The Switch

My husband says, “Turn it off already!”

I tell him, “They forgot to install an on-off switch when I came off the assembly line.”

He mumbles something about the mold breaking when I fell off the conveyor belt, but soon forgives my inability to stay focused. He sees my shortcomings as a source of income.

The truth is, even if I could turn it off, I don’t know if I would.

At night when I’m in bed, my husband asks, “Are you concentrating, Felice? Are you with me? Are you here?”

I tell him I am. I wave from my corner of the galaxy.

“You’re writing in your head again, aren’t you?” he asks.

I reply, “Faster. Faster. A little to the left.”

The cop says, “Lady, do you know how fast you were going?” I don’t think it would convince a jury of my peers if the officer wrote on the speeding ticket, “Defendant said her mind was going a million miles a minute. She was developing a plot.”

In my house, food is never undercooked, cakes chew like cookies, and I never ask anyone how they want their meat cooked because I cannot guarantee results anyway.

I don’t know what the big deal is. I keep things under control. I pay bills early so they won’t be late. I never miss a deadline. I compensate for my distractions by being incredibly neurotic. My mind may be somewhere else, but my body is in the right place at the right time. I never forget a comma, but sometimes I forget directions or my makeup.

“I couldn’t help it,” I say. “I was writing.”

When my kids introduce me, they say, “This is my mom. She lives on another planet.”

Once my older son said, “This is my mom. She talks to pretend people.” Someone in Hollywood heard it, changed the quote a little and got very rich.

If the conversation is at Point A, I’m at Point K. I don’t even realize I’m doing it. I’ve been told I should pay better attention. I've also been told my segues are indicative of bad manners.

I have a friend who puts up with me. She says I entertain her. When she introduces me, she says, “Felice is somewhat circular in a semi-direct way.” She isn’t offended by my inability to stay on subject.

If you were on the perfect wave, would you stop surfing? If you found a gentle, intoxicating breeze, would you go to the indoor mall? If you were on a swing and you thought you were going to go over the top, would you stop pumping?

I have to go grocery shopping today, but first, I’m going to sit down at the computer for just five minutes. It may be five hours.

Did you say something?

----

Writer’s Digest Chronicle’s Winner December 2005

The Contents of these pages – including all photographs – are COPYRIGHT PROTECTED and may NOT be used or copied without the consent of the website owner and/or author/photographer.

The Motherhood of the Traveling Norton Anthologies

My house is a mess of piles. There is the pile of stuff for our future garage sale that is still in the discussion stage because my husband says it is not worth the effort. There is the pile of stuff we are donating to Vietnam Veterans of America because no one would want to buy any of it at a garage sale. There is the pile of stuff that Vietnam Veterans of America will not want which will go to the junk collector who I have to pay to haul it away. There is the pile of my younger son’s stuff that we said we would keep until he moves out of the dorm and has an apartment of his own. There is the pile of my older son’s stuff that he asked us to store for him until he has a house with a basement. And there are piles of books everywhere.

Our two sons are both going to college and have moved out, and my husband and I are scaling down. We are not sure what we are going to do going forward, but we are officially Empty Nesters now, and we are trying to see our way through to the next phase of our lives together. If anyone asks, we are just cleaning up and clearing out.

My next-door neighbor commented that she did not think one house could hold so much stuff. She waxes toward polite and I could see she was holding her tongue, wanting to say “garbage” instead of “stuff.”

When we moved from New Jersey to Arizona twenty years ago, we paid a moving company something like $8000 to move our old piles of stuff from there to here. We already had a lot of stuff. We put it all into labeled boxes that identified into which room the stuff would be moved on moving day. If we were nothing else, we were organized. We were proud of ourselves after the first night in our new home because we had all our boxes unloaded and out at the curb for the city’s pick up service. The stuff we moved went into closets, into cupboards, into drawers, into the garage, into cabinets, and onto shelves. Some of these items, we put away and never looked at again.

Among our stuff were my husband’s and my college textbooks. I am not sure exactly why, but at that time in our lives, neither of us could part with them. Maybe it was that some of the books were among the most expensive books we had ever owned or would own, but I don’t think that was it. Maybe saving them was as a remembrance of a time gone by but not forgotten. I don’t think that was it either. We just did not want to give away our books. And it was more than our college books. There were my teaching texts, my husband’s Star Trek and real science books. There were baby books, children’s books, chapter books, adolescent books, and grown up books. There were two sets of encyclopedias and many assorted types of dictionaries. There were books that we had read and books we had bought but could never quite get into. We simply liked having a lot of books around. Originally, they sat on shelves with books of similar subjects, but eventually, the nicely stacked books had books on top of them because that’s where they fit. I also thought in the early days that perhaps someday my sons could use my books. I had been an English teacher, so it made sense to me that my textbooks and anthologies would come in handy. Maybe they could be resources. Maybe they could use the notes I had written in the margins, gems spoken by my professors or thought up by me.

Okay, I was delusional, but not as deluded as my husband who somehow thought anyone would want to look at his business course texts or his copies of The Flea, Fanny Hill, and The Adventures of Samurai Pussy Cat.

That was before computers, and the world has changed so much in what seems to me like a heartbeat.

Last week, when my son was doing his final packing for the dorm, I thoughtfully handed him my cleanest, and what I thought was, my best dictionary, to which my son replied, “Duh, Mom. Dictionary.com.” He did take his Bart Simpson’s Guide to Life and the screenplay to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but he did not need a dictionary. On Thursday, this son sent me this text message: “$472 bks picked up fr bkstore & pd on credit card. waiting f/mon. to get eng101 texts. also got a cable f/printer & jelly beans.”

So, in the last few weeks, I’ve been creating piles, and trying to come to terms with my life as it is now.

Last night, I addressed our books.

I sat down at one of the piles. That pile had my Norton’s Anthology of American Literature, my Norton’s Anthology of English Literature, my Norton’s Anthology of World Masterpieces, and my paperback set of the complete works of William Shakespeare, and I flipped through the pages. I had not looked at any of these since the middle 1970s. In the cover of one fat book, there was a big pink heart with my initials and “loves RL.” “RL” was crossed out and “MD” was written above it. I cannot remember who “RL” or ”MD” were, but when I got to another volume, there was another heart with my initials and “SS” in it this time. There was plenty of highlighting in each text, but I had no memory of ever reading anything that had been highlighted, and I had no idea how I ever read such small print anyway. I showed my husband who said, “Get a magnifying glass.” My impressive margin notes included, “Today’s list: 1. Call Mom. 2. Get tampons & Clearasil. 3. Finish essay. 4. Buy TAB. 5. Fix flat.” On another page, there was something about Eudora Welty and then the words, “He loves me. He loves me not,” with some daisies drawn in the margins and finally the words, “HE LOVES ME!” On another page, there was an arrow to a poem by e.e.cummings with the words “very cool” written next to it. If memory serves me, and that is debatable these days, that’s the poem I copied from the Internet a few years ago and pasted into a card I gave to my son and daughter-in-law on their wedding day. There were other scribbles in other margins, but they were mostly either illegible, lists, or things about when various assignments were due. There were also more hearts and more initials.

Finally, I grew bored of looking through proof that I was an airhead 30 years ago. I am so glad I grew out of that stage of my life. I moved the books to the pile of things we are just not sure about yet, and I joined my husband on the couch. I did not want to miss a minute of Dancing with the Stars.

©2006 by Felice Prager. All Rights Reserved.

A version of this originally appeared at The Irascible Professor.

I'm Easy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Chocolate?" my husband asked.

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

Flashback to Birthday, 1998:

"Chocolate?" my husband asked.

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

Flashback to Anniversary, 1998:

"Chocolate?" my husband asked.

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

The list goes on.

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

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

"Are you sleeping?"

"I was."

"I had another dream!"

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, my Wrangler obsession has created a monster.

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

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

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

So, I gave in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two inches taller, in fact.

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

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

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

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

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

----end

The Math-Challenged Dieter

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

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.

© 2004 Felice Prager

QUIZ IT: ARIZONA

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

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."

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)

(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

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)