Story of the Day 12/ 21/ 2012

Today may be the end of the world, or , at least, the end of the Mayan calendar, but it was also a beautiful wedding, the one we went to, this morning.

On the way home we had to stop and buy gas. It was either that or get out and push the car.
Luckily, there were gas stations open.
It is cold out, and windy, and there is ice and snow everywhere.
Leaving the gas station, pulling out into traffic, I said to my son, Ely, "This is a real Story of the Day" to which he replied, "It sure is!"

When we got to the gas station, I got out and ran my charge card through. Then I removed the nozzle and pushed for the regular grade of gas.
And tried to fill my tank...but the pump was stuck.
A moment later, a young man ( whom it took me a minute to recognize as working for the station) appeared and started trying to help me.
In accented, but good English, he asked me what the problem was. Then he tried the pump, again, and again. Then, after realizing somethings as actually wrong, he apologized profusely, and told me , apologetically, that I would need to use another pump.
I took my car over to another pump- which involved backing and moving forward, and he appeared again and tried to do everything for me. He pumped the gas, topped it off, and then replaced the nozzle on the pump.
Then, the pump wouldn't print the recipe. He apologetically informed me that I would have to go inside to do that.
He told me that he was sorry it was such bad weather. I told him he needed a scarf.
I started off to the inside.
He followed.
He explained to the man behind the cash register what I needed, and then he handed me the receipt.
This was all being watched by my incredulous oldest son, Ely. My younger son was asleep in the backseat.

As I was pulling away, my son made some remark about how unbelievable that was
and not just because he lives in New York. You see, while the station attendant was waiting on me hand and foot and fuel pump, he was also blatantly ignoring all of the other dozen customers.
My son was amazed that this was a full service gas station, since those are rare, if they even still exist.
I told him that it wasn't. It wasn't a full service gas station.


He, being Ely, asked, "Do you think it is because of how you are dressed?"

"Of course," I replied.

You see, we were at wedding. A very lovely wedding
On the day the world ends. Or was supposed to end, or maybe is still supposed to end, according to the Mayan calendar. Although, the Mayans didn't believe that, just some fringe folks who can't conceive of restarting calendars.

And this date was picked for the wedding, on purpose.
By a rather fun couple.
Who requested that we attire ourselves, for the wedding, in our Halloween costumes.
And, I think they had assumed I would wear my nun costume.


But I didn't'.

Instead, I wore a very lovely shalwar kameez.
Which, as I explained to my son, told us that the young man from the gas station's mother had raised him well, to help little old ladies from his native country.

Even though he must have been bit surprised by my native , to here, accent

Story of the Day 12/ 11/ 2012

Aaron and I were outside of Costco.
We had gone there to get new ear molds made for him.

If you are unfamiliar with the term, you might think we were having latex molds made of his ears so that he can play a Vulcan in an upcoming film, but ear molds are the soft piece that fits in the ear canal and attaches ( by tubing) to the hearing aid.
They last a year or more, if you are lucky.
If you leave them on the back seat of the car in the to sun, they need to be replaced. They also crack and fall apart after a while.
Aaron's have cracked, and he needs new ones. We made it past a year, so we are doing well.

When we got to Costco, I realized that Aaron was only wearing one of his hearing aids.
"Where is your other hearing aid?"
"I dont' wear it."

I had actually realized that. I am not sure why I asked, but I still thought that we should get him new ear molds for both . Although, at $40 a pop, I could see just getting new ear mold for his left hearing aid. The one he wears.

"Don't you get any benefit at all from the right hearing aid?" I ask him.
"Oh yeah, I wore it recently when I did standup. It was a big help."

I am trying to figure this out. Noisy bars, which is where stand up comedy performances take place are not good places to use hearing aids.
"It was helpful?"

"Yeah," my tall little boy answered," I didn't put the ear mold in all the way, so there was some feedback. Not a lot. I don't' think anyone who wasn't near me could hear it, because it was noisy.
" But, anyhow, I said, 'I'm Deaf' and then I put the microphone up close to the sharing aid and it squealed, and I got a lot of laughs."

I am trying very hard to decide if the hearing aids were worth the expense for a laugh. And if it is worth it to get that second ear mold for the extra $40.

"Not only that," my son added, "but I did it a second time, right after the laughs died down, and they laughed again."

He is thinking of doing this, again, in the future.
So, maybe I should buy him the second ear mold for that hearing aid, after all.

Story of the Day 12/ 3/ 2012

I was at the store with friend of mine, who is Deaf.
I was interpreting what the cashier had said, when the cashier who, judging by his accent is a native Hoosier, asked, "So, you speak German?"

My friend's response was exactly what I was thinking; so I voiced, "German?"

"You know, with your hands."

My friend and I were very glad for the explanation, but also unsure what to do with it.

Story of the Day 11/ 4/ 2012

Shit happens.
Even in the best of families.

Ely called, this evening. We had just finished dinner, but were still conveniently located around the table discussing movie plots.

Ely has a project that is due and he needed a title for it. After a few minutes of rumination, it occured to him that it was easier to call home and ask the 4 of us for help in coming up with a title, than to spend hours slamming his head up against the wall trying to think of one.

Because of the topic, he had great faith that we would come through with a good , workable title. You see, it is our area of expertise.
Potty humor.
More specifically, poop. Seagull poop.

Ely has done a project on composting it in a way that will benefit birds, nature and the people trying to use the pooped on area.
Who says that none of us are interested in public service?
It took about 14 seconds after Ely explained what he needed for us to start tossing out names.
It would have taken less time, but we had to interpret what Ely was saying on his end of the cell phone to Aaron and Sraha, who are deaf.

Among the titles we threw out were:

Party poopers.
The poop deck.
Harry Potty
Poop Poop dee doo
It's for the Birds
Aye, aye, Captain Feces

And, after hearing that " Feces" was not the preferred term, and that Ey was using the term " Guano" in his report,
the award winner, which was proposed by Sarah:

Guano Happens.

Story of the Day 11/ 20/ 2012

My son, Aaron, took my daughter to the library.
I have to specify which son, so the other one doesn't kill me for implying it could have been him. Not the part about going to the library, but the rest of it.

Aaron is the son that is 6'3" and has a black velvet kippah (yarmulke) and tzitzit (ritual fringed garment the fringes of) which he wears outside his clothes. In other words, he looks like a religious Jew.

There is a self-check out line , and my son had swiped his library card and then he realized there was a box of bookmarks that had a sticker saying "Adult Bookmarks".
He made some comment to the librarian asking if you had to be an adult to take them .
"Yes, you have to be over 18."

My son looked at the first item pictured- a book whose cover showed a man and a woman and a very interested Rottweiler.
According to Aaron, Sarah looked intrigued by it.
Aaron made some sort of comment to his sister about it being so funny. He thought it looked like a 3-way.

The librarian saw the cover ask said, "Oh, don't get that one out. I read it and it was awful."

Aaron was a bit....surprised, both that the librarian was giving critique on this particular book and also that she would admit to having read it.

Story of the day 11/ 13/ 2012

The world has ended.

I have friends who will be getting married this December. On December 21st, in the morning.They chose this date because that is the day that the world ends, according to the Mayans, who didn't actually say that, but whose calendar stops after that date.
But I do not have to wait for December 21st, or for December 22nd.
It has already happened.

I have managed to break my $59 camera.
The camera was actually $69, but they gave me a $10 gift certificate for CVS, when I bought it. Or maybe it was Walgreens.
As you can see, I have tremendous brand loyalty, or store loyalty or something.

The poor little camera served me very well for quite a while.
Aaron got to use it when he was in Israel. That is because he refused to pack the $69 camera I bought for him, the one that did not have the $10 gift certificate; and , then, after he had gotten to Israel, he realized that maybe he did want camera.
I was not going to mail the new one to him, because it couldn'' be insured for loss, so I mailed my older one to him.
That same inexpensive camera has taken lots of strange pictures of beautiful nieces and nephews, not so many of the nephews, not because they were not equally beautiful, but because there were not very many of them- of nephews, that is. Not in comparison to nieces.
And it took pictures of my own slightly odd children.
Then it was dropped one too many times, probably while in my purse or jacket.
I am guilty.

So, now I have find a new camera.

I thought about it for a bit.
Three days.
I decided that I really just wanted another camera just like it.
After all, I was used to it.
And I don't' like change.
As in REALLY don't' like.....
And with that camera I knew what all the buttons did and how to put new batteries in and take the memory card out.
And, it was great price.

Except, it wasn't.
I logged on to Amazon.com which is the mecca of home shoppers everywhere, including Tibet, just in case you wanted to know.
I made that up, but I bet it is true.

So, I logged into Amazon and , gasp, horror of horrors, found out that my nice little camera actually sells for $189.
On sale.

I had one thought:
Ebay!
The same. Same camera, same not so low price.

I then decided to look at similar cameras, more in my price range.
And there weren't any.

So, if you happen to spot me, a week from Friday, at 5:30 in the morning, in a crowd of Black Friday shoppers, it will not be because you had one to many glasses of wine on Thursday, even though I am normally allergic to both "normal" stores and crowds: it will be cause I need a camera, for $59. Or $69.
Preferably witha $10 gift card.

Story of the Day 11/ 16/ 2012

My husband has a number of good attributes.
He is sweet.
Last night, he said to me, "You look pretty!"

I was wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants that have a slight tear in one knee. It is only slight. I would sew it , but the fabric is starting to go and I know it won't hold. But I also figure it isn't' quite"gone" and can get a few more wears out of it.
And a pink fuzzy sweatshirt. It is pink which is why I sleep in it.
I decided, years ago, that I am allergic to pastel pink.
I am sometimes amazed I can even like people who are older than 5 and wear that color, but I do.
Because, you see, pastel pink makes me break out in hives.

I once had a pastel pink sweater. I even wore it.
I didn't have a choice. It was a gift from my in-laws.
They didn't know of my aversion for pastel pink.
They also didn't' know my size.
It was a 2XL.
At the time, I weighed 107 lbs.
At any rate, it was a bit...large.
But this was a gift from my in-laws, so I wore it.
Twice.

The reason I wear this pink thing, although only to sleep in and never out in public, is because, although it is pastel pink, it isn't.
Fortunately, someone laundered it in hot water, probably, with something dark.
Now it is more of a mottled dusty rose, which is close enough to a pastel pink that I will not wear it out of the house, but not so close that I cannot sleep in it.

I had even brushed my hair, that morning. Several hours and two changes of clothiers earlier.
At least, I am pretty sure I had brushed my hair.

And my husband said,"You look pretty."

I replied, You need new glasses."

To which my husband ,responded, "Yes, I do."

I am hoping he does not realize that his response cast his first comment into.......
Did I forget to mention that he is also honest?

Story of the Day 11/ 14/ 2012 #2

My son is coming home a few days before Thanksgiving, giving us an extra bit of time to visit.
Maybe.
He was coming home a few days early.
I think I may have scared him off, but it is his fault.
He mentioned that he doesn't have very many clothes.
So I told him I would take him clothes shopping, to my very favorite clothing store.
Goodwill.

Story of the Day 11/ 14/2012

Occasionally, it is a dry week and I wonder if I will ever write another Story of the Day. Usually, however, another one smacks me in the face , rather quickly.

My son sent me a link to an article from the New York Times.
I love the New York Times, but I do not subscribe.
Ely does. He is a good citizen.
He is paying , so that I can enjoy their wonderful articles.

So is Harriet.
Harriet pays to have the New York Times, that wonderful, elegant, and very , very heavy paper delivered to her door on Sundays.
Then, she carefully pulls out things she thinks I will be interested in, clips them and gives them to me at synagogue on Saturday, so I will have something to read.
Well, you don't' really expect someone like me to have enough of an attention span to pay attention to services, do you?
So, I have my own personal preview and clipping service, thanks to Harriet.

Today's article, ( the one emailed to me by Ely) brought up something that is near and dear to my heart.
Banking.


Okay, banking is not really near and dear to my heart.
In fact following the economic meltdown of a few years ago, which owes a large part of it's power to really bad banking policies by what I tend to now think of as really bad banks, those banks do not tend to be at all dear to my heart.
However, as a result, alternate forms of banking are.

I had always admired the concept of credit unions, but had largely been too lazy to ever move my money from the same bank I got started with when I started college in Philadelphia ( which is not to be confused with when I started college in Delaware, or New York, or Milwaukee, or a host of other places).

I was 18 and needed a bank that was in walking distance from campus and ....I have been with them ever since.

Incidentally, that was the only college for which I actually ever owned a t-shirt with the logo/name of the university.
Thank you, Lynne.

When I lived in Milwaukee, I did own a t-shirt that said
"Hooked on Oriental Drugs",
Oriental Drugs being the name of the hardware store that had started out as a pharmacy that was basically downstairs from the art studios and where I was always buying bandaids.
Oh , wait, I never did own one of those shirts, I just bought one for my sister,Kim, because I thought it would look good on a future physician.

Anyhow, back to banks.

I have grumbled, over the years, about how much I hate them, how they mess up the checking account balance on a regular basis, how the safe deposit box doesn't' work (no one working at the bank was able to open ours for a few years, no matter how many keys and neckties were tried) and the fact that after out house burnt down, we could not get emergency checks or access to our money because our bank branch happened to "temporarily" not have a branch manager.

Grumbling is one thing; actually getting around to close the account and move our money to a different place has taken my husband and me about 16 years.
That is how long ago I finally convinced him that we should do it. That was after my griping about them for several years and not convincing him.
You might notice that we are not impulsive.

So, we are actually in the process of closing that account and moving our money,a process we started a few months ago. We did this by opening an account at a different bank.
Now we just have to get around to closing the first account.

During the many years, getting back to the start of this story, or ,maybe not the start, but some point at which I was talking about credit unions, during the intervening years,
I realized there was this thing called a credit union.
And that they actually were a lot more user friendly than traditional banks, even the one on Ditch road that actually has brownies in the lobby. ( Mine has Dum Dum suckers, which will do in pinch.)

Apparently, instead of mollifying their clients with sugary treats, credit unions do this really odd thing called make the clients "members". Member meaning stakeholder or whatever the correct term is.

In case you hadn't realized it, we are all actually members of banks, even the ones we don't' bank at. At least, we are stakeholders.
That isn't' because Obama's administration did a bank bailout, most of which has since been repaid, although,not with the original dollars, since those went to pump water out of places that were underwater and to bonuses for boguses, which is what I call it when I am watching how many swear words i am using.

And I do not watch that very often.

We were all and are all stakeholders because there really is this thing about when they fail they drag us down with them and when they falter, many of us have a very hard time getting anther job.

Who knew?
I thought banking was for people in polyester suits and who wore nice quality name badges.
Then I found out that the people at the top were wearing suits that were made from only the finest cashmere from the back of a very rare critter , and that we were all working for them in one way or another, even those of us who were scrubbing dishes at the nursing home.

So, in these intervening years, I have become rather interested in credit unions, and all of that, so if you are looking for a new place to save or to check or to take out mortgage......

you can go to Costco.

That is what the article said.
Costco.
Or Sams or Walmart.

Brilliant, although, I am still more enamored of the credit union idea, even though I actually am a member of Costco.
Which does not mean I get to vote of their board, but does mean that I can buy my gas for 12 cents less than at the next lowest place in the neighborhood, and I can get my oversized bags of organic carrots and my mega sized bottle of allegra 180 for a good price.

I must admit , though, that this new foray into the banking business by the big box retailers and by the biggest box retailer ( Wally-mart) does have certain attractions that the credit union may not.
Apparently, one of them is also selling life insurance.

Life insurance.

I stumbled as I read this. At first, I thought, "What a good idea!", but then I realized it ws being offered by Wal-Mart and I just cannot think of going to Wal-Mart to buy life insurance without shuddering.
And I never thought of myself as a consumer -snob until now.

Story of the Day 11/ 8/2012

My son's aunt Lynne is here visiting and he was telling her about what he has been doing.

"Last week I put in an application."

"Oh, where at?", Aunt Lynne asked.

"At a program that provides services to developmentally delayed adults."

There was a pause in the conversation.
" I mean, I applied for a job, not for services!"

"Well, how did it go?"

"Pretty well, " my son replied, " they asked me what kinds of experiences I have and I said, "well, just look at my family....'"

Story of the Day 11/ 6/ 2012

Today's Story of the Day was written by a guest contributor- my daughter, Sarah:




Today, during lunch period, I was eating my tuna sandwich and a sub teacher walked by the table where I was sitting. She babbled something to a staff member. The sub teacher is an exceptional woman who loves wearing bright red lipstick…every single day.


The sub teacher abruptly terminated her conversation with the staff member and bent her body toward the dirty floor where kids often litter their food. She was so close to the floor that if I were her, I would be able to see pixels in the picture on the ID that had been dropped there and which had caught her attention.



Finally, she stood up and asked me, “Is that your ID?” I looked down to see the ID lying on the floor.



I nearly choked.



I shook my head. The sub teacher apologized and said, “Oh sorry. I thought it was your ID. It looked like you. I guess it is not your ID.”



I smiled.



The sub teacher left. The staff person frantically tried to cover her mouth with her hand before laughing.



Unfortunately, the person in the ID did not look like me because the kid in the picture was an Africa-American…and a boy.

Story of the Day 11/ 02/ 2012

I was on the phone, today, with my oldest son, Ely.
We were talking about the movie that Sarah just finished shooting.
Not the one that she is timing two more scenes for, today; not the one that she recently finished and handed in, this afternoon.
This one has been " shot", but is still without special effects and music.


Ely said, " I still find it strange that Aaron does the sound for Sarah's videos."


Sarah, after all , is deaf.
For some reason, this makes it hard for her to do her own sound, to fit in background sounds, to find appropriate music.


Of course, her brother, Aaron, who does it for her , is also deaf.


Then Ely added," There is no way that I could ever explain my family to anyone. You are just all so odd, except for Sarah."


I was trying to figure out what makes Sarah so much less odd than the rest of us.
In fact, I think she may be running neck and neck with any and all for the title of oddest.
I asked, "Why do you think she is less strange than the rest of us?"


"Because she is so predictable."


I started to list some of the things about Sarah that make her "unique".

"Oh, yeah, I guess she is just as odd," my son replied.

Story of the Day 10/ 20/ 2012

Tomorrow, at 12:30 PM, Aaron and Sarah will start filming another video.
This one has some advantages over other recent videos.
First of all, I do not expect to spend the next month repairing holes in the walls, repainting the hole repairs and fixing the floor.
I also do not expect to have to watch any of my children being hit by cars, no matter how slow moving.
I will, however, be required to dress as a nun.


I have spent numerous years , every time a move took me to a new city and a new synagogue answering the same questions, usually asked in the same order.
"Are you Jewish?"
"Were you born Jewish?"
"Are both of your parents Jewish?"
"Were you adopted?"


Despite the fact that I have Jewish parents, one grandfather's immigration papers stated that he was a rug ( Oriental being the term used at the time) and a father who was not considered caucasian on his Akron, Ohio birth certificate, I happen to make a convincing nun.
Somehow that one very anemic looking red-headed grandfather who had no melanoma combines with the flat nose from the other grandfather ( the one who was a rug) and I ended up looking like the nice Irish Catholic girl from next door -
who grew up to become a nun and is now solidly middle aged.
I like to think the solidly has nothing to do with those extra pounds I have gained, but it probably does.


So, I was not totally surprised that my children asked me to don my nun outfit for tomorrow's video.

I am , however, not allowed to cross myself.

I was willing to do this.
Sarah wanted me to do it.
After all, I do a very minor "cross" every time I say the word Catholic...in sign language, because that is how you do it, on your forehead.
And it is only for a film.
But Aaron was worried and took his question to a couple of rabbis.

Well, he took it to one, who responded that he wasn't sure if it would be allowed for a video.
His sister and I thought that was was as good as a "Yes", but Aaron is more serious about this religion stuff than we are ( despite his wanting his mother to dress as a nun), so he asked a second rabbi who told him that it was not okay.

So, I will not be crossing myself.
I will however, need some wardrobe advice.

You see, along with my Irish looks, came light eyes which are very light sensitive.
And tomorrow is expected to be sunny.
Very sunny.
So I need to know which pair of my sunglasses will go best with the habit.

Story of the Day 10/ 19/ 2012

Sarah is still waiting to get her paper back . The one she wrote for Psychology AP.
The baby journal. The one that is in dialect.

I am rather certain that no matter how her teacher responds to this creative attempt on the part of her deaf student, the teacher will not fully appreciate where it is coming from- from Sarah's world where there are no sounds.
No regular , hick Hoosier speech, none-the-less a black southern dialect.

I am rather certain of this because Sarah is busily working on another project for this class.

Sarah is captioning some videos.

Fifteen of them.

They are short - one to five or six minutes in length.
And she is captioning them.

You see, Sarah's IEP ( Indvidual Education Plan which is the plan they provide for students in special education) states that all videos shown in her classes are to be captioned.

If they are not .... wait, it says "all" so how could they not....?
Yes, but in the years Sarah, and Aaron before her, have been at this school, you would be amazed how many times the videos have not been captioned....
So, if they are not, Sarah is to be provided with a transcript of the video, given time to read the transcript before viewing and then be able to view the video.

And if there is no transcript, then Sarah will be provided the opportunity to watch the video with the interpreter - who will be interpreting it.

Which is what happened.

It didn't work very well.

The videos , not all, but some, had poor sound quality which was made even harder to listen to because of assorted accents, and the fact that Sarah's interpreter is hard-of-hearing- as in wears hearing aids.
And a few of them were done at a hyped-up-on-a-heck-of-a-lot-of-caffeine rate.

After watching the videos, Sarah realized that the next deaf or hard-of-hearing student taking the class would have the same problems; so Sarah offered , to the teacher, to caption them.

Sarah started working on this a couple of weeks ago.
Over the week of fall break,which was last week, Sarah spent a few days having her old mother write down what was on the videos, because, after all, Sarah cannot hear them.
Then Sarah typed up all of the captions.
But, now, comes the next part of the problem, putting the captions on the video; because if you cannot hear the video, you cannot be sure you have put the captioning in the correct spot.
That is what she is currently trying to work on.

In the meanwhile, Sarah's old mother is very certain the the teacher has no idea what Sarah is doing to caption these, or what it means to have the deaf student do the captioning.

Which is why I can't imagine that the teacher is going to get the full import of what it means when Sarah writes a paper in dialect.

Story of the Day 10/ 11/ 2012

My beloved daughter is putting finishing touches on a paper for English class.
The teacher had them hand it to someone for peer editing.
Sarah made those changes, then she realized she needed to add something- the directions say that the kids need to use "descriptive qualities using at least three senses."

Sarah is deaf- completely deaf- no rustling of leaves, no alarm clocks going, no music, no trucks backfiring.

That leaves her 4 senses to choose from. Right?

Wrong.

We listed hers and we decided that deaf people must have one that Hearing people don't.
Sarah's five are:

1. sight
2. touch
3. smell
4. taste
5. humor

Story of the Day 10/ 5/ 2012

My daughter has been patiently waiting to get her Psychology paper back.

Sarah handed it in, a couple of weeks ago.
Most students are either eager or dreading it, because it will have this thing called a "grade" on the top of it.

This is not, however, the reason for Sarah's angst.

Sarah, unlike many high school students, has a tendency to choose the project that is the biggest, and most challenging.
Not just in her favorite class, not just in the class she does best in, not in order to pull up grade. She does it because she is Sarah and the idea of doing anything less is ..."boring".

As a result, whenever there is a project or a paper, she will have the entire house torn up.
We will need to make 14 trips to different craft stores or thrift shops.
She will need to get some strange text from a library no one has ever heard of ( the library, that s. And this library will be a 4 1/2 hour drive because it will not participate in interlibrary-loan); and she will need me to pay $49.95 a month, so that she can access tutorials on some strange computer program.

So far, at least, she has not needed to learn Croatian, wrestle an alligator, or fly to Brazil.
She is saving those projects for college.

At any rate, when she was assigned the paper for her AP Psychology class, she decided, amongst other things, that she would write her paper in dialect.
Southern, black dialect.

Now, for another student, perhaps, this would not be a major undertaking, but Sarah is deaf. Deaf as in doesn't hear and doesn't speak and has never heard.
She has not heard any of that elevator music, she hasn't heard the crowds cheering at the basketball games; she hasn't heard the fire alarms at her school, and she has never heard this particular dialect she has chosen to use for her paper...nor any other dialect, for that matter.

I said to her, rather incredulously, "But, how are you going to be able to do this? You have never heard that dialect."

Sarah looked at me completely non-plussed, and responded, "What difference does it make? I have never heard any dialects, I have never heard English, but I have to write my paper using that."

She has a point.

But she is, at the same time, wondering how her teacher will respond to this rather creative touch.

Story of the Day 10/ 7/ 2012

Tonight starts another two day Jewish holiday.

Jewish holidays come in two varieties- ones where we eat nothing and fast all day, and ones where we overeat.
This holiday is the latter.

I have been cooking.

It is chilly outside. The days are getting shorter.
I am not making a lot of cold salads, but am thinking fall types of foods.
I am making burekas, and challah, and salmon with honey /mustard/pecan sauce. I am roasting eggplant, and making a butternut squash.

I bought whipped cream and am planning on making a special dessert.
I told Sarah, "I will make pumpkin crunch cake."

Pumpkin crunch cake is one of my family's favorites. The recipe was a friend's.
She used to make it using yellow cake mix.
Obviosuly, she is a friend, or was a friend.
She died 19 years ago.
But at any rate, a friend and not a relative.

That is because, in my family, if it isn't chocolate, it isn't worth the calories.

So, I have made a small alteration to her recipe.
I substitute a dark chocolate cake mix for the yellow cake mix.
I top the pumpkin custard with the chocolate cake mix with butter melted over it.
The butter crusts the top of it- and mixes with the pecans on the very top.
The lower part of the cake mix- which is added dry on top of the pumpkin custard- mixes slightly into the top of the pumpkin and makes a brownie top- a crusted brownie top.
It is delicious.

So, I was opening the can of pumpkin, and discovered, while looking for the cake mix, that I do not, in fact, have a chocolate cake mix.....

I ask my husband, "Will it be all right with you if I use a yellow cake mix?"
It is almost 3 PM. The holiday starts in a few hours and I still have a lot to do.

He smiles and tells me, "That will be fine."

I go upstairs to where Sarah is watching football on TV.
Her response is, "NO! It has to be chocolate!"

Her tired, old mother, I mean me-myself and I- look at her and sigh.
An unheard sigh, of course, since she is deaf.

I go back on downstairs and ask my husband, if he would please, pretty please, run out to the store and get a chocolate cake mix.
I explain that Sarah has decreed it needs to be chocolate.

My husband says he will go.

Then he smiles at me and says, "Oh good, I wasn't going to eat any if it wasn't chocolate."

Story of the Day 10/ 13/ 2012

A little boy said, "Hi, I'm Yoel," to my daughter, the other day, and she told her brother, Aaron, that "It's cool that Yoel can sign."

Aaron said, "No, his name is Yael."

Sarah responded, "No, it is Yoel."

Aaron insisted, "No, his name is Yael."

She repeated this story to me, and then she remarked about her brother, "He doesn't hear very well!"

I looked at my deaf daughter, who seemed to be quite serious, and shook my head and said, "He is deaf. Of course, he doesn't hear very well."

It was my daughter's turn to shake her head at me, "Yoel was signing."

Story of the Day 10/ 16/ 2012

"Sarah is a nerd! She's a nerd!"
My son was being very loud. In sign language.

He had just found out that Sarah does not have to go to school, on Wednesday, until 4th period. That is because the freshmen, sophomores, and juniors will be taking tests (PSAT and PLAN) and she is a senior and done with all of that.

The school has forms that are available in the front office for seniors to use to state where they will be, so that they can be excused until 4th period.
School starts at 7:25 AM. This means that seniors will not need to get to school until 10:25 Am. If you are a teenager, that sounds like a wonderful bonanza of either sleep or video gaming.

But, just to irk her brother (okay, not really just for that reason) Sarah has decided to go to school at 7:25, anyhow, so she can work on a project.
Not a project that is due anytime soon, either.
She is working ahead.
Way ahead.
The project is due December 14th.
That is two months from now.

Aaron isn't done, "She is the world's biggest nerd!"

I looked at him and said, "Thank God!"

"Because she isn't' lazy like me?" he asked.

Do I really need to answer that?

Story of the Day 9/ 30/ 2012

My husband writes.
I mean really writes, not a half-baked blog of oddball stories like I write. Okay, the blog is not half-baked, I am ...and so are the stories.
But back to my husband.

He writes real stuff.
Real as in published.

There was the book he co-authored with a friend.
And there are the magazines or journals or whatever they are called.
He used to write regularly for The Lancet, which is definitely a journal.
Now he writes a monthly satire column that is in two magazines or journals or something like that.
One of them is Rheumatology News and I have managed to forget the name of the other one. Internal Medicine something or another.
Maybe I will be a an exemplary spouse and look it up, right now.
Wait, if I was an exemplary spouse, I would have remembered without needing to look it up, so I can forget about trying to pretend I am exemplary.

Okay, maybe I will be a passable spouse and look it up, now.


Ah, Internal Medicine News !

But that isn't all.
He write a blog.
A PAID blog.

Yes, they pay him to write for a blog.
You can keep repeating it several times more, if it will help you to process it. I have noticed that I get the most stunned reactions from others who, like me, slave away at an unpaid blog...
I mean, there really are people out there who get paid to do this?

In case you want to verify that I am not pulling your leg, this will connect you to one of his articles for one of the magazines:

http://www.rheumatologynews.com/index.php?id=8821&cHash=071010&tx_ttnews[tt_news]=92378

and the blog:
http://www.rheumatologynews.com/views/inside-rheum/blog/the-golden-goniometer/bff5eabd2f6eaba48d80fc58c4c91381.html

But now to get to the story.

My husband , while he greatly enjoys writing and gets paid to write, doesn't get paid enough to pay the mortage or even for the gasoline for our Honda Civics, so he has to moonlight as a practicing rheumatologist.

Monday through Friday you can find him working in a medical office seeing patents who would rather be out dancing or skiing or even just reading a book, but have found themselves consulting him because they have arthritis, or gout, or lupus, or some other not-so-fun condition.

Recently, my husband was seeing a new patient.
The patient had just moved to Indianapolis and had previously been seen at the Mayo Clinic.

When the patient asked her physician at the clinic for a referral, she was given the names of two rheumatologists in Indianapolis.
One of the names was my husband's.

As she told to my husband, she chose him because the doctor then said, "Oh, I read all of his articles!"

My husband realized that the patient must think that he is involved in important research or something along those lines; and he had a moment of internal struggle before deciding to not clarify this for her.

Story of the Day 9/ 28/ 2012

There was one period left. Tenth period.
My daughter, Sarah, has a study hall of that period of the day.
The interpreter and she were headed to the study hall and the interpreter decided to detour to go to the bathroom.
Sarah got to study hall and took seat.

The teacher wasn't there.
There was a sub.

A man, who started talking and talking and talking.
And Sarah kept a careful eye on him.
Which is about all you can do if you cannot hear what he is saying.

A few minutes later, the interpreter came in and sat down.
And while she is not as old, grey and creaky as I am, she doesn't look like she could possibly be a high school student.
The sub looked at her...and looked at her...and asked, "What are you doing here?"

She replied, "I am the interpreter."

"The interpreter for what?"

"For the Deaf student."

The sub looked a bit startled and then he asked, "Where is the Deaf student?"

The interpreter pointed, and Sarah's friend, who sits next to her, patted Sarah's shoulder, just in case the interpreter's gesture wasn't clear enough.

If you have known me and my children for a few years, or have read my blog for that length of time, you will be cringing. That is because this is related to a few other stories.
A number of years ago, when my son, Aaron, who is also deaf, was in middle school, he had an unpleasant run in with a sub teacher.
As a result of what happened, the school instituted a policy that there would be a "cover letter" or "sub teacher form" that the substitute teachers would get for special education students. That way they would not physically assault or punish deaf students they thought were ignoring them by not responding when the sub teacher spoke to their backs.
Little things like that.

When it was time for Aaron to move to the high school, I inquired if we needed to make sure this protection followed him.
I was, at that time, assured by the administration that following what had happened, the form was actually already in place at the high school.

Except, as we found out, over time and incidents, it often wasn't.

So, of course, as my daughter is telling me this I am thinking that I will now need to contact the school and complain and ask why the form wasn't in place.
Again.

Except that, except for his initial surprise, this sub went a bit in the other direction.
After realizing there was deaf student, sitting there, in his room, he gave the other students a lecture about how he likes deaf people.
Because they are attentive.
They pay attention.
They listen.
Although, obviously, not with their ears.
There is a bit more.
Apparently deaf people are also nice.

This was certainly a much better response than Sarah or Aaron have received in the past...although it might also rank up there with "black people are better dancers," or "Asian students are better at math", but, considering our other experiences, we will take it.
Gladly.



(See previous story- Story of the Day 11/11/2010 http://storyoftehday.blogspot.com/2010/11/story-of-day-11112010.html I believe that the others are not on this blog.)

Story of the Day 9/ 24/ 2012 #2

I am not going to jail!

I feel like throwing off my clothes and running out into the yard and yelling "Yahoo!!!"
Except that it is not very warm outside. In fact, there was some frost on the cars, this morning.
And, I don't feel like going to jail.

I also need to find some nice, flowery note cards so that I can write a letter, a thank you note, really, to my lawyer, and to the lady at the IRS.
The one who decided that, yes, I was a victim of identity theft, and , yes, most probably from someone who worked for or still works for my previous employer and used my personal identification to get checks from my previous employer for which I then owed taxes...
and which I didn't' find out about until the taxes were already quite overdue and penalties and late fees and interest and the cost of pink soap were all piling up...
because that nasty person who stole my identity to get money from the agency also had my mailing address changed, so the 1099 went somewhere else....and I never saw it, or knew about it.
Until that letter from the IRS.
About the overdue taxes, and penalties and late fees and interest and .......

So I need to write to the lady from the IRS, who acknowledged that I didn't' actually get that almost $10,000 in question, in the first place.
And to my lawyer.

Because through all of this, of course, I had to deal with my ex-employer.
The one who insisted they had mailed me those checks.
And insisted that they had sent me the 1099 from that year....even if to a different address.
And then refused to send me a corrected 1099, when it was finally brought to their attention the the checks they were sure they sent to me...went somewhere else.
After I called, and called, and wrote and wrote.

And then, in desperation, harassed my lawyer, the same one who had to file a lawsuit to get my back pay from this same noble agency,
which, in case you were not already sure by now, is part of the government.

And so my lawyer got a turn at calling and being ignored, and writing, and being ignored, and writing again, and being ignored....
and, finally, writing and getting an answer.

After all of this, perhaps you can understand my desire to throw off my clothes and run outside yelling and scattering rose petals.

But, also, my restraint in not doing it, since I don't' want to jeopardize my un-jailed state.

Story of the Day 9/ 24/ 2012 #1

My brother called.
The older one.
I am not sure the younger one has ever called me. From him I get occasional Facebook messages. Hey, at least he accepted my friend request!

So, my older brother called me.
He is the father of three children.
Despite the fact that he is older than I am, his children are younger than mine.
That is why he has more grey hair than I do.
Well, and the fact that I actually am younger than he is....oh, and the fact that I use Excellence by L'oreal.

He tells me that two of his kids are going to start taking violin lessons.
I ask him if it will be a Suzuki program or a modified Suzuki program.
He has no idea.
He also has no idea how to go about purchasing the right "starter" violins for his children.
He thinks that I, who have more years of experience , and more grey hairs ( if I ever stop dying them) might know.
I laugh.
He has forgotten one important thing.
My children
are deaf.
They didn't have violin lessons.

There is a moment of silence as he digests this information.
"Oh yeah."

Okay, I had a token hearing child.
Hey, it is good to experience different things every now and then.
And that child had music lessons.
Piano.
Saxophone.
Drums.
But no violin.
If I'd had a second child, well I did have a second child and a third, but a second child who could hear, we might have garnered the volin lesson experience. But we didn't.

Our grandfather could have helped.
He played the violin.
For the Cleveland Symphony Orcehstra.
And , sometimes, for the Grand Old Opry.
And on movie soundtracks.
But he has been dead for about 35 years.
So he isn't taking phone calls from my older brother or from me..
Or Facebook messages from my younger brother.

I suggested that my brother call one of our younger sisters.
The one that has three children.
Who can hear.
They all had music lessons.
Piano.
And Saxophone.
And I am pretty darn sure one of them even played the violin.

At any rate, she had three possibilities...I mean, opportunities, so he is more likely to get help from her.

Story of the Day 9/ 12/ 2012

My friend was telling me, today, how her two teenaged sons, both in high school, seem to have discovered that they can google all kinds of things.

This has gotten them into a bit of hot water with her and her husband.

That is because her husband found the they were accessing porn sites.
And, like many things in the "Age of Information" porn ain't what it used to be.
It is rather more " active" than whatever it was back in "the day".

Her husband decided to do two things- he restricted their internet access, and he bought them a couple of copies of Playboy magazine, which, as he said, should sate their hormonal instincts , but in a more restrained manner.

He was especially upset, though, because when the kids did their "search" they misspelt the word " vagina".
After all, these are bright boys. Well educated, even.
Although, hopefully, not too much via the internet.

Story of the Day 9/ 7/ 2012

My son, the one who is in graduate school, not the one who spends his days wandering in the park and doing pull ups, has a professor whom he describes as robotic.
He is emotionally " cold", he has flat affect, and, of course, he teaches computer applications.
His name is Dayton.

Which is a problem.

Like the rest of the family, my son loves Star Trek- although, we all argue over which series are worthwhile.
So, he has been inadvertently calling this teacher by the wrong name.
To his face.
"Data."

But my son thinks that the professor might not have noticed.
We hope.

And I had to admit that I would also be hard pressed to get the name right.
Especially now that I have been told this....

That is, however, not the most interesting part of the story.
The most interesting part is that this teacher's office window looks onto the men's bathroom.
Not that the teacher cares .
But, who designed this building?
Especially since it is part of the architectural program?

Story of the Day 8/ 21/ 2012

I spent this morning at the Deaf School in a conference for a young man who has transferred from Arsenal Tech High School to the Indian School for the Deaf.
Arsenal Tech is this huge high school in the Indianapolis Public School system.

There were a number of good reasons for this young man to transfer.
He had missed out on a lot of educational opportunities because the interpreter was bad. Really bad.
She was the sort of bad that comes with an attitude.
She would decide she didn't feel like interpreting, and she would just sit there and not interpret.
He was isolated from his peers because of language- they didn't sign, he doesn't' hear and the interpreter problem wasn't helping.
But the real reason he wanted to transfer was that he was afraid.

At this high school, he was constantly aware of bullying, fighting, weapons and drugs and he wanted out.
He was even afraid to ride to school on the school bus.

I was telling this to a nice young woman , this evening, during a break in the drawing session.
I also told her that , at the previous conference ( at Arsenal Tech) , I was favorably impressed with one of the teachers, but not so favorably impressed with another.
The one that didn't impress me was supposed to be working with him on his writing goals. The writing goals were vague they didn't relate to the state standards and when asked how he was doing the response was" Well , he is behind. he is not on grade level."
And when pushed to answer what level he was on, she replied , twice , that she didn't know.
When I asked how she could be working with him if she had no idea what level he was on, she replied that the information was somewhere ...like on a computer and she could look it up. She seemed to entirely miss the point that it was a bad sign that she had been working with him for an entire academic year and was supposed to be prepared to present information at the conference we were at and,yet, had no idea what his level was.

The young lady I told this to wasn't surprised.

She told me that she was supposed to have gone to this same high school, but just before her freshman year, her parents decided to enroll her in Cathedral High School- a parochial school that has a good reputation.

The school year was going nicely and , at the end of the first semester she got a big surprise.
Apparently, some piece of paper wasn't filled out, and Arsenal Tech still thought she was a student at their school. So, she was sent a report card for the classes she should have been taking if she was there.

And she failed every single class.
Which is not surprising since she hadn't been in school or taken one test or handed in one homework assignment during the entire semester.

Whoops, sorry, that is not true.
You see, she failed almost every class.

She passed Spanish.
The teacher gave her a D.

This is probably because she was nice and quiet and didn't make any trouble.

At least, that is the only reason this young woman could figure out.

Story of the Day 8/ 20/ 2012

It was Back to School Night, or Open House or whatever they call it.

My husband and I made sure we didn't have spaghetti sauce dribbled down our clothes or faces, and that our flies were zipped; and we headed off to meet the teachers, hear what they were teaching and how they were grading things and try to get more of an idea of what Sarah's day looks like.

There was the Psychology teacher, who was pretty much as Sarah had described.
And despite Sarah's fears, we were not pulled aside and told some weird things about our daughter.
At least not by the teacher.

There was Chemistry.
This is the teacher who was very nervous to have a deaf kid in his class.
Since, as you know, you know, deaf people bite.
It is now the third week of school and he is , apparently, still nervous. Even though Sarah hasn't bitten him.
Yet.
My husband and I decided to not ruin his image of her, and we did not introduce ourselves.
Now he can just keep on wondering what sorts of weird folk would have deaf kid.

Then there was Calculus.
The Calculus teacher loves Calculus.
She even said so.
She explained to us what I had already explained to Sarah, that the students are better off getting the IU college credit for the class and not taking the AP exam.
The Psychology teacher said pretty much the same thing.
It is nice to know that occasionally I might be right.
(Don't repeat that to my children.)
But the highlight of the evening was English.

I bet you thought it was when Sarah's film teacher told us her was signed up to take an ASL class.
That was a bit of a highlight- the idea that one of the teachers would actually try to communicate directly with her...
but it wasn't the highlight.

The highlight was English.

Sarah's English teacher told us the exact same thing she told Sarah, the first day of class.
She had Sarah's brother, our son, Aaron.
In National Honor Society.
For two years.

We were all surprised that he mad such an impression on her.
Especially since he was never in National Honor Society.

I am sure of this.

Over the years all three of our children have been offered to apply for membership.
Ely was the first.
Ely read the information and said he didn't want to bother.
My husband and I were surprised. We had both been members and though it was a good thing to put down when applying for college and why would our child not want to do it?
Then we read the papers.
You had to jump through several hoops and a barrel.
While it was on fire.
We looked at each over and had to admit , out-loud, that Ely was right and it wasn't worth the bother.

Then , a few years later, Aaron got the same papers.
This time, we told him it wasn't worth the bother, before he even opened his mouth.

Then, when Sarah got the papers, we all laughed when we saw that they wanted her to volunteer tutor for 200 hours. Or 20 hours, or whatever.
She was the only deaf student in her high school. She is the only one who knew ASL.
As a matter of fact, during most of her time at North Central High School she really was THE ONLY ONE WHO KNEW ASL, because until the most recent interpreter, the school had this habit of hiring interpreters who didn't.

So, whom would she have tutored? One of the lousy interpreters?
"This is how you do not sign vertical angles...."

But this nice young woman , very sincerely, tells us how much she enjoyed having Aaron in the National Honor Society. And we smile and nod, because anything else would be...too hard to explain.

And then she asks what he is doing now.
My husband answers, "He is back at home."
And the teacher replies, " Oh , he graduated from college?"
Because in this great recession, that is a rather typical scenario.

I think I may have burst her bubble a bit when I told her, "No he dropped out of college."

Of course, I added, " and then he went to a yeshivah for a while, and now he is taking an EMT class and taking very long naps everyday."

But, on the other hand, maybe this will fit in very well with the alternate reality she already has for him.

Story of the Day 8/16/ 2012 #3

I thought I was down for the evening.

I wasn't.

My husband gives me a bill that came in the mail.
Well, bill is really the wrong term. A bill is something you get that you have to pay.
This was already paid, with our charge card.
It was an invoice. An invoice that was charged to our charge card for products to be sent to Michigan. To a very familiar name and address in Michigan.
This is the same name and address that the other invoice we got, the one from J and M clothing company was for.
The other invoice- invoice being the correct term- was for something we did not order for someone we have need heard of......another instance of our charge card being used by someone else.

Didn't I call and cancel that card?
I did.
I had.

I call the Discover people, again.
I wonder if they are getting as tired of hearing from me as I am getting tired of calling them.

I explain about the fraudulent charge. I ask if they will investigate this person who is getting shipments of clothes and other things from purchases made with our card.
Apparently, they do have a fraud investigation department, but it is NOT the same department to which you report your card being lost or stolen and to whom I have been calling all of these occasions when our Discover card is being "enjoyed" by people we have never head of- like the person in Africa who ordered 21 laptops ( one each from 21 different internet sites).

I am transferred.

I explain to a new woman, in Ohio, about how this is the second invoice we have received indicating that "we" have ordered and paid for goods to be shipped to the same person in Michigan.
I ask if they will investigate if this woman has been using our card.

The young lady on the phone says, "Yes." they will.

We both now know that this woman wears a rather large size and has acne. We know this because of the clothing order, and because the invoice I have just called about is from Proactiv.
She has signed up to receive regular shipments of their product.

I explain to the fraud department lady that there is another fraudulent charge on our card.

After we hang up, I become curious.

I look this woman up on the internet.
She is 46 years old.
Maybe the acne medication is for her teenager.

She lives with someone named Michael.
I do not know if that is her boyfriend or brother or her teenager.

And then I do what any normal American would do after having their charge card used.


I check out her Facebook page.

Michael isn't her boyfriend. She is getting married to someone named Stephen.
She likes Justin Beiber.
She is 46 and she likes him?


She also needs a better profile picture.

I resist the urge to leave message for her saying, " Pay for your own shit!", but I decide that if I am going to do that, I should gets second Facebook account under an alias. something like " God".

I resist the urge to do this, because I figure that she didn't learn morals from her family , and she is 46, so she probably wouldn't learn anymore from the "god" of Facebook.

Also,


I don't' want to be accused of erecting an idol or something.
I wonder if Facebook has laws against that.

Anyhow, she is 46 and she likes Justin Beiber.
I figure there is no hope for her.

Story of the Day 8/ 16/ 2012 #2

Just before going to bed, I checked my email.
That is a stupid thing to do.
I know it is a stupid thing to do.
So why did I do it?
I am stupid.

On Facebook, I had a message. Now, you might be snooty and think that checking Facebooook is not checking my emial, but you are wrong. This is because it is the only email /messaging link I have for a few people. For two of my nieces, for one ex( now grown) foster kid, and for another young man who used to live with us.
He is 18. An adult.
And he sent me a message.
Am I coming to his case conference.

If you do not know what a case conference is, we have nothing in common.
That is because for the past two decades, my life has revolved around them.
These are the meetings you have with your kids' schools to set up and maintain the special education services.
I have been to hundreds of them.
At least.

I maintain my sanity by not counting them.

I have attended them for my children, for the children who have lived with us and were temporarily ours, for friends, and , for several years as a parent advocate for an agency that has a grant from the Department of Education.

I no longer work for that agency. I no longer attend case conferences a sa parent advocate.

I left that job because after years of having a supervisor who screamed and was bit of an anti-Semite ( and when I mean screamed, she never screamed at me, but I had a number of parents tell me that she had screamed at them on the phone when they called for information, and other advocateds told me the same), we got a new supervisor, who was, we though, better; until she decided that Jesus was part of the office. The office that gets public Department of Education dollars.
And I do not work for Jesus.
So I left.


Now, I attend case conferences for my daughter, for my good friend's child, and on a very , very rare instance, for a child who used to live with us .
After all, as a friend observed, some of us have more than one mother. And you never walk away from that job.

So, I had a Facebook message asking if I was coming to this young man's conference.
And he wasn't on Facebook. Which is good.
If he was, I would have needed to yell at him ( via Facebook) to get to bed, since it was a school night.

But what conference and when is the conference?
Is it tomorrow morning? Do I need to be up and dressed and headed somewhere at 7 AM or 7:30 AM and I don't know about it?
I message him.
Why am I messaging him, he is off Facebook, that isn't going to help!

It is 11 PM.

I call his mother.
I wake her up.
Crap.

At least the conference is not tomorrow morning.

It is next Tuesday.
At 8:30 AM; so, on that day, I will need to be nicely dressed ( heck, I might even comb my hair), and out the door at 7:30 AM.
But , at least, it is not tomorrow.

I check the calendar.
Heck, I didn't' really want to go to the doctor, next Tuesday.

I tell her to let her son know that I will be there.
Then I leisurely send him another message on Facebook and ask what he wants from the school and the school year.

I almost add, "And , next time, call me!"
But I realize he might have.
He only has my home phone number, and I wasn't home, and we don't' have an answering machine, and the kid I left at home ( the one who called that the tickets were still sitting on the dining room table) is deaf and probably only stuck his hearing aids on long enough to make the one call to me, then took them out and went back to being unable to hear the phone ringing.

And , whatever other mothers say in complaining bout Facebook, I am sure that God invented it , just like she invented Google.
For the mothers of teenagers.

Story of the Day 8/ 16/ 2012 - part 1

Sarah and I were in a rush. Tonight is the first post-Olympics WNBA game.
Well, really, games. I think there are 5 of them , altogether, so 10 teams are meeting in 5 cities- getting back into the season in a rush.
But the important one is the one that is taking place in downtown Indianapolis, and for which we have tickets.

Our home town team- the Fever- is playing against the Washington Mystics.
I put my wallet, camera and cell phone in the purse I always take to the games. It is a purse that my friend Harriet, who is known far-and-wide ( as long as far-and-wide means our neighborhood and also parts of California) as the purse-queen, gave to me.
It has the ideal configuration to be my "take to the game " bag.
It has a pocket for the cell phone, a pocket for the camera, and a pocket for the tickets.
Oh, and it is just the right shape for the program to fit in without getting bent.

So, I put those things in, then I go to the envelop that has our parking passes and tickets for the next couple of games, and take out the ones for tonight , and put them in the purse. And , being well-organized- I also take our MVP necklace passes. Once we are at the game, if we want to go and get a drink of water or use the bathroom ( that last one is me, Sarah NEVER uses a public restroom) , we can stick a ticket into it and not have to carry anything.
Sarah, meanwhile, is eating a snack, and then there is thunder.

I am thrilled.
It has been a long, hot, dry summer.
We are in the midst of an " extreme" drought.
It was a wet spring, then a dry start to summer which quickly turned into a sought, and then a severe drought, and , finally, an extreme drought.
This means that the corn aint' growing, and the grass is yellow and goes crackle-crackle if you walk on it; and when it is only 85, it feels almost cool.

Thunder seems to promise something, like .....dare I say it? rain.

And, soon enough, there are real live honest to gosh drops of water falling- and I am hoping it is more than just a 5 minute deal that teases the plants and the people.

It is not.
The rain comes down harder, and there is more lightning and thunder.
And now, Sarah tells me that she thinks we should not go to the game.

What? Why?
I can't believe she is afraid of getting wet. I explain that we are parking in the covered parking building attached to the arena.
It isn't' that. She has decided it is dangerous to be in the car during a storm....

I do what any intelligent mother of a teenager would do.
I do not argue.
I turn to God. I mean to Google ( which God was kind enough to create for the this purpose) and pull up a scientific article ( but one that is written for a 6th grader- meaning me) that explains why it is NOT dangerous to be in a car when it is storming.

And it is not for the reason that I thought.

Somehow, I believed it was safe because of the rubber tires insulating you from the electricity of the storm- but, in fact, that is not true, it has to do with something like the car dispersing the lightning or deflecting it or something.
Anyhow, it doesn't matter, because Google said it is safe, so it is.
And without my needing to argue with my teenager.
Thank God!
I mean Google!

And so we are off, but a bit late.
And that is not good because the cars are backed up from this accident and that lane being flooded, and because the visibility is not great and the roads are slick and.... I am not becoming popular parent.
That is because it now looks as if we will be arriving late.

And then my phone rings.
My cell phone.
And I let Sarah know.
That is because she is deaf and cannot hear it ringing.
And then we both ignore it, because I have a rule. I do not answer or talk on the phone when I am driving.
I also do not text, or read texts ( a fine point of distinction for one of my children....which caused an argument. The argument might have been avoidable , but we were in the car and Google wasn't readily available.)

And we drove and drove and drove, and arrived.
Late.

We parked the car, after a detour that ate up a few more minutes- there was construction- and took the escalator down to the lobby.

While we were going down, I pull out the tickets to present to the ticket taker, and
I realize that I have grabbed the wrong tickets.
They are the tickets for August 26th or 28th or something.
And they are not the ones for tonight.
And now I have to tell Sarah.

I am definitely not anyone's favorite parent.

She says, "We will go home!

I tell her, "No, I will buy two more tickets."
That is expensive...especially since we got our tickets at a bargain rate and now we will have to take whatever is available, at a not bargain rate, and have paid twice to see the game.
But I tell her this, because being late is bad enough.

Then I see a staff person I have met several times and know to be friendly.
Instead of going to the ticket window, I go to her and I explain the situation and ask what we should do.
She tells me to go to the window and explain, and if they can't just print new copies of our original tickets, to have them call the person we got them from.

Sarah and I go over to the ticket window- where there is no line, because most people have alread gone into the game.
The woman takes my information.
She tells me that people do this all the time.
They do?
I am not a unique idiot, it seems, just an idiot.
And she gives us the freshly printed replacement tickets.
I have been standing and waiting and have stuck the necklace thing around my neck, so, unlike before a typical game, I stick the tickets into the holder, now, instead of after we are already taking our seats.

We go past security, they do not seems to think we are as dangerous as the airport people do and they take a glance in my purse and smile at Sarah and wave us through.
Then the ticket guy scans our tickets and we go up the stairs to pick up programs for the game.


At the top of the stairs are two very young staff-tshirted women.
They have clipboards.
One of them says something to me about court.
A basketball court?

She has a quiet ,polite voice.
She is very cute, she loosk about 17 , and I tell her that I don't hear well and would she mind not being so polite and talk loudly....
She asks if we want court side seats.

Not the row that is on the "floor", but the cushy two-seater thing that they invite two season ticket holders to sit in at each game.
Appparently, they invite two season ticket holders who are wearing their neck chains - which we never do ( except to go to the bathroom)- but I happen to have put on, while waiting for the new tickets to be printed.
I am not even sure why, except that I was standing with nothing else to do.
And they must also have been looking for two ticket holders who...show up late.

All of the sudden,miracle f miracles, I am no longer in trouble with my teenager.
It is amazing what a difference good seats make.


We get to our seats.
I put my purse down and pull out my cell phone.
I am curous to see who it was who called me while we were driving here.

It was Aaron, my middle child.

Boy, he didn't wait for very long after we had left the house to call. A little less than ten minutes, I guess.
I push the button to hear the message. At its loudest, I can't hear anything. I text him to tell him that. I ask if it was anything important.

He texts back,
"I think u left the tickets here."

He is right.

Story of the Day 8/ 15/ 2012

My son, the 21 year old, loves the public library.
We all love the public library.

Yes, we have stacks and stacks of books not just on the book shelves, which are stacked three deep, but atop chairs and tables and counters and in piles on the floor. And we know every nook and cranny of the nearest bookstore. In fact, we drool when the name of it is mentioned. But we also love the library, which is good because otherwise we might not have enough money left over for food and we might have to sleep atop piles of books......

But even in our family, there are levels of love- and my son, Aaron, LOVES the public library.

When he was in high school , he would often go to the library 3 times a week. He would come home with stacks of movies....yes, VHS tapes and DVDs, and even a few books about movies, thrown in. And , once or twice, the book upon which a film was based.
He was so well known that he ended up working at the small local library which is private ,but part of the public library loan system. first as a volunteer and later as a paid helper.

And most of the time, he was even pretty good about getting all of those things back to the library on time.
Most of the time.

The problem is that most of the time is not always.
And videos are a $1 a day fine.

I did not know about this.
I did not know about this because Aaron has his own library card and because the Library would allow him to check out more things , regardless of the amount he owed.
They would.
But, it seems, their policy has changed, and he was confronted with that fact, today, when he and Sarah went o the Library after he picked her up from school.

Aaron was being checked out- I mean his books were- oh, he has, in his religious phase, pretty much stopped borrowing videos and has become a book borrower. This means that he makes substantially fewer trips to the Library, since he reads more slowly than he watches.
So, he was checking out his books, only he wasn't because the computer wasn't allowing it, and the librarian had to come over and help him...becasue the Libarry has changed its policy and Aaron had to pay the fine....or not get to take the books home with him.

Now, to be honest, Aaron very recently did mention that he had a large fine that he had owed for a few years. After all, he is 21 ,ad the fine dates back to high school. He totally startled me when he told me this. He also refused to say how big the fine was, but admitted it might be in the $50 range....might be. But that he was hoping to earn some money and pay it, himself.

Of course, if you haven job that is hard. And he hasn't had one, not since he got home from Israel and not since he told me about the fine; so when the librarian, today, told him that he needed to pay the fine, Aaron took out the money he had, in his wallet, and handed it to the man.

And the man looked at the dollar bill and told him that it wouldn't do, he had to pay the entire chocolately confection. I mean the entire fine.

Sarah told me that Aaron tried, again to offer the man the dollar, and the man again reiterated this new rule.

So, Aaron got out his charge card, the card that his parents pay, the one that is to pay for gasoline and groceries for the household ( what we can afford after buying books) and emergencies. And he paid the fine.

After all, not being able to check things out from the library is an emergency.

Story of the Day 8/ 11/ 2012

My husband received an invoice in the mail. It thanked him for purchasing some things that were sent to a woman in Michigan.

Whom he has never heard of.
Neither have I.
Nor have we ever heard of this company.

My husband looks it up on the internet.
It is a clothing company.
And we have apparently paid for $208 worth of clothes to be shipped to this person whom we don't know in Michigan.

It wasn't our cash and it wasn't our check , so it seems suspicious that it was our charge card. But which one?

My husband sends the company an email.
He explains that we have no idea who this person in Michigan is and that we certainly did not order anything shipped to her, and please tell us how the payment was made.


On Monday, he gets an email back from the company.
It pays to Discover.
At least for the person who got our card number and my husband's name and made the order.


I call Discover and they cancel our card.
Again.
This is the 4th time in a year. the 5th time in a year and a half that someone has used our Discover card.

Meanwhile, my husband has to change our billing information for the newspaper, and the telephone company and the........

When I reported this misuse of our account, the lady at Discover told me that they now have 150 different designs that we can choose from, for our new card.
At no cost.
I admit, I was not considering getting a "fancy" one until I heard that second part.
I thought a moment and asked if they had a WNBA design.
"No."

I told her , then, that I didn't' care what design she gave us.

This was probably mistake on my part.
I should have asked her which design looks best after it has gone through the washer and dryer on high heat, since, while I have never had a lost or stolen card ( just the numbers), I do have tendency to "launder" my money.

I am, however, taking suggestions from people- if you can think of a good design that would look best after being somewhat deformed.

After all, I might as well have my choice ready, since I get a new Discover card about 4 times a year now due to fraudulent activity.

https://www.discover.com/credit-cards/member-benefits/card-design.html

Story of the Day 8/ 9/ 2012

I was driving home from Herron.
I go to Herron on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Herron is the art school of a local university. On Tuesday and Thursday evening they have " alumni" open drawing. That means that alumni, current students , and people like me who just happen to live in Indianapolis go , draw from the model for 3 hours, and chip in a few dollars. Well, the art students don't have to chip in, and the few dollars is usually $5, but those are just details.

Sometime I carpool, sometimes I don't, and I almost always have a cup of coffee at 5 PM. That is so I am not too tired to drive home at 10:30 or 11 PM , but also not so revved up that i can't sleep when I do get home.

The coffee is especially useful on evenings when I do not have stimulating company to converse with on the drive and on evenings like tonight when it is very dark.

My family lives in Indianpolis, in the city, but only because in the 1990's Indianapolsi decided to incorporate all of it's suburbs. well, all of the ones that were in the same county.
As a result, we live in the city in a neighborhood where the houses sit lots that are at least half an acre in size and there are no sidewalks and almost no street lights. Oh, and the city doesn't' plow our streets , in the winter.

The dearth of street lights is an issue, late at night, especially , tonight when it has been storming. Rain, thunder, lightning, and more rain.
While at Herron, the radio's "emergency weather alert" went off numerous times. Heavy winds, possible tornados. We were in the path of the storm, but, at least, not the worst part of it - which was south of us.

So, I was driving home with low visibility, but still with a bit of caffeine propping me up.

I made a full stop at the 3 way stop at 64th street and Spring mill. It is sort of a 4 way stop. The park is on the right/east of me as I head north, and they also have a stop sign for people coming out of their parking area, but the park is closed, this late, so it is just the two directions on Springmill, and 64th on the left that have signs. There are no other cars, but I am one of those annoying people who drive the speed limit. Yes, I am the person you honk at and flash your middle finger at because I am driving 25 or maybe even 26 in the school zone. It has something to do with my vocabulary. You see, I seem to think that the word 'limit" means " limit". Obviously, I have a learning disability.

I also happen to think that the word "stop" on the red and white sign actually means "stop", so I do. Even when I am the only car there at 10:37 PM.

So, I stop, I start up slowly and turn left , headed east on 64th.
About 50 feet after I turn, I see a shape lying in the other lane- the westbound lane/. There is no street light to illuminate it, but there is a slight glint- from two spots and I think it may be a deer- whose eyes are reflecting some light back to me.

I pass it , and think, from what I see out of the side of my vision, that it is a person who is lying there.
I must be wrong.
Maybe it is a bag of trash. But I think it might not be.

I make a left at the nearest street and turn around in a driveway. This street is completely unlit. I drive back, slowly, towards the deer or person or trash.

At a little less than 20 feet, I can see that it is a person. And he is pulling himself up, the part of him that is not under his bike..He has his head and shoulders raised a bit.
I stop my car and put on my flashers.

I get out and start to walk towards him. I realize that he has no helmet. He is wearing dark shorts and a dark t-shirt and is black, and the reflections I saw were two small reflectors on his bike's wheels- that reflected poorly since they were down at a bad angle and in an unlit spot. I am surprised I saw him , at all.

I ask him, as I walk towards him, "Are you all right?"

" I wiped out. The road is wet and a I wiped out."

Maybe he thinks I thought a car had hit him and left him there- actually, I hadn't thought anything - other than "Where is your helmet?"
Oh, and that I am glad I came past him from the other lane. I think I would have spotted him in time and stopped, but I can't be 100% sure- he is barely visible, even if you know what to look for.

I am even more sure of that because a moment later, an SUV comes by in the other lane. he stops because he sees my flashers and me standing there- and asks if I am okay before he realizes there is a cyclist down in the other lane.

Then he asks if the young man is all right. He says he is and gets to his feet.

Then he asks where Guion Road is.........

And, after getting directions from the driver of the SUV, takes off- on the unlit roads.
He was also going the wrong direction when he wiped out.

My house is less than a mile away. I drive very slowly.
I will probably have two cups of coffee, next week.

Story of the Day 8/ 8/ 2012

Today, we are being treated to a story by a guest author, my daughter Sarah:

August 8, 2012

Today in Psychology class, I was a little bit groggy and sleepy. It is hard to be awake at 7:25 in the morning. The teacher said that we were going to play an exciting game that was called, “A Walk Through the Woods.” The rule was that we needed to answer every question that teacher asked by writing it down on our scrap papers.

The teacher said, “OK. Now, you’re walking through the woods and you’re bringing someone with you and who will that person be?”

I stared at my interpreter, deep in thought. I wondered, Who? But I couldn’t think of anyone in particular. Then I randomly thought about squirrels. A lot of squirrels since they live in the woods, so I wrote down, squirrels.

At the end of the game, the teacher explained that the person we wrote down was the most important person in our life right now.

I felt hot and sheepish; squirrels are not people and they were merely a random thought from inside my head, on which I did not intend to have a crush.

At least, this time, the teacher wasn’t collecting our scrap papers…

Though, I kind of wish that she had.

Story of the Day 8/ 6/ 2012 - #2

When Ely was a freshman in high school, he had a teacher who handed out cards.
The students were supposed to write down a bit of information about themselves.
There were the typical questions, name, etc. etc. contact information, etc. etc. parent's names, parents' occupations.

All went well, until after school when he realized he had missed his moment to write down, for mother's occupation, "draws naked people".
He spent the next three years of high school hoping, in vain, that another teacher would provide the opportunity.

Well, today was Sarah's first day of her senior year of high school.
At least, if you do not count summer school, where she disposed of those required Economics and Government classes.

And, today, a teacher handed out a paper upon which she asked the students to put down a bit of information about themselves.
There were the typical questions, name, etc. etc. contact information, etc. etc. parent's names, parents' occupations.

Sarah was operating at a bit of an advantage over her brother.
First of all, she is a senior, so she's had three more years during which she was able to develop her sarcasm.
She also knows about Ely's experience.

So Sarah put down, for mother's occupation, "nude artist."

When she told me this, after school, today, I hesitated....
I told Sarah, "The teacher might misunderstand this to mean that I am nude when I do my art."

Then I realized that Sarah had actually one-upped Ely's plans.

Now, Sarah and I will be waiting to see if her teacher asks for clarification.

Story of the Day 7/ 20/ 2012

This is a short Story of the Day.
Okay, a relatively short Story of the Day.

It is short because we are safely in Binghamton.

We arrived her by way of rental car, after being dropped off at the airport.
The airport in Rochester. Not LaGuardia.

You see, by the time we arrived in Rochester, it was almost time for the awards ceremony. Almost time meaning that taking the time to pick up our rental car would have been....a bad idea.
Instead, we were picked up by a black town car. No not by a black Town Car. Also, not by a blue van pretending to be a black Town Car, but by a Mustang. Sarah and I recognized it because it had a horse emblem on the front. We saw numerous cars - but when we saw the horse emblem, it occurred to both of us, sleep deprived as we were, that this emblem probably was the emblem for a Mustang.

What can I say, this trip has been a learning experience.

The driver of the Mustang had never seen us before, but, apparently, two women standing by the curb at the arrivals pick up area and looking like they had spent a long, sweaty, and body cavity search filled trip getting to Syracuse were hard to miss.

We were taken to RIT with no strange detours, and the air-conditioning was working just fine.

We managed to find some vegetarian food to eat, and proceeded to enjoy the awards ceremony and the chance to sit someplace without worrying about where we were supposed to be headed, in a few hours.
Neither of us was really very concerned when they showed Sarah's video, and forgot to turn on the sound.
As I said, the air-conditioning was working and we were not stranded anywhere, so it was fine.

After being dropped back at the airport, we picked up our rental car with only few minor annoyances. Like the guy at the desk who added extra charges and tried to sneak them past me.
Fortunately, I read contracts before I sign them,
and I noticed that the $218 car rental was no longer $218.

I asked, " Why is this not the same amount I was assured I would get when I made the reservation?"

"Oh, that charge is for the roadside assistance. You don't' want to be stranded if the car breaks down."

" I have AAA, and I brought my card with me."

"And this is for the insurance."

"I have car insurance."

" But it has a deductible."

" I know, take it off."

"But you want to be fully covered."

"Take it off."

We went through this a few more times.
Amazingly, at the end, it cost me $218.

Then it was off to Binghamton with the borrowed GPS and a Trip Tik from AAA. ( the same one whose card was in my wallet.)
This was a rare instance when the AAA Trip Tik came in handy. The GPS was wrong.
Now I know why I paid for that membership.
I bet you thought it was because one of our cars is a 1993 and another is a 1997.

When we arrived in Binghamton, Ely fed us. Food, real , food. Good tasting even.
And we slept in beds that we didn't have to check, first, for bedbugs.
And we got to take showers and change clothes.
And we even got to sleep without being attached by cords to multiple armed, I mean alarmed cell phones.

And , come this morning, we even resembled human beings.

The result of this being that it would have been a lot harder for the lady who picked us up at the airport in Rochester to identify so easily.

In the meanwhile, I have told Sarah that I would be happy if she enters the contest, again, this coming year.

But if she wins, can we please stay home......

Story of the Day 8/ 6/ 2012

This story takes place at the Indian Blood Center on North Meridian Street.
That is where Larry and Aaron went to give blood , this morning.

I went also, but apparently, I just went to drink coffee and eat cookies because they decided I was just a tad too anemic and apparently I need to go eat some dead animals...or chug some iron pills over the next couple of days, and then go back and try again.

When I go back, I will donate blood and Aaron will eat the cookies.
Though, he ate enough for two visits, as it was.

Hopefully, they actually don't mind that he ate at least three meals worth of cookies. He ate several packages of Famous Amos, only two of Grandma's ( they weren't nearly as good) a few Oreo packages and he drank some Sierra Mist.

He is a growing boy.

Also, they took a double unit from him and from Larry so he has a lot of blood to replenish.

On the way home in the car, Aaron asked me if I had someone's phone number.
"No, I have his wife's phone number. She is a friend of mine. I don't have his, but we are friends on FaceBook."

This is a status that didn't exist a few years ago, but, nowadays, people seem to know what I mean.

"Do you know him?"
Like I said, they know what I mean, because it is quite possible to have a "friend" , in this way, whom they have never met.

" Yes. I know both of them.
"I know his wife better, though, She is a Bitchy mother just like I am."
Believe me, I meant this as quiet a compliment, since they are the parents of two Deaf kids, and that is how I describe parents who are good advocates for their children .

My son responded, " I didn't hear you."

I am used to this. he is deaf and using hearing aids in the car means you are trying to figure out what someone is saying over the car and road noise.
"I said that she is ..."

"Stop!"

In other words, he is just trying to pretend his mother only uses nice language.

Too bad, he really isn't fooling anyone.

Story of the Day 7/ 19/ 2012 - part 2

We are at the airport.
Again.

LaGuardia, where we are hoping to embark on a slightly less adventurous leg of our trip.

We have successfully been strip searched.
Okay, not really, but we were patted down ..and by patted down I do mean very thoroughly, enough that if I was someone else I might have been embarrassed. Certainly, the only person who normally touches me in those places is my husband.

We are patted down because the tall deaf teenager with the auburn curls and her chubby middle aged mother with the flowered dress and 3 containers of high spf sunscreen seem suspicious.
But they don't find any drugs.
Other than the three bags (quart sized) of our allergy and my arthritis medications.

I buy coffee.
I buy Sarah breakfast.
I pay some cash, because the breakfast vouchers won't do it.
The milk is bad.
Sarah can't drink it.
I buy a bottle of orange juice and an orange.
That uses up one of the lunch vouchers. Of course, we are hoping to be out of here before lunchtime.

We make our way to our gate.
It is busy. Lots of passengers with tickets and lots of passengers on stand by.
We sit farther away at some laptop and tablet desks, and spread our food out on the mini desk.
There are two women next to us, each at her own little desk.
They are chatting.
They say hello.
One is a young woman from Florida. She is on her way to visit her fiancé in Maine before he ships out.
He is in the military.
She has an airline blanket over her shoulders. She has spent last night at the airport. Luckily, she was in a part that had working air-conditioning.
I give her the other lunch voucher and warn her that everything costs a fortune.
She has already eaten her emergency rations.
I tell Sarah this, and she is stunned that seemingly normal person would do the same thing that her obviously abnormal mother would do.

She tells us that she has deaf cousins, two of them and she knows a tiny bit of sign language, but she is too embarrassed to use it with Sarah.

She is hungry and goes off with the voucher in hand.. She has left her carryon with us and the other lady. We seem to look more trustworthy to her than we to the airport security people.

On the other hand, she is under slept.

She is back in a few minutes.
She has gotten for herself a croissant and a cup of coffee with the voucher and comes back and eats it at the mini desk.
I give her the orange, when she gets back. A croissant isn't enough.

The other lady is from Maine and headed home.
She looks at Sarah and asks me if we have ever been to Maine. She think Sarah looks familiar.
I tell her we have not.
Maybe Sarah has a doppleganger there. Apparently, a deaf one.
Either that or this women is even more underslept than the rest of us.

An hour later, we are boarding the plane and I have texted the man who was supposed to pick us up in Rochetser.
Yesterday.
And who is busy, today, but locating someone who will.
Hopefully, they will not be driving black Lincoln Town car that is really a blue minivan.

Story of the Day 7/ 19/ 2012 #1

The cell phones woke me.
Phones.

After yesterday's smooth leg of our trip, I set my phone alarm, and Sarah's phone alarm and slept with them. On the bed. Next to me, but not actually tied to my body.
I must still have been feeling optimistic.

And I was up and dressed by the time the desk clerk called with the wake-up call.
This was my back-up plan, because, after yesterday, I figured I needed as many back-up plans as possible, and maybe some 4-leaf clovers and a few rabbit's feet. And my neurotic plans turned out to be a good thing, since his call was just late enough that we might not have made it out of the hotel on time.
But at least he remembered.

I figured this was a good sign.
Of course, by now I was rather desperate for anything that I could possibly interpret as a good sign.

Sarah and I shoved our things back into our bags.
By now our things included some rather smelly clothes from yesterday's adventures; and I left a small tip for whomever cleaned the room .
We hauled our butts down to the lobby.
But not before calling the car service. The one that had picked us up from the airport, yesterday, in the black Lincoln town car that was disguised as a blue van.

We checked out and waited by the curb, and , lo and behold, a car that had been black and might have once been a Lincoln town car arrived to take us to the airport.
The air-conditioning didn't work, which wasn't a big deal, since it hadn't yet gotten up to 85, yet; but it wouldn't have mattered, anyhow, since the windows were all broken in the mostly down position, giving us a very effective cooling, on the way to the airport and , thankfully, diverting some of the driver's cigarette smoke to the outside of the car.

She ( the chain smoking driver) dropped us off at the departures area for Delta and we got in line.
And it was quite a line.

When we got into it there must have been at least 400 people in it.
The line wrapped around and around and back and forth and this was only 6:45 AM.
Of course, the line was also swollen out of proportion by the scads of people who were praying to get on with standby tickets from yesterday's cancelled flights.

By the time we worked our way to the front of that part of the line- the part where you show your ticket and your picture ID, not the part where you have your shoes, belt buckle and bags X-rayed and your shampoo measured, weighed and analyzed to make sure the bottle is not over 3 ounces ( and to make sure that you did not commit the cardinal sin of using a gallon bag instead of a quart plastic bag to zip it up in....) well, I can't say it was getting late, because, to be honest, they kept us moving at a decent rate.
Or, at least, the line kept moving at a decent rate, until they got to us.

Our normal protocol ( and, yes, I hesitate to use a pronoun for people in my family in conjunction with the adjective " normal") when going through lines is that I shove Sarah in front of me.
She goes first.
This is because if I go first I am done and gone and she is still standing there waiting for me to interpret for her.
Oddly, this doesn't' work very well.

So, she goes in front of me and hands her boarding pass and her driver's license ( the learner's permit variety) to the man. He looks at the pass and her license and says, "Your name?'
I have added a question mark, but his voice didn't really denote a question.
On the one hand, this seems rather lazy, but, on the other hand, he had been saying those two words over and over to the 400 plus people in front of us...and those were the ones that hadn't gone through the line before we had arrived at the airport.

I signed his question to Sarah and she fingerspelled 'S-A-R-A-H" and I voiced it for her.

"What's that?"
Came the slightly perturbed voice of the man who was still looking at his papers.

I signed his response to Sarah , who replied back to him, "What's that?"
with a slightly different inflection, which I tried to convey as I voiced it for her.

"What's that?"
His voice now had some emotion to it, and was ...confused, at least a little bit.

I conveyed this to Sarah, who again responded, "What's that?"

The man, still not looking up, and with maybe some added irritation in his voice said, What's that?"

To which again, Sarah replied, and I voiced for her, "What's that?" Although, Sarah's response , at this point, was rather relaxed.
She is used to dealing with the intellectually disadvantaged.

Again, the man asks, "What's that?"
I am getting a bit tired of signing the same thing over and over, but I do. That is, after all, my job.

And again....I voice the same reply for Sarah.

This time, he asks his question, and is more than bit perturbed.
And while Sarah is replying with her same calm "What's that?" he looks up.
He catches her signing it and my voicing for her.
And he freezes.

For a moment.

Then his shoulders go back,his eyes go wide in a very uncomfortable way, and he tentatively hands Sarah's boarding pass and ID back to her, looking as if he has realized he is dealing with a rather large and trainer-less grizzly bear.

Sarah and I walk past him and to the next line where we will have our shoes, bags, and hearing aids xrayed.