Eat Whoopi Love

Our dog Whoopi is dying.

At 14, the diagnosis of Lymphoma is pretty tough to take, but not completely surprising. She's rated at 14 years (dog size, breed, etc.) and she celebrates her 14th birthday today. She was born about 5 weeks before the day after Thanksgiving, 1996. She came home today, 1996, a tiny puppy that would lay on Rob's chest, shivering and licking his face and crying if he made a movement like he was getting up.

She's been everything a great dog can be- loyal, loving, cuddly, alert, happy, and all the rest. No way, here, to memorialize how great she has been. Rest assured, though she's the whole package.

But she's not dying right.

Luckily, these days, she's in good spirits. The cancer makes her a little weak, a little more likely to lay in the sun and snooze and a little slower to react to the world around her. It's heartbreaking, but we understand the process, and try to not break into tears each day.

What gets me, though, is her focus on the every day. She's hungry.

The vet put her on Prednisone, which increases her appetite and makes the symptoms manageable. It's working well.

What I'd like to see, though, is a dog as wise as she is (and she is wise- no question) start to concentrate on the eternal and unzip from the earthly. I'd like to see the faraway look in her eyes and know she is putting her life in order, making sense of the events that make up her life and her experience, and preparing herself for the great what's next.

Instead, she cries for more food. It's unsettling.

We feed her, of course, and feed her a little more because of the meds. We're very careful with the dogs- dog food only, no people food because it's unhealthy, etc. But we have relaxed the rules a bit with Whoopi- at this point the cheese won't do more harm than the Lymphoma.

But the crying is tearing my heart. Where's the guru-buddha-belly dog that I rely on? Is food really the final important thing?

And maybe she'll finish out her own way. Maybe at this point, the important thing is for her needs to be met, and not my existential angst. My questions might take a back seat to her need for treats.

She's earned that.

The Year of the Comma

It's a little challenging, trying to find signs everywhere-
When I'm shaken, I wonder... what should I do?

Maybe the answer is 44- my age, right now. 44.

In ANSI code, the number 44 corresponds to the comma. A pause, for reflection.
An idea? Maybe it's a great year to pause and reflect.
In general, commas separate. A good year to separate the things in my life, decide what to keep, and what I'm done with?

We'll see.

So, THIS is what 44 feels like (or 36000 mg Paxil)

happy post birthday to me! One day into 44 and I feel pretty good about it.
That's lucky, because that's about all I'm feeling good about.

Home yesterday and today, taking some sick time because, well, I'm pretty sick. I need some time off to get a little or a lot of perspective. Nice to have this to write out my feelings.

This week, Wednesday, I had a meltdown and was remarkably unprofessional. Maybe I was right, probably not, but it's made me wonder what's going on.
Last year, I sent a kid to the office for not having a pencil for class. Really.
And that's been bothering me for a while now- is that who I have become? Apparently.

Wednesday, I called a counselor and asked if I could talk to her about a student who was dropping my class (present tense, but in fact he had already dropped the class- my input not required- so past tense would have been more correct). I asked if we could talk about student x and her reply was succinct and to the point, "No. It doesn't matter."

My opinion doesn't matter.

Since I tend to take things and run with them (it's my signature move, unfortunately), I went ballistic. "Really? My opinion about a student doesn't matter?" Then I used, well, unfortunate words that basically boiled down to this: When my opinion doesn't count, I wonder why I'm here.

And I do wonder why I'm here.

Am I here to send kids to the office for silly reasons? Am I here to care about kids and their well being? I'm just not sure.

For years now, I've been true believer- kids matter, the work is important, we're all in this together. I'm on campus from 8 AM to pretty late at night, teaching, then shooting the games, then editing the images and posting them on the web for parents/kids to look at, download, etc.
I also maintain the school web site, built programs that manage the tardies/detentions, the school calendar, the testing systems etc. Happy to help; if a computer application can save time, then I'm happy to spend some time writing it. If I spend 40 hours making something and it saves someone 80 hours, then that's great.

But it does come with a cost, and the cost is just a little too high.

Caring about kids is, well, painful. They can have complicated, awful lives (or excellent, happy lives, or somewhere in between). Paying attention to kids, noticing them, wondering and worrying about them, takes time and energy. I'd like to think I do it because I choose too, but that's naive.

I'm built to care; I can't seem to turn it off.

Now, caring is too painful. My concern isn't important, relevant, required, asked for, valued, or even listened to. That's the way of things, or the new way of things. When I ask at my school site, "why don't counselors want teacher input?" I'm met with blank stares.

Of course, I'm told teachers ARE important, valued, etc. And then we're ignored. Actions do speak loudly.

My solution? 36000 milligrams of Paxil.

Not all at once! But, 20 milligrams of Paxil a day, 180 days is 3600 milligrams a year. Ten years until retirement? 3600 mg multiplied by ten years means 36000 mg, and then I'm done!

I need the job, the health care, the retirement package. I can't keep going the direction I've been going; I need to find a way protect myself. It's not a perfect solution, but the one I can see in front of me.

Thoughts?

Oregon!

Traveling in Oregon, visiting the property in Astoria.

LOVING it, but missing Robbie and the dogs.
++ Ft. George Brew Pub, Washington Lighthouses, Bowpicker Fish and Chips!
+ Alamo Rental Cars @alamocares twitter reviewer (Kevin) for picking up my tweet and asking if he could help (I tweet as HooversDad)

I'll post photos at www.dan-nelson.com soon- but now, goodnight!

Movie Monday: Movies I'd go see

No one listens to me, but of course I have really great ideas. Really, I do. In fact, here are three quick movie ideas.

1) Betty White & Matt Damon team up to fight crime, or run a beach side restaurant, or realize they were in love in some smashed up past.

2) Private think tank that tries to fight terrorists from far away countries. The threat? either a odorless, colorless gas that releases the adhesive from all post-it notes, or a computer virus that causes all television programs' scenes to be broadcast in random (rather than chronological) order.

3) Romantic comedy: Kai Ryssdaal and anyone.

Just a few; now will someone please make these? Thanks.

To: for Thursday? Letter to the (incoming) Editor

To: Jessie Hovermom-Entitled, Editor-in-Chief 2010-2011
From: Ms. Overit, Journalism Adviser
cc: Mr. Ossified, Principal, Hannibal Hamblin High School

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Jessie,

I was so happy to get you emails last night. Thanks for thinking of me over the summer! I know it's hard to track me down since I don't 'tweet' and I don't 'facebook' and I still consider 'myspace' to be the four walls of my house. Good old fashioned 'email' will have to do, I'm afraid. Thanks for understanding that I am stuck in the 'old days.' I do hope that your comment about my not moving past the industrial revolution was just a joke!

I didn't realize that 'friend' had become a verb. As your teacher, I think we should remain 'teacher/student'.

Also, as we start out the school year, I'd like to let you know that I do stop reading my email at about 10 PM, so sending 28 emails with frantic subject lines, and then having your mom send another 17, doesn't make a difference if the computer is turned off. If possible, could you also capitalize your letters when appropriate and spell out your acronyms? Thanks.

My goodness but you are full of ideas for the Battling Brine Shrimp Standard!

Your enthusiasm is very nice to see. Some of the proposed changes are a little out of our reach, but we'll see what we can do! Here are a few thoughts I've had:

1. The hourly feature "what are the kids from Jersey Shore doing RIGHT NOW" is interesting. I'm not entirely sure how we might find that out, or post it, or if those hourly posts would get in the way of attending your other classes. So, we'll put that down for a 'maybe'. (Is there really someone named 'Situation'? Curious)

2. Your proposal for a piece that covers "Why Mindy is a Big Fat Slut" is a little troubling. While you make your argument at length, I think Mindy and her parents might have issues with your characterization. I do remember discussing Libel and Slander in class last year after the trouble with our coverage of the "Nerdy Knights" of the chess team. Might I suggest you ask Kyle why he decided to date Mindy instead of you, rather than splash your ideas in the hallowed pages of the Standard?

3. Renaming the Clubs section to "What the Losers Do At Lunch" might step on a few toes.

4. It's probably better if we don't announce that the Shrimp Varsity Football team lost all their games BEFORE the season even starts. Making up scores is frowned upon by almost every major news organization (except those owned by Rupert Murdoch, of course). We'll have to let the season play out.

5. Posting your mom's recipe for Chipotle Matzo Ball Soup might be a good idea. Can we edit out "serve with Bourbon"?

6. I'm glad your mom, dad, aunt, uncle, grandfather, neighbor, and nanny are all attorneys; what interesting conversations you must all have! However, I think threatening the school and district to let us publish 'whatever we feel like or else' might set the wrong tone.

7. Deadlines are important. Writing "loser" in Sharpie on the foreheads of the staff members who miss a deadline is an interesting idea. Let's discuss this further.

8. Sponsoring our own dance so that you can be crowned Queen sounds like it would prove a little distracting. And having said dance at your house probably crosses a 'risk management' line.

9. Coupons DO have to be submitted by the businesses. We can't just publish "90% off anything you want in the mall" coupons.

10. We might be able to find a gavel for you this year. A crown is a different story.

Thanks again for your email(s). I do look forward to working together this coming year to take the Standard better!

NEW: Fiction Friday

at a lunch with a friend recently, she reminded me that I had hoped to spend more time on fiction than non-fiction with my writing, and ask the worst question in the world, "so, how's that going?"
She'll be punished.
With that, the next few weeks will be character sketches here on Fiction Fridays (posted on Saturday- what, you were never late?)
--

She isn't tall, she isn't thin, she isn't beautiful and without a calculator her math suffers (although she remembers life before calculators, so she isn't young, either). But she is and has always been smart about people. Brilliant, even. Especially about men.

At seventeen, her friends went on with "can you believe he said that? Did that?" and she realized that her first answer, "of course", wasn't the answer to keep her friends. And at twenty three she learned that her eye roll when another friend was tearing up about what an impossible man so-and-so was was never received well. Hours in the mirror helped her to learn to look compassionate, and concerned, and surprised, when her close friends went on (and on, and on) about this boy, or that boy, or the other boy, or occasionally this girl, or that girl. She was well versed in the occasional cluck, the drawn together lips, the furrowed brow. Playing the game was important.

She did care; she just wasn't surprised when men acted like men. Men treat women poorly, sometimes on purpose and sometimes for no reason. Being surprised about it was like being surprised when the sun came up or the fog rolled in. It's like toast popping up in the toaster- inevitable.

Finding a man was easy for her; it always had been. She has expectations, limits, rules and rewards. Her clarity and the ease with which she approached love and intimacy were always well received. So successful was she with men that it was always her who had to break up with him, whomever he happened t0 be. She had earned a reputation in town, and was all the more popular for it. Some women were jealous- what did she have that brought in the strong muscular (and always needy) types, or the wealthy and successful (and always seeking approval) types? Years ago she would have been branded a witch, a sorcerer, a gypsy with potions or some such.

When she had married, she had married to her advantage. Looking for men of means, with short attention spans and generous natures, had netted her two husbands who had helped her on the road to independence. The first husband, Gerald, paid off the college loans and left her with a bit of a nest egg when he left. His apologies were heart felt; she had let him down gently. Her second husband, John, was quite a bit more successful, quite a bit more generous, and quite a bit more guilt-wracked about his affair with his secretary.

She always knew it wasn't her; always knew that a man had to chase the next beautiful woman to come along; always knew that the only way to avoid death for him was to stay young forever. Youth favors a moving target. By the time she celebrated her thirty eighth birthday she knew that John wasn't long for her world, but had squirreled way enough to be comfortable, but not so much that he would have thought her callus and calculating when the discovery phase came around. She gave him her absolution and he gave her a substantial sum and a stipend and both walked away happy.

Finding her days empty, she wondered what she could do that might engage her. Another man seemed like a lot of work; a career felt like a marriage without a final settlement; and charity work appeared to be fraught with cheerful, bitter women with long tedious stories who wore silly shoes and unfortunate eye makeup. She wanted sanctuary, a safe place, a quiet room to think and not be disturbed too often by frivolous types.

She opened a bakery, downtown, across from a gym, next to a yogurt shop, and two doors down from a yoga studio. Who would be likely to wander through such a gauntlet for empty calories and chocolate sprinkles? Only her kind of people- women who had finally become themselves.