Hearing what you want to say . . .

This will be a quick rant. But how do you explain these contradictory claims made by reporters working for two esteemed newspapers, supposedly sitting in the same press conference?

"The president said he looked forward to the bipartisan health care session on Feb. 25, an opportunity for Republicans and Democrats to sit down together – in a televised session – and share ideas on health care. He said he would be willing to start from scratch, but only if the goals of the legislation remained the same." - From The New York Times

"President Obama on Tuesday said he is open to working with Republicans on a health care reform deal but said he is unwilling to start the legislative process over from scratch, instead arguing that on health care and much of his agenda the GOP minority is going to have to accept some ideas it does not like." - From The Washington Times

Sounds like a case of selective listening to me - which is why I always read several newspapers - one on the right, The Washington Times, one on the left, The New York Times, and one in the middle, The Christian Science Monitor. At least the latter two tend to be well-written.

As to whether or not President Obama is willing to start health care legislation from scratch, I suggest you consult a foreign newspaper. Let's hope Liechtenstein sent a reporter to the press conference.

P.S. In case you are left with any doubt of how each newspaper wants to portray the President, compare the two images attached to the articles. A classic case of visual rhetoric.

Little Things - Part 1

I first noticed Katie on the second day of school. I was making my initial visit as a supervisor for student teachers at an elementary school in Detroit. A brand new first grader, Katie was standing next to the wall sucking her thumb. Though she wasn't crying, she looked forlorn and a bit mystified. The rest of the children were learning proper protocol for washing their hands. Apparently, Katie hadn't been sufficiently enthralled in the presentation and was being disciplined for her infraction.

I soon discovered that Katie was a student in one of the classes I observe. Virtually every time I visited, her name was on the board followed by a series of checkmarks that boldly proclaimed, "Katie was bad - again." She rarely lasted more than a couple minutes before being banished to her desk as the rest of the children gathered on the carpet at the teacher's feet. I never noticed her do anything truly naughty, but she was squirmy and didn't seem to follow instructions immediately. Mostly, she appeared sad. I tried to encourage her with a smile, but she rebuffed my attempts to reach out to her.

One day during seat work, I went to Katie's table. The children were drawing pictures with crayons to illustrate a story. I rummaged through my binder to find a piece of paper, but since I didn't have any blank pieces, the best I could do was tear off a corner from a used piece. It was nothing more than a tiny bit of paper with crooked, rough torn edges. I knelt by Katie's desk and wrote something on the scrap of paper. Not all first graders know how to read, but they have figured out that written text is important. I handed the paper to Katie.

"What does it say?" she asked.

I showed the paper to another little girl sitting nearby. She read the note, "Katie is a beautiful artist." Katie and the other children at the table smiled, Katie most of all.

"I'm going to watch how good you do and write some more," I told her.

I watched Katie as she continued to color her picture. When it was time to go to the carpet, I whispered, "I'm going to watch how quietly you sit and listen on the carpet."

Katie scurried to the carpet. Every few minutes, she looked back at me and smiled. Her eyes said, "Are you noticing how hard I'm trying?"

"Katie is a very good listener," I wrote on the tiny scrap of paper. Later I added, "Katie knows how to raise her hand when she wants to talk."

Just before leaving the classroom, I handed Katie the note. Her classmate read it. The other children looked on in awe. One little girl asked, "Will you make me one of those?"

The next time I visited this class, Katie ran up to me with an enormous grin on her face.

"I still have that paper," she said.

The student teacher told me that she kept the note in her pencil case and proudly showed it to anyone willing to take a look.

Several weeks later, I visited the class for the last time. Katie ran up to me and gave me a big hug. I'm still not sure she knows who I am, but she knows I think she's someone pretty special (which I do).

"I lost that paper you gave me," she announced. "Will you make me another one?"

"Sure," I replied. "I'm going to watch you."

I tore off another corner of scrap paper and began writing, "Katie is very good at math . . . "

Momentous Events

After a blogging hiatus, I am back, for better or for worse. In the midst of teaching at MSU, teaching at the RDC, supervising interns, applying for jobs, rearranging furniture, sewing quilts, eradicating armies of tiny bugs, and supposedly writing a dissertation, I've been suffering from a pronounced case of writer's block. Thus, I shall attempt to gently re-enter the blogosphere with a post teeming with triviality, fully aware that given the current tumultuous state of the world, the state of my toenails is of sub-zero significance.

The undeniable fact remains, however, that I finally (and momentarily) joined the ranks of high society with my first ever pedicure.

The momentous event was sponsored by a dear friend for my birthday. It was not quite the life-changing event promised by another dear friend who suggested that you can literally feel the tension drip from your shoulders during the foot rub (which is why she prescribes a monthly pedicure for dissertation writers). And which is why I fully expected that other patrons would slip on the pile of stress destined to accumulate near my chair. I figured it would probably even require one of those yellow "caution: wet floor" signs. Regretfully, however, I retained much of my stress even after the nice pedicurist put clay and a warm towel on my feet. But I did emerge with very cute toenails.

This photo is evidence of my foray into feminine frivolity. I have just removed the last remnants of polish -- although even in their glory days my toes remained mostly covered up due to a rapid descent into a very chilly autumn. (Who in her right mind gets her first, ever pedicure late September in Michigan?!)


It didn't seem right to have a pedicure without a manicure. So, not long after getting my toes dolled up, I went whole-hog and got a very special manicure. It took nearly three hours and would have taken MUCH longer had it not been for the generous tutelage and assistance of another kind friend. (An aside: this little project was but another one of the zillion pursuits where a Ph.D. turns out to be perfectly useless.)

What do you think?


Yep. That's a spark plug. And my little Subaru now has four brand new ones.

Turns out that although it was kind of fun to be pampered at the salon, I feel more at home as Rosie the Riveter.

Summer Reading

Just read this piece in the New York Times that gives a list of "the best kids' books ever." I've never heard of a few of them. If you go to his blog, he adds to the list and there are over 2000 reader comments adding additional suggestions. Have any of you read the Freddy the Pig series or Lad, a Dog? What do you consider to be one of the best kids' books ever?

My Nephew, the Aspiring (and Adorable) Mountaineer

Can you blame me for being utterly smitten by this little boy who walked an entire mile to the bottom of the trail and then ran back for more?

Digging Out and Digging In

Inspired by a much needed hiatus from school, I have been spending my days of late as part-time archeologist, part-time writer. A rather rhapsodic quest for adventure and meaning, don't you think? I thought so.

My first archeological dig was the top of my bedroom dresser. I've always maintained that the degree of chaos in my house is a precise reflection of the degree of chaos in my life. Based on the state of my dresser, one can safely conclude that I've had months of extreme chaos. The piles that had accumulated were stunning, both in their magnitude and the way they managed to defy gravity ala the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Finding very little of historical value, I gleefully filled three sacks slated for removal to a landfill. I salvaged a few artifacts, but only a very few. (The older I get, the more I embrace the mantra, "leave no evidence.") Dusting the surface area of the dresser was deeply satisfying, due to the amount of dust I collected and the fact that I could now, at long last, see some surface area. I have now moved my dig to the back bedroom aka The Place Where Piles Abound. I fear I'll be digging out at that site for a multitude of days.

When I'm not digging out, I can hopefully be found digging into my dissertation. Unfortunately, but also fortunately, I have to dig in daily with a tablespoon. I'm learning that the only way to sustain an enormous, ambiguous task is by going at it consistently, but in bite-sized chunks. There are days when I'd like to go in with a bulldozer, but then I'd just find myself demolished. (I know this from sad experience.) With any luck, my dissertation will be finished easily before my 75th birthday. And when the happy day arrives, you're all invited to the celebration!

Going Ga-Ga for Google

Some day when I am old and writing my memoirs from a veranda on the French Riviera, I shall organize my life story pre- and post-Google. I'm just old enough to have keen recollection of life without internet (I took a typewriter with me when I went off to college). And I'm young enough to have thoroughly embraced the thrill of cruising down the information highway. In fact, googling for answers to a diverse array of life's perplexing questions has become part of my almost-daily repertoire. For instance, in the recent past I've googled the following topics:

• how to make granola in the crockpot
• the pros and cons of freezing cilantro
  
• interpretations of Leviticus
• memorable quotes from "Monsters, Inc"
• exercises to bolster wimpy triceps
• how to say "thank you" in Swahili, and
• whether the international dissertation tribunal prefers citations to be listed alphabetically or chronologically

As you can see, it's difficult to imagine how deprived my life would be without such crucial bits of information. However, each of these significant searches takes a back seat to yesterday's Googlicious triumph.

Having finally arisen from my prolonged slump of pathetically unproductive days, I was sitting at my kitchen table diligently transferring a slew of video files from my dissertation project onto my new external hard-drive. All was going well until an error message popped up informing me that "the file is too large for the destination file system." What the heck? It was only 4.5 GB and the hard-drive holds 500 GB! I fussed around with it for a while, to no avail. At this point I called the tech-support guys at the university.

"Hmmm," helpful computer geek responds. "I don't know. Maybe you should try restarting your computer. If that doesn't work, google it."

(Might I add that I'm pretty sure this guy is getting paid for his advice.)

Restarting the computer did not fix the problem. So I googled the error message. To make a longer story shorter, I discovered that the problem was likely that the hard-drive was formatted in FAT32 instead of NTFS. Of course, why didn't I think of that?!

I then proceeded to follow recommendations by various benevolent computer gurus who had shared their knowledge online. In the end, I did this:


All by myself. Reprogrammed my computer to transfer files into some new and miraculous form of digital matter. I now have an equal-opportunity hard-drive that is happy to accept files of all shapes and sizes. Furthermore, those few strategic Google searches have practically transformed me into a computer programmer.

Now it's your turn. Seriously. I call on all seven of my loyal readers to post one of your favorite Google searches in the comments. What life-changing information have you acquired recently from googling?

A Fifth-Grader's Perspective on Dissertation Writing

I have a very smart first-cousin-once-removed, who is already smarter than I ever hope to be. Sophie is eleven years old and quite the Renaissance woman. On the phone today she asked about my dissertation (usually she calls it my "disorientation"). Our conversation went something like this:

Sophie: How long does your dissertation have to be?
Me: About 300 pages.
S: 300 pages?! How is that possible?? You're going to write 300 pages about how kids interact with each other? I think you could say everything about that in one page. That's unlawful! Absolutely criminal!
Me: I know. Let this be a lesson to you.
S: Right. To never get myself worked into a dissertation.
Me: Exactly.
S: We'll have to have National Dissertation Mourning Day.
Me: Good idea.
S: Well, I'm extremely sorry from the depths of my soul.

(See. I told you Sophie was smart!)

Gearing Up for Mother's Day

As a single woman nearing 40, I have generally accepted my marital status – or lack thereof. Quite frankly, these days I don’t spend that much time worrying about it. Like everyone, I experience seasons of self-doubt, disenchantment, disappointment, or despair. But overall, I am sincerely happy and at peace. All the same, Mother’s Day wins a slot on my list of “Top Five Things Most Likely to Rip a Hole in My Personal Security Blanket.”

It’s not that I’m opposed to Mother’s Day; on the contrary, I’m all in favor of celebrating mothers and motherhood. It’s just that nothing seems to scream “You are NOT a mother!” more loudly than walking into church on Mother’s Day. It’s the feeling you get when you inadvertently set off the bomb detector in the security line at the airport and all eyes are immediately riveted suspiciously on you. I realize that in reality, nobody in the chapel is actually paying any attention to me, notwithstanding the neon sign over my head emblazoned with the epigraph, “single and childless.” But still, this is how it feels every year, even when I’m on my best behavior and have sincerely and prayerfully tried to look outward and upward on Mother’s Day.

More awkward than walking into the chapel, however, is walking out of the chapel when the meeting ends and the Mother’s Day gifts are distributed. Lately, I’ve tried to sneak out early before this ritual begins. But invariably, some kind soul will notice that I’m not carrying a plant or wearing a candy necklace and will seek to rectify the oversight. But chocolate and flowers – as lovely as they are – make for poor consolation prizes in this case.

I know. You don’t have to have children to be a mother.

I know. God operates on His own timetable and He’s not in the business of forever withholding blessings.

I know. Mother’s Day can be painful for women of all walks and circumstances, including those who have children.

I know. Members of the congregation are only sincerely trying to show love to all the women on Mother’s Day.

And quite frankly, I really wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s good to have a day set aside to honor our own mothers and the mothers around us. All women, with or without children, ought to be a part of the celebration.

And so, this Sunday, I’ll try again to be filled with a spirit of gratitude and unselfishness. I shall attempt to rally all the self-assurance I can muster. Perhaps I’ll even come to church with a red wagon full of potted plants and a magnificent corsage on each wrist.

Regardless, I fully intend to have chocolate for breakfast.

The Benefits of Swine Flu

Swine Flu seems to be the hottest virus in town. The trouble is, I don't have it -- not even the slightest indication -- which sadly implies that I am expected to move forward as though a possible pandemic were not hovering menacingly. Even the illustrious university I attend has issued a warning called "Swine Flu and Final Examinations." This helpful memo reminds us of the health benefits of "social distancing" and recommends that students be seated at least 3 feet from each other to avoid spreading Swine Flu (or answers to test questions). However, since I am not taking any final exams this year, my chances of contracting the virus are slim. And that is an unfortunate fact since I could truly benefit from being quarantined.

In between coughs and sniffles, here's how I'd spend my time if it were my civic duty to remain in my apartment for several days:

a) Sort through the multiple piles of papers that are quickly overtaking both my study and my bedroom.
b) Give away clothes that don't fit, are threadbare, or are seriously out-dated (thus, dispensing of most of my wardrobe).
c) Hang the stack of pictures that have been waiting for over six months to adorn my bare walls.
d) Begin transcribing and analyzing the mountains of data I've already acquired from the first couple weeks of my dissertation study.
e) Read Silas Marner -- our book club read for the month.
f) Write thank you notes for the past three years' gifts and kind services.
g) Do something with my three crates marked "for scrapbook." (This could involve a bonfire.)
h) Sleep.

In other words, I'm dying to do some serious digging out from the pile-up that's been accumulating for months.

Anyone wanna go to Mexico??

Random Tidbits

March passed by with the grace and elegance of a herd of hungry hippopotami. The good news is that I get to try again in April. Here are a few highlights from recent weeks:

• I finally submitted my first research article for publication in an academic journal. This silly paper has been several years in the making. I shall send up a flair the moment I receive my first rejection letter.
  
• I became so sleep deprived that I could actually feel my brain cells evaporating. I'm quite sure if I were to have an MRI, the scan would show several large regions of my brain that strangely resembled Cream of Wheat.
• Since I was already operating on minimal cerebral power, I decided to run a 5K with my friend. It was thrilling! I took something like 145th place and won a purple toothbrush AND a gold medal worth approximately 18 cents. The exhilaration was only slightly diminished by the post-race crippling effect. My early morning walks with another friend apparently did not count as sufficient training!
  
• Last Sunday, I got a flat tire, accidentally flung a pitcher of water on the floor during nursery, and watched with amazement as one of our new nursery children managed to cry with such determination that she threw up. The day was redeemed, however, by the opportunity to sing with our wonderful stake choir for an Easter concert.
  
• Thanks to divine intervention, I finally was able to acquire enough participants to start my dissertation project. In the process, I have been forced to enter the 21st century since high schoolers seem to communicate almost exclusively by texting. So in the past week, I've met and exceeded my all-time record of text-messaging -- although it still takes me 10 minutes to text one sentence.

On that note, G2G. PLZ have a GR8 day!

In Praise of Sleep

Am I the only one who finds it completely impossible to live with myself (let alone with the rest of the world) when I'm sleep deprived?

It's stunning how bleak everything seems when I don't get enough shut-eye. I even resent the cute little birds chirping outside my window. Can't you critters at least sing on pitch?! I can't decide whether to shoot the birds or jump off the balcony myself.

On the other hand, after a good night's rest (even better, a string of them), my melodramatic tendencies subside considerably and I am able to go about my business in a cheerful sort of way. The impossible takes on an aura of possibility. The annoyances seem less important. And the little birds become downright charming.

Amazing.


Image used under creative commons license. Photo by SMN.

Dealing with Drugs (not to be confused with drug dealing)

This is not a joke. But it is testament to the stunning inefficiency of our "state-of-the-art" healthcare system.

Background:

One day a friendly drug rep walked into my doctor's office.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" the swankily-dressed drug rep proclaimed, "The FDA has approved a new and remarkable drug for your patients suffering from Megalufidum!"

(Disease name has been changed in accordance with the Patient Privacy Act of 1612).

"You'll be thrilled to know that instead of a 10-inch horse needle, this magical serum can be administered with a teeny tiny needle that does not inflict pain, but provides the patient with the sensation that he or she is sipping lemonade on a beach in Honolulu."

She goes on to explain how this new drug, Lemonada, has been clinically proven to be as effective as the old drug, Maximus.

"Furthermore," she says, "we are sensitive to the insurance travails you regularly experience trying to get Megalufidum drugs approved and paid for. Thus, as part of our welcome package, Lemonada customer service agents will do all the work for you to make this transition as smooth as possible. And if there are any insurance troubles, we'll provide Lemonada free of charge to your patients diagnosed with Megalufidum. You can rest assured: We CARE about your patients' health!"

My doctor is not one to fall for the antics of every drug rep who walks through the door, but he is sympathetic to the horse needle required to inject Maximus. He responsibly reads the research on Lemonada and is convinced of the drug's efficacy.

So at my next appointment, the nurse cheerfully tells me about Lemonada. It sounds good.

"I'll try it," I say.

I fill out a form that she will fax to the Lemonada folks.

"They'll take care of the rest," she assures me with a smile.

What Happened

After spending nearly 7 hours on the phone over four days that involved 2 doctors in two states, 3 clinic receptionists, 2 registered nurses, 2 pharmacists, 1 persistent drug rep, 1 patient training representative, 1 home health nurse, and approximately 9 customer "service" agents from my insurance company . . . .

I decided NOT to switch to Limonada for the following reasons:

a) The insurance would only cover a dosage lower than was not what my doctor recommended. The dosage I needed was going to cost $7000 (I'm not kidding.)

b) The "too good to be true" salespitch from the Limonada folks turned out to be, in fact, too good to be true.

c) My insurance went ahead and delivered Maximus to the doctor's office even though I had canceled the order and had verified that cancellation with at least three insurance reps.

Meanwhile . . .

The whole process had serious consequences on my mental and spiritual well-being since it a) drove me to the verge of a nervous breakdown and b) left me with such un-Christian feelings towards the insurance folks and drug marketers that I've probably lost any hope of a place in heaven.


P.S. I actually do not blame the insurance reps I spent hours on the phone with -- they are merely pawns in the hands of a broken, dysfunctional, self-serving system established by someone else.

Finally . . .

After five months of being cold most of the time, on Friday I experienced a rare and wonderful sensation: warmth. In my drafty, poorly insulated apartment. Without several layers of clothing, the heat turned up to unaffordable levels, or my little space heater dutifully forcing frozen electrons to burst out of their happy orbits.

In fact, I was even a tiny bit hot.

Of course, Saturday and Sunday were back to chilly, rainy, and gray.

But I'll take what I can get. Besides, the proliferation of bugs in my apartment can only signal that spring is on its way.

World Peace in the Basement

I just returned from teaching English at the Refugee Development Center. We meet in the basement of an old church in downtown Lansing. My class in some ways is a microcosm of the world -- the main difference being that my students peacefully co-exist. The largest group is from Cuba, but others come from Iraq, Egypt, Myanmar, China, Burundi, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Mexico. They are Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists and speak nine different languages. Each has come to America hoping for a better life for their children. Most are unemployed (the curse of Michigan), but each one would gladly have a job -- anything. The ones who are fortunate eek out meager livings working at a factory, doing housekeeping, or preparing food. The women cook and clean the house. Everyone watches a lot of television. They study English. The American dream seems awfully tarnished, but they don't complain - except about the weather. I don't blame them.

Meanwhile on Monday and Wednesday evenings, we struggle together to figure out words that are commonly taken for granted.

"Boyfriend? Like a small boy who is your friend?" one man asks.

"A cousin is your mother's sister's son or your father's sister's daughter or your mother's brother's son. You know - your grandmother's grandchildren!" I gaze out at a room full of blank stares. I had hoped that the funny-looking family tree I drew on the board might be helpful. But no - "cousin" turns out to be more complicated than I had anticipated.

We press on, forging through the linguistic impasses that continually creep up. The students whisper translations to help their friends or to double-check their hunches. They smile at me and play along with my sometimes misguided plans.

I tell them that my mother has seven brothers and three sisters. But she only has two daughters.

"How many children do you have?" they ask.
"I don't have any children."
"No children?" They seem surprised.
"You are not married?"
"No," I confess.
"What your birthday?" a middle-aged man (a former army officer) from Afghanistan asks. I know what he's trying to say.
"I'm 38." (Or am I 37? I never can remember these days.)
They don't know how to respond. Their faces reveal a combination of pity and astonishment.
"I'm old," I interject. "I need to find a husband." The Afghani man nods in agreement.
One of my Burmese students, a young woman with striking features and gorgeous brown eyes reassures me.
"I don't see 'old'," she says, "I see beautiful."

We spend the last ten minutes of class singing along with John Denver. I've discovered that people will often sing when they're too nervous to speak.

"'Cuz I'm leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go. . . ."

The lyrics seem to resonate.

Now the time has come to leave you.
One more time, let me kiss you.
Close your eyes, I'll be on my way.
Dream about the days to come
when I won't have to leave alone. . .

Class is over and my students gather their things. Echoes of "Thank you, teacher!" fill the room.

"No," I think. "Thank you."