Housework.
Love it (vacuuming).
Hate it (everything else).
The toilets are icky, the vanities sticky.
The hardwood floors needs a thorough hands-and-knees vinegar scrubbing; the tubs need a rubbing -- with a sanitizing concoction.
Housework.
It's like threading beads on a string with no knot at the end.
Which makes me wonder: does Governor Sarah Palin scrub her tubs and toilets? Does she do her own laundry?
I'm thinking: probably not.
And so there's the great divide. It's simply easier for a woman to work outside the home if she also doesn't have the home duties waiting for her when she gets back.
Case in point: My dearest spousal unit complained this Wednesday last that I stayed at school until 7 p.m. (I had lots to do. Really. Teaching isn't a 7 to 3 job. Seriously.) And, wouldn't you know, when I did arrive at 7 p.m. no one had eaten. Because, apparently, the mom wasn't home to do the cooking.
Now, in all fairness, I should say, because it is simply the absolute truth, that my husband does, indeed, rattle the pans more than most men ... but that night, because I hadn't arrived to notice that he was peeling the potatoes, he hadn't attempted to assemble a dinner at all.
Do we women get accolades from our husbands when we're assembling the lasagna?
I think not.
Wonder where Palin stands on this issue.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Palin a dynamo at the podium ...
The election drama thickens. Last night I watched McCain's Veep approach the podium and wow the assembly.
This gal has gumption. She's poised and articulate and passionate in her philosophies.
I am excited for the Oct. 2 vice-presidential debates.
Watching debates has always entranced me. How DO these people think so quickly?
It will be interesting when the "rubber hits the road" to see if Palin can hold her own against Biden.
I have a feeling she just might be able to do it.
This gal has gumption. She's poised and articulate and passionate in her philosophies.
I am excited for the Oct. 2 vice-presidential debates.
Watching debates has always entranced me. How DO these people think so quickly?
It will be interesting when the "rubber hits the road" to see if Palin can hold her own against Biden.
I have a feeling she just might be able to do it.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Political race is revving up ...
Wow. Wow. Wow.
Normally, I'm not a political junkie. Sure, I'm interested, just not obsessed.
Until now.
First, there was Barack Obama's impassioned DNC speech before 80,000 folks in Colorado. What an orator the Illinois senator is. For forty five minutes I was riveted to my television screen. Riveted. Impressed with his words and his vision. Happy ... no, scratch that ... elated ... ELATED that he finally did some firing back to GOP misclaims. No, there will not be a raising of middle class taxes. ("I will cut taxes for 95 percent of all working families. Because in an economy like this, the last thing we should do is raise taxes on the middle class.") Refuted the Republicans' claim that he isn't patriotic. ("We are the party of Roosevelt. We are the party of Kennedy. So don't tell me that Democrats won't defend this country. I will never hesitate to defend this nation.")
An absolutely stunning, STUNNING speech that was more State of the Union than convention rhetoric.
And then, just when I thought I couldn't be happier (thank goodness there's change coming!), Senator McCain announces his running mate, Sarah Palin, governor from Alaska.
Sarah Who?
Former mayor of what town?
A town of how many? There are more moose and elk there than people.
My first response: McCain just shot himself in the foot. No one knows who this Palin woman is. Surely people won't elect a Veep who had a whopping 900 people vote her in for mayor. I had 400 more votes than that when I was elected to a school board seat.
I thought: Obama just won the presidency.
That was my first response.
Since that first response, I've talked to people (two sisters-in-law and a grocery checkout clerk). They like this Sarah-Who. Why, because she's pretty? This I want to ask, but it seems kind of snotty-pants. You know nothing about her, so why do you like her? This I do ask. And the response I hear is this: "I heard she might be anti-abortion. I won't vote for anyone who is pro-choice." (So much for the McCain camp thinking the maverick will get Hillary's voters.)
Ah, I think: Single-issue voters.
Voters who don't read the paper, don't watch real news programming, don't understand, really, that politics is never about a single issue. Don't try to understand. Just go out and vote for a particular candidate all because of one embedded conviction.
Now that I just don't get.
But I'm listening. And, yes, I'll be watching the Republican National Convention every night, too.
I'm what's called a Big Picture thinker.
Normally, I'm not a political junkie. Sure, I'm interested, just not obsessed.
Until now.
First, there was Barack Obama's impassioned DNC speech before 80,000 folks in Colorado. What an orator the Illinois senator is. For forty five minutes I was riveted to my television screen. Riveted. Impressed with his words and his vision. Happy ... no, scratch that ... elated ... ELATED that he finally did some firing back to GOP misclaims. No, there will not be a raising of middle class taxes. ("I will cut taxes for 95 percent of all working families. Because in an economy like this, the last thing we should do is raise taxes on the middle class.") Refuted the Republicans' claim that he isn't patriotic. ("We are the party of Roosevelt. We are the party of Kennedy. So don't tell me that Democrats won't defend this country. I will never hesitate to defend this nation.")
An absolutely stunning, STUNNING speech that was more State of the Union than convention rhetoric.
And then, just when I thought I couldn't be happier (thank goodness there's change coming!), Senator McCain announces his running mate, Sarah Palin, governor from Alaska.
Sarah Who?
Former mayor of what town?
A town of how many? There are more moose and elk there than people.
My first response: McCain just shot himself in the foot. No one knows who this Palin woman is. Surely people won't elect a Veep who had a whopping 900 people vote her in for mayor. I had 400 more votes than that when I was elected to a school board seat.
I thought: Obama just won the presidency.
That was my first response.
Since that first response, I've talked to people (two sisters-in-law and a grocery checkout clerk). They like this Sarah-Who. Why, because she's pretty? This I want to ask, but it seems kind of snotty-pants. You know nothing about her, so why do you like her? This I do ask. And the response I hear is this: "I heard she might be anti-abortion. I won't vote for anyone who is pro-choice." (So much for the McCain camp thinking the maverick will get Hillary's voters.)
Ah, I think: Single-issue voters.
Voters who don't read the paper, don't watch real news programming, don't understand, really, that politics is never about a single issue. Don't try to understand. Just go out and vote for a particular candidate all because of one embedded conviction.
Now that I just don't get.
But I'm listening. And, yes, I'll be watching the Republican National Convention every night, too.
I'm what's called a Big Picture thinker.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Missing my boy ...
So what if he's twenty?
He still left this morning to go back to college and I feel a bit empty.
For three months he's been home, spending hours on the computer and reading late into the night. For weeks and weeks and weeks now, he and I have sat up until two, even three in the morning, talking about politics and life and religion and evolution.
We've had about a dozen late-night Taco Bell runs, our most recent around 11 last evening. When we got home, he with his spicy chicken burrito and steak quesadilla, I with an ice water (too late for my indigestion-prone tummy to eat), our talk centered on his girlfriend, and how much he is going to miss her.
The boy is smitten with his "little elf," a girl who isn't in college yet, a girl he'll only get to see on holiday breaks and the occasional weekends he comes home.
It is both exasperating and wonderful to talk to my little boy who has become a man.
Where-oh-where did those years go?
Later this week I'll venture into his bedroom to clean up and organize the debris that remains following a hasty packing. Not today, though. No way. His bedroom door shall remain closed until I deal a bit better with his leaving.
He still left this morning to go back to college and I feel a bit empty.
For three months he's been home, spending hours on the computer and reading late into the night. For weeks and weeks and weeks now, he and I have sat up until two, even three in the morning, talking about politics and life and religion and evolution.
We've had about a dozen late-night Taco Bell runs, our most recent around 11 last evening. When we got home, he with his spicy chicken burrito and steak quesadilla, I with an ice water (too late for my indigestion-prone tummy to eat), our talk centered on his girlfriend, and how much he is going to miss her.
The boy is smitten with his "little elf," a girl who isn't in college yet, a girl he'll only get to see on holiday breaks and the occasional weekends he comes home.
It is both exasperating and wonderful to talk to my little boy who has become a man.
Where-oh-where did those years go?
Later this week I'll venture into his bedroom to clean up and organize the debris that remains following a hasty packing. Not today, though. No way. His bedroom door shall remain closed until I deal a bit better with his leaving.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
A hint of fall is in the air
Just got in from walking my beloved canine unit, Bella.
The air: crisp like a potato chip. No hint of humidity. Someone was grilling hot dogs. Children on bikes with training wheels rolled past me and Bella. One of them, a little girl, hopped off her bike to pet the dog. The tyke wore a jacket with a hood framing a kindergarten face. A hood. Yes!
All good signs that fall is coming.
Fall is my favorite season: A time of wienie roasts and pumpkin picking. A time to start the oven up again; a time to buy apples five pounds at a time. A time to bring out the cozy sweaters and pack away the sleeveless.
School here has already begun, and even though my first day of classes felt Very Much Summer, seeing the students wearing plaid skirts and striped polos advertised that tank tops and ratty shorts were being put away.
Another school year is here.
And that's how I measure the year. August to May.
Fresh beginnings.
Intoxicating!
The air: crisp like a potato chip. No hint of humidity. Someone was grilling hot dogs. Children on bikes with training wheels rolled past me and Bella. One of them, a little girl, hopped off her bike to pet the dog. The tyke wore a jacket with a hood framing a kindergarten face. A hood. Yes!
All good signs that fall is coming.
Fall is my favorite season: A time of wienie roasts and pumpkin picking. A time to start the oven up again; a time to buy apples five pounds at a time. A time to bring out the cozy sweaters and pack away the sleeveless.
School here has already begun, and even though my first day of classes felt Very Much Summer, seeing the students wearing plaid skirts and striped polos advertised that tank tops and ratty shorts were being put away.
Another school year is here.
And that's how I measure the year. August to May.
Fresh beginnings.
Intoxicating!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Last Monday at Candy's ...
Yesterday was the final summer pool day at my dear friend Candy's house. Several of us girlfriends had been meeting each Monday throughout the summer to swim and nosh and gossip. Frequently we talk about our spouses and children, about our weight and our jobs, about excursion planning and retirement planning.
Yesterday's conversation, however, wasn't all goodness and light. We talked politics; we are a divided lot. Think The View, only instead of wearing pretty clothes and stage makeup we were decked out in swimsuits and sunburns.
Of the wonderful ladies on Barbara Walters's award-winning daytime talk show, my personality most aligns with that of Joy Behar's. She is a rather outspoken liberal sort, in case you don't know who she is. (Our professional wardrobes are spookily similar as well.)
Elizabeth Hasselback, an ultra-conservative Republican, reminds me of my sis.
The lovely Sheila is a Barbara Walters sort, refined and worldly (Sheila gets to travel a lot!).
And Nancy is a cross between Whoopi Goldberg and that Sherri chick on the show, a woman I can't for the life of me identify as Someone Famous. Was she a soap star? But make Nancy less politically inclined than Whoopi. Whoopi can get very deep very quickly, politically speaking. Nancy is more of a skirt-the-issues-sort. Very Switzerland.
So there we five gals were, lounging on pool floaties, enjoying lemonade and a fierce sun, our tummies full from a salad fest, when someone started in with the politics.
It might have been me; I can't remember. This perimenopause thing has been messing with my memory.
But we talked about abortion rights and Senator John McCain and Senator Barack Obama and the women's movement, and how it has sort of backfired on women (Sheila/Barbara).
Someone (I think it was my sis) brought up the "whining, entitled Hurricane Katrina victims" and how pitiful they were, when the flood-ravaged Iowans weren't complaining at all. When the flood in Iowa was "just as damaging."
That's when things got VERY "THE VIEW" and I, a woman who usually stays quiet on such matters, especially when I can sense I'm outnumbered, did not in fact stay quiet at all. I rather freaked out. Immediately claimed there was no comparison between the two events (Hurricane Katrina and the Midwestern Flood of 2008); I was peeved at the implication that the Louisiana folks were ignorant, government-dependent welfare cases who didn't have the intelligence to get out of dodge before the storms came and swept 300,000 houses away. Conversely, the people in Iowa were behaving perfectly decently and didn't start crying about the government not stepping in to help. (The Republicans' opinions, certainly not mine.)
I was beyond angry. But I didn't have the facts to support my claims. When one is floating on a pool noodle one does not have access to the Internet.
Because we women are all intelligent and benevolent ladies, we never yelled nor watched the spittle flying out of opponents' mouths. We somehow got off that subject and starting talking about something else. I couldn't tell you what, exactly, because inside I was telling myself, Go Home and Look This Stuff Up.
So I did. And then I sent my information on to the pool gals.
No one has fired back with vitriolic messaging. No one has phoned me to blow a whistle in my ear.
We're still friends. We can disagree and debate and by the end of the day there are smiles and hugs. I love my girlfriends. I love that we can engage in controversial subjects and speak our minds and then head out to a Mexican restaurant and giggle over the guacamole.
So that's how The View girls do it, too.
So don't believe what you read in the media about how much Hasselback hates Behar.
Yesterday's conversation, however, wasn't all goodness and light. We talked politics; we are a divided lot. Think The View, only instead of wearing pretty clothes and stage makeup we were decked out in swimsuits and sunburns.
Of the wonderful ladies on Barbara Walters's award-winning daytime talk show, my personality most aligns with that of Joy Behar's. She is a rather outspoken liberal sort, in case you don't know who she is. (Our professional wardrobes are spookily similar as well.)
Elizabeth Hasselback, an ultra-conservative Republican, reminds me of my sis.
The lovely Sheila is a Barbara Walters sort, refined and worldly (Sheila gets to travel a lot!).
And Nancy is a cross between Whoopi Goldberg and that Sherri chick on the show, a woman I can't for the life of me identify as Someone Famous. Was she a soap star? But make Nancy less politically inclined than Whoopi. Whoopi can get very deep very quickly, politically speaking. Nancy is more of a skirt-the-issues-sort. Very Switzerland.
So there we five gals were, lounging on pool floaties, enjoying lemonade and a fierce sun, our tummies full from a salad fest, when someone started in with the politics.
It might have been me; I can't remember. This perimenopause thing has been messing with my memory.
But we talked about abortion rights and Senator John McCain and Senator Barack Obama and the women's movement, and how it has sort of backfired on women (Sheila/Barbara).
Someone (I think it was my sis) brought up the "whining, entitled Hurricane Katrina victims" and how pitiful they were, when the flood-ravaged Iowans weren't complaining at all. When the flood in Iowa was "just as damaging."
That's when things got VERY "THE VIEW" and I, a woman who usually stays quiet on such matters, especially when I can sense I'm outnumbered, did not in fact stay quiet at all. I rather freaked out. Immediately claimed there was no comparison between the two events (Hurricane Katrina and the Midwestern Flood of 2008); I was peeved at the implication that the Louisiana folks were ignorant, government-dependent welfare cases who didn't have the intelligence to get out of dodge before the storms came and swept 300,000 houses away. Conversely, the people in Iowa were behaving perfectly decently and didn't start crying about the government not stepping in to help. (The Republicans' opinions, certainly not mine.)
I was beyond angry. But I didn't have the facts to support my claims. When one is floating on a pool noodle one does not have access to the Internet.
Because we women are all intelligent and benevolent ladies, we never yelled nor watched the spittle flying out of opponents' mouths. We somehow got off that subject and starting talking about something else. I couldn't tell you what, exactly, because inside I was telling myself, Go Home and Look This Stuff Up.
So I did. And then I sent my information on to the pool gals.
No one has fired back with vitriolic messaging. No one has phoned me to blow a whistle in my ear.
We're still friends. We can disagree and debate and by the end of the day there are smiles and hugs. I love my girlfriends. I love that we can engage in controversial subjects and speak our minds and then head out to a Mexican restaurant and giggle over the guacamole.
So that's how The View girls do it, too.
So don't believe what you read in the media about how much Hasselback hates Behar.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
School anxiety ... again!
I wish non-teachers could/might/would understand how much anxiety there is going into a new school year ... for the teachers! People like me who are already having back-to-school nightmares and anxiety attacks buying 24 boxes of Crayolas and hundreds of pencils.
The children, of course, have their unique anxieties (Will I miss the bus? Will I have any friends in my classes? Will I be able to even find my classes? Will my teachers be hags? Will I have the right kind of clothes? Will the other kids make fun of me?).
But we teachers, well, we have anxiety too. Although every single teacher I've talked to has some level of panic, mine always kicks into overdrive once August arrives: Will I oversleep the first day of school and arrive late and haggard and panicky? Will I have healthy colleague relationships this year? Will I be able to produce the level of energy that is needed to educate daily 150 seventh graders? Will the students think I'm pregnant on account of my newest fat roll and decide to give me Slim-Fast for Christmas (this actually happened to a former colleague ... oh, the horror and embarrassment ... ) Will I have good standardized test results? Will my IBS kick in during the middle of class? Will I have off-the-charts-horrific-to-handle-kids? Will I be able to climb the three flights of stairs to get to my classroom without needing oxygen? Will lesson planning and grading and lesson planning and parent meetings and grading and lesson planning and student discipline issues and staff meetings and grading get the best of me this year? Will this be the year I finally throw up my hands and announce, "Well, this is IT! No more teaching for me. I've had IT!!"
It's always possible, I suppose.
The children, of course, have their unique anxieties (Will I miss the bus? Will I have any friends in my classes? Will I be able to even find my classes? Will my teachers be hags? Will I have the right kind of clothes? Will the other kids make fun of me?).
But we teachers, well, we have anxiety too. Although every single teacher I've talked to has some level of panic, mine always kicks into overdrive once August arrives: Will I oversleep the first day of school and arrive late and haggard and panicky? Will I have healthy colleague relationships this year? Will I be able to produce the level of energy that is needed to educate daily 150 seventh graders? Will the students think I'm pregnant on account of my newest fat roll and decide to give me Slim-Fast for Christmas (this actually happened to a former colleague ... oh, the horror and embarrassment ... ) Will I have good standardized test results? Will my IBS kick in during the middle of class? Will I have off-the-charts-horrific-to-handle-kids? Will I be able to climb the three flights of stairs to get to my classroom without needing oxygen? Will lesson planning and grading and lesson planning and parent meetings and grading and lesson planning and student discipline issues and staff meetings and grading get the best of me this year? Will this be the year I finally throw up my hands and announce, "Well, this is IT! No more teaching for me. I've had IT!!"
It's always possible, I suppose.
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