who died. In its heyday, Oasis Park had an endless array of activities from buffets, pool and poker parties, craft sessions, bingo nights, dances, exercise clubs, and visiting speakers.

Over the years, the residents have included a diamond merchant, bankers, ministers, politicians, doctors and nurses, hairdressers, schoolteachers and college professors, electricians, pilots, journalists, architects, an airline owner, and a judge. Most residents were (and still are) winter visitors, maintaining homes elsewhere. Among the many famous people to pass through Oasis Park over the years were Colonel Earl Henry “Red” Blaik – head football coach at West Point, Hale Irwin – pro golfer, and Paul Parent – right-hand man to Howard Hughes.

Oasis Park residents have never counted themselves among the typical mobile home owners, and Oasis Park was never known as a typical trailer park. Though originally a rental community, residents now own their homes and are shareholders in the Oasis Park Company, the corporation they formed in order to buy the land on which their homes sit. Each resident now 1/95th of the total land and decisions about the park must be approved by the majority.

The community was always meant for older couples whose children were grown. I is restricted to members 55 years old and older. At one time, Oasis Park would not let in widows; however, many of the homes are now occupied by single women. Prospective buyers are interviewed and must be approved by the Oasis Park membership. Though some people might find the rules oppressive – no pets, no outside noise on Sundays and holidays, no clotheslines, and no wind chimes – residents don’t seem to mind. In an area where homes tend to take on a cookie-cutter appearance, Oasis homes are at least twice the original size, and each is very distinctive in style. The original mobile home is still part of the structure – that’s a rule, but each home has a uniqueness of its own – from Kokopelli sculptures to wishing wells, from cowboy weathervanes to unusual lawn statues; some homes are brick, some are river rock, some are shingle, some have brick arches, and some have tile doorways. The yards are landscaped with immaculately groomed citrus, yucca, prickly pear, ocotillo, bird of paradise, and lantana.

Oasis Park still maintains a full schedule of activities – exercise classes, bible study, bridge, and poker. In the summer when many residents return to their other homes, the schedule slows down. Though residents have changed, potlucks are still held regularly and are attended by most members of the community. Neighbors look after each other. If someone needs a ride, a neighbor is available to provide it. When someone is ill, neighbors provide wheel chairs and meals. Oasis Park may be in a big city, but it has the feel of a small town right out of another era.

©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 Rewind the Fifties.

LOCATION:
Oasis Park
6700 E. Thomas Rd.
Scottsdale, AZ 85251

Confessions of a Non-Bungler

2008-07-01T11:01:00.000-07:00

"If you bungle raising your children, nothing else matters in life."

Jacqueline Lee Bouvier Kennedy Onassis (1929-1994)

(Originally Published September 1, 2002 by the Irascible Professor)

It's been a tough couple of days. My husband and I drove our oldest son to the University of Arizona in Tucson.

Actually, we followed our son who was driving his pickup truck filled with his stuff. We were in our Jeep filled with more of his stuff. Our son has been shopping all summer for college things that seem to be the retail world's newest niche market. From a computer to plastic stackable color-coordinated crates to extra-long sheets to a dorm-sized microwave to foods especially made for dorm-sized microwaves, the cost of a college education has taken on a completely different perspective in 2002.

"Are you buying carpet for his room?" my neighbor whose daughter is attending the same university asked.

"I didn't think of that," I admitted.

"Did you get her a coffee maker?" I asked.

"I didn't think of that," she admitted.

And then there are the ads on TV: "Dude, you're getting a Dell." In our case, it was a Dell laptop with speakers and a subwoofer, CD/DVD burner, and more bells and whistles than are on my husband's Jeep Wrangler. We agreed that a laptop was the computer of choice since the campus was designed with computer ports everywhere, even next to park benches. My son's girlfriend opted for a similar laptop but hers has wrist rests in midnight blue, which coincidentally match her comforter, sheets, desk lamp, and collection of plastic crates.

On our drive to Tucson, we stopped once on the road and ate breakfast while my husband and I reviewed the rules of credit card usage and anything else we could collectively remember to nag about in our son's direction. I had decided I wasn't going to nag about anything, but everything that came out of my mouth was some sort of directive. I blame it on nerves.

We, as did hundreds of other parents, helped our kid get his things up to his mini dorm room that fortunately is on the second floor instead of the eighth floor of one of many buildings filled with excitedly nervous students and their suddenly choked up parents. We met his roommate and his roommate's parents. On first impression, I don't think they will drive each other crazy or make each other as unhappy as my college roommate and I did when we were younger and less tolerant. I made my son's bed for him although it was unnecessary and stopped the mothering thing when I got a stern glance from my husband as I started hanging up his clothes in his mini-closet that is next to his mini-dresser.

"You made his bed?" my neighbor asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"I forgot to make her bed," she said. "I feel so bad."

"Don't feel bad. She probably didn't even notice."

"Maybe I should drive down and visit her. Would you come with me?" she asked. "I feel so guilty."

"I'm sure she's made her bed," I said, trying to cheer her up. Then we both got choked up knowing we won't be driving down to visit them until Parent's Weekend at the end of October.

My husband, my son, and I took a walk around a very 21st century campus. He picked up his pre-ordered books at the bookstore. "You know this is what you're here for" foamed out of my mouth before I could stop myself from making another unnecessary nagging comment. Our son treated us to super-sized sodas at the Student Center using his prepaid food card that we paid for. And then we left.

On the ride home, my husband and I made awkward, choked-up small talk. We agreed that the University of Arizona is a fine choice of schools. We agreed that if our son works hard and takes advantage of what the university offers, he will have a fine future. There were uncomfortable silences as my husband continued to drive us home and I wiped tears from my eyes as I looked out the window. We agreed that the school makes many things much easier than when we were in college. Our son registered for classes online after a mandatory orientation he went to in late May. He ordered his required books online. I paid for his tuition, books, food, and parking online. Last week he went to his personal account at the University of Arizona's web site and found his schedule in list, graph, and map formats. He (and I) can access anything he needs from this site including his bill, a calendar of events and deadlines, degree requirements, a directory of students and professors, and his grades.

When we got home, I showed my husband the site since he rarely gets a chance at home to get online. After showing him the University of Arizona's impressive web site, we looked up the universities we attended so many years ago and were equally impressed with their web sites. We also felt very old. My husband and I were shocked at how the universities we attended had grown and reminisced to each other about this dorm or that building and things that happened almost 30 years ago. In addition, we reminisced about the agony of getting approval for and registering for classes back in the pre-computer age. We also remembered our parents receiving our grades via snail mail. Back in the Stone Age, the requirements for comfort in our dorms consisted of bringing our torn jeans, an 8-track player, and a typewriter and carbon paper. At the end of the corridor in our son's dorm, there were two old phone booths for pay phones that are no longer there. We remembered the phone messages we each found taped to our doors from our parents when we were in school: "What's the matter? Is your finger broken?" That won't be the case with our son who will be able to be accessed via email or phone at any hour. In our son's dorm, each room is wired with phone access with call waiting, cable TV access, and Ethernet capabilities connected to the university's huge computer system. My son already has a list of reading for one class where he simply clicks a link and an article from the university's main library is accessed. He never has to leave his dorm room. He can access it from any port on campus using his personal pin number. He also has copy machines in the lobby of his dorm. In the days of the dinosaurs, we spent endless hours waiting in line for the required book our professor wanted us to read. My husband made comments when we were in the dorm about how with all the electronic paraphernalia, there was no room to actually "write" on the desks. My son and his new roommate both looked at him cross-eyed as they continued to hook up their printers.

I know I'm supposed to be proud of my son's achievements which gained him acceptance into such a fine university and excited for his potential opportunities, but instead, the shock of my son moving out and being on his own hit me like nothing I ever expected. In fact, I spent the last two days cleaning his room, drowning out the sound of maternal sobbing with a powerful steam carpet-cleaning machine. Not that his room was that dirty, although there were Dr. Pepper stains on his carpet and other questionable marks on his walls hidden from me when he suddenly decided to rearrange his furniture a year ago. So I moved his bed back up against the windows where it used to be so my cats can look out and chase blowing leaves, flying birds, and the occasional lizard that races from one safe spot to the next. I went through my kitchen cabinets and pulled out items no one else in my house eats for my son's first care package. I cleaned the bathroom so my younger son can't say, "He did it!" when it gets too disgusting in there. And I anxiously kept the computer on, hoping to see my son's screen name pop up on my buddy list. It didn't. Instead, the phone rang last night, and my husband, younger son, and I each had a short conversation from our son away from home. We learned that he will be driving home to get his bike. He had originally planned to bring it, but while packing, he made the decision not to. I can't say I'm unhappy about his error.

Then my younger son got on the phone. "We've rented your room," he said. "to a Swedish exchange student named Inga."

It was the first time I laughed in days.

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