Trim and a Haircut: Beauty Parlor Blues

It was beauty parlor day at the nursing home for my mom. That means it has been nearly three months since I have made the time to pamper and groom her properly. 

Yes, I go every week like a dutiful daughter. I deliver her assorted requests of garlic powder for her blood pressure, French's Yellow Mustard for her indigestion, and raw honey for her throat. The list is varied, but it is always something as if the brand new facility had no kitchen or cleaning supplies.

Why, for months, well, actually almost a year, she asked me over and over again for a hair dryer. She refused to let them do her hair because she said they would let it air dry and of course that "would just give her pneumonia." I tried to disagree with her, but that is just asking for a fight. And she just may hit you if you are close enough when you "talk back" -- her term for sassing.

Finally, I tired of that complaint and went shopping to purchase her a small compact dryer that would fit neatly in her bathroom drawer. The next week, she tells me, they probably wouldn't use it anyway. She would just rather wait for me. 

Oh, and yes, I wash her clothes, though that is supposed to be apart of her package. However, her clothes began to disappear when the aides washed them, and were showing up on the backs of other residents... literally! 

You see, I had written her name in giant letters on the back of them figuring no one would see the writing when she was sitting in the wheelchair, but there would be no mistaking who they belonged to -- especially with a name as unique as hers: "Lovie." 

But to no avail because "Lovie" was still spread all across the four wings of that nursing home. When the staff wasn't losing them, her neighbor was stealing them. (By the way, this is the same lady who walked into my mother's room while she was at lunch, crawled into her bed and began to eat the candy out of my mother's Easter basket while watching her TV.)

I was also tasked with bringing home the weekly bag because she can't stand the thought of hers being washed with others who my mom swears have bedsores and flaking skin. I can't say that I blame her. 

At any rate, for New Year's Day, I decided to give her a fresh start for the year to make her feel pretty. I painted her nails with a two color design. Next, I cut her hair and trimmed her eyebrows that were beginning to take on a life of their own. Then, as I began to pluck the stray hair that grows under 88 year-old ladies chins, my mother who hates to admit she even has hair there, looks up at me and asks, "So how often do you cut your?" 

As my mouth dropped in disbelief, I had to remind her that I do not grow hair under my chin… yet. Obviously, with her genes, I may if I ever make it to 88.

My True Love's Gifts

In the first week of Christmas, my true love gave to him(self), a brand new BMW Transmission.

Why did I have to add the car type, you ask? Transmissions are already ridiculously expensive. However, a luxury German made car transmission is the price of a small American made vehicle -- fully loaded -- and I needed you to understand the magnitude of the bill.

In the second week of Christmas, my true love gave to us, a brand new hot water heater... that took two days to fix... leaving us with no hot water. My big burly retired Marine teased me because I was using my electric tea kettle to fill the bathtub. He said, "It's not too cold, You could take a shower. You guys are wimps." Yet when I came home from work on the second day, I caught him with the teapot in the bathroom.

In the third week of Christmas, my true love gave to me, $800 worth of front tires... to replace the bald ones... so I could pass the VA. inspection. Of course with my luck, their one inspector was out that day leaving me having to make sure I squeeze in another visit to a car care center with all that free time I have during the busy holiday season. Of course my deadline was December 31st.

In the fourth week of Christmas my true love and I gave to my son, a great Christmas. (The gods gave us a break.) Yeah! We focused on my son, though. We decided we had given each other enough lavish gifts for the year.

However, in the fifth week of Christmas (December 31st to be exact -- just when I thought we finished the month unscathed) my true love gave to me, a brand new rear passenger side tail light fixture for $400 dollars because I still failed the inspection.

You see, it was broken, and I kind of forgot because the light still worked. It's just that the red plastic covering was a tiny bit cracked,... okay... broken open... leaving a bright white light glaring into the windshield of all that followed me. I didn't think it was that bad; I just considered myself a beacon of light. Besides, it was my true love's fault.  Ever since a heavy wind blew the basketball hoop onto the hood of his Bimmer, he never pulls far enough up the driveway to allow me room to back out of the garage without a fight. And I believe the only reason he refuses to park in the garage is because he hit the side of the door opening as he was turning in one day (though he has never admitted it.) Hence, early one dark morning at 5:30 a.m., I clipped his car trying to back out of the driveway. We were waiting until January to fix it, forgetting that I needed a safety inspection. Ugh!

And now it is the new year, January 1st to be exact. While, I am the first to admit that these stumbling block, Murphy's Law type unexpected bills around the holiday are annoying, I will add that I realized the truth which is that we are blessed to be able to pay them off without issue. The true nightmare would be if we could not.  However, let's hope this year my true and I are done with the lavish gift giving for now.

The View

All of my  blogs used to be funny because I love to laugh at myself and make others laugh in the process. However, tonight I was going to write about the  deplorable treatment of my mom in her nursing home, and I stopped. It is far from funny. It would depress me, and you would not want to read it. Besides, I would not have enough time to write about it anyway.

Then I decided to write about my son, there always used to be some funny scenario to share about growing tweens. However as I wracked my brains, I realized that there is nothing funny because he has reached the start of brooding teenaged funks! He mopes past me and grunts barely audible answers to any question I pose.

Lastly, there’s my husband, I am sure that there is a story there however, I am so busy teaching, taking care of mom, going to class, and grading papers or creating lessons that I scarce see him enough to experience anything funny. (Though I will say that my newly retired husband had the audacity to nudge me in an electronic game of scrabble because I had not made time to make my move.)

Which brings me to my final thought on this situation which is quickly becoming the norm and beginning to overtake my weekly submissions.

Last week, I couldn’t find the time to write at all, and the week before that I wrote a poem about… well, not having anything to write about.  The week before that it was a short paragraph about not having time to write… and the week before that I squeezed in a very short paragraph after school and before the parents arrived on Back to School Night.

And now here I sit basically filling this blank space with more banter on not being able to write due to time constraints as I watch the big hand near the 12 on the clock and my grad professor turning on her presentation.

Sadly, as I perch here straddling this window sill called SOL Tuesdays, looking out at all the other wonderful writers running past my house, I feel like Esperanza’s grandmother in House on Mango Street, who “looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.” Life has a tight grip on my leg pulling me back, so it can board up the opening through which I have been trying my best to escape these past few weeks since finding you

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Uncle!

The teacher who wanted to write

Said this taunting blank page will I smite!

She stared down the screen,

Tried looking real mean,

No matter, it still won the fight!

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Leaving a Glass Slipper

I made a promise to myself that I would write every week. After all, it is the least that I could do for myself. You see, I love writing. However, I tend to put everything and everybody from classwork to housework, ahead of myself, so there is no time left for me. So tonight, as I sit here pounding out a quickie just to satisfy my goal, I ponder the usefulness in this act. This  writing falls way short of my normal pages long cathartic pieces that also double as euphoric endorphin releasers. Instead, I race the clock and hammer out perfunctory pieces that waste my time as well as that of other SOL readers. I said I would be ready this week, yet, as the clock nears 10:50 pm, I sit here once again, tip tapping away. I suppose, the flip side to not writing with depth is that I am writing, though I must admit, I feel like Cinderella coming out for just one dance at the ball before the clock strikes twelve leaving you with this glass slipper.

No Selfie Stick or Fire Hoses

I am so proud of my husband. He just glided in his last aircraft landing from Portugal yesterday after 48 years of flying (26 for United and 22 years flying for the Marines). The entire crew  joined our family for his last meal at one of his favorite restaurants in the Barrio Alto. The next day on the plane, his crew made a great congrats announcement and all the passengers clapped. Then, on landing, he made an awesome farewell speech on the loudspeaker where he introduced  me and my son and then passed the gauntlet to him as he announced our son's intent to become a pilot as well. 

As we taxied towards the gate, we were met by fire trucks shooting water over the plane. The door opened to a Jetway filled with a host of friends from the grounds to other pilots. Lastly, he had our son stand by his side to say goodbye wearing his captain's hat, and yes, he even made me join them. The passengers all hugged him and some even stopped to take selfies.

Next, the chief pilot came on board and gave him a beautiful plaque, and then he took pictures with he crew before heading out to join some more pilot friends and their family for dinner at Clyde’s. It was a great day for him, and he deserved it. 

Then,I began to think about my own retirement and what it will be like. I was truly happy for my husband, but thought how funny it was that 200 total strangers who never even saw his face until landing wanted to take pictures, hug, and high-five him. He was treated like a celebrity, as if he had done something that they will will remember him always for. He flew 1/3 of their seven hour flight sharing duties with two other pilots. Yet these total strangers wanted hugs and selfies with him. 

Yes, I am extremely proud of my husband for his 22 years of service with the Marines (including flying in the Gulf War) and then 26 more years for a commercial airline. However, when I retire I know I will pack up and empty my room one last time, pick up a lapel pin at the last faculty meeting, and maybe be given a cake and small celebration in the teacher's lounge if I am lucky. Of the thousand's of kids who I cared for, taught, and nurtured for 180 days each year... there will be no selfie stick or fire hoses shooting water. But I will get the best gift of all, the memory of all the lives I touched and the knowledge that I know I made a difference.

Breaking a Leg!

The time is 5:45. I am anxious…anxious and tired. Although, this day comes every year for the past ten years, and I know I have made it through alive and unscathed, I am still nervous. What is it you say? Why it’s Back to School Night of course! This is the night when we face all 75 (or 150 if you teach the block schedule) parents.

Why am I anxious, you ask? Well, we teachers fear being cornered for an impromptu parent teacher conference, or questioned as if we will not challenge their student enough. We fear technological glitches that leave us putting on an impromptu dog and pony show without cue cards. We fear our presentation being too short leaving us as vulnerable as a president being pressed at a press conference. However, the night goes on… (and on, I might add), and we make it through somehow. And so, I shall tonight – I hope. Thus, this is a short blog tonight because the time has come; I must end because in six minutes, the show must go on. Wish me luck – or maybe I should say “tell me to break a leg!” B

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Mama's Truth Serum

Mama has no filter. She never has. We, her word savvy daughters like to say, “What comes up comes out.” So if you are someone who is sensitive, stay away because my mother will look you dead in the eye and broadcast your biggest insecurity, body flaw, or personality dysfunction to anyone in hearing range… as if you didn’t already know. And then she will laugh that infectious loud cackle -- which is now mostly toothless these days -- and will make you laugh at yourself too.

She told my niece that her oldest son “sho’ is handsome!” Then she added that the baby boy, well,... “He looks like his daddy.”  

She told her granddaughters that they were really beginning to spread. Of course quip runs in the family because Mickey responded that she got it from her and that she was in good company. She then whipped out her phone to show her Grandma pictures of all the other “spreading” cousins.

One year, I took my mother on vacation to London and Stonehenge. We rode for two hours, walked ¼ mile over to the monolithic stones, and posed and took pictures by the giant ancient marvel. She reflected as we headed back to the tour bus, “Sure was a big ole’ pile of rocks!”

She even once exclaimed to my poor sensitive tweenager who had had a huge weight gain resulting in man boobs, “You got breasts!”

No one is left unscathed from family and friends to the workers in the nursing home. She will talk about your weight, your mole, your deadbeat boyfriend, your cheating husband, your loud kids, your thick glasses, your mean disposition, … you name it, she’s said it. It’s as though she has taken truth serum and must say the first negative truth that pops into her mind.

She will just smile, grab your hand and pat you while saying, “Baby, you know I didn’t mean no harm.” And they actually laugh or just smile and respond back, “It’s fine.”

What else could they say? She is after all just telling the truth.

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First days and Changing Times

I spent the last days of summer in nightmare hell having the GroundHog Day-like dreams where night after night, I am facing the first day of school, and I have not planned -- the students are eating me alive -- figuratively speaking of course. However, the first day came and went, and everything went as planned… yes I said planned because of course as a ten year teacher, I was more than ready unlike my counterpart from the other realm that haunted me.

And, though (thankfully) there were no "Revelations" level catastrophes, there were some small eye-opening moments that swung between “Oh, come on now, times have changed!” to “Oh my, how times have changed!”

In the “Oh, come on now, times have changed!” scenario, we were in our collaborative meeting planning for our first days. At our school, we have to teach the same standards at the same time, but can teach it anyway we wish. Now, I have one of the the sweetest co-workers who happens to love her worksheets of twenty years. She shared one that had a picture of a filmstrip with three blank squares on it.

Yes, I said “filmstrip”.

I raised an eyebrow and she must have seen it because she went on to say that although kids do not know what a filmstrip is, she uses it as a teaching opportunity. She shows them videos and images, of filmstrips, so she feels that she teaching a bit of history, too. So much for curriculum guides.

Now how does she use it in English, you ask? Well, she has them draw a picture in each of the three boxes, one was to illustrate how they felt before school, another was during the first day, and lastly, a week later. Next, they write a little bit about the picture beside it. So it is a reflective writing that guides them with chronology (I suppose). However, in today’s climate of Active Engagement, Personalized Learning, and Student Authenticity,-- well…?.

Now, in my own classroom... after three blocks with my students on the first day, I had an epiphany. I needed to take the splinter out of mine own eye!

Our first days consist of an extra long Homeroom leaving us with very short classes,with just enough time for a quick get-to-know you worksheet (like hers) and this is where my own problem started.

For a couple of years, I had been using this “great” first day worksheet called “Extra Extra, Read All About It!” And yes it looked like a newspaper. That in itself is a problem because though my worksheet theme may not have been obsolete... yet, most students still do not interact with them on a regular basis, thus they had no attachment to creating their own.

All I heard all day long was: “Do we have to?” "I did this in elementary!” “Do I really have to color it?”

I was floored. I thought it would be fun. That’s when I realized I was no different than my coworker. I do admit that I originally tried to find something current. I searched for Instagram worksheet templates, but all I found was a picture of a glorified square to draw in. The Snapchat was not much better. And Twitter simply had a small space for a blurb. Facebook did have a good template because it had much space and lot of profile questions to answer, however, everyone knows FB is for “Grandmas” these days so the kids are not too familiar with it, nor excited by it.

At any rate, I have realized that as much as we love social media, it is not conducive to learning English anymore. Everything is either written in short blurbs that can be taken out of context, written in abbreviated text-ese phrases, told through photos with blurbs, or a combination of these together with emojis taking the place of most words. There is just not a lot of writing for a fun first day English class template... heck there is not a lot of writing in real life, either.

Lastly, I had my students play an ice-breaker game called “Find Someone Who...” where they run around and find someone who likes to swim, has a brother, or likes math.

Do you know that out of three blocks and 75 students, only one of them wanted to be a teacher! I was slightly insulted. Everyone wanted to hold a “techie" job or play a sport. And to add salt-to-the wound was a young man who shared that he wanted to be a MLG.

I racked my brain trying to figure out which sport it was before some else asked what it stood for (I was too proud to do that myself). And his answer was -- a Major League Gamer!

That’s when I had had it. I put my hands on my hips, and announced with much attitude and a twinkle in my eye, “You may all want to be “techies” software engineers, basketball players, or designers, but someone has to teach you first!”

Oh my how times have changed! I thought while SMH (Shaking My head). ;-)

Level-up!

Any mother will tell you that a boy’s hygiene between the ages of 10 - 13-ish is suspect, to say the least. You can train them as well as the next mom from a very young age. My son would start his own showers by the time he was six and could bathe himself better than some men. However, when he turned nine or ten, I began to notice a change in him. I would tell him to go and take his bath, and he would make excuses and delay until he thought we forgot.

As time went on, water became an aversion worse than vegetables. You would have thought I was trying to get him into a vat of acid. On those days that I could actually get him to enter the dreaded room of doom, he would close and lock the door, turn on the shower, and stay in so long that I feared he would deplete the water for the entire county. When he would finally emerge an hour later, his skin was suspiciously dry and lacking the wrinkles that an hour long shower would produce.

Meanwhile, his iPad, DS, or Nintendo Switch would be warm as he still clutched it in his death grip gamer hand. And, I would be too tired to fight any further. I had to pretend that I did not know that he simply sat on the lid of the toilet and leveled-up for the last hour while the shower poured gallons of water anddollars, down the drain. 

They always said one day boys suddenly wake up and care about their hygiene. However, I did not believe them… that is until two weeks ago when his older cousin showed him how to make his hair look cool. 

“Mom, can you get me some of that S-curl and Cantu Conditioner that T.J. uses? Also, I am out of shampoo.”

Huh? Did I hear him correctly?

I was floored. I wanted to shout to the top of my lungs, “HALLELUJAH!” It was finally happening. Now this was leveling-up!

I did have enough sense to know that I had to play it cool so that I would not scare him off. You know, like when you are trying to get an animal to come to you and you move real slow to gain its trust. So, I just nodded and said “okay” as if that was our everyday conversation… and not his first request in 12 years.

If wearing his hair curly was important enough to make him take showers without being held at a metaphorical gunpoint, then I wasn’t wasting any time. I hurried out to get his product, but in my haste I forgot the shampoo. So that week, I happily shared my shampoo with him until I could get back to the store.  

That Saturday, I picked him up his first very “Men’s Smell Good Shampoo,” as opposed to the two-in-one body wash/shampoo family friendly kiddie stuff that he had been refilling with water (when he did deign to actually get in on those rare occasions that he complied.) Then I rushed home happily anticipating his excitement at his new product. Since he wasn’t there, I placed it on his bathroom counter and went into his shower to get what was left of my shampoo. 

That is when reality slapped me in the face. Though my son had been showering everyday and adding hair gel and conditioner to make his hair cool — that is all he had been doing! There was not a lick of soap anywhere in his bathroom. So much for hygiene. Game over.
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