My son received a text message that he is loved.
It really bothered him.
It was from a student who lives down the hall from him.
Apparently, the student had a little too much eggnog and has sent my son a message about how blessed he is to live on the same floor as Aaron.
According to Aaron, this is almost as spooky as when I tell him that he is absolutely adorable.
Only almost.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Story of The Day 12/20/2009
My son asked me if he could buy a bong.
My response was , “okay? Do you know where to buy them?” And I recommended a shop in Broad Ripple that has very lovely ones.
This totally appalled my eldest daughter. Esther wasn’t’ appalled that I knew where to buy one, she was appalled that her brother would ask my permission.
“Aaron, you are 19!”
He is? Yeah, he just had his birthday.
I thought about it some more, and then I decided to tell Aaron that he shouldn’t buy the bong.
I mean, his friends at college would ask to use it.
He admitted as much.
And it would end up having , at the very least, traces of illegal substances in it.
He admitted this was likely.
And he could be arrested for that.
“Oh.” So, Aaron who had really just wanted to own the bong for the “prestige” of owning a bong, has decided he will pass on this opportunity.
But Esther is still peeved.
However, it reminds me of the story about a friend of hers, who threw a sex party.
Esther was invited.
She threw a dinner party, so she had an excuse not to go.
No, they don’t
Have sex at sex parties.
I actually know this because a friend of mines mother threw one, and she described it to me in a bit of detail.
They sell sex “toys”. All sorts of things you have heard of and some you haven’t.
Unless you have been to one of those parties.
My friend described a couple of things that none of the rest of us at coffee had ever heard of. Or at least would admit to having heard of.
Anyhow, my daughter’s friend threw the party for a good reason.
It was to raise money for leukemia. Research .
It was one of several fund raisers she held, during the year.
But it created its own unique set of problems.
Like her driving.
She had to drive very carefully and very slowly.
After picking up the ordered items from the supplier.
She didn’t’ want to get stopped by a traffic cop and have to explain why she had $150 worth of vibrators on her front passenger seat.
But it was all in the name of charity.
My response was , “okay? Do you know where to buy them?” And I recommended a shop in Broad Ripple that has very lovely ones.
This totally appalled my eldest daughter. Esther wasn’t’ appalled that I knew where to buy one, she was appalled that her brother would ask my permission.
“Aaron, you are 19!”
He is? Yeah, he just had his birthday.
I thought about it some more, and then I decided to tell Aaron that he shouldn’t buy the bong.
I mean, his friends at college would ask to use it.
He admitted as much.
And it would end up having , at the very least, traces of illegal substances in it.
He admitted this was likely.
And he could be arrested for that.
“Oh.” So, Aaron who had really just wanted to own the bong for the “prestige” of owning a bong, has decided he will pass on this opportunity.
But Esther is still peeved.
However, it reminds me of the story about a friend of hers, who threw a sex party.
Esther was invited.
She threw a dinner party, so she had an excuse not to go.
No, they don’t
Have sex at sex parties.
I actually know this because a friend of mines mother threw one, and she described it to me in a bit of detail.
They sell sex “toys”. All sorts of things you have heard of and some you haven’t.
Unless you have been to one of those parties.
My friend described a couple of things that none of the rest of us at coffee had ever heard of. Or at least would admit to having heard of.
Anyhow, my daughter’s friend threw the party for a good reason.
It was to raise money for leukemia. Research .
It was one of several fund raisers she held, during the year.
But it created its own unique set of problems.
Like her driving.
She had to drive very carefully and very slowly.
After picking up the ordered items from the supplier.
She didn’t’ want to get stopped by a traffic cop and have to explain why she had $150 worth of vibrators on her front passenger seat.
But it was all in the name of charity.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Story of The Day 12/18/2009
At dinner, this evening, Aaron was telling about an occasion, recently, when he returned to his dorm.
Late.
And the RA ( resident advisor) accused him of being drunk.
Which is bad enough, but worse, since my son is underage for any kind of drinking.
My son denied it.
But the RA persisted.
He told Aaron he could tell that he was drunk because of his lisp.
Aaron pointed to his hearing aids and said, "I have a lisp, because I am Deaf".
Late.
And the RA ( resident advisor) accused him of being drunk.
Which is bad enough, but worse, since my son is underage for any kind of drinking.
My son denied it.
But the RA persisted.
He told Aaron he could tell that he was drunk because of his lisp.
Aaron pointed to his hearing aids and said, "I have a lisp, because I am Deaf".
Story of the Day 12/13/2009
It is not that I am becoming more religious, G-d forbid.
But this is my second story in a very short while to be about God.
It is not that God is ever absent from services at our synagogue She isn’t. It is just that she rarely gives me anything to write about in a story.
But, this Shabbat, there was a bit of a tussle in one of the back pews.
Of course, God sits in one of the front pews.
So do I, although, I do it to be able to see the interpreter.
Well, in order for Sarah to be able to see the interpreter. Not because I am especially deserving of sitting in one of the front pews. Yes, I know that you already knew that.
Anyhow, there was a bit of a todo, and she looked back and there was some sort of argument about which relatives should be standing to say Mourner’s Kaddish. The widow? Of course. The daughter? Yes, but not the granddaughter?
And God said, “If she wants to stand, let her stand.”
You should be impressed, I both did not fall our of my seat, nor did I forget to breathe.
But this is my second story in a very short while to be about God.
It is not that God is ever absent from services at our synagogue She isn’t. It is just that she rarely gives me anything to write about in a story.
But, this Shabbat, there was a bit of a tussle in one of the back pews.
Of course, God sits in one of the front pews.
So do I, although, I do it to be able to see the interpreter.
Well, in order for Sarah to be able to see the interpreter. Not because I am especially deserving of sitting in one of the front pews. Yes, I know that you already knew that.
Anyhow, there was a bit of a todo, and she looked back and there was some sort of argument about which relatives should be standing to say Mourner’s Kaddish. The widow? Of course. The daughter? Yes, but not the granddaughter?
And God said, “If she wants to stand, let her stand.”
You should be impressed, I both did not fall our of my seat, nor did I forget to breathe.
Story of the Day 12/11/2009
I called Larry from work. I had a strange but important piece of non-sense to tell him.
And he had something to share with me. Something new at work. But the only work I could clearly make out was “skeletal”. Of course, I never hear well on my cell phone. It has some odd thing to do with hearing aids. But, at least, I try.
I told him I couldn’t’ hear him or , at least, I couldn’t’ decipher whatever it was he was trying to tell me, and to tell me when we both get home.
He said, “I can’t hear you either, it sounds like you are standing in Grand Central Station.”
A moment of silence. On my end.
“Oh, I am standing near the donuts.” Which is, truthfully, a bit like being at Grand Central Station.
Although, there are slightly fewer pickpockets.
And he had something to share with me. Something new at work. But the only work I could clearly make out was “skeletal”. Of course, I never hear well on my cell phone. It has some odd thing to do with hearing aids. But, at least, I try.
I told him I couldn’t’ hear him or , at least, I couldn’t’ decipher whatever it was he was trying to tell me, and to tell me when we both get home.
He said, “I can’t hear you either, it sounds like you are standing in Grand Central Station.”
A moment of silence. On my end.
“Oh, I am standing near the donuts.” Which is, truthfully, a bit like being at Grand Central Station.
Although, there are slightly fewer pickpockets.
Story of the Day 12/10/2009
I had coffee with my friend, Cindie, yesterday.
Somewhere in the vast middle stretches of our disjointed conversation the topic of my stories came up.
It really started with a birthday, although, not a birthday of anyone that either of us knows.
On occasion- the occasion being a birthday- parents will pay to have a sign set up outside of their child’s school proclaiming “ Happy Birthday Kyle!” or “Happy sweet 16, Amy!”
This week, outside of her son’s middle school was a sign proclaiming “Happy Birthday poo-poo!” And then, to some student’s absolute mortification, it also gave his real name.
This prompted my fried Cindie to threaten her middle son with “I am going to have them put up a sign for your birthday , next fall, that says “Happy Birthday, Tushy!”
I talked about using that as the basis of a Story- to which Cindie remarked that I must have a hard time coming up with topics for stories- not because this wasn’t just right for one, but because both Esther and Aaron, my older two children, are away at college- and not home to entertain me with their adventures. And mis-adventures.
I told Cindie to read the blog.
I really told her that because she has apparently missed the recent series of Aaron stories, and I am sure she would feel pleased to see that even an hour and a half away , he is providing me with amusement.
I must say, however, that the amusement that he has provided pales in comparison to what Esther provides. And Esther, 15 hours away in the wilds of upstate New York, is certainly not expected to be providing us with constant entertainment. But, you can take the child out of the household, but after all of those years living with her demented parents, she has been fully warped.
I don’t’ just mean that she has retained the family penchant for hanging around thrift stores and used book stores, or for eating cabbage and tofu stir fry for breakfast. I am not even referring to the more than occasional non-sequiturs that are part of ordinary life. I am referring to her unique take on ….everything.
Esther had an assignment. She had to write some sort of a family history. A paper about the history of her family. Of course, coming from our family, it is imperative that she lie. This is because there is no way to write a history of our family in a paper, when it already requires several volumes to just do one branch. Hey, it is not my fault that we have an extensive family tree of quirky relatives that goes back to 1040. Well, actually, it goes back farther, but I am unwilling to ask the relative who has the rest of it for a copy. You see, a number of years ago, I was a bad influence on her daughter. This was before I knew we were related. And, I am sure she has not forgotten. You see, it is largely my fault that her daughter not only went to college, but got a college degree.
It may be another couple of decades before she forgives me.
So, every time the topic of who might have a copy of that part of the tree comes up, I tell the inquiring cousin to ask her, but not to mention me.
And her daughter didn’t even draw any naked people in college. I don’t’ think .
At any rate, Esther had this assignment. And I started emailing her bits and pieces of family lore, articles from books and the like. Of course, because she is not totally crackers, she asked me to stop. If she hadn’t, by now her entire apartment would be filled up with family crap. I mean information.
Besides which, there is no way she could have possibly ever used all of that crap. Whoops, information.
There was way too much and most of it was rather unbelievable. Including the historically authenticated parts. Maybe, especially those.
So she created a new family history.
It is really quite wonderful. And detailed, and even includes bits of pieces of the truth, but not too much to make it totally unbelievable.
She sent me an email about it:
remember that family history paper i was going to write?
turns out it was optional
so i made up most of the details
and got an A.
professor henry says we have a fascinating family, and how fortunate we are to have letters from Godaliva (my great great grandmother).
Love,
e
I can’t wait to read it.
Somewhere in the vast middle stretches of our disjointed conversation the topic of my stories came up.
It really started with a birthday, although, not a birthday of anyone that either of us knows.
On occasion- the occasion being a birthday- parents will pay to have a sign set up outside of their child’s school proclaiming “ Happy Birthday Kyle!” or “Happy sweet 16, Amy!”
This week, outside of her son’s middle school was a sign proclaiming “Happy Birthday poo-poo!” And then, to some student’s absolute mortification, it also gave his real name.
This prompted my fried Cindie to threaten her middle son with “I am going to have them put up a sign for your birthday , next fall, that says “Happy Birthday, Tushy!”
I talked about using that as the basis of a Story- to which Cindie remarked that I must have a hard time coming up with topics for stories- not because this wasn’t just right for one, but because both Esther and Aaron, my older two children, are away at college- and not home to entertain me with their adventures. And mis-adventures.
I told Cindie to read the blog.
I really told her that because she has apparently missed the recent series of Aaron stories, and I am sure she would feel pleased to see that even an hour and a half away , he is providing me with amusement.
I must say, however, that the amusement that he has provided pales in comparison to what Esther provides. And Esther, 15 hours away in the wilds of upstate New York, is certainly not expected to be providing us with constant entertainment. But, you can take the child out of the household, but after all of those years living with her demented parents, she has been fully warped.
I don’t’ just mean that she has retained the family penchant for hanging around thrift stores and used book stores, or for eating cabbage and tofu stir fry for breakfast. I am not even referring to the more than occasional non-sequiturs that are part of ordinary life. I am referring to her unique take on ….everything.
Esther had an assignment. She had to write some sort of a family history. A paper about the history of her family. Of course, coming from our family, it is imperative that she lie. This is because there is no way to write a history of our family in a paper, when it already requires several volumes to just do one branch. Hey, it is not my fault that we have an extensive family tree of quirky relatives that goes back to 1040. Well, actually, it goes back farther, but I am unwilling to ask the relative who has the rest of it for a copy. You see, a number of years ago, I was a bad influence on her daughter. This was before I knew we were related. And, I am sure she has not forgotten. You see, it is largely my fault that her daughter not only went to college, but got a college degree.
It may be another couple of decades before she forgives me.
So, every time the topic of who might have a copy of that part of the tree comes up, I tell the inquiring cousin to ask her, but not to mention me.
And her daughter didn’t even draw any naked people in college. I don’t’ think .
At any rate, Esther had this assignment. And I started emailing her bits and pieces of family lore, articles from books and the like. Of course, because she is not totally crackers, she asked me to stop. If she hadn’t, by now her entire apartment would be filled up with family crap. I mean information.
Besides which, there is no way she could have possibly ever used all of that crap. Whoops, information.
There was way too much and most of it was rather unbelievable. Including the historically authenticated parts. Maybe, especially those.
So she created a new family history.
It is really quite wonderful. And detailed, and even includes bits of pieces of the truth, but not too much to make it totally unbelievable.
She sent me an email about it:
remember that family history paper i was going to write?
turns out it was optional
so i made up most of the details
and got an A.
professor henry says we have a fascinating family, and how fortunate we are to have letters from Godaliva (my great great grandmother).
Love,
e
I can’t wait to read it.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Story of the Day 12/6/2009
God attends my synagogue.
I know that because her voice is heard often, during services.
Correcting the rabbi, correcting the reader, correcting the service, correcting the other congregants.
She isn’t’ my god, but due to some secret ballot she has been appointed as God to someone or something or at least as his representative.
But last Shabbat, God overstepped her bounds.
A woman got up to say Kaddish- the mourner’s prayer.
God told her to sit down.
She said- she being the woman, not God, “It’s my mother’s yarzheit.” (anniversary of her death.)
God told her, again, to sit down.
The woman replied, “I know when my fucking mother’s yarzheit is!”
As a friend said, “Sometimes you just have to shut up.” Even if you are God.
She ( being God) didn’t’ take it well., though, so it was a good time to stay out of her way for the rest of services.
I know that because her voice is heard often, during services.
Correcting the rabbi, correcting the reader, correcting the service, correcting the other congregants.
She isn’t’ my god, but due to some secret ballot she has been appointed as God to someone or something or at least as his representative.
But last Shabbat, God overstepped her bounds.
A woman got up to say Kaddish- the mourner’s prayer.
God told her to sit down.
She said- she being the woman, not God, “It’s my mother’s yarzheit.” (anniversary of her death.)
God told her, again, to sit down.
The woman replied, “I know when my fucking mother’s yarzheit is!”
As a friend said, “Sometimes you just have to shut up.” Even if you are God.
She ( being God) didn’t’ take it well., though, so it was a good time to stay out of her way for the rest of services.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Story of the Day 11/27/2009
We pulled into Indianapolis with less than three hours until Shabbat started.
No time to clean.
Ummm, mind you, I am not complaining about that part of it.
No time to make challah- so I send Aaron and Sarah off to Trader Joes to buy two loaves.
Two? We need two to make motzi on erev Shabbat- Friday evening. We don’t’ need a third, because they will make motzi at synagogue on Saturday.
As they are heading out the door, I tell him to get pita bread , if there is nothing else.
Aaron wants to know why he can’t just go to Marsh to get the challah.
Marsh is closer, less than half the distance, and involves driving on no major roads- especially on the is day of heavy traffic- Black Friday- when the call of the after-Thanksgiving sales draws people out on the roads to the stores in droves.
“No can do.” I tell him “They have challah, but it isn’t kosher.”
Don’t’ ask me why they do a good bus9iness selling challah that isn’t’ kosher. Do non-Jews like it? Do droves of Jews who don’t’ keep kosher go there especially to buy it to eat on Shabbat? I don’t’ know- but they sell a lot.
About 45 minutes later, they return home. The quiche is in eth oven, the rice is on eth stove, and I have located a couple of boxes of chocolate and cookies from the depths of the pantry.
Aaron tells me, “When we got there , we looked for the challah, but the shelves were empty.”
Nice to know that droves of people also buy the kosher challahs.
Then he continued, “But I asked a guy who worked there if they were all gone. He got down on his knees and reached back where you can’t see on the lowest shelf and pulled out this last loaf of challah.”
Obviously, we had arrived back in Indianapolis , just in time for him to get the last loaf. Oh, and a package of whole wheat pitas.
No time to clean.
Ummm, mind you, I am not complaining about that part of it.
No time to make challah- so I send Aaron and Sarah off to Trader Joes to buy two loaves.
Two? We need two to make motzi on erev Shabbat- Friday evening. We don’t’ need a third, because they will make motzi at synagogue on Saturday.
As they are heading out the door, I tell him to get pita bread , if there is nothing else.
Aaron wants to know why he can’t just go to Marsh to get the challah.
Marsh is closer, less than half the distance, and involves driving on no major roads- especially on the is day of heavy traffic- Black Friday- when the call of the after-Thanksgiving sales draws people out on the roads to the stores in droves.
“No can do.” I tell him “They have challah, but it isn’t kosher.”
Don’t’ ask me why they do a good bus9iness selling challah that isn’t’ kosher. Do non-Jews like it? Do droves of Jews who don’t’ keep kosher go there especially to buy it to eat on Shabbat? I don’t’ know- but they sell a lot.
About 45 minutes later, they return home. The quiche is in eth oven, the rice is on eth stove, and I have located a couple of boxes of chocolate and cookies from the depths of the pantry.
Aaron tells me, “When we got there , we looked for the challah, but the shelves were empty.”
Nice to know that droves of people also buy the kosher challahs.
Then he continued, “But I asked a guy who worked there if they were all gone. He got down on his knees and reached back where you can’t see on the lowest shelf and pulled out this last loaf of challah.”
Obviously, we had arrived back in Indianapolis , just in time for him to get the last loaf. Oh, and a package of whole wheat pitas.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Story of the Day 11/28/2009
Aaron has been invited to a meeting at a fraternity.
He is a bit confused. He wasn’t’ invited to “rush” for it. But ever since them, they have been inviting him to all sorts of events.
He likes the guys he has met through it. A lot. But was hesitant about them becoming is “exclusive” friends, which is what it seemed like as he visited the different frats.
But he does like the guys at this frat and is thinking about attending the meeting.
“Can I wear a polo shirt?”
Turns out the attire for the meeting is business attire.
“No, Aaron, you can’t.”
“So that means a button up shirt. Do I have to wear a tie?”
“Yes, but it can be colorful.”
“Oh, this might be a relationship killer. You know some of these fraternities have Classy Monday. I don’t’ think I could handle getting dressed up every week.”
My husband replies, “Yea, if you wanted to do that you could have just gone to yeshiva.”
He is a bit confused. He wasn’t’ invited to “rush” for it. But ever since them, they have been inviting him to all sorts of events.
He likes the guys he has met through it. A lot. But was hesitant about them becoming is “exclusive” friends, which is what it seemed like as he visited the different frats.
But he does like the guys at this frat and is thinking about attending the meeting.
“Can I wear a polo shirt?”
Turns out the attire for the meeting is business attire.
“No, Aaron, you can’t.”
“So that means a button up shirt. Do I have to wear a tie?”
“Yes, but it can be colorful.”
“Oh, this might be a relationship killer. You know some of these fraternities have Classy Monday. I don’t’ think I could handle getting dressed up every week.”
My husband replies, “Yea, if you wanted to do that you could have just gone to yeshiva.”
Story of the Day 11/25/2009
We are driving to St. Louis.
I am driving to St. Louis.
Larry is riding shotgun and reading me the MapQuest direction and Sarah and Aaron are trying very hard to get some sleep in the back seat.
We have a luxurious car, but it is a car , not a van, and a Honda Civic, and my very tall kids with their very long legs have long since worn out the comfort of any of the 2 ½ possible positions they can manage to get into.
And it is late.
We couldn’t’ leave Indianapolis until 7:30…..and it was actually even later than that. PM. That made me the designated driver, since neither Aaron nor Larry have especially good night vision, and Sarah, who does, doesn’t’ have a driver’s license . Yet.
And it rains. Off and on. Hard and fast, and a light drizzle.
But we are making good time.
The hotel is on Lindberg. I get off at the Lindberg exit. According to MapQuest, which Larry is reading to me, it is not much farther.
I make a left at the traffic light. And then the road forks. According the Mqapq3est, I now go right, which I do, but after snaking around a bit on a very dark road, it ends. At a fence.
We must have done something wrong.
I get us turned around.
We go back to where we turned left….I pull the car over the side of the road and pull out my cell phone and the number of the hotel.
While it is ringing, a truck- a security truck pulls up.
I explain to the man where we are heading.
Well, as he tells us, they closed that road several years ago.
God bless MapQuest.
Not.
My call connects, and I struggle to understand the desk clerk. I ask her to repeat herself several times. My husband , whose hearing is better than mine, takes the phone, and also tries to get the information from her. And , from the underslept back seat comes the voice of our deaf son, “Just hand me the phone, I can hear her!”
“Since when?” Okay, I didn’t’ say it, but my husband and I did exchange amused looks.
Fortunately, the hotel desk person gives us new directions.
Direction that include driving down unmarked unlit side streets, but which do, shortly , get us to the hotel - and to, Aaron’s relief, a toilet.
You see, both hearing aids and a full bladder tend to improve hearing.
I am driving to St. Louis.
Larry is riding shotgun and reading me the MapQuest direction and Sarah and Aaron are trying very hard to get some sleep in the back seat.
We have a luxurious car, but it is a car , not a van, and a Honda Civic, and my very tall kids with their very long legs have long since worn out the comfort of any of the 2 ½ possible positions they can manage to get into.
And it is late.
We couldn’t’ leave Indianapolis until 7:30…..and it was actually even later than that. PM. That made me the designated driver, since neither Aaron nor Larry have especially good night vision, and Sarah, who does, doesn’t’ have a driver’s license . Yet.
And it rains. Off and on. Hard and fast, and a light drizzle.
But we are making good time.
The hotel is on Lindberg. I get off at the Lindberg exit. According to MapQuest, which Larry is reading to me, it is not much farther.
I make a left at the traffic light. And then the road forks. According the Mqapq3est, I now go right, which I do, but after snaking around a bit on a very dark road, it ends. At a fence.
We must have done something wrong.
I get us turned around.
We go back to where we turned left….I pull the car over the side of the road and pull out my cell phone and the number of the hotel.
While it is ringing, a truck- a security truck pulls up.
I explain to the man where we are heading.
Well, as he tells us, they closed that road several years ago.
God bless MapQuest.
Not.
My call connects, and I struggle to understand the desk clerk. I ask her to repeat herself several times. My husband , whose hearing is better than mine, takes the phone, and also tries to get the information from her. And , from the underslept back seat comes the voice of our deaf son, “Just hand me the phone, I can hear her!”
“Since when?” Okay, I didn’t’ say it, but my husband and I did exchange amused looks.
Fortunately, the hotel desk person gives us new directions.
Direction that include driving down unmarked unlit side streets, but which do, shortly , get us to the hotel - and to, Aaron’s relief, a toilet.
You see, both hearing aids and a full bladder tend to improve hearing.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Story of the Day 11/20/2009
I went to the Jewish Day school, today, to pick up my friend’s children, two little kids who attend the preschool program.
While the older one, a little girl, was getting her coat on, one of the classroom teachers asked me, “Are you the person who interprets for the Margolis children?”
I was momentarily taken aback. First of all, I is hard for even me to think of Aaron and Sarah as children, not since they hit 6’2” and 5’10” respectively, and , second of all, I do not usually consider myself to be a professional who works for them, but I decided not to quibble over the first point.
“No, I am the Margolis children’s mother.”
This produced what could best be described as a pregnant silence, even though the teacher appeared to be a bit past childbearing age.
“Oh, that is what I meant.”
I didn’t’ bother responding to that one.
While the older one, a little girl, was getting her coat on, one of the classroom teachers asked me, “Are you the person who interprets for the Margolis children?”
I was momentarily taken aback. First of all, I is hard for even me to think of Aaron and Sarah as children, not since they hit 6’2” and 5’10” respectively, and , second of all, I do not usually consider myself to be a professional who works for them, but I decided not to quibble over the first point.
“No, I am the Margolis children’s mother.”
This produced what could best be described as a pregnant silence, even though the teacher appeared to be a bit past childbearing age.
“Oh, that is what I meant.”
I didn’t’ bother responding to that one.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Story of the Day 11/ 15/ 2009
Aaron called me today.
Six times.
In 40 minutes.
That’s right, he was lost.
It is nice to be needed. Or maybe that is the punch line, and I have my story out of order.
Aaron had spent Shabbat and Saturday night at Purdue with his friend, Adam. He was going to stop at home and visit for a bit, on his way back to Ball State. Of course, that is because he wanted to do a few loads of laundry, but who is quibbling over getting a chance to visit with their baby boy?
Anyhow, not only do we own a large capacity washer and drier, but we were right on his way back to Ball State.
Yes, I didn’t’ believe it either. You see, Purdue is to the northwest of Indianapolis, and Ball State is to the north east of Indianapolis- north being the dominant part of this description.
However, the gods of MapQuest have ordained that in order to get from one to the other, you have to drive many miles to the south to Indianapolis and drive around the north side of Indianapolis on 465- the part of 465 that has exit 31, which happens to be Meridian Street, and near where we live.
Now, who am I to argue with the gods of MapQuest when they have taken my little boy about 55 miles out of the way just to have him drive by our house?
Okay, I did have one moment of stupid when I thought I should offer to find him a more direct route- but, fortunately, it was a very brief moment of stupid- and it passed.
So, this afternoon, about the time we were expecting him to arrive, I got the first of many calls from my son.
“Mom, I’m lost.”
“Where are you?”
“I am in downtown Indianapolis.”
Now, 465 does not go through downtown Indianapolis. It really doesn’t, but my son has managed this, and it is now my responsibility to get him back out of downtown Indianapolis.
“What streets are you near.”
“Michigan and Pennsylvania”
“Pennsylvania is near College and Meridian, look for one of those. And turn north onto it”
“I see Meridian.”
Fine, he is headed home.
Except that a few minutes later I get a call, “I can see the circle.”
The circle is Monument Circle. It is several blocks south of where he started- and he is trying to come back up north. Okay, so he turned the wrong direction on Meridian, anyone can do that.
“ Can you turn right on a street before the circle?”
“No, I don’t’ think so.”
“Okay, well, when you get on the circle, get off at the first chance and turn onto Illinois.”
“I don’t’ take the circle around?”
“No.”
“Oh wait, I can turn on Ohio.” (Ohio is before the circle.)
“Fine, then after you turn , you will see Illinois- turn on it and it will take you home.”
“ I don’t’ see Illinois.”
How can he not see Illinois? Ohio is one way.
“Wait, now I see it!”
“Okay, turn on it.”
“This doesn’t’ look right.”
“ I don’t’ care if it looks right, turn on it!!!!” Alright, so I am not the calm in all situations parent I like to pretend to be. At least I haven’t used the F word , yet.
Quiet, until the next phone call.
“Mom, I think I am going the wrong way.”
My hair is turning gray- what does he mean the wrong way? Illinois is a one-way street!
“ I can see the Children’s Museum.”
“Good, that means you are going the right way- the streets are getting larger if you can see the Children’s Museum.”
“Yea, but you know how the dinosaur breaks out of the side of it? It is on my right side when I drive downtown, and it is on my right side , now, and I am trying to drive away from downtown.”
“Aaron, you are not on the same street- the building is on both streets.”
“ I think I need to turn around.”
“No, don’t’ ! Just trust me!!!”
Never tell a teenager that. Have I been drinking?
“Just stay on Illinois, it will take you to Kessler, then turn left.”
A few minutes later…..
“I think I am going the right way, so now I turn right on Kessler?”
“No, LEFT, turn LEFT on Kessler! After that, turn right on Springmill.”
“Mom, If I see Spring mill, I will know how to get home!”
He will? Thank God for miracles!
Speaking of miracles, I need to go out and start pricing GPS systems for Hanukkah.
Six times.
In 40 minutes.
That’s right, he was lost.
It is nice to be needed. Or maybe that is the punch line, and I have my story out of order.
Aaron had spent Shabbat and Saturday night at Purdue with his friend, Adam. He was going to stop at home and visit for a bit, on his way back to Ball State. Of course, that is because he wanted to do a few loads of laundry, but who is quibbling over getting a chance to visit with their baby boy?
Anyhow, not only do we own a large capacity washer and drier, but we were right on his way back to Ball State.
Yes, I didn’t’ believe it either. You see, Purdue is to the northwest of Indianapolis, and Ball State is to the north east of Indianapolis- north being the dominant part of this description.
However, the gods of MapQuest have ordained that in order to get from one to the other, you have to drive many miles to the south to Indianapolis and drive around the north side of Indianapolis on 465- the part of 465 that has exit 31, which happens to be Meridian Street, and near where we live.
Now, who am I to argue with the gods of MapQuest when they have taken my little boy about 55 miles out of the way just to have him drive by our house?
Okay, I did have one moment of stupid when I thought I should offer to find him a more direct route- but, fortunately, it was a very brief moment of stupid- and it passed.
So, this afternoon, about the time we were expecting him to arrive, I got the first of many calls from my son.
“Mom, I’m lost.”
“Where are you?”
“I am in downtown Indianapolis.”
Now, 465 does not go through downtown Indianapolis. It really doesn’t, but my son has managed this, and it is now my responsibility to get him back out of downtown Indianapolis.
“What streets are you near.”
“Michigan and Pennsylvania”
“Pennsylvania is near College and Meridian, look for one of those. And turn north onto it”
“I see Meridian.”
Fine, he is headed home.
Except that a few minutes later I get a call, “I can see the circle.”
The circle is Monument Circle. It is several blocks south of where he started- and he is trying to come back up north. Okay, so he turned the wrong direction on Meridian, anyone can do that.
“ Can you turn right on a street before the circle?”
“No, I don’t’ think so.”
“Okay, well, when you get on the circle, get off at the first chance and turn onto Illinois.”
“I don’t’ take the circle around?”
“No.”
“Oh wait, I can turn on Ohio.” (Ohio is before the circle.)
“Fine, then after you turn , you will see Illinois- turn on it and it will take you home.”
“ I don’t’ see Illinois.”
How can he not see Illinois? Ohio is one way.
“Wait, now I see it!”
“Okay, turn on it.”
“This doesn’t’ look right.”
“ I don’t’ care if it looks right, turn on it!!!!” Alright, so I am not the calm in all situations parent I like to pretend to be. At least I haven’t used the F word , yet.
Quiet, until the next phone call.
“Mom, I think I am going the wrong way.”
My hair is turning gray- what does he mean the wrong way? Illinois is a one-way street!
“ I can see the Children’s Museum.”
“Good, that means you are going the right way- the streets are getting larger if you can see the Children’s Museum.”
“Yea, but you know how the dinosaur breaks out of the side of it? It is on my right side when I drive downtown, and it is on my right side , now, and I am trying to drive away from downtown.”
“Aaron, you are not on the same street- the building is on both streets.”
“ I think I need to turn around.”
“No, don’t’ ! Just trust me!!!”
Never tell a teenager that. Have I been drinking?
“Just stay on Illinois, it will take you to Kessler, then turn left.”
A few minutes later…..
“I think I am going the right way, so now I turn right on Kessler?”
“No, LEFT, turn LEFT on Kessler! After that, turn right on Springmill.”
“Mom, If I see Spring mill, I will know how to get home!”
He will? Thank God for miracles!
Speaking of miracles, I need to go out and start pricing GPS systems for Hanukkah.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Story of the Day 11/ 13/ 2009
So I was looking at funeral flowers at Costco.
Oh yes, you did read those same words before, I started the 11/11/2009 Story with them. But this isnt’ the same Story, it is just the same flowers.
I mean, you do want to find out what happens with the flowers. Don’t’ you?
So, I was looking at funeral flowers at Costco.
I didn’t’ want to buy funeral flowers. I really wanted to buy some flowers in bulk.
The last time I bought flowers in bulk was many years ago…well, 9- for Esther’s Bat Mitzvah – and that was at Sam’s- whose display, back then at least, was large and varied.
Costco’s wasn’t. Large. Or varied.
There were some bouquets, starting at $8.99 for a modest one and going up. And one arrangement , like you would send to your mother for a holiday, and funeral flowers. A display advertising the many different ones you could order for your , or hopefully someone else’s special occasion.
But there was no flower lady.
At Sam’s, I remember there being a flower lady to help and answer questions.
Well, at Costco, they do have a person I charge of the flowers- who wasn’t there and they weren’t’ sure when I could speak with her. And most of the flowers were ordered on line- which also had a large choice if you wanted funeral flowers, as I found out about 2 hours later.
I gave my not very complete findings to Shawn. Shawn is my boss. At least for the moment, when it comes to flowers.
Recently, at synagogue I was asked if I would volunteer to work on a committee. At our synagogue, a committee means you do something. It is like president. At our synagogue being president means you change the light bulbs. SO, I figured they wanted me to either mow the grass or shovel the snow. I prefer the snow. It doesn’t’ bother my allergies.
But then, who is on the committee? I mean, I don’t’ want to shovel with just anyone.
I must have acted rather leery. But then I was told that it was Shawn who needed help, so I said okay. Shawn is not toxic. In other words, I would actually enjoy working with her.
And the meeting – yes , there actually was one- to decide who does what- involved her buying me a cup of hot chocolate.
So, after doing my previous assignment she gave me which was pricing multiple types of Lucite frames from a few different places, I set about at my next task, which was pricing flowers. For a dinner. For centerpieces. For honoring someone. Who is living- as in not dead.
So, I sent Shawn my somewhat questionable findings.
To which she replied:
Cassia, funeral flowers? Are they gorgeous? I like gorgeous.
I suppose we will have to choose a color.
Oh yes, you did read those same words before, I started the 11/11/2009 Story with them. But this isnt’ the same Story, it is just the same flowers.
I mean, you do want to find out what happens with the flowers. Don’t’ you?
So, I was looking at funeral flowers at Costco.
I didn’t’ want to buy funeral flowers. I really wanted to buy some flowers in bulk.
The last time I bought flowers in bulk was many years ago…well, 9- for Esther’s Bat Mitzvah – and that was at Sam’s- whose display, back then at least, was large and varied.
Costco’s wasn’t. Large. Or varied.
There were some bouquets, starting at $8.99 for a modest one and going up. And one arrangement , like you would send to your mother for a holiday, and funeral flowers. A display advertising the many different ones you could order for your , or hopefully someone else’s special occasion.
But there was no flower lady.
At Sam’s, I remember there being a flower lady to help and answer questions.
Well, at Costco, they do have a person I charge of the flowers- who wasn’t there and they weren’t’ sure when I could speak with her. And most of the flowers were ordered on line- which also had a large choice if you wanted funeral flowers, as I found out about 2 hours later.
I gave my not very complete findings to Shawn. Shawn is my boss. At least for the moment, when it comes to flowers.
Recently, at synagogue I was asked if I would volunteer to work on a committee. At our synagogue, a committee means you do something. It is like president. At our synagogue being president means you change the light bulbs. SO, I figured they wanted me to either mow the grass or shovel the snow. I prefer the snow. It doesn’t’ bother my allergies.
But then, who is on the committee? I mean, I don’t’ want to shovel with just anyone.
I must have acted rather leery. But then I was told that it was Shawn who needed help, so I said okay. Shawn is not toxic. In other words, I would actually enjoy working with her.
And the meeting – yes , there actually was one- to decide who does what- involved her buying me a cup of hot chocolate.
So, after doing my previous assignment she gave me which was pricing multiple types of Lucite frames from a few different places, I set about at my next task, which was pricing flowers. For a dinner. For centerpieces. For honoring someone. Who is living- as in not dead.
So, I sent Shawn my somewhat questionable findings.
To which she replied:
Cassia, funeral flowers? Are they gorgeous? I like gorgeous.
I suppose we will have to choose a color.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Story of the Day 11/ 12/ 2009
I don’t’ have any stories.
Well, I do, there are the 4 that I sent out on a slow boat to China. I mean for approval and corrections, that seem to have gotten lost in cyberspace.
And then there is the Deaf School.
Except that Sarah asked me not to make them my Story of the Day, for several days now.
She didn’t’ say I couldn’t’ write about the public school that Aaron attended.
So, I will .
I will compare the school that I cannot write about in my Story of the Day with Aaron’s years at Northview Middle School and North Central High School.
At the Deaf School, which isn’t’ my Story of the Day, we have continual problems. Big , fate , serious ones.
At Aaron’s Middle and High schools, we had two that I can easily think of . There was the one high school teacher who had allergies. Apparently, she was allergic to the microphone for his FM system. The FM system is a microphone that the teacher wears- or students giving presentations use, and it feeds directly into Aaron’s hearing aids.
That way, if he is 15 feet away from the speaker, he can hear hem as well as if they were 4 feet away. Which is still only as well as a deaf person hears when using hearing aids, not what you probably hear, but it is a lot better than nothing.
Anyhow, the best I could figure out, this teacher was allergic to the microphone. Even the idea of wearing it made her break out in hives. So she didn’t’. She didn’t’ wear it, and she didn’t’ break out in hives. Much later, it was explained to me that she probably didn't really have an allergy to it, she just didn't like how it went with her clothes.
The other problem was the captioning. You know, the words that show up on the bottom of the TV screen if you turn that function on.
This allergy wasn’t confined to one teacher. We had two in high school who suffered from the affliction. A Biology teacher and the Hebrew teacher.
In Middles school, only one teacher appeared to be allergic, and it was the health teacher. Health. You know, the word they substitute for SEX ed. They do that because none of the teachers can keep a straight face while saying the word “sex”, and if they did manage to keep a straight face long enough to actually say it clearly enough for a student to hear, word might get home to the parents. At that point, there would be a sudden legal action taken against the school by a very offended parent or parents. The exact same parents whose child is most likely to get an STD or become pregnant before the end of middle school, since they also have never said that word or explained it , at home.
But, back to the teacher. The Health teacher.
She was apparently very allergic to captioning. At least, that is what I initially presumed. Except that I was wrong.
It turns out that the teacher wasn’t’ actually allergic to the captioning. The videos that taught about “reproductive systems” were antiquated.
I know about antiquated. My friend Harriet has explained to me about computers and antiquated. When she and her husband bought their first brand new computer, they bought a computer that was just below the top of the line. The husband said it would last forever it had so much memory. It would be ridiculous to get anything faster. And that was in about 1991. It became antiquated. But she was able to keep it. It makes a great doorstop.
Of course, Harriet is no longer married to that husband, he has also become antiquated, but she doesn’t’ use him for a doorstop.
Okay, I don’t’ think she actually kept the old computer as a doorstop. But she could have.
I have a cousin who was very concerned with computers becoming antiquated. This was about 10 years ago. In 1999. He was sure that there was going to be a major crisis, too, when they all blinked out over the date change that apparently the computers weren’t prepared for. So, he had stockpiled food , water and ammo in a rural place he likes and he kept urging me to do the same.
But back to the videos.
The videos were antiquated.
I know this because my son took that class in 2003 or 2004. And those videos weren’t’ captioned.
If they were made to be sold after 1995, they would have been required to be captioned. Mind you, I didn’t’ say made after 1995. Made to be sold after 1995. That is because the legislation was coming for a while. The date had been set, and companies planning on not having to spend a fortune to re-edit videos were actually captioning them well in advance, so that they would only pay to have them edited once….as well as not being stuck with a bunch of videos they couldn’t’ sell.
You see, it is a little different than buying copy of a 1950 classic. That videotape…ooooh, speaking of antiquated!...that videotape could have sat on the shelf and not have been captioned, even if you bought it in 2009…because it was sitting on the shelf. But we are talking educational materials for sale to schools. Those don’t’ get stuck o the shelf at Target, or in the bin at Best Buy. They are taken around and touted and then ordered.
So, the company was not planning on marketing these videos by 1995.
At any rate, these dusty, musty videos that saved the teacher from actually ever having to say, not just the word sex but also copulation, masturbation and erection, were pulled out and shown to his “health” class every day for weeks. And then the kids were tested on the material.
As soon as the problem arose, I started complaining.
Well, my kids was sitting in class day after day watching uncaptioned videos.
And he was going to be tested on the material. For some reason, I seemed to think this might be a problem.
You see, for Aaron to watch the videos un-captioned is like having the rest of the class sitting I the room day after day and watching an un-captioned video, with the sound turned off. And then being tested on what they learned. Well, actually, didn’t learn.
So I complained.
And the resource teacher- the cute little thing who I could pick up with one hand, except that she is taller than I am, went off to try to fix the situation. Which turned out to be unfixable.
You see, those were the only videos they had. No, not the sales people or the catalogues, but the school. And we couldn’t’ interrupt the smooth flow of the health class to try to order some captioned ones.
And , no, the teacher didn’t’ have enough time to either explain what was in the videos or to write down everything in the videos to get the information to Aaron. Apparently, not only could she not say the word sex, she couldn’t’ write it, either. A very serious allergy, I must say.
And while I understand the issue with it being too expensive to just up and order a whole new set of videos for the class, I think the school could have bought the teacher a nice big bottle of Benadryl and she could have presented at least some of the information in a lecture. Except, apparently this went against their zero tolerance policy on drugs.
And , no, they couldn’t turn the sound off to make the situation equal for all the students. So Aaron would just have to take the test, never having been given the information.
Which isn’t exactly what happened , either. That is because my son is a serious student. During some of the videos, and after some of them, he would ask his classmates what the video had been about. He was asking other 13 ad 14 year old boys to recap the lesson.
So, we settled for the next best thing. The teacher couldn’t’ teach him the material because of her allergies, and the video couldn’t’ teach him because it wasn’t’ captioned, but the students could. So, they had to test Aaron on what the classmates taught him…which meant they had to accept the vocabulary he learned from them as correct in answering the questions on the test.
Apparently, the teacher’s allergies didn’t extend so far as to prevent her from Xeroxing the tests, you see.
Incidentally, unlike the parents previously mentioned in the Story, I am not allergic to the word “sex”. And I had explained body functions and sex and even…..you might want to cover your eyes…birth control with my son when he was much younger. Which, incidentally, is really a better time to start the discussion, not a year after some of those students have already been exposed to the allergens.
But I never taught him the vocabulary he needed for the test. In English. You see, my son’s first language is ASL, so that is what I used to explain things to him which, to be honest, makes everything much clearer.
But thanks to the efforts of his classmates to help him learn the material in English, Aaron was able to pass the test, although they had to accept answers like “boner” to their questions.
Well, I do, there are the 4 that I sent out on a slow boat to China. I mean for approval and corrections, that seem to have gotten lost in cyberspace.
And then there is the Deaf School.
Except that Sarah asked me not to make them my Story of the Day, for several days now.
She didn’t’ say I couldn’t’ write about the public school that Aaron attended.
So, I will .
I will compare the school that I cannot write about in my Story of the Day with Aaron’s years at Northview Middle School and North Central High School.
At the Deaf School, which isn’t’ my Story of the Day, we have continual problems. Big , fate , serious ones.
At Aaron’s Middle and High schools, we had two that I can easily think of . There was the one high school teacher who had allergies. Apparently, she was allergic to the microphone for his FM system. The FM system is a microphone that the teacher wears- or students giving presentations use, and it feeds directly into Aaron’s hearing aids.
That way, if he is 15 feet away from the speaker, he can hear hem as well as if they were 4 feet away. Which is still only as well as a deaf person hears when using hearing aids, not what you probably hear, but it is a lot better than nothing.
Anyhow, the best I could figure out, this teacher was allergic to the microphone. Even the idea of wearing it made her break out in hives. So she didn’t’. She didn’t’ wear it, and she didn’t’ break out in hives. Much later, it was explained to me that she probably didn't really have an allergy to it, she just didn't like how it went with her clothes.
The other problem was the captioning. You know, the words that show up on the bottom of the TV screen if you turn that function on.
This allergy wasn’t confined to one teacher. We had two in high school who suffered from the affliction. A Biology teacher and the Hebrew teacher.
In Middles school, only one teacher appeared to be allergic, and it was the health teacher. Health. You know, the word they substitute for SEX ed. They do that because none of the teachers can keep a straight face while saying the word “sex”, and if they did manage to keep a straight face long enough to actually say it clearly enough for a student to hear, word might get home to the parents. At that point, there would be a sudden legal action taken against the school by a very offended parent or parents. The exact same parents whose child is most likely to get an STD or become pregnant before the end of middle school, since they also have never said that word or explained it , at home.
But, back to the teacher. The Health teacher.
She was apparently very allergic to captioning. At least, that is what I initially presumed. Except that I was wrong.
It turns out that the teacher wasn’t’ actually allergic to the captioning. The videos that taught about “reproductive systems” were antiquated.
I know about antiquated. My friend Harriet has explained to me about computers and antiquated. When she and her husband bought their first brand new computer, they bought a computer that was just below the top of the line. The husband said it would last forever it had so much memory. It would be ridiculous to get anything faster. And that was in about 1991. It became antiquated. But she was able to keep it. It makes a great doorstop.
Of course, Harriet is no longer married to that husband, he has also become antiquated, but she doesn’t’ use him for a doorstop.
Okay, I don’t’ think she actually kept the old computer as a doorstop. But she could have.
I have a cousin who was very concerned with computers becoming antiquated. This was about 10 years ago. In 1999. He was sure that there was going to be a major crisis, too, when they all blinked out over the date change that apparently the computers weren’t prepared for. So, he had stockpiled food , water and ammo in a rural place he likes and he kept urging me to do the same.
But back to the videos.
The videos were antiquated.
I know this because my son took that class in 2003 or 2004. And those videos weren’t’ captioned.
If they were made to be sold after 1995, they would have been required to be captioned. Mind you, I didn’t’ say made after 1995. Made to be sold after 1995. That is because the legislation was coming for a while. The date had been set, and companies planning on not having to spend a fortune to re-edit videos were actually captioning them well in advance, so that they would only pay to have them edited once….as well as not being stuck with a bunch of videos they couldn’t’ sell.
You see, it is a little different than buying copy of a 1950 classic. That videotape…ooooh, speaking of antiquated!...that videotape could have sat on the shelf and not have been captioned, even if you bought it in 2009…because it was sitting on the shelf. But we are talking educational materials for sale to schools. Those don’t’ get stuck o the shelf at Target, or in the bin at Best Buy. They are taken around and touted and then ordered.
So, the company was not planning on marketing these videos by 1995.
At any rate, these dusty, musty videos that saved the teacher from actually ever having to say, not just the word sex but also copulation, masturbation and erection, were pulled out and shown to his “health” class every day for weeks. And then the kids were tested on the material.
As soon as the problem arose, I started complaining.
Well, my kids was sitting in class day after day watching uncaptioned videos.
And he was going to be tested on the material. For some reason, I seemed to think this might be a problem.
You see, for Aaron to watch the videos un-captioned is like having the rest of the class sitting I the room day after day and watching an un-captioned video, with the sound turned off. And then being tested on what they learned. Well, actually, didn’t learn.
So I complained.
And the resource teacher- the cute little thing who I could pick up with one hand, except that she is taller than I am, went off to try to fix the situation. Which turned out to be unfixable.
You see, those were the only videos they had. No, not the sales people or the catalogues, but the school. And we couldn’t’ interrupt the smooth flow of the health class to try to order some captioned ones.
And , no, the teacher didn’t’ have enough time to either explain what was in the videos or to write down everything in the videos to get the information to Aaron. Apparently, not only could she not say the word sex, she couldn’t’ write it, either. A very serious allergy, I must say.
And while I understand the issue with it being too expensive to just up and order a whole new set of videos for the class, I think the school could have bought the teacher a nice big bottle of Benadryl and she could have presented at least some of the information in a lecture. Except, apparently this went against their zero tolerance policy on drugs.
And , no, they couldn’t turn the sound off to make the situation equal for all the students. So Aaron would just have to take the test, never having been given the information.
Which isn’t exactly what happened , either. That is because my son is a serious student. During some of the videos, and after some of them, he would ask his classmates what the video had been about. He was asking other 13 ad 14 year old boys to recap the lesson.
So, we settled for the next best thing. The teacher couldn’t’ teach him the material because of her allergies, and the video couldn’t’ teach him because it wasn’t’ captioned, but the students could. So, they had to test Aaron on what the classmates taught him…which meant they had to accept the vocabulary he learned from them as correct in answering the questions on the test.
Apparently, the teacher’s allergies didn’t extend so far as to prevent her from Xeroxing the tests, you see.
Incidentally, unlike the parents previously mentioned in the Story, I am not allergic to the word “sex”. And I had explained body functions and sex and even…..you might want to cover your eyes…birth control with my son when he was much younger. Which, incidentally, is really a better time to start the discussion, not a year after some of those students have already been exposed to the allergens.
But I never taught him the vocabulary he needed for the test. In English. You see, my son’s first language is ASL, so that is what I used to explain things to him which, to be honest, makes everything much clearer.
But thanks to the efforts of his classmates to help him learn the material in English, Aaron was able to pass the test, although they had to accept answers like “boner” to their questions.
Story of the Day 11/ 11/ 2009
I was looking at funeral arrangements. Not making an arrangement for a funeral- but the flowers.
I didn’t’ want to be doing that, but I think that is what most people would say, looking over the selection, unless they were from the rival Mafia family that had ordered the hit.
And they probably don’t’ get their flowers from Costco. Although, how would I know. I move in such lowly circles that I don’t’ even know anyone to ask.
Now, you might think I wanted flowers to go with a Costco casket.
I did a Story about them umpteen years ago- a Story which I got to revisit recently, due to being greeted, early in the morning, by a news bit that Wal-Mart has decided to compete with Costco.
This Story is from my pre-Blog years, and took a little bit of digging to locate. It was rather hard moving those megabytes around on my computer, and I had to do quite a lot of dusting, but…..
At this point, I am going to paste in some old Stories that predate my blog- so that you are at about the same point in the story that I am.
Story of the Day 10/02/07
I planned a rather normal day for myself. The late morning was dedicated to buying groceries.
I don’t’ get there every week, but one of the places I shop is Costco.
Today, it was my first stop- I had on my list to get salmon and milk (they have hormone free) and eggs, and light bulbs.
We have been gradually replacing our light bulbs with compact fluorescents. They save energy and money and are better for the environment. They don’t add heat to your house in the summer. BUT, the part that my husband likes best is that they last longer- so they have to be changed less frequently.
Of course, they can cause confusion.
Compact fluorescents take a few seconds longer to turn on.
Not that long ago, a friend was over here and headed down the hall, probably to the bathroom. She flipped the switch to turn on eth light in the hallway, then impatiently kept flipping it back and forth – and finally said, “I think your bulb is burnt out!”
I told her to wait, and I went and switched it on- and told her “ wait a minute!” and there was light. A bit pale, but very functional. I explained to her that her rapidly flipping the switch wasn’t allowing it enough time to come on.
Anyhow, we were out of them, so I added them to the list.
I had never bought them at Costco before, but had a vague idea where the bulbs were and headed off in that direction.
If you have never shopped at a wholesale store, you have missed the experience of having very poorly marked isles with all sorts of things you never expected to run into when shopping for milk and eggs.
They have bathroom vanities, and washers and dryers, and steel multi-drawer tool chests.
None of that surprises me.
But, I was surprised.
Did you know that they also carry caskets? Yeah, coffins. The fancy decorated metal ones they stick dead bodies in and then bury.
A very lovely display right back there near the light bulbs.
My first thought was, “This really isn’t an impulse purchase item, but it also isn't’ something you would go hunting down aisles to find.”
I mean, how many people make a trip to Costco looking to locate a coffin?
How many people would even think of it as a destination for that destination?
Then I thought, “I wonder how many of these they sell?”
Because part of how these big stores operate is by volume- they sell a limited selection, but a lot of that item…
Any guesses?
And would you go there to buy one?
Story of the Afternoon 10/02/07
I’ve had two wonderful emails, this afternoon- both in response to the Story of the Day, and both telling me of the same interesting development in eth casket business.
Apparently, with a little adaptation shelves can be added and caskets can be used as bookshelves until one’s demise.
Pat wrote me that she wondered if one would fit in her pantry- and if it did, would she and her husband have to compete to see who got to use it?
I suppose you could use more than one set of shelves.
I can see other problems, however. A person dies, and not only do you have to deal with all the other arrangements, and tearing out some shelves, you also have to rearrange your books or food or whatever it is to empty them. And dust. Well, maybe your bookcases are never dusty!
What if you are absentminded, does that mean your spouse gets buried along with your McCormick spices, or the half eaten box of saltines?
If it is your favorite Faulkner novel, it would be rather rude to remember it at the funeral and go rummaging under your spouse to get it back!(I will assume that no one I know s desperate enough to dig up a grave for a book or two!)
I can see other problems, I mean, you could be the person who is handy enough to put those shelves in yourself, but if not, you would call up a carpenter or handyman/woman and ask them to please put some shelves in your casket. I can imagine that this would go over very well.
I can tell that I am going to spend all evening thinking about this while I am drawing
Story of the Afternoon 10/02/07
PART TWO
Sharon Riley emailed me:
Gives a whole new meaning to “Honey, some day, this will be yours…..”
The Story of the Afternoon
Part 3- 10/02/07
Part three? I have never done a Part 3 before, but this story just won’t die.
Okay, that was a very bad pun.
Charles Ballinger sent me a website for a religious order that makes very beautiful wooden caskets. Still not “kosher” for the Jewish clientele, but they would make truly lovely bookcases!
http://www.abbeycaskets.com/index.asp
Back to the November 11, 2009 Story of the Day :
Despite the late start in the casket business, Costco has been selling tem since….., Wal-Mart expects to do a brisk business. All bit one of their caskets goes for under $2,000. The one pricey one is a specialty bronze model for folks who want to go in style.
But as I lamented in my Face Book status update, that doesn’t’ help us Jewish folks, who need a wooden box with some holes and no metal nails, but my friend Nancy Casey , who has obviously given this much more thought than I have, informed me that they have actually been selling Jewish caskets for years. Labeled banker’s boxes. I mean, you have to fold them into shape by yourself, but , hey , a t that price.
Of course, as I told her, they also have linen. We could just go in and get 8 yards and save a bundle. Or 8 ½ , if grandma was a bit chubby. And she , Nancy- not my grandma, said it would not be a bad idea to buy it in bulk.
Though, as I pointed out, we should be careful not to charge the rat poison on the same card.
We have similar families. Well, maybe hers has more class.
Wait, maybe one of her relatives can tell me where the Mafia orders their flowers from……
I didn’t’ want to be doing that, but I think that is what most people would say, looking over the selection, unless they were from the rival Mafia family that had ordered the hit.
And they probably don’t’ get their flowers from Costco. Although, how would I know. I move in such lowly circles that I don’t’ even know anyone to ask.
Now, you might think I wanted flowers to go with a Costco casket.
I did a Story about them umpteen years ago- a Story which I got to revisit recently, due to being greeted, early in the morning, by a news bit that Wal-Mart has decided to compete with Costco.
This Story is from my pre-Blog years, and took a little bit of digging to locate. It was rather hard moving those megabytes around on my computer, and I had to do quite a lot of dusting, but…..
At this point, I am going to paste in some old Stories that predate my blog- so that you are at about the same point in the story that I am.
Story of the Day 10/02/07
I planned a rather normal day for myself. The late morning was dedicated to buying groceries.
I don’t’ get there every week, but one of the places I shop is Costco.
Today, it was my first stop- I had on my list to get salmon and milk (they have hormone free) and eggs, and light bulbs.
We have been gradually replacing our light bulbs with compact fluorescents. They save energy and money and are better for the environment. They don’t add heat to your house in the summer. BUT, the part that my husband likes best is that they last longer- so they have to be changed less frequently.
Of course, they can cause confusion.
Compact fluorescents take a few seconds longer to turn on.
Not that long ago, a friend was over here and headed down the hall, probably to the bathroom. She flipped the switch to turn on eth light in the hallway, then impatiently kept flipping it back and forth – and finally said, “I think your bulb is burnt out!”
I told her to wait, and I went and switched it on- and told her “ wait a minute!” and there was light. A bit pale, but very functional. I explained to her that her rapidly flipping the switch wasn’t allowing it enough time to come on.
Anyhow, we were out of them, so I added them to the list.
I had never bought them at Costco before, but had a vague idea where the bulbs were and headed off in that direction.
If you have never shopped at a wholesale store, you have missed the experience of having very poorly marked isles with all sorts of things you never expected to run into when shopping for milk and eggs.
They have bathroom vanities, and washers and dryers, and steel multi-drawer tool chests.
None of that surprises me.
But, I was surprised.
Did you know that they also carry caskets? Yeah, coffins. The fancy decorated metal ones they stick dead bodies in and then bury.
A very lovely display right back there near the light bulbs.
My first thought was, “This really isn’t an impulse purchase item, but it also isn't’ something you would go hunting down aisles to find.”
I mean, how many people make a trip to Costco looking to locate a coffin?
How many people would even think of it as a destination for that destination?
Then I thought, “I wonder how many of these they sell?”
Because part of how these big stores operate is by volume- they sell a limited selection, but a lot of that item…
Any guesses?
And would you go there to buy one?
Story of the Afternoon 10/02/07
I’ve had two wonderful emails, this afternoon- both in response to the Story of the Day, and both telling me of the same interesting development in eth casket business.
Apparently, with a little adaptation shelves can be added and caskets can be used as bookshelves until one’s demise.
Pat wrote me that she wondered if one would fit in her pantry- and if it did, would she and her husband have to compete to see who got to use it?
I suppose you could use more than one set of shelves.
I can see other problems, however. A person dies, and not only do you have to deal with all the other arrangements, and tearing out some shelves, you also have to rearrange your books or food or whatever it is to empty them. And dust. Well, maybe your bookcases are never dusty!
What if you are absentminded, does that mean your spouse gets buried along with your McCormick spices, or the half eaten box of saltines?
If it is your favorite Faulkner novel, it would be rather rude to remember it at the funeral and go rummaging under your spouse to get it back!(I will assume that no one I know s desperate enough to dig up a grave for a book or two!)
I can see other problems, I mean, you could be the person who is handy enough to put those shelves in yourself, but if not, you would call up a carpenter or handyman/woman and ask them to please put some shelves in your casket. I can imagine that this would go over very well.
I can tell that I am going to spend all evening thinking about this while I am drawing
Story of the Afternoon 10/02/07
PART TWO
Sharon Riley emailed me:
Gives a whole new meaning to “Honey, some day, this will be yours…..”
The Story of the Afternoon
Part 3- 10/02/07
Part three? I have never done a Part 3 before, but this story just won’t die.
Okay, that was a very bad pun.
Charles Ballinger sent me a website for a religious order that makes very beautiful wooden caskets. Still not “kosher” for the Jewish clientele, but they would make truly lovely bookcases!
http://www.abbeycaskets.com/index.asp
Back to the November 11, 2009 Story of the Day :
Despite the late start in the casket business, Costco has been selling tem since….., Wal-Mart expects to do a brisk business. All bit one of their caskets goes for under $2,000. The one pricey one is a specialty bronze model for folks who want to go in style.
But as I lamented in my Face Book status update, that doesn’t’ help us Jewish folks, who need a wooden box with some holes and no metal nails, but my friend Nancy Casey , who has obviously given this much more thought than I have, informed me that they have actually been selling Jewish caskets for years. Labeled banker’s boxes. I mean, you have to fold them into shape by yourself, but , hey , a t that price.
Of course, as I told her, they also have linen. We could just go in and get 8 yards and save a bundle. Or 8 ½ , if grandma was a bit chubby. And she , Nancy- not my grandma, said it would not be a bad idea to buy it in bulk.
Though, as I pointed out, we should be careful not to charge the rat poison on the same card.
We have similar families. Well, maybe hers has more class.
Wait, maybe one of her relatives can tell me where the Mafia orders their flowers from……
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Story of the Day 10/ 26/ 2009
I always enjoy speaking with my niece.
That is not because she is cute, even though she is, because that is not something one can enjoy over the phone- at least, not over our non-video cell phones.
But I always learn things.
I am sure that some of that is because I am middle aged which rhymes with dense. Well, it does if you are a teenager, as are several of my nieces. A lot of the rest of it is probably due to the fact that I actually am dense, and some of it is also due to the fact that my niece leads an interesting life.
She was telling me about her English teacher.
Last year, one day, her teacher happened to be absent.
The following day she came to class and explained that she was absent because her cats told her not to go to work.
Her cats.
I didn’t’ ask how many.
Or if she had argued with them.
My niece then went on to tell me that the students also think she is odd because she lived in a tree for a year and her boyfriend is a lumber jack.
Now, they probably think this is odd because having a boyfriend as a lumber jack must be somewhat threatening to someone who lives in a tree- although, this is only conjecture. I can’t be sure , since I have never, personally lived in a tree. Perhaps, now that she is not living in a tree, she could develop a relationship with someone else. After all, the relationship she has seems a bit…sado-masochistic, or something like that.
But I look at it as normal. I mean, he must have spent a good part of that year getting her to come out of that tree , so he could chop it down. And, if you are living in a tree, what other types of men are you likely to meet?
Please don’t’ answer.
But, as I told my niece I really wasn’t bothered y any of that.
I was bothered by the cats.
I also asked her if she sat in the front row.
I didn’t’ think this was a good idea, in case the teacher had a sharp object and instructions from the cats.
But, as my niece reminded me, somewhat exasperatedly, this was last year’s English teacher.
Although, she is still this year’s English teacher to the students she has this year.
It is amazing the Deaf School hasn’t tried to hire her, yet.
That is not because she is cute, even though she is, because that is not something one can enjoy over the phone- at least, not over our non-video cell phones.
But I always learn things.
I am sure that some of that is because I am middle aged which rhymes with dense. Well, it does if you are a teenager, as are several of my nieces. A lot of the rest of it is probably due to the fact that I actually am dense, and some of it is also due to the fact that my niece leads an interesting life.
She was telling me about her English teacher.
Last year, one day, her teacher happened to be absent.
The following day she came to class and explained that she was absent because her cats told her not to go to work.
Her cats.
I didn’t’ ask how many.
Or if she had argued with them.
My niece then went on to tell me that the students also think she is odd because she lived in a tree for a year and her boyfriend is a lumber jack.
Now, they probably think this is odd because having a boyfriend as a lumber jack must be somewhat threatening to someone who lives in a tree- although, this is only conjecture. I can’t be sure , since I have never, personally lived in a tree. Perhaps, now that she is not living in a tree, she could develop a relationship with someone else. After all, the relationship she has seems a bit…sado-masochistic, or something like that.
But I look at it as normal. I mean, he must have spent a good part of that year getting her to come out of that tree , so he could chop it down. And, if you are living in a tree, what other types of men are you likely to meet?
Please don’t’ answer.
But, as I told my niece I really wasn’t bothered y any of that.
I was bothered by the cats.
I also asked her if she sat in the front row.
I didn’t’ think this was a good idea, in case the teacher had a sharp object and instructions from the cats.
But, as my niece reminded me, somewhat exasperatedly, this was last year’s English teacher.
Although, she is still this year’s English teacher to the students she has this year.
It is amazing the Deaf School hasn’t tried to hire her, yet.
Story of the Day - Addendum to 10/ 23/ 2009
On Saturday, Aaron let slip that we were really not his third choice of where to go for the weekend, we were his 4th…also on the list before us was visiting friend at Purdue, but it happened to be their family weekend.
Sorry, Aaron.
Sorry, Aaron.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Story of the Day 10/ 23/ 3009
I was at the Art Center.
Drawing.
That is what I do on Friday mornings, if I am lucky.
If I am unlucky, the session ( open studio- figure drawing, painting- which means a model and no instructor- a place for those of us who like to drawn naked people go…) has filled. The last session didn’t, and I was left with nothing to do on Friday mornings except clean my bathrooms. That was very painful. Although, I had nice clean bathrooms.
Right now, my bathrooms are not that clean, but I am happier.
So, I was at the Art Center. Drawing. And my phone vibrated in my pocket.
Occasionally, when I am very focused I either don’t’ notice it, or I get so startled that I practically fall off my horse. Yes, my horse. That is the wooden bench that many art folks use to sit on and prop their drawing board against when they draw.
Today, I was not so very focused. Probably a combination effect of only having had 2 cups of coffee, so far, and having a somewhat boring model. At any rate, I was less focused and I both managed to notice it vibrating and managed to not fall off the horse.
So far, so good.
It was my son.
I figured that it couldn’t be equal to the emergency calls of two days ago, when he was wandering lost in the bowels of Indianapolis, but, none-the-less, I hurried out of the room to take the call.
Well, heck, I do kind of like the boy.
He had some odd remark about what time he was leaving to come home.
“Come home? You are coming home?”
I mean, it is not like I was upset or anything, but he had told me he wasn’t coming home for fall break. And fall break started today.
Not that he doesn’t’ love me or anything, but he had some video project he was working on and…..
“What about the video project?”
“Oh, that is what we did on Wednesday.”
Great. Fine, whatever. And I realize I haven’t defrosted enough food for dinner.
“Drive carefully!”
Later, when he is home, and I am home and I have hugged him a few times and tried to feed him, he admits that he was going t stay at college over the weekend, anyhow, but then he realized that everyone else was leaving.
Oh well, I will be happy with the crumbs.
Drawing.
That is what I do on Friday mornings, if I am lucky.
If I am unlucky, the session ( open studio- figure drawing, painting- which means a model and no instructor- a place for those of us who like to drawn naked people go…) has filled. The last session didn’t, and I was left with nothing to do on Friday mornings except clean my bathrooms. That was very painful. Although, I had nice clean bathrooms.
Right now, my bathrooms are not that clean, but I am happier.
So, I was at the Art Center. Drawing. And my phone vibrated in my pocket.
Occasionally, when I am very focused I either don’t’ notice it, or I get so startled that I practically fall off my horse. Yes, my horse. That is the wooden bench that many art folks use to sit on and prop their drawing board against when they draw.
Today, I was not so very focused. Probably a combination effect of only having had 2 cups of coffee, so far, and having a somewhat boring model. At any rate, I was less focused and I both managed to notice it vibrating and managed to not fall off the horse.
So far, so good.
It was my son.
I figured that it couldn’t be equal to the emergency calls of two days ago, when he was wandering lost in the bowels of Indianapolis, but, none-the-less, I hurried out of the room to take the call.
Well, heck, I do kind of like the boy.
He had some odd remark about what time he was leaving to come home.
“Come home? You are coming home?”
I mean, it is not like I was upset or anything, but he had told me he wasn’t coming home for fall break. And fall break started today.
Not that he doesn’t’ love me or anything, but he had some video project he was working on and…..
“What about the video project?”
“Oh, that is what we did on Wednesday.”
Great. Fine, whatever. And I realize I haven’t defrosted enough food for dinner.
“Drive carefully!”
Later, when he is home, and I am home and I have hugged him a few times and tried to feed him, he admits that he was going t stay at college over the weekend, anyhow, but then he realized that everyone else was leaving.
Oh well, I will be happy with the crumbs.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Story of the Day 10/ 21/ 2009
The most wonderful little boy in the world called me today.
Okay, I am slightly biased in my judgment of his position in this world. Also, at 6’2”, he is not quite little, anymore.
But he called me.
5 times.
In 40 minutes.
Now, getting a call from him is always nice. Except when they come that fast and furious, because it means that something is wrong.
Aaron’s first call to me was, “Mom, I am headed north on Meridian, but it doesn’t look right.”
Well, I knew he was coming into Indianapolis from Muncie- where his college is located- which is to the north of Indianapolis, and , obviously, the exit from the expressway for Meridian is on the north side of town. So, I said the obvious, “Turn around. You need to go south.”
He did turn around, and called me that it still looked wrong.
I ask the obvious,"Where are you?"
It turns out he was on the south side of Indianapolis.
The south side? He must have gotten really lost and taken the expressway that loops around the city all the way around to the south side before getting off.
“Okay, you have to turn around again and go north. Pull over and turn around.”
Several minutes later comes another call, “ I don’t; know where I am!”
He names some streets which sound vaguely familiar and I enter them into MapQuest. I start to tell him where to go, but he has pulled over and someone there is giving him directions.
He calls me again, a few minutes later. The guy gave him wrong directions.
He is driving down a street- but it goes two directions. I ask him to call out the cross streets.
We get disconnected. He calls me back.
After a few minutes, I tell him where to turn.
I repeat the order for turning right and left, or left and right- why is he asking someone who is dyslexic?
Oh yeah, because I am his mother.
Poor kid.
Several hours later, I get the phone call I was really waiting for. He is safely back at college.
Okay, I am slightly biased in my judgment of his position in this world. Also, at 6’2”, he is not quite little, anymore.
But he called me.
5 times.
In 40 minutes.
Now, getting a call from him is always nice. Except when they come that fast and furious, because it means that something is wrong.
Aaron’s first call to me was, “Mom, I am headed north on Meridian, but it doesn’t look right.”
Well, I knew he was coming into Indianapolis from Muncie- where his college is located- which is to the north of Indianapolis, and , obviously, the exit from the expressway for Meridian is on the north side of town. So, I said the obvious, “Turn around. You need to go south.”
He did turn around, and called me that it still looked wrong.
I ask the obvious,"Where are you?"
It turns out he was on the south side of Indianapolis.
The south side? He must have gotten really lost and taken the expressway that loops around the city all the way around to the south side before getting off.
“Okay, you have to turn around again and go north. Pull over and turn around.”
Several minutes later comes another call, “ I don’t; know where I am!”
He names some streets which sound vaguely familiar and I enter them into MapQuest. I start to tell him where to go, but he has pulled over and someone there is giving him directions.
He calls me again, a few minutes later. The guy gave him wrong directions.
He is driving down a street- but it goes two directions. I ask him to call out the cross streets.
We get disconnected. He calls me back.
After a few minutes, I tell him where to turn.
I repeat the order for turning right and left, or left and right- why is he asking someone who is dyslexic?
Oh yeah, because I am his mother.
Poor kid.
Several hours later, I get the phone call I was really waiting for. He is safely back at college.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Stopry of the Day 10/ 11/ 2009
It is mortifying to be a teenager.
Not only is everyone in the entire world staring at you.
Critically.
But , if you are, G-d forbid, with your mother, you know that they are also staring at her, and she is bound to be doing something embarrassing.
Believe me, my children have told me, many times, of how they have suffered through this!
And the things we make our children do…
The young lady sitting behind us at services, on Saturday evening- which was the best holiday of the year- and I say that because it has lots of candy attached to it- was cringing over the very idea that her parents were expecting her to wear a BRIGHT ORANGE REFLECTIVE VEST , so that she didn’t get hit by any cars on the way home.
We live in a residential area that does not have sidewalks, and you have to walk on the not very well delineated side of the street , down unlit streets, where the cars believe they have eternal right of way, and no speed limits.
Being a parent, I vote in favor of those embarrassing orange vests, but this young lady could only see the mortifying side of it. She would much rather have no one notice her and get hit by a car.
In an effort to make light of this indignity, I told her that no matter what , she only gets stared at for short periods of time. The moment anyone in my family starts to have a conversation, we are ensured of being started at for a minimum of 30 minutes. At least, by anyone not familiar with us- so she really had nothing to complain about.
My daughter, Sarah, hates this attendant attention to us because we are using sign language. Off course, I am old, so I long ago stopped giving a hoot.
But this other Sarah’s mother, had a story that topped it.
Many years ago, when they were taking Lamaze classes, in preparation for her birth, her parents would go to the hospital for the classes, and afterwards to the cafeteria for a romantic cup of tea, or whatever.
As you can judge by their fast and fancy life style, we get along quite well . Not to mention that we also force our children to wear bright orange vests.
Now, as we all know, some people are more prone to being started at than others.
People in wheelchairs get stared at.
People over 7’ tall get stared at.
People who are walking down the street with their set of octuplets get stared at.
The Amish get stared at.
Well, here they were sitting in the cafeteria. He with his very blond beard and his Jewish frummie hat, and she in a dress and a sheitel- which is the name of those wigs married Jewish ladies wear.
And a couple of Amish boys walk past- staring at them. And pointing.
Our friends happen to turn around, and the adult Amish are also staring at them…not quite sure what to make of them.
So, they have the distinction of being the people that the Amish point and stare at.
I cannot top that story.
Not only is everyone in the entire world staring at you.
Critically.
But , if you are, G-d forbid, with your mother, you know that they are also staring at her, and she is bound to be doing something embarrassing.
Believe me, my children have told me, many times, of how they have suffered through this!
And the things we make our children do…
The young lady sitting behind us at services, on Saturday evening- which was the best holiday of the year- and I say that because it has lots of candy attached to it- was cringing over the very idea that her parents were expecting her to wear a BRIGHT ORANGE REFLECTIVE VEST , so that she didn’t get hit by any cars on the way home.
We live in a residential area that does not have sidewalks, and you have to walk on the not very well delineated side of the street , down unlit streets, where the cars believe they have eternal right of way, and no speed limits.
Being a parent, I vote in favor of those embarrassing orange vests, but this young lady could only see the mortifying side of it. She would much rather have no one notice her and get hit by a car.
In an effort to make light of this indignity, I told her that no matter what , she only gets stared at for short periods of time. The moment anyone in my family starts to have a conversation, we are ensured of being started at for a minimum of 30 minutes. At least, by anyone not familiar with us- so she really had nothing to complain about.
My daughter, Sarah, hates this attendant attention to us because we are using sign language. Off course, I am old, so I long ago stopped giving a hoot.
But this other Sarah’s mother, had a story that topped it.
Many years ago, when they were taking Lamaze classes, in preparation for her birth, her parents would go to the hospital for the classes, and afterwards to the cafeteria for a romantic cup of tea, or whatever.
As you can judge by their fast and fancy life style, we get along quite well . Not to mention that we also force our children to wear bright orange vests.
Now, as we all know, some people are more prone to being started at than others.
People in wheelchairs get stared at.
People over 7’ tall get stared at.
People who are walking down the street with their set of octuplets get stared at.
The Amish get stared at.
Well, here they were sitting in the cafeteria. He with his very blond beard and his Jewish frummie hat, and she in a dress and a sheitel- which is the name of those wigs married Jewish ladies wear.
And a couple of Amish boys walk past- staring at them. And pointing.
Our friends happen to turn around, and the adult Amish are also staring at them…not quite sure what to make of them.
So, they have the distinction of being the people that the Amish point and stare at.
I cannot top that story.
Story of the Day 10/ 10/ 2009
This story is kind of an addendum to the Story from 9/6/2009……
In an effort to upgrade the atmosphere of services, on the high holidays, Parisa took the initiative of bringing some shawls to synagogue and leaving them on the odd piece of furniture in the lobby that holds assorted tallit and kippot and lace head doilies for people to use.
She thought that some of the people who were not regulars and who showed up for services might feel better , when they realized that there is some vague semblance of a dress code at Etz, if they had something to cover up their cleavage from the fact they are wearing absolutely no blouse at all, or anything else, apparently, under the open suit jacket, or that they might feel a need to maybe not let us all see what color their thong undies are.
The shawls did get good use. As a matter of fact, those same worshippers found the shawls especially helpful, since the air conditioning was turned up high.
Thank you , Alan!
The only problem is that these same people decided that they really did need to do something about their wardrobes, and they took the shawls home with them.
Every single one.
Gone.
My husband and I discussed this.
We think that the next time shawls are provided, they need to have those nice little sewn in labels.
Ones that say, “Property of Etz Chaim”.
Only, maybe the labels should not be so little.
And maybe they should say, as my husband suggested, “Stolen from Etz Chaim Synagogue”.
Or, as I suggested- though no one else seemed to like my suggestion:
“Property of Etz Chaim, Keep Your Fucking Hands Off!”
In an effort to upgrade the atmosphere of services, on the high holidays, Parisa took the initiative of bringing some shawls to synagogue and leaving them on the odd piece of furniture in the lobby that holds assorted tallit and kippot and lace head doilies for people to use.
She thought that some of the people who were not regulars and who showed up for services might feel better , when they realized that there is some vague semblance of a dress code at Etz, if they had something to cover up their cleavage from the fact they are wearing absolutely no blouse at all, or anything else, apparently, under the open suit jacket, or that they might feel a need to maybe not let us all see what color their thong undies are.
The shawls did get good use. As a matter of fact, those same worshippers found the shawls especially helpful, since the air conditioning was turned up high.
Thank you , Alan!
The only problem is that these same people decided that they really did need to do something about their wardrobes, and they took the shawls home with them.
Every single one.
Gone.
My husband and I discussed this.
We think that the next time shawls are provided, they need to have those nice little sewn in labels.
Ones that say, “Property of Etz Chaim”.
Only, maybe the labels should not be so little.
And maybe they should say, as my husband suggested, “Stolen from Etz Chaim Synagogue”.
Or, as I suggested- though no one else seemed to like my suggestion:
“Property of Etz Chaim, Keep Your Fucking Hands Off!”
Story of the Day 10/ 12/ 2009
- which is really an addendum to Friday’s (10/9/2009) second story
There was a lovely article in the newspaper about the Family Fun Day.
They had popcorn.
There was a lovely article in the newspaper about the Family Fun Day.
They had popcorn.
Story of the Day 10/ 9/ 2009 #2
At dinner, yes this is the same dinner Ethan was at, Larry mentioned a new billboard that he passes , every day , on his drive to work.
It says:
Sunday is Family Fun Day .
At the Cemetery.
Crown Hill Cemetery.
There is not much more I can say about this.
It says:
Sunday is Family Fun Day .
At the Cemetery.
Crown Hill Cemetery.
There is not much more I can say about this.
Story of teh Day 10/ 9/ 2009
We had company for dinner. This is unusual.
As a general rule, we do not like having company on Friday evenings.
This has some small thing to do with the fact that after taking our showers, before the start of Shabbat, neither Sarah nor I like to put on clothes.
So when my husband comes home from synagogue, and Aaron, if he is home, we don’t’ really want to have to wear anything more than our pajamas to the dinner table.
Of course, we also don’t’ like to have anyone for Shabbat lunch- lunch on Saturday.
This is because I am lazy.
We belong to Etz, and one of the hallmarks of Etz is that their version of a Kiddush after services on Saturday is nicer than anything I have ever served for lunch. So, why would I want to try to compete with that?
But, Ethan’s parents were going to be out of town, so what could I do? And, after all, since Ethan spent a great deal of his formative years with Aaron, either at his house or at ours, he has already seen all of us in our pajamas, so it wasn’t like Sarah and I actually had to get dressed for dinner.
The other reason that we don’t’ like to have company for Friday night dinner, is because of Sarah. You see, we have a rule that everyone has to sign at the table. But when we have company, it is rare that they can sign, and so, we all end up using Spoken English, all of us except for Sarah, that is.
But, once again, although Ethan doesn’t sign, expect for those few rude words Aaron has taught him, Sarah is used to him, and so we had company for dinner.
During dinner, I did end up doing a bit of interpreting. Some of what Ethan spoke into ASL for Sarah and some of what Sarah signed into Spoken English, for him.
At one point, I was interpreting for Sarah and I told Ethan, “It smelled like poop.”
There was an immediate outcry from Sarah.
“I said C-R-A-P, not [poop!”
Shame on her mother for trying to clean it up a little, and forgetting that she can speechread.
As a general rule, we do not like having company on Friday evenings.
This has some small thing to do with the fact that after taking our showers, before the start of Shabbat, neither Sarah nor I like to put on clothes.
So when my husband comes home from synagogue, and Aaron, if he is home, we don’t’ really want to have to wear anything more than our pajamas to the dinner table.
Of course, we also don’t’ like to have anyone for Shabbat lunch- lunch on Saturday.
This is because I am lazy.
We belong to Etz, and one of the hallmarks of Etz is that their version of a Kiddush after services on Saturday is nicer than anything I have ever served for lunch. So, why would I want to try to compete with that?
But, Ethan’s parents were going to be out of town, so what could I do? And, after all, since Ethan spent a great deal of his formative years with Aaron, either at his house or at ours, he has already seen all of us in our pajamas, so it wasn’t like Sarah and I actually had to get dressed for dinner.
The other reason that we don’t’ like to have company for Friday night dinner, is because of Sarah. You see, we have a rule that everyone has to sign at the table. But when we have company, it is rare that they can sign, and so, we all end up using Spoken English, all of us except for Sarah, that is.
But, once again, although Ethan doesn’t sign, expect for those few rude words Aaron has taught him, Sarah is used to him, and so we had company for dinner.
During dinner, I did end up doing a bit of interpreting. Some of what Ethan spoke into ASL for Sarah and some of what Sarah signed into Spoken English, for him.
At one point, I was interpreting for Sarah and I told Ethan, “It smelled like poop.”
There was an immediate outcry from Sarah.
“I said C-R-A-P, not [poop!”
Shame on her mother for trying to clean it up a little, and forgetting that she can speechread.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Story of the Day 10/ 5/ 2009
Tis the season for Jewish holidays.
At this time of year, we have one per week. Well, actually, we have them more frequently than that, but who’s counting?
They roll out one after another with carefully timed notes sent off to Sarah’s teachers to alert them that another one is coming up, and that she will either be absent or unable to do homework during the holy days, and to please give her some of the assignments in advance, so she doesn’t’ get too far behind.
And our holidays have funny names. Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Shemini Atzeret, Simchat Torah. Even if they were Hearing, her teachers would struggle to be able to say them. Actually, I am sure her Hearing teachers do…but, since they are using sign language at the Deaf School, it means that they are more likely struggling to spell them……
One of Sarah’s teachers has consistently asked her, as each of the holidays has come up, “Do you eat Maso Ball soup for this holiday?” Fortunately, Sarah figured out immediately what the teacher was trying to spell.
The first time, Sarah explained, “No, we eat it for Passover.” Using the word-sign for Passover .
Possibly, the teacher doesn’t’ know that the word sign for Passover corresponds to some thing spelled either P-A-S-S-O-V-E-R or P-E-S-A-C-H, because she has asked her the same question, each time. First for Rosh Hashanah, then for Yom Kippur, and now for Sukkot.
And each time Sarah has told her, “No, we eat that for Passover.”
Recently, Sarah's teacher asked Sarah "Anything delicious, and special food you ate for um, Y.. Wait. I remember now, Yom Kappur?"
Sarah replied "No we don't eat anything at all on Yom Kippur. We fast."
After a moment of stunned silence....
"Oh, forget Yom Kappur, what about Rosa Hannah and Sukkat? Did you eat anything very special or delicious?"
Sarah had a hard time remembering what she had eaten on Rosh Hashanah and Sukkot. She could only think of one special food she really loves that we had for both holidays… So she replied "Avocado.”
"What? That's all? That's all you ate for Rosa Hannah and Sukkat?"
Sarah said "No, my mom cooked quiche pie, gazpacho, delicious challah, and many other things . Have you ever tasted quiche pie? I love quiche pie so much. It is so delicious!"
Her teacher replied "Oh. No, I have never tasted quiche pie before. Never in my life."
She had never even heard of it.
Sarah came home and asked me if quiche was a Jewish food- a food that only Jewish people eat.
Sarah is now rather confused.
So am I.
You see, Sarah has been telling me, since school started, that this teacher is apparently in love with France and everything French.
At this time of year, we have one per week. Well, actually, we have them more frequently than that, but who’s counting?
They roll out one after another with carefully timed notes sent off to Sarah’s teachers to alert them that another one is coming up, and that she will either be absent or unable to do homework during the holy days, and to please give her some of the assignments in advance, so she doesn’t’ get too far behind.
And our holidays have funny names. Shabbat, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Shemini Atzeret, Simchat Torah. Even if they were Hearing, her teachers would struggle to be able to say them. Actually, I am sure her Hearing teachers do…but, since they are using sign language at the Deaf School, it means that they are more likely struggling to spell them……
One of Sarah’s teachers has consistently asked her, as each of the holidays has come up, “Do you eat Maso Ball soup for this holiday?” Fortunately, Sarah figured out immediately what the teacher was trying to spell.
The first time, Sarah explained, “No, we eat it for Passover.” Using the word-sign for Passover .
Possibly, the teacher doesn’t’ know that the word sign for Passover corresponds to some thing spelled either P-A-S-S-O-V-E-R or P-E-S-A-C-H, because she has asked her the same question, each time. First for Rosh Hashanah, then for Yom Kippur, and now for Sukkot.
And each time Sarah has told her, “No, we eat that for Passover.”
Recently, Sarah's teacher asked Sarah "Anything delicious, and special food you ate for um, Y.. Wait. I remember now, Yom Kappur?"
Sarah replied "No we don't eat anything at all on Yom Kippur. We fast."
After a moment of stunned silence....
"Oh, forget Yom Kappur, what about Rosa Hannah and Sukkat? Did you eat anything very special or delicious?"
Sarah had a hard time remembering what she had eaten on Rosh Hashanah and Sukkot. She could only think of one special food she really loves that we had for both holidays… So she replied "Avocado.”
"What? That's all? That's all you ate for Rosa Hannah and Sukkat?"
Sarah said "No, my mom cooked quiche pie, gazpacho, delicious challah, and many other things . Have you ever tasted quiche pie? I love quiche pie so much. It is so delicious!"
Her teacher replied "Oh. No, I have never tasted quiche pie before. Never in my life."
She had never even heard of it.
Sarah came home and asked me if quiche was a Jewish food- a food that only Jewish people eat.
Sarah is now rather confused.
So am I.
You see, Sarah has been telling me, since school started, that this teacher is apparently in love with France and everything French.
Story of the Day 10/ 10/ 2009
My husband is preparing to take his Boards. His recertification test in Rheumatology.
Back in the “day”, you took your Boards once. Well, once for Internal Medicine and once for Rheumatology, and then you could spend the rest of your days referring to yourself as a Board Certified Rheumatologist.
Oh yes, in order to keep your Medical License current, you had to complete a certain number of Continuing Education Credits of various types, but you were , eternally, “Board Certified” in your specialty.
However, somewhere during my husband’s many years of professional training, not his 4 years of medical school, and not his year of internship and 2 years of residency, but somewhere during his next few years of fellowship training, they changed the rules.
Because he had completed his Boards in Internal Medicine, his first specialty, before the new rules, he is eternally Certified in it.
However, since he finished his Rheumatology fellowship and took his Boards in it after the new rules, he has to re-take the Boards every 10 years, again and again and again , until he either retires or no longer gives a shit about being Board Certified in it.
Oh yes, he can still practice medicine as a Rheumatologist whether or not he re-takes the test. He just cannot declare himself to be Board Certified.
So, my husband has been diligently re-taking this test at 10 year intervals. And because he is the very serious and organized person that he is, he starts studying for them about 6 years in advance, setting aside time to cover a certain amount of material every week. 6 years? Well, that is exactly what the ABIM ( American Board of Internal Medicine….I think) recommend- and my husband happens to be incredibly good at following directions.
And this is in addition to the studying he does to keep up to date with new information regarding both the practice of Rheumatology and the practice of Internal Medicine.
My husband is 51 years old. So, he took this test when he was 41, and before that, when he was 31. And he will be taking it again in 10 years, when he is 61, and possibly when he is 71, ten years after that. He has , however, assured me, that if he is still practicing medicine when he is 81, he will tell them to go screw themselves, and skip taking it. He figures that any patients who are still seeing him, at that point, will not give a shit about it.
That’s my husband. He likes to live dangerously.
The test changes. Different questions, different things to know.
And it also changes as the world changes, because time and technology have marched on.
This will be the first year that he will be taking it without paper, and without a # 2 pencil that has been carefully sharpened. Or, in my husband’s case, three #2 pencils. Because one might break, and the back up one might break……
So, my husband has done the practice of the new format for the test, which is available on-line, to get ready for it.
The test is Thursday.
It is at the Pyramids.
Not in Egypt.
North of us.
There are these three sort of pyramid shaped buildings. Well, not quite pyramid shaped and with their tops chopped off, but they are still called the Pyramids.
So, as another part of his test preparation, he drove out there , yesterday morning, to make sure he knew exactly where to go. He even parked and took the elevator up to the correct floor, to make sure there would be no problems in finding the correct place.
Then, today, he received a final list of instructions from the testing center.
It is forbidden to take watches, phones and wallets into the testing room.
Okay. All right. Fine.
Although, I can see my husband’s discomfort. He is always ready and always prepared. He always has his watch on his wrist ready to give the time.
He always has his wallet in one pocket, and two carefully folding Kleenex in the other- folded into perfect squares, in the other. Ready , as needed .
He always has his keys in his pocket, careful not to get locked out.
Oh wait, I think they let him keep the keys.
But my husband has decided he will be okay with this.
Probably because he can still have his Kleenex.
However, he did say to me, “ I really do hope I get to keep my pants.”
Back in the “day”, you took your Boards once. Well, once for Internal Medicine and once for Rheumatology, and then you could spend the rest of your days referring to yourself as a Board Certified Rheumatologist.
Oh yes, in order to keep your Medical License current, you had to complete a certain number of Continuing Education Credits of various types, but you were , eternally, “Board Certified” in your specialty.
However, somewhere during my husband’s many years of professional training, not his 4 years of medical school, and not his year of internship and 2 years of residency, but somewhere during his next few years of fellowship training, they changed the rules.
Because he had completed his Boards in Internal Medicine, his first specialty, before the new rules, he is eternally Certified in it.
However, since he finished his Rheumatology fellowship and took his Boards in it after the new rules, he has to re-take the Boards every 10 years, again and again and again , until he either retires or no longer gives a shit about being Board Certified in it.
Oh yes, he can still practice medicine as a Rheumatologist whether or not he re-takes the test. He just cannot declare himself to be Board Certified.
So, my husband has been diligently re-taking this test at 10 year intervals. And because he is the very serious and organized person that he is, he starts studying for them about 6 years in advance, setting aside time to cover a certain amount of material every week. 6 years? Well, that is exactly what the ABIM ( American Board of Internal Medicine….I think) recommend- and my husband happens to be incredibly good at following directions.
And this is in addition to the studying he does to keep up to date with new information regarding both the practice of Rheumatology and the practice of Internal Medicine.
My husband is 51 years old. So, he took this test when he was 41, and before that, when he was 31. And he will be taking it again in 10 years, when he is 61, and possibly when he is 71, ten years after that. He has , however, assured me, that if he is still practicing medicine when he is 81, he will tell them to go screw themselves, and skip taking it. He figures that any patients who are still seeing him, at that point, will not give a shit about it.
That’s my husband. He likes to live dangerously.
The test changes. Different questions, different things to know.
And it also changes as the world changes, because time and technology have marched on.
This will be the first year that he will be taking it without paper, and without a # 2 pencil that has been carefully sharpened. Or, in my husband’s case, three #2 pencils. Because one might break, and the back up one might break……
So, my husband has done the practice of the new format for the test, which is available on-line, to get ready for it.
The test is Thursday.
It is at the Pyramids.
Not in Egypt.
North of us.
There are these three sort of pyramid shaped buildings. Well, not quite pyramid shaped and with their tops chopped off, but they are still called the Pyramids.
So, as another part of his test preparation, he drove out there , yesterday morning, to make sure he knew exactly where to go. He even parked and took the elevator up to the correct floor, to make sure there would be no problems in finding the correct place.
Then, today, he received a final list of instructions from the testing center.
It is forbidden to take watches, phones and wallets into the testing room.
Okay. All right. Fine.
Although, I can see my husband’s discomfort. He is always ready and always prepared. He always has his watch on his wrist ready to give the time.
He always has his wallet in one pocket, and two carefully folding Kleenex in the other- folded into perfect squares, in the other. Ready , as needed .
He always has his keys in his pocket, careful not to get locked out.
Oh wait, I think they let him keep the keys.
But my husband has decided he will be okay with this.
Probably because he can still have his Kleenex.
However, he did say to me, “ I really do hope I get to keep my pants.”
Story of the Day 10/ 2/ 2009
My daughter rides the bus to the Deaf School. To it each morning and home each afternoon.
Our school district has two buses that go to the Deaf School. That is not because there are too many kids to fit onto one of the big yellow buses. There are, altogether, not even enough kids to half fill one bus. It is because our township is shaped something like a cigar on it’s side. It runs all the way from the east side of town to the west side of town, but not very far from north to south.
They used to have one bus for the entire district.
But that meant that some of the kids would be riding and riding and riding- and getting home long past when their bladders were ready to get home.
So, now, there are two buses, one for the east side and one for the west, and Sarah gets home at a reasonable time.
Except that, she didn’t’, today.
Tonight starts a Jewish holy day. Not just Shabbat , but also the holiday of Sukkot- and she has to be home and showered and dressed and ready before sundown.
And the bus is late.
She finally gets home 1 hour late.
Okay, only 55 minutes late, but it felt like an hour.
And she tells me why….
There are about 10 students who ride this big yellow bus. Some are like Sarah, they get on and off the bus by themselves. A few do not. They are either very young and ride in car seats and their parents have to get them on and off the bus, or they have disabilities that mean their parents get them on and off the bus. They don’t just go racing up and down the bus steps and in and out of their front doors.
So, the bus pulls to the end of a block and stops- it’s red lights flashing.
And it waits. And it waits, and it waits.
30 minutes go by, and no parent comes out of the grey sided house to get a child.
Eventually, another bus comes by , one from the high school- a late bus with students who have most likely stayed after for athletics.
Sarah’s bus driver motions for one of the students to come over to her bus. He asks the high school student to go to the house and knock.
The student does this. And waits.
Eventually, someone opens the door.
The student comes back to the bus and tells the bus driver that this family doesn’t have a son.
Of course, all of this is occurring in English, but Sarah is getting pretty good idea of what is going on.
The bus driver pulls the lever and folds the stop sign back to the side of the bus and turns off the red flashing lights.
And drives around a bit.
Finally, he pulls up to a house- a brick house, not all that far away- as I have been exaggerating. You see, he only had to drive about one more block, because he could then see……
An anxious father waiting by the street to get his child.
And then the bus resumes its route.
I ask Sarah the one, obvious question.
“Is this a new student?”
“No.”
This child has been riding the bus every day since school started in late August.
This is also the same bus driver.
Our school district has two buses that go to the Deaf School. That is not because there are too many kids to fit onto one of the big yellow buses. There are, altogether, not even enough kids to half fill one bus. It is because our township is shaped something like a cigar on it’s side. It runs all the way from the east side of town to the west side of town, but not very far from north to south.
They used to have one bus for the entire district.
But that meant that some of the kids would be riding and riding and riding- and getting home long past when their bladders were ready to get home.
So, now, there are two buses, one for the east side and one for the west, and Sarah gets home at a reasonable time.
Except that, she didn’t’, today.
Tonight starts a Jewish holy day. Not just Shabbat , but also the holiday of Sukkot- and she has to be home and showered and dressed and ready before sundown.
And the bus is late.
She finally gets home 1 hour late.
Okay, only 55 minutes late, but it felt like an hour.
And she tells me why….
There are about 10 students who ride this big yellow bus. Some are like Sarah, they get on and off the bus by themselves. A few do not. They are either very young and ride in car seats and their parents have to get them on and off the bus, or they have disabilities that mean their parents get them on and off the bus. They don’t just go racing up and down the bus steps and in and out of their front doors.
So, the bus pulls to the end of a block and stops- it’s red lights flashing.
And it waits. And it waits, and it waits.
30 minutes go by, and no parent comes out of the grey sided house to get a child.
Eventually, another bus comes by , one from the high school- a late bus with students who have most likely stayed after for athletics.
Sarah’s bus driver motions for one of the students to come over to her bus. He asks the high school student to go to the house and knock.
The student does this. And waits.
Eventually, someone opens the door.
The student comes back to the bus and tells the bus driver that this family doesn’t have a son.
Of course, all of this is occurring in English, but Sarah is getting pretty good idea of what is going on.
The bus driver pulls the lever and folds the stop sign back to the side of the bus and turns off the red flashing lights.
And drives around a bit.
Finally, he pulls up to a house- a brick house, not all that far away- as I have been exaggerating. You see, he only had to drive about one more block, because he could then see……
An anxious father waiting by the street to get his child.
And then the bus resumes its route.
I ask Sarah the one, obvious question.
“Is this a new student?”
“No.”
This child has been riding the bus every day since school started in late August.
This is also the same bus driver.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Story of teh Day 9/ 22/ 2009
A friend emailed me, yesterday, asking what I thought of Facebook.
Her son , who is far away at college, is urging her to sign up.
I admitted that my college daughter signed me up, the first time she was home on break.
Esther did not do this because she had some tremendous desire to share her life with all of its details with me, or to have me constantly send her growing gifts. She did it because I kept annoying her to send me photos.
By getting a Facebook account set up for me, I could see the photos she posted to her Facebook page, and leave her alone. Smart girl. You can see how she got into a good college!
So, I explained to my friend, Linda, that this was a big benefit of having a Facebook account. Also, it didn’t’ limit you to seeing the pictures your child posts- you also get to see any photos their friends post of them in which they are tagged, videos, what they are complaining about, what parties they have been to, who their friends are, what clubs they belong to have planned as activities, if they are in a relationship….sheesh, all of the sudden I have become a Peeping Tom into my child’s life!
I did warn her, though, that it is a tremendous time –water. If I would just stop playing Farm Town and clean my house…….but, to be honest, if it weren’t Farm Town, I would find some other activity to keep me from having to mop. Solitaire?
The other thing that I learned about Facebook, is that it is a great way to find lost people.
Well, they don’t know they are lost. As far as they are concerned, they know where they are; I just don’t know where they are.
I have people in my life who are dear friends who have vanished. I know that Isabella was in Philadelphia in 1981, but after that? And even though her name is distinctive, it has not been distinctive enough for me to locate her in searches of phone directory listings for the 48 contiguous states. But there she was on Facebook! Only 28 years later!
And people can find me. Even people I never knew existed.
Like relatives.
Of course, the fact that they would locate me and make contact with me and ask to be friends with me on Facebook is a good indicator that they have never met me. And I have even tried to warn some of them.
I have been very generous in describing myself as being a little demented. Okay, maybe I should have left off the little…..
But find me they have.
One is a cousin – 4th or 5th, and we are related through my maternal grandmother…and grandfather- since they were cousins.
And this one is a 2nd cousin once removed. Which doesn’t’ mean that anyone was disowned, just that we are separated by generations, one of us being an F3 and one of us being an F4. Sorry, but since I am the family genealogist, I get to label all this stuff- sometimes inaccurately.
Don’t have a stroke. I am only the family genealogist by default.
10 years ago, when the relatives who are much cheerier than I am – you know , the kind who join fraternities and sororites and do things like smile and say” hello” because they actually noticed you, not because someone has said “hello” loudly enough to get their usually distracted attention or because they have accidentally bumped someone with their shopping cart or their fat butt, and “hello “is the precursor to” gosh, I am very sorry!”
Those kinds of cousins.
And believe it or not, I have several of them. And, obviously, we are F3s and F4s, so the genes they have that produced this friendly demeanor are not the same genes I stood a chance of getting…..
Anyhow, those friendly, outgoing cousins who started planning this family reunion in Chicago needed volunteers. And what chore do you give the cousin who is a bookworm, somewhat obsessive, and can decipher small amounts of Hebrew from gravestones and documents? Family tree research.
I had about 15 months before the reunion, and I did what even I consider to be a good job, although, my husband really would have preferred to have had occasional use of the dining room table and a wife who made it to bed before 2 A.M., most mornings.
As a result, I have a very neurotically multi-paged diagram of the family going back to the 11th century.
And I am, grateful to God, that I didn’t’ get stuck with the “current” part of the family tree.
One thing that I learned from cousin Wendy, who did get that job, is while being off by two years on someone’s birth or death date ( I have two ancestors for whom I have a “choice” of years, probably due to the inability to tell a 5 from an 8 in someone’s very small handwritten notes), being off by even a month with a living relative means your head gets chopped off. And don’t misspell their middle name or switch the birth order for any of their grandchildren.
Interestingly enough, dead people don’t complain about any of those things.
So, I get contacted once in a while, by someone is isn’t quite sure if they are a relative, or they are fairly sure, or even certain that we are related , but just not sure HOW .
And this is really nice. You would be amazed t the really nice cousins I now have! Okay, you really would be amazed, since you know me, but , remember, we are F3s and F4s and sometimes F6s and F7s, so there really are not that many shared genes….although, I have detected a general genetic tendency amongst all of us to be chocolate addicts…..
But, even via the great anonymous public entity that is Facebook, there are awkwar
d moments when “meeting “ these relatives.
I had one of those moments, this week.
I received a message from a cousin whose name didn’t immediately ring any bells. Luckily, she explained who she was and what her maiden name was, and that she had even heard about me from another cousin.
Of course, at this point, I am wondering why she is contacting me, if she has already heard about me. But, it turns out, that she has heard about me from her aunt, who is a cousin of my father’s , who is so sweet that it would never even occur to her not to say something nice about me.
Talk about false advertising…….
And, in her message, she says, “We have never met…” Which is true.
However, it left me with a little bit of a sticky situation, because she has met one of my immediate family members .
A sibling.
And, against what most people would consider to be better judgment- except that I don’t’ have any- or, what it really is…well, is my tendency to just plunge right in and say whatever I think, I let her know this….
You see, about 38 or 39 years ago, or maybe 40 years……her mother got a phone call in the middle of the night from the police. They had just arrested some teens who were in a stolen car. One of the boys’ last names was Margolis. The officer at the small police station knew my cousin’s mother and somehow remembered that Margolis was her maiden name….did she think this might be a relative.?
My cousin’s mother, Rochelle, told the policeman to ask the boy who his grandparents were.
When he came back to her with the names, Rochelle drove down and bailed my brother out of jail. We won’t go into whether or not the boys were also drunk or stoned or any of the other lovely details, but, as far as I know, that was her and her family’s only real interaction with mine.
What can I say? My side of the family really knows how to make a lasting first impression.
I hope my brother thanked her.
Addendum- My friend- I had asked her permission to reference her in the story, sent me the following clarification :
except Barry Sr ( her husband ) wants me on it. Barry Jr (her son) is mortified & doesn't want me near it :-)
Her son , who is far away at college, is urging her to sign up.
I admitted that my college daughter signed me up, the first time she was home on break.
Esther did not do this because she had some tremendous desire to share her life with all of its details with me, or to have me constantly send her growing gifts. She did it because I kept annoying her to send me photos.
By getting a Facebook account set up for me, I could see the photos she posted to her Facebook page, and leave her alone. Smart girl. You can see how she got into a good college!
So, I explained to my friend, Linda, that this was a big benefit of having a Facebook account. Also, it didn’t’ limit you to seeing the pictures your child posts- you also get to see any photos their friends post of them in which they are tagged, videos, what they are complaining about, what parties they have been to, who their friends are, what clubs they belong to have planned as activities, if they are in a relationship….sheesh, all of the sudden I have become a Peeping Tom into my child’s life!
I did warn her, though, that it is a tremendous time –water. If I would just stop playing Farm Town and clean my house…….but, to be honest, if it weren’t Farm Town, I would find some other activity to keep me from having to mop. Solitaire?
The other thing that I learned about Facebook, is that it is a great way to find lost people.
Well, they don’t know they are lost. As far as they are concerned, they know where they are; I just don’t know where they are.
I have people in my life who are dear friends who have vanished. I know that Isabella was in Philadelphia in 1981, but after that? And even though her name is distinctive, it has not been distinctive enough for me to locate her in searches of phone directory listings for the 48 contiguous states. But there she was on Facebook! Only 28 years later!
And people can find me. Even people I never knew existed.
Like relatives.
Of course, the fact that they would locate me and make contact with me and ask to be friends with me on Facebook is a good indicator that they have never met me. And I have even tried to warn some of them.
I have been very generous in describing myself as being a little demented. Okay, maybe I should have left off the little…..
But find me they have.
One is a cousin – 4th or 5th, and we are related through my maternal grandmother…and grandfather- since they were cousins.
And this one is a 2nd cousin once removed. Which doesn’t’ mean that anyone was disowned, just that we are separated by generations, one of us being an F3 and one of us being an F4. Sorry, but since I am the family genealogist, I get to label all this stuff- sometimes inaccurately.
Don’t have a stroke. I am only the family genealogist by default.
10 years ago, when the relatives who are much cheerier than I am – you know , the kind who join fraternities and sororites and do things like smile and say” hello” because they actually noticed you, not because someone has said “hello” loudly enough to get their usually distracted attention or because they have accidentally bumped someone with their shopping cart or their fat butt, and “hello “is the precursor to” gosh, I am very sorry!”
Those kinds of cousins.
And believe it or not, I have several of them. And, obviously, we are F3s and F4s, so the genes they have that produced this friendly demeanor are not the same genes I stood a chance of getting…..
Anyhow, those friendly, outgoing cousins who started planning this family reunion in Chicago needed volunteers. And what chore do you give the cousin who is a bookworm, somewhat obsessive, and can decipher small amounts of Hebrew from gravestones and documents? Family tree research.
I had about 15 months before the reunion, and I did what even I consider to be a good job, although, my husband really would have preferred to have had occasional use of the dining room table and a wife who made it to bed before 2 A.M., most mornings.
As a result, I have a very neurotically multi-paged diagram of the family going back to the 11th century.
And I am, grateful to God, that I didn’t’ get stuck with the “current” part of the family tree.
One thing that I learned from cousin Wendy, who did get that job, is while being off by two years on someone’s birth or death date ( I have two ancestors for whom I have a “choice” of years, probably due to the inability to tell a 5 from an 8 in someone’s very small handwritten notes), being off by even a month with a living relative means your head gets chopped off. And don’t misspell their middle name or switch the birth order for any of their grandchildren.
Interestingly enough, dead people don’t complain about any of those things.
So, I get contacted once in a while, by someone is isn’t quite sure if they are a relative, or they are fairly sure, or even certain that we are related , but just not sure HOW .
And this is really nice. You would be amazed t the really nice cousins I now have! Okay, you really would be amazed, since you know me, but , remember, we are F3s and F4s and sometimes F6s and F7s, so there really are not that many shared genes….although, I have detected a general genetic tendency amongst all of us to be chocolate addicts…..
But, even via the great anonymous public entity that is Facebook, there are awkwar
d moments when “meeting “ these relatives.
I had one of those moments, this week.
I received a message from a cousin whose name didn’t immediately ring any bells. Luckily, she explained who she was and what her maiden name was, and that she had even heard about me from another cousin.
Of course, at this point, I am wondering why she is contacting me, if she has already heard about me. But, it turns out, that she has heard about me from her aunt, who is a cousin of my father’s , who is so sweet that it would never even occur to her not to say something nice about me.
Talk about false advertising…….
And, in her message, she says, “We have never met…” Which is true.
However, it left me with a little bit of a sticky situation, because she has met one of my immediate family members .
A sibling.
And, against what most people would consider to be better judgment- except that I don’t’ have any- or, what it really is…well, is my tendency to just plunge right in and say whatever I think, I let her know this….
You see, about 38 or 39 years ago, or maybe 40 years……her mother got a phone call in the middle of the night from the police. They had just arrested some teens who were in a stolen car. One of the boys’ last names was Margolis. The officer at the small police station knew my cousin’s mother and somehow remembered that Margolis was her maiden name….did she think this might be a relative.?
My cousin’s mother, Rochelle, told the policeman to ask the boy who his grandparents were.
When he came back to her with the names, Rochelle drove down and bailed my brother out of jail. We won’t go into whether or not the boys were also drunk or stoned or any of the other lovely details, but, as far as I know, that was her and her family’s only real interaction with mine.
What can I say? My side of the family really knows how to make a lasting first impression.
I hope my brother thanked her.
Addendum- My friend- I had asked her permission to reference her in the story, sent me the following clarification :
except Barry Sr ( her husband ) wants me on it. Barry Jr (her son) is mortified & doesn't want me near it :-)
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Story of the Day 9/ 21/ 2009
At dinner, on Rosh Hashanah, and I am very sorry that I do not remember what led to this part of the conversation, but Sarah decided to tell us that when Aaron gets engaged, she is going to pull the young lady aside and tell her two very important things:
1. If you ever hurt my brother, I will kill you.
and
2. We did not teach him that it is okay to eat scrambled eggs with his fingers.
1. If you ever hurt my brother, I will kill you.
and
2. We did not teach him that it is okay to eat scrambled eggs with his fingers.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Story of the Day 9/ 18/ 2009
We are having a problem.
With our checking account.
Nothing has bounced, but our balance ( and I like to think we haven’t made some horrid mathematical addition or subtraction errors, my husband and I with our math/science backgrounds) doesn’t seem to match up with what the bank says we have.
Now, as you can imagine, a number of times I have ….um, been a bit tardy in deducting from the checkbook, when I have used the debit card at Costco. A bit tardy sometimes extending to around 2 months, if I haven’t changed ( and, therefore cleaned out ) my purse, in a while.
There is just this slight tendency I have to totally forget to do it, by the time I have put the milk in the fridge.
So this isn’t just a possibility, it is a probability- that I have managed to mess up the account.
Except, that the bank thinks that we have more money than we think we do.
And I don’t’ think that my forgetting to deduct a couple of Costco receipts could have done that….speaking of which, I have to admit there actually are a couple in my purse from earlier this week that I haven’t yet deducted…..
The other possibility is that someone is using our account to launder money.
You know, drugs, prostitution, counterfeit purses.
But I can’t believe that anyone laundering money would choose our account.
And to be very real about it, the amount in question wouldn’t even be pocket change for an operation like that.
That leaves the possibility that Larry forgot to write down a deposit.
Is that actually a possibility?
I think we had better assume that someone is laundering money in our account.
With our checking account.
Nothing has bounced, but our balance ( and I like to think we haven’t made some horrid mathematical addition or subtraction errors, my husband and I with our math/science backgrounds) doesn’t seem to match up with what the bank says we have.
Now, as you can imagine, a number of times I have ….um, been a bit tardy in deducting from the checkbook, when I have used the debit card at Costco. A bit tardy sometimes extending to around 2 months, if I haven’t changed ( and, therefore cleaned out ) my purse, in a while.
There is just this slight tendency I have to totally forget to do it, by the time I have put the milk in the fridge.
So this isn’t just a possibility, it is a probability- that I have managed to mess up the account.
Except, that the bank thinks that we have more money than we think we do.
And I don’t’ think that my forgetting to deduct a couple of Costco receipts could have done that….speaking of which, I have to admit there actually are a couple in my purse from earlier this week that I haven’t yet deducted…..
The other possibility is that someone is using our account to launder money.
You know, drugs, prostitution, counterfeit purses.
But I can’t believe that anyone laundering money would choose our account.
And to be very real about it, the amount in question wouldn’t even be pocket change for an operation like that.
That leaves the possibility that Larry forgot to write down a deposit.
Is that actually a possibility?
I think we had better assume that someone is laundering money in our account.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Story of the Day 9/ 17/ 2009
I got a phone call from Cindie.
She was doing a mitzvah.
Of course, inherent in doing a mitzvah is that it is going to be a pain in the ass.
Isn’t that always attached to doing something good?
But this pain in the ass had gotten her lost- and she was calling me for help.
“Where is…….? That street doesn’t’ have that number on it. Have you ever been to their house?”
And I thought Cindie knew me. There was no way this particular family was going to invite me , in my thrift store clothes , for a casual social gathering at their poshy home on its private street.
Certainly, no way I could direct her to it, so that she could deliver the roses that had been ordered delivered to them as a fund raiser.
And she had been driving in circles for 20 minutes trying to find an address that might or might not even be current.
You see, I knew from general gossip that they had upgraded from their previous custom home, and wasn’t sure if she had the old or the new address. I opened up whitepages.com and found the address- then I mapquested it.
“Where are you?”
“Just past 65th Street.”
“Okay, then…..” and I gave her directions.
” Left there , then right, the a little farther, then left.
“No, not at that street, the next one, turn around and go back and make a right and then a left at the next street.”
With fatigue and frustration showing in her voice, Cindie said, “Do you think I should just go up there and say, ‘Here are your fucking flowers?’ ”
A few moments later, “I don’t’ see it.”
Then, finally, she did.
She was doing a mitzvah.
Of course, inherent in doing a mitzvah is that it is going to be a pain in the ass.
Isn’t that always attached to doing something good?
But this pain in the ass had gotten her lost- and she was calling me for help.
“Where is…….? That street doesn’t’ have that number on it. Have you ever been to their house?”
And I thought Cindie knew me. There was no way this particular family was going to invite me , in my thrift store clothes , for a casual social gathering at their poshy home on its private street.
Certainly, no way I could direct her to it, so that she could deliver the roses that had been ordered delivered to them as a fund raiser.
And she had been driving in circles for 20 minutes trying to find an address that might or might not even be current.
You see, I knew from general gossip that they had upgraded from their previous custom home, and wasn’t sure if she had the old or the new address. I opened up whitepages.com and found the address- then I mapquested it.
“Where are you?”
“Just past 65th Street.”
“Okay, then…..” and I gave her directions.
” Left there , then right, the a little farther, then left.
“No, not at that street, the next one, turn around and go back and make a right and then a left at the next street.”
With fatigue and frustration showing in her voice, Cindie said, “Do you think I should just go up there and say, ‘Here are your fucking flowers?’ ”
A few moments later, “I don’t’ see it.”
Then, finally, she did.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Story of teh Day 9/ 12/ 2009
I spoke with my son, this evening.
Somehow, he came to the attention of a girl , on campus. I am certain he was thinking she had read one of the Stories of the Day- and knew many embarrassing facts about him.
But that wasn’t it.
She told him, “ I work doing mail sorting for the dorm.”
A time –honored work-study job, even in the Dark Ages , when I was a student.
“I am jealous because you get so much mail!”
So, after this happened, my son is appreciating the postcards and notes from home.
Somehow, he came to the attention of a girl , on campus. I am certain he was thinking she had read one of the Stories of the Day- and knew many embarrassing facts about him.
But that wasn’t it.
She told him, “ I work doing mail sorting for the dorm.”
A time –honored work-study job, even in the Dark Ages , when I was a student.
“I am jealous because you get so much mail!”
So, after this happened, my son is appreciating the postcards and notes from home.
Story of teh Day 9/ 9/ 2009
I was at the post office, today.
I had to mail a few packages and buy some stamps.
My family sends a lot of mail.
Not the electronic email, although we send that, too, but the stuff that is on paper and needs a stamp.
I have been reading articles where schools are no longer teaching handwriting because today’s students will need such a thing only to make a signature.
They are only teaching the kids how to print and then how to type. Or maybe they actually learn to type, first.
Meanwhile, back at the Margolis-Greenbaum house, I have been cruelly insisting that my children write. Letters, notes, postcards, thank you notes. Write. Okay, so my daughters do only print, but with ink on paper.
When Esther and Kara left for college, a little over 3 years ago, we started a tradition of sending them a postcard every week. Not one postcard per girl, but one from each of us- from their siblings/cousins and me , per week.
We would sit at the kitchen table and write a postcard to each girl, and then, during the week, I would mail them at intervals, so the girls wouldn’t’ get all three pieces of mail on one day, but would have it spread out.
I went to college back in the Dark Ages.
There were no cell phones.
Phone calls cost a lot. $3 for 10 minutes on Sunday and much more on a weekday. And you had to have the good luck to “catch” someone at home, since not only did they not always have a phone on their person, but there were no answering machines.
I wasn’t one of the rich kids- I had two roommates who casually made long long-distance calls home to mom every evening. I relied on the mail- the snail mail- as it is now called, to keep in touch with my nearest and dearest – my sister, Kim.
When I got my paycheck, every two weeks, I would hoard a small amount of cash and , every second paycheck ( meaning once a month) , buy some nice writing paper or cards- to make it more enjoyable.
I doubt there even exist stationary stores like the one I used to go to…..
Time passed, and I think that the girls started to take the postcards for granted. I would get, from Esther, at least, little hints like, “you don’t’ have to write to me.”
“You don’t’ have to make Aaron and Sarah write to me.”
But we also started getting mail back.
From both Esther and Kara.
I meal, snail mail, the stuff on paper with ink.
When Aaron went to OLAB, a one week pre-college program , during eth summer between his junior and senior years of high school, we wrote to him.
A few days into the program, they called the students up to get their mail.
They called up 4 students. Aaron was the first two of them. Then a girl, then, Aaron, again. He has repeated to me, several times, how embarrassing that was.
So, off he goes to college, this fall- which is really late summer in disguise. And he gives me instructions that he has copied from Esther, “You don’t’ have to write to me!”
And the weeks go by, and we write to him. Although, there are only 2 of us , now, sitting at the kitchen table- Sara and I- so the volume of mail the girls and Aaron are getting is reduced for them, although, more for us to write.
And we notice that every week, so far, Aaron has sent a postcard home to us.
Which either means that I actually did train him well enough that he has integrated letter writing as a life skill, or that it is just another display of his genetically programmed Jewish guilt manifesting itself.
So, today I went to the post office, and bought stamps.
And the mail-lady- which is more fun to say than the postal worker- who often helps me when I buy stamps, said to me, with great earnestness, “We really appreciate your business!”
Like I was the big spender at the casino.
And I thought, “Boy, the postal service is really hurting, that the couple of sheets of first class and of postcard stamps is considered a big purchase!”
Which, can be seen by the fact that the blue drop off boxes I grew up with are fading out of existence, just like pay phones have been doing , for a while.
I had to mail a few packages and buy some stamps.
My family sends a lot of mail.
Not the electronic email, although we send that, too, but the stuff that is on paper and needs a stamp.
I have been reading articles where schools are no longer teaching handwriting because today’s students will need such a thing only to make a signature.
They are only teaching the kids how to print and then how to type. Or maybe they actually learn to type, first.
Meanwhile, back at the Margolis-Greenbaum house, I have been cruelly insisting that my children write. Letters, notes, postcards, thank you notes. Write. Okay, so my daughters do only print, but with ink on paper.
When Esther and Kara left for college, a little over 3 years ago, we started a tradition of sending them a postcard every week. Not one postcard per girl, but one from each of us- from their siblings/cousins and me , per week.
We would sit at the kitchen table and write a postcard to each girl, and then, during the week, I would mail them at intervals, so the girls wouldn’t’ get all three pieces of mail on one day, but would have it spread out.
I went to college back in the Dark Ages.
There were no cell phones.
Phone calls cost a lot. $3 for 10 minutes on Sunday and much more on a weekday. And you had to have the good luck to “catch” someone at home, since not only did they not always have a phone on their person, but there were no answering machines.
I wasn’t one of the rich kids- I had two roommates who casually made long long-distance calls home to mom every evening. I relied on the mail- the snail mail- as it is now called, to keep in touch with my nearest and dearest – my sister, Kim.
When I got my paycheck, every two weeks, I would hoard a small amount of cash and , every second paycheck ( meaning once a month) , buy some nice writing paper or cards- to make it more enjoyable.
I doubt there even exist stationary stores like the one I used to go to…..
Time passed, and I think that the girls started to take the postcards for granted. I would get, from Esther, at least, little hints like, “you don’t’ have to write to me.”
“You don’t’ have to make Aaron and Sarah write to me.”
But we also started getting mail back.
From both Esther and Kara.
I meal, snail mail, the stuff on paper with ink.
When Aaron went to OLAB, a one week pre-college program , during eth summer between his junior and senior years of high school, we wrote to him.
A few days into the program, they called the students up to get their mail.
They called up 4 students. Aaron was the first two of them. Then a girl, then, Aaron, again. He has repeated to me, several times, how embarrassing that was.
So, off he goes to college, this fall- which is really late summer in disguise. And he gives me instructions that he has copied from Esther, “You don’t’ have to write to me!”
And the weeks go by, and we write to him. Although, there are only 2 of us , now, sitting at the kitchen table- Sara and I- so the volume of mail the girls and Aaron are getting is reduced for them, although, more for us to write.
And we notice that every week, so far, Aaron has sent a postcard home to us.
Which either means that I actually did train him well enough that he has integrated letter writing as a life skill, or that it is just another display of his genetically programmed Jewish guilt manifesting itself.
So, today I went to the post office, and bought stamps.
And the mail-lady- which is more fun to say than the postal worker- who often helps me when I buy stamps, said to me, with great earnestness, “We really appreciate your business!”
Like I was the big spender at the casino.
And I thought, “Boy, the postal service is really hurting, that the couple of sheets of first class and of postcard stamps is considered a big purchase!”
Which, can be seen by the fact that the blue drop off boxes I grew up with are fading out of existence, just like pay phones have been doing , for a while.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Story of the Day 9/ 6/ 2009
We received an invitation to a BarMitzvah at one of the fancy synagogues. You know, one of the big ones with the fancy front driveways and the “entrances” and one that even has secretary there who answers the phone during the week. The sort of a synagogue that [publishes a weekly bulletin and where you are expected to behave decorously.., and not loudly announce that you bought your new suit at Goodwill.
A few years ago, our synagogue “moved up” to a new , fancy building. So, we have the appearance of being one of the fancy synagogues, although on a smaller scale- but it is an appearance that s deceiving.
Many weeks, I walk into shul for services and I feel like I have walked into the wrong place. It is too nice. A place like this would never have me as member.
But then I am made comfortable when my friend who comes in ten minutes after Sarah and I arrive and slid into the seat on the pew next to me, excitedly shares the news that her new skirt is not just from Goodwill , but from Goodwill by the pound. And I admire her taste.
Yes, this is much more like it!
But then, one week, about 7 weeks ago, something otherworldly happened. I found a holder in the sanctuary ( and a matching one in the lobby) with a weekly bulletin. Complete with the time that Shabbat begins and ends this week, a short summary of the parsha ( section of the Torah being read this week) and who is sponsoring the Kiddush ( food after services). All printed out nicely, complete with some clip art.
I had a real moment of panic, that I had somehow walked to the wrong synagogue. Or the right synagogue, but in an alternate universe.
After the shock wore off, I even read the bulletin.
It was nice.
It was …..authentic.
Oh my gosh, I am now attending real synagogue!
Seven weeks later, I am still slightly taken by surprised when I find a new bulletin ready when I walk in.
The bulletin is the work of Parisa. Which is why I brought the invitation we were sent for the Bar Mitzvah at the fancy synagogue in for her to see, on Shabbat.
Well, not really the invitation, even though it was very nice, but the blue “enclosure “ that came with it.
You see, apparently, the fancy synagogues require their congregants to enclose a list of “rules” when they send out Bar and Bat Mitzvah invitations.
The things I never knew! Of course, with the crowd I hand out with, how would I?
After a two paragraph introduction, the card has this list of rules:
1. The Sabbath Morning Services begin promptly at 10 AM and conclude at noon.
2. Your child will be expected to remain in the Sanctuary and display proper behavior and respect during the sevice.
3. Please do not allow your child to bring pagers, cellular phones, hand-held electronic games or alarm watches to the synagogue. There is a telephone in the lobby for emergencies or special needs.
4. Gum is not allowed in the building at any time.
5. Please see to it that your child dresses respectfully for Religious Services. Jeans or T-shirts, spaghetti straps, tank tops or crop tops are not appropriate.
I showed this to Parisa and explained that, of course, this set of rules wouldn’t’ fit our synagogue, but maybe we should also make up some sort of a card for people to enclose when sending out invitations for celebrations at our shul. A list of rules for everyone, because, as we concurred, it is really more often the problems stem from adults than from children.
We had a short discussion of what might be a list of appropriate rules, of curse, I had also had a discussion, before even bringing this in to show Parisa, with my hubby.
Some possibilities were:
1. Services start at 9 AM. We really don’t’ expect you to show up that early. 9:30 is nice. 10 is okay. 11? Well, 11 is too late- it looks like you only came for the food. And we have absolutely no idea what time services will be over, so stop bothering us by asking. However, if you think the rabbi’s sermon is going a little too long- you can tell him so, while he is speaking. Just make sure you say it loudly enough for him to hear. If you are too embarrassed to do that, don’t worry, some of the men are checking their watches and will let him know if he drags on for more than 10 minutes.
2. When you or your child get up to go out to the bathroom ofr for a break- try not to run. And , especially, please do not trip over any walkers. Also, if you are a parent, please run in and out often to check on your children.
3. For G-d’s sake, turn off the damn ringer on your cell phone! We know you have it with you, since you drove here and are carrying purse- but could you at least put it on vibrate?
4. Don’t’ bring food into shul with you! What , you think we wont’ feed you? This is Etz, not that place around back or across the street! If we aren’t feeding you, it is because it is Yom Kippur and you are NOT to supposed to be eating! And if you bring gum, please be polite and share it with the people sitting next to you. And keep your hands off the food table until services are over, or Anne will come after you!
5. Kids look very cute in sundresses and tank tops. Adults do not. If we can tell what color bra you are wearing, or that you aren’t wearing bra, and that you do or do not have a tattoo right above your butt or a pierced belly button- that is just too much information! We really didn’t want to know that. And we REALLY don’t’ want to know what color you underwear is, if it is a thong or if you are not wearing any! You are not as cute as you think you are. Believe me, a T-shirt and jeans would be better!
Of course, this list will need a lot of going over. I am sure her are many things I haven’t thought of.
And Alan will have to approve it. He is the person responsible for changing the light bulbs when they burn out. At our synagogue, the title of that position , which is an elected one , is “president”.
A few years ago, our synagogue “moved up” to a new , fancy building. So, we have the appearance of being one of the fancy synagogues, although on a smaller scale- but it is an appearance that s deceiving.
Many weeks, I walk into shul for services and I feel like I have walked into the wrong place. It is too nice. A place like this would never have me as member.
But then I am made comfortable when my friend who comes in ten minutes after Sarah and I arrive and slid into the seat on the pew next to me, excitedly shares the news that her new skirt is not just from Goodwill , but from Goodwill by the pound. And I admire her taste.
Yes, this is much more like it!
But then, one week, about 7 weeks ago, something otherworldly happened. I found a holder in the sanctuary ( and a matching one in the lobby) with a weekly bulletin. Complete with the time that Shabbat begins and ends this week, a short summary of the parsha ( section of the Torah being read this week) and who is sponsoring the Kiddush ( food after services). All printed out nicely, complete with some clip art.
I had a real moment of panic, that I had somehow walked to the wrong synagogue. Or the right synagogue, but in an alternate universe.
After the shock wore off, I even read the bulletin.
It was nice.
It was …..authentic.
Oh my gosh, I am now attending real synagogue!
Seven weeks later, I am still slightly taken by surprised when I find a new bulletin ready when I walk in.
The bulletin is the work of Parisa. Which is why I brought the invitation we were sent for the Bar Mitzvah at the fancy synagogue in for her to see, on Shabbat.
Well, not really the invitation, even though it was very nice, but the blue “enclosure “ that came with it.
You see, apparently, the fancy synagogues require their congregants to enclose a list of “rules” when they send out Bar and Bat Mitzvah invitations.
The things I never knew! Of course, with the crowd I hand out with, how would I?
After a two paragraph introduction, the card has this list of rules:
1. The Sabbath Morning Services begin promptly at 10 AM and conclude at noon.
2. Your child will be expected to remain in the Sanctuary and display proper behavior and respect during the sevice.
3. Please do not allow your child to bring pagers, cellular phones, hand-held electronic games or alarm watches to the synagogue. There is a telephone in the lobby for emergencies or special needs.
4. Gum is not allowed in the building at any time.
5. Please see to it that your child dresses respectfully for Religious Services. Jeans or T-shirts, spaghetti straps, tank tops or crop tops are not appropriate.
I showed this to Parisa and explained that, of course, this set of rules wouldn’t’ fit our synagogue, but maybe we should also make up some sort of a card for people to enclose when sending out invitations for celebrations at our shul. A list of rules for everyone, because, as we concurred, it is really more often the problems stem from adults than from children.
We had a short discussion of what might be a list of appropriate rules, of curse, I had also had a discussion, before even bringing this in to show Parisa, with my hubby.
Some possibilities were:
1. Services start at 9 AM. We really don’t’ expect you to show up that early. 9:30 is nice. 10 is okay. 11? Well, 11 is too late- it looks like you only came for the food. And we have absolutely no idea what time services will be over, so stop bothering us by asking. However, if you think the rabbi’s sermon is going a little too long- you can tell him so, while he is speaking. Just make sure you say it loudly enough for him to hear. If you are too embarrassed to do that, don’t worry, some of the men are checking their watches and will let him know if he drags on for more than 10 minutes.
2. When you or your child get up to go out to the bathroom ofr for a break- try not to run. And , especially, please do not trip over any walkers. Also, if you are a parent, please run in and out often to check on your children.
3. For G-d’s sake, turn off the damn ringer on your cell phone! We know you have it with you, since you drove here and are carrying purse- but could you at least put it on vibrate?
4. Don’t’ bring food into shul with you! What , you think we wont’ feed you? This is Etz, not that place around back or across the street! If we aren’t feeding you, it is because it is Yom Kippur and you are NOT to supposed to be eating! And if you bring gum, please be polite and share it with the people sitting next to you. And keep your hands off the food table until services are over, or Anne will come after you!
5. Kids look very cute in sundresses and tank tops. Adults do not. If we can tell what color bra you are wearing, or that you aren’t wearing bra, and that you do or do not have a tattoo right above your butt or a pierced belly button- that is just too much information! We really didn’t want to know that. And we REALLY don’t’ want to know what color you underwear is, if it is a thong or if you are not wearing any! You are not as cute as you think you are. Believe me, a T-shirt and jeans would be better!
Of course, this list will need a lot of going over. I am sure her are many things I haven’t thought of.
And Alan will have to approve it. He is the person responsible for changing the light bulbs when they burn out. At our synagogue, the title of that position , which is an elected one , is “president”.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Story of teh Day #2 9/ 4/ 2009
For Hanukah, my husband received a CD of Jewish music from Lynne.
He not only liked it, he really liked it.
He liked it so much that he located the company, on-line, and ordered two – so that he can give them to friends as gifts.
But they never came.
He waited.
And he waited.
And he waited.
Then, he looked up his invoice from PayPal, and sent them a note.
They were terribly sorry for the delay and have mailed the CDs out to him.
They also have a sense of….well, let us say that both Larry and I would really like to meet this company’s contact person- because this is the email he rec’d from them:
Your CDs have been gently taken from our CD Baby shelves with sterilized contamination-free gloves and placed onto a satin pillow.
A team of 50 employees inspected your CDs and polished them to make sure they were in the best possible condition before mailing.
Our packing specialist from Japan lit a candle and a hush fell over the crowd as he put your CDs into the finest gold-lined box that money can buy.
We all had a wonderful celebration afterwards and the whole party marched down the street to the post office where the entire town of Portland waved "Bon Voyage!" to your package, on its way to you, in our private CD Baby jet on this day, September 3, 2009.
We hope you had a wonderful time shopping at CD Baby. In commemoration, we have placed your picture on our wall as "Customer of the Year." We're all exhausted but can't wait for you to come back to CDBABY.COM!!
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Sigh...
We miss you already. We'll be right here at http://cdbaby.com/, patiently awaiting your return.
--
CD Baby
The little store with the best new independent music.
Story of the Day 9/ 4/ 2009
I was cooking , this morning.
If you call boiling eggs, cooking.
Of course, I can’t even do that right. I forgot to turn on the burner. Fortunately, someone else noticed this omission, about 15 minutes later.
It was at Etz, our synagogue, helping Susan get things ready for her daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. Susan has 4 children, but only one of them is a daughter. However, she is such a tall, beautiful, funny and sometimes exasperating young woman that I think Susan figures one daughter is enough. Of course, I don’t’ find her exasperating, but Susan does.
Susan’s friends, or at least, the friends that weren’t’ stuck working on Friday morning, were there cooking. Most of them, luckily, were displaying slightly more advanced cooking skills than I was.
One friend , who trudged in a little later than expected had…well, news to share.
This friend is also the mother of Aaron’s best friend, Ethan. Yeah, the cool guy with the earring and the Volvo.
Except, he no longer has a Volvo.
Yesterday, Ethan was involved in a major accident with a car filled with girls. I mean, the other car was filled with girls. Teenage girls. Filled as in there were 6 of them in a small car that has 5 seat belts.
And they were not just dumb enough to overcrowd the car and ride around with at least one of them unbelted; they were dumb enough to pull out into the multilane street from an apartment complex . Without looking.
Ethan, fortunately, was in Volvo with an airbag. And, of course, he does what any intelligent macho teenage guy does in that situation, he pulled out his cell phone and called his mom. Who told him to call 911 and then she headed out to where he was- getting there only after a slew of emergency vehicles, including the firemen who had to cut the girls out of their car.
Okay, so that is not exactly what happened. He called his mother and announced to her that his car had been totaled. Of course, his mother asked him the only important question, “Are you hurt.”
“No.”
Then she asked him the second most important question, “Where are you?”
And THEN she told him to call 911.
The end result was a nasty “rug burn” on Ethan’s arm from the air bag, less closet space ( Ethan had been using his car as a portable closet- with at least 6 pairs of shoes and numerous snazzy outfits- because you never know when you will need to change to fit the moment), and the order from his mom that he is going to show up at synagogue, this Shabbat and bench Gomel- that is the prayer we are grateful for surviving a disaster.
Oh yes, and Susan, I think, finding her daughter to be less exasperating than usual (despite the pressures of the Bat Mitzvah preparations.)
As a matter of fact, I went home and hugged my kid, too- well, the only one in Indianapolis…and I warned Stacie that I will be hugging Ethan, when I see him tomorrow.
Oh yes, and Ethan’s mom has also given him strict instructions that he is to start searching Craigslist for another Volvo. With an airbag.
Ethan’s mother has this to add:
(At the scene of the accident ) Ethan turned to me after saying "Wow, I didn't even know I had an airbag!" and told me that if he hadn't been wearing his seatbelt he would have gone through the windshield. Now that was a "teachable" moment - not the kind you hope for, but one that has more impact than your Mother just telling you to wear your seatbelt!
If you call boiling eggs, cooking.
Of course, I can’t even do that right. I forgot to turn on the burner. Fortunately, someone else noticed this omission, about 15 minutes later.
It was at Etz, our synagogue, helping Susan get things ready for her daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. Susan has 4 children, but only one of them is a daughter. However, she is such a tall, beautiful, funny and sometimes exasperating young woman that I think Susan figures one daughter is enough. Of course, I don’t’ find her exasperating, but Susan does.
Susan’s friends, or at least, the friends that weren’t’ stuck working on Friday morning, were there cooking. Most of them, luckily, were displaying slightly more advanced cooking skills than I was.
One friend , who trudged in a little later than expected had…well, news to share.
This friend is also the mother of Aaron’s best friend, Ethan. Yeah, the cool guy with the earring and the Volvo.
Except, he no longer has a Volvo.
Yesterday, Ethan was involved in a major accident with a car filled with girls. I mean, the other car was filled with girls. Teenage girls. Filled as in there were 6 of them in a small car that has 5 seat belts.
And they were not just dumb enough to overcrowd the car and ride around with at least one of them unbelted; they were dumb enough to pull out into the multilane street from an apartment complex . Without looking.
Ethan, fortunately, was in Volvo with an airbag. And, of course, he does what any intelligent macho teenage guy does in that situation, he pulled out his cell phone and called his mom. Who told him to call 911 and then she headed out to where he was- getting there only after a slew of emergency vehicles, including the firemen who had to cut the girls out of their car.
Okay, so that is not exactly what happened. He called his mother and announced to her that his car had been totaled. Of course, his mother asked him the only important question, “Are you hurt.”
“No.”
Then she asked him the second most important question, “Where are you?”
And THEN she told him to call 911.
The end result was a nasty “rug burn” on Ethan’s arm from the air bag, less closet space ( Ethan had been using his car as a portable closet- with at least 6 pairs of shoes and numerous snazzy outfits- because you never know when you will need to change to fit the moment), and the order from his mom that he is going to show up at synagogue, this Shabbat and bench Gomel- that is the prayer we are grateful for surviving a disaster.
Oh yes, and Susan, I think, finding her daughter to be less exasperating than usual (despite the pressures of the Bat Mitzvah preparations.)
As a matter of fact, I went home and hugged my kid, too- well, the only one in Indianapolis…and I warned Stacie that I will be hugging Ethan, when I see him tomorrow.
Oh yes, and Ethan’s mom has also given him strict instructions that he is to start searching Craigslist for another Volvo. With an airbag.
Ethan’s mother has this to add:
(At the scene of the accident ) Ethan turned to me after saying "Wow, I didn't even know I had an airbag!" and told me that if he hadn't been wearing his seatbelt he would have gone through the windshield. Now that was a "teachable" moment - not the kind you hope for, but one that has more impact than your Mother just telling you to wear your seatbelt!
Story of the Day 9/ 3/ 2009
Story of the Day 9/3/2009
I can’t complain that he isn’t’ eager.
Aaron is a very positive person, and eager, and outgoing, and sociable.
Kind of odd that Larry and I produced one of those.
It isn’t’ that we are opposed to people like that. Not exactly. Leery might be a better way of putting it.
Anyhow, Aaron is starting out his college career in a way that is very diametrically opposed to how Larry and I did. He is signing up for things. I mean right away.
No approaching things cautiously.
Seeing what people are like,
refusing to give your name and making sure no one follows you back to your dorm….
I mean none of that normal stuff.
So far, if I have counted correctly, he has signed up to go try 11 different clubs.
One every evening, and sometimes two.
There is Hillel. That one was a bit of a disappointment. More than a bit. I got a semi-hysterical call after that event.
Seems that a somewhat “difficult” person from Indianapolis , whom Aaron knows all too well, attended-and at the Activity Fair, later that evening, harassed Aaron.
Since this same young man was kicked out of two middle schools- one for taking a baseball bat into the school and hitting another student with it, I am not arguing with Aaron’s description of being both verbally and physically harassed by him.
See why we refused to give out names and make sure we weren’t’ followed home?
Hopefully, however, Aaron will recover in short enough time that he might attend another Hillel event before he graduates.
Then there was the fraternity.
In all honesty, you mention the word fraternity and I get goose bumps. Okay, not goose bumps. Hives.
It is just that I remember all too well the fraternities – two of them- from my years at Penn who harassed us Jewish students.
But, Aaron went in there with his kippah on his head….unless this was right after the Hillel program, and he was still recovering – and had a good time. ( Aaron did tell me , when I sent this story to him that he was wearing his kippah.)
Next, there was the Asian Student’s association. Since my grandfather was Oriental ( the old fashioned classification- nowadays that is only a classification for rugs, and people are known as Asians) and one of his favorite cousins is Asian ( Kara, of course), this seemed like a logical fit. Anyhow, I am waiting to hear how it went.
Then, there is the Black Student’s Union. That was Parisa’s favorite, from when she was at Ball State.
Parisa, in case you don’t know, is a friend from synagogue who makes, according to Sarah, the world’s best soup.
Of course this was in her previous life- before she became a respectable mother – and the reason it was her favorite was that the parties were the best.
Lots of alcohol.
Last night was the Gay /Straight alliance meeting . Also a good fit, since his favorite clothes all have rainbows.
Although, he might have a hard time finding a girlfriend there.
I am waiting for the reports on the rest of them…largely, because I can no longer keep the rest of the list straight…….
He did tell me , though, that his big concern is that , once he starts having more homework, he might have to cut down on some of these activities.
If he didn’t’ have Larry’s family’s eyebrows and my family’s deafness, I would swear he was switched at birth.
I can’t complain that he isn’t’ eager.
Aaron is a very positive person, and eager, and outgoing, and sociable.
Kind of odd that Larry and I produced one of those.
It isn’t’ that we are opposed to people like that. Not exactly. Leery might be a better way of putting it.
Anyhow, Aaron is starting out his college career in a way that is very diametrically opposed to how Larry and I did. He is signing up for things. I mean right away.
No approaching things cautiously.
Seeing what people are like,
refusing to give your name and making sure no one follows you back to your dorm….
I mean none of that normal stuff.
So far, if I have counted correctly, he has signed up to go try 11 different clubs.
One every evening, and sometimes two.
There is Hillel. That one was a bit of a disappointment. More than a bit. I got a semi-hysterical call after that event.
Seems that a somewhat “difficult” person from Indianapolis , whom Aaron knows all too well, attended-and at the Activity Fair, later that evening, harassed Aaron.
Since this same young man was kicked out of two middle schools- one for taking a baseball bat into the school and hitting another student with it, I am not arguing with Aaron’s description of being both verbally and physically harassed by him.
See why we refused to give out names and make sure we weren’t’ followed home?
Hopefully, however, Aaron will recover in short enough time that he might attend another Hillel event before he graduates.
Then there was the fraternity.
In all honesty, you mention the word fraternity and I get goose bumps. Okay, not goose bumps. Hives.
It is just that I remember all too well the fraternities – two of them- from my years at Penn who harassed us Jewish students.
But, Aaron went in there with his kippah on his head….unless this was right after the Hillel program, and he was still recovering – and had a good time. ( Aaron did tell me , when I sent this story to him that he was wearing his kippah.)
Next, there was the Asian Student’s association. Since my grandfather was Oriental ( the old fashioned classification- nowadays that is only a classification for rugs, and people are known as Asians) and one of his favorite cousins is Asian ( Kara, of course), this seemed like a logical fit. Anyhow, I am waiting to hear how it went.
Then, there is the Black Student’s Union. That was Parisa’s favorite, from when she was at Ball State.
Parisa, in case you don’t know, is a friend from synagogue who makes, according to Sarah, the world’s best soup.
Of course this was in her previous life- before she became a respectable mother – and the reason it was her favorite was that the parties were the best.
Lots of alcohol.
Last night was the Gay /Straight alliance meeting . Also a good fit, since his favorite clothes all have rainbows.
Although, he might have a hard time finding a girlfriend there.
I am waiting for the reports on the rest of them…largely, because I can no longer keep the rest of the list straight…….
He did tell me , though, that his big concern is that , once he starts having more homework, he might have to cut down on some of these activities.
If he didn’t’ have Larry’s family’s eyebrows and my family’s deafness, I would swear he was switched at birth.
Story of teh Day 8/ 28/ 2009
Harriet came for Shabbat dinner.
She is used to us.
That is good, because it saves us strange looks when we are just being ourselves; and she expects a lot of non-sequiturs.
Harriet also signs some, which means that Sarah is not left out of the entire evening’s conversations.
And signing became a topic during dinner. Practicing signing. Like practicing any foreign language.
With most foreign languages, maybe with all of them, if you are Hearing, you can play tapes or CDs or whatever the newest technology is, of the language and practice speaking it while driving.
This is not something that is readily available to you, with sign language.
You can’t watch a video of someone signing and respond to them, while driving, or you will most certainly be ion your way to the hospital or the morgue in a very short time.
You can , however, practice your fingerspelling by signing all the street signs and billboards. And you can practice your interpreting with the songs on eth radio or the news bits from NPR. Of course, since I don’t’ hear very well, I am probably misinterpreting anything I think I am hearing from them….
And, as Sarah was pleased to inform Harriet, I also sign “CVS,CVS,CVS” while I am driving- hoping I don’t’ forget to stop there to buy toilet paper or whatever.
Sarah also explained how I am always signing compete conversations to myself and it is very odd.
I told her, “I also speak complete conversations to myself. It is called talking to myself. People do that.”
Although, according to Sarah, they don’t’ do it in sign language.
Of course, I do talk a lot, even if it is not always to myself.
And I also talk in my sleep.
It is a family trait.
My husband says that most of the time he can’t make out what I have said. Except, a week ago, I clearly said “Kleenex.”
And , last night, I clearly said, “I don’t’ like the Deaf School.”
Not that it surprised him.
"Of course," I told Harriet," that is nothing, my sister Maggie talks in her sleep- sitting up with her eyes open. "
That is spooky.
And Harriet, who must, in some way, be a cousin, told a story about her younger daughter , Joanna ,walking in her sleep.
Her sister, Liz, got up and followed her to make sure she didn’t’ hurt herself.
That can be dangerous. Especially if the house has stairs.
Dangerous.
The most dangerous sleep experience I have had came from talking in my sleep. And I wasn’t even sitting up with my eyes open.
When I was in high school in Israel, I had two roommates. One was Debbie, the other….her name escapes me- which is probably good.
I had been studying for a Latin exam, and my focus on this must have carried over into my sleep.
I was jabbering away in Latin- probably some fascinating thing like conjugating verbs.
The 3rd (nameless ) roommate awoke to my jabbering away in Latin and decided I was possessed.
She wasn’t’ the brightest bulb in the box.
Anyhow, she decided that the best thing to do was to stab me.
Fortunately, it was late at night, and she couldn’t’ find a knife- or she didn’t’ have one, or whatever, so she woke Debbie up to help her find one.
Debbie, who had a lot higher wattage than the other gal, got another person to restrain the stabber.
Anyhow, I got to sleep until morning- when this close call was related to me by several people. (They all got to wake up for it…they must have thought it was amusing to let me sleep through it , or something.)
I am sure there is a moral to this story.
I haven’t found it ,yet, though, and that was 33 years ago.
She is used to us.
That is good, because it saves us strange looks when we are just being ourselves; and she expects a lot of non-sequiturs.
Harriet also signs some, which means that Sarah is not left out of the entire evening’s conversations.
And signing became a topic during dinner. Practicing signing. Like practicing any foreign language.
With most foreign languages, maybe with all of them, if you are Hearing, you can play tapes or CDs or whatever the newest technology is, of the language and practice speaking it while driving.
This is not something that is readily available to you, with sign language.
You can’t watch a video of someone signing and respond to them, while driving, or you will most certainly be ion your way to the hospital or the morgue in a very short time.
You can , however, practice your fingerspelling by signing all the street signs and billboards. And you can practice your interpreting with the songs on eth radio or the news bits from NPR. Of course, since I don’t’ hear very well, I am probably misinterpreting anything I think I am hearing from them….
And, as Sarah was pleased to inform Harriet, I also sign “CVS,CVS,CVS” while I am driving- hoping I don’t’ forget to stop there to buy toilet paper or whatever.
Sarah also explained how I am always signing compete conversations to myself and it is very odd.
I told her, “I also speak complete conversations to myself. It is called talking to myself. People do that.”
Although, according to Sarah, they don’t’ do it in sign language.
Of course, I do talk a lot, even if it is not always to myself.
And I also talk in my sleep.
It is a family trait.
My husband says that most of the time he can’t make out what I have said. Except, a week ago, I clearly said “Kleenex.”
And , last night, I clearly said, “I don’t’ like the Deaf School.”
Not that it surprised him.
"Of course," I told Harriet," that is nothing, my sister Maggie talks in her sleep- sitting up with her eyes open. "
That is spooky.
And Harriet, who must, in some way, be a cousin, told a story about her younger daughter , Joanna ,walking in her sleep.
Her sister, Liz, got up and followed her to make sure she didn’t’ hurt herself.
That can be dangerous. Especially if the house has stairs.
Dangerous.
The most dangerous sleep experience I have had came from talking in my sleep. And I wasn’t even sitting up with my eyes open.
When I was in high school in Israel, I had two roommates. One was Debbie, the other….her name escapes me- which is probably good.
I had been studying for a Latin exam, and my focus on this must have carried over into my sleep.
I was jabbering away in Latin- probably some fascinating thing like conjugating verbs.
The 3rd (nameless ) roommate awoke to my jabbering away in Latin and decided I was possessed.
She wasn’t’ the brightest bulb in the box.
Anyhow, she decided that the best thing to do was to stab me.
Fortunately, it was late at night, and she couldn’t’ find a knife- or she didn’t’ have one, or whatever, so she woke Debbie up to help her find one.
Debbie, who had a lot higher wattage than the other gal, got another person to restrain the stabber.
Anyhow, I got to sleep until morning- when this close call was related to me by several people. (They all got to wake up for it…they must have thought it was amusing to let me sleep through it , or something.)
I am sure there is a moral to this story.
I haven’t found it ,yet, though, and that was 33 years ago.
Story of teh Day 8/26/2009
Sigh- did not get approval from Aaron to post this one. If u want to hear about it, email him.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Story of the Day 8/ 24/ 2009
This morning, I was hoping and praying that ISD would not furnish me with a “story”.
This morning was the first day of the school year, for ISD.
This afternoon, I went to pick up Sarah’s textbooks and additional readings from ISD. I am supposed to pick up books for both her Social Studies and Language Arts classes.
This is the third year in a row that the books were supposed to be given to us so that we could have a copy for home.
It is not part of her IEP- Individualized Educational Plan. That is the plan that is developed to meet her individualized needs due to being Deaf. She doesn’t’ need the books because of that.
She needs the books so that’s he can do homework and study for tests- and a few years ago one of her teachers, the one who taught that Hitler was a sort of noble person who didn’t like killing anyone and that the Holocaust never happened, denied her the use of a textbook for several months- both for doing homework and for studying for tests.
Anyhow, our getting copies for home, each year, is part of what ISD agreed to after they didn’t’ seem to be able to get her books, that year.
The problem is that , this is the third year I have not been able to get the books.
One year, it was a few weeks delay. That was after I was told to come pick them up because they were ready.
Then, there was the year that we didn’t’ get all of them. Ever. I actually had to provide the in-class copy of a book she needed.
This year, I was handed a Social Studies textbook, and a math textbook.
And told to come back. Even though today was the day I was told to pick them up.
I was nice and didn’t’ take the math textbook, although it might have saved Sarah the trouble of lugging it home on evenings she has homework.
Well, this is a story, of sorts, but I must admit to be relieved that Sarah was in no way hurt by anything that happened at ISD- that this is all of it.
I hope the ISD stories stay at this level for the rest of the year….
This morning was the first day of the school year, for ISD.
This afternoon, I went to pick up Sarah’s textbooks and additional readings from ISD. I am supposed to pick up books for both her Social Studies and Language Arts classes.
This is the third year in a row that the books were supposed to be given to us so that we could have a copy for home.
It is not part of her IEP- Individualized Educational Plan. That is the plan that is developed to meet her individualized needs due to being Deaf. She doesn’t’ need the books because of that.
She needs the books so that’s he can do homework and study for tests- and a few years ago one of her teachers, the one who taught that Hitler was a sort of noble person who didn’t like killing anyone and that the Holocaust never happened, denied her the use of a textbook for several months- both for doing homework and for studying for tests.
Anyhow, our getting copies for home, each year, is part of what ISD agreed to after they didn’t’ seem to be able to get her books, that year.
The problem is that , this is the third year I have not been able to get the books.
One year, it was a few weeks delay. That was after I was told to come pick them up because they were ready.
Then, there was the year that we didn’t’ get all of them. Ever. I actually had to provide the in-class copy of a book she needed.
This year, I was handed a Social Studies textbook, and a math textbook.
And told to come back. Even though today was the day I was told to pick them up.
I was nice and didn’t’ take the math textbook, although it might have saved Sarah the trouble of lugging it home on evenings she has homework.
Well, this is a story, of sorts, but I must admit to be relieved that Sarah was in no way hurt by anything that happened at ISD- that this is all of it.
I hope the ISD stories stay at this level for the rest of the year….
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