1) Your career counselor who sits on a stability ball all day... when you are walking into the same gym class that uses stability balls
2) Your friends from the track team... when you are jogging 12-minute miles
3) Your cousin whose name you can't remember... when ever
4) Anyone... when you are at the store buying tampons or pads
5) Friends and family who know you in real life... when you are on a secret spy mission
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Breaking the Mold
Thirteen years old, in the eighth grade, and eager to please adults. My internal clock woke me up before 5 a.m. every first day of school; body and mind ached mid-way through Christmas break to return to classes; and my journal entries largely consisted of statements like, “I got a 101% on my math quiz, but I missed three extra credit points. I will do better next time.” I remember crying the day I got a B+ on my French quiz and Madame Cerri told me matter-of-factly that I needed to deal with it—that I wouldn’t always be perfect.
Every day I walked to Mr. Moran’s English classroom at the end of the building in the classroom closest to Crown Ave. It was California. Classrooms were outside and I could watch people walking by our classroom through the window. The leaves never changed color, and it never snowed, but occasionally it would rain. I loved the rainy days—hearing the rain beat on the overhang, seeing sheets of water pouring off of the roof, dodging earthworms on the sidewalk, and deciding which teacher’s room to spend lunch in.
A year earlier Mr. Russo asked me if I thought he was pious and made me look it up when I didn’t know what it meant. After consulting the dictionary, my answer was “no.” The same year Mr. Russo taught me about piety, Ms. Leidenthal told everyone my voice was cute. My voice didn’t sound particularly cute to me, but then I heard a message I had left for my mom on our answering machine and it sounded different than when I hear myself talk.
In Mr. Moran’s class we read To Kill a Mockingbird and Inherit the Wind. We learned how to write. We really learned how to write. We learned the five paragraph essay. I love the five paragraph essay. I loved it then and I love it now. I think that the five paragraph essay is the perfect model of clarity. During my senior year of college I gave a talk in church, and a girl from my ward approached me after to tell me she loved that I used a five paragraph essay format in my talk. The single most valuable thing I learned in my junior high and high school educational experience was the five paragraph essay; thanks, Mr. Moran.
In the midst of this love of conformity, I was defiant. I loved rules and obeying them only to a point, only when the rules seemed logical or reasonable or I respected the person teaching me the rules. Our school had a “Senior Lawn” and a “Senior Patio.” The summer before learning about the five paragraph essay, I was taking algebra—for fun—and our classroom bordered the senior lawn. I walked across the senior lawn to get to my classroom. I stood on the lawn during our breaks from our daily four hours of class. Some soon-to-be-seniors on the cross country team (I think one was named Tatiana, I can still see her face) saw me one day, and I think I even made a face at them. On the first day of eighth grade copies of my yearbook picture were posted all over the wall by the senior patio with the words “Kick Me” written on the posters.
I cried during home room with Mrs. Page. My friend, Caia, abandoned whatever teenager fight we were having that day and went with me to the pay phone so I could call my parents. I’m sure my mom made some calls to Mr. Bachman, the school principal, but this time, my dad called too. Mr. Bachman talked to the senior girls involved. They said I had taunted them. He didn’t do anything. My parents decided I would go to public school the next year.
The rest of eighth grade passed with only minor disruption. Mrs. Ensor, my history teacher, arrived at school one day after being in the bank while it was robbed for the seventh time. She was shaking. Now that bank is a Citibank, and the only one in the area that has bulletproof windows. Katie Kimble won the school science fair when her mom was our science teacher and her dad was the judge. I played my flute in Mrs. Abernathy’s “orchestra” and hated it. I settled for nothing less than an A+, except in P.E. where I kissed-up to Mr. Fernandez in order to get an A. I continued to follow the rules and resent them when they were illogical. And over time, I loosened up. Other things started to matter. The five paragraph essay found its proper place, and occasionally, I break the mold.
Every day I walked to Mr. Moran’s English classroom at the end of the building in the classroom closest to Crown Ave. It was California. Classrooms were outside and I could watch people walking by our classroom through the window. The leaves never changed color, and it never snowed, but occasionally it would rain. I loved the rainy days—hearing the rain beat on the overhang, seeing sheets of water pouring off of the roof, dodging earthworms on the sidewalk, and deciding which teacher’s room to spend lunch in.
A year earlier Mr. Russo asked me if I thought he was pious and made me look it up when I didn’t know what it meant. After consulting the dictionary, my answer was “no.” The same year Mr. Russo taught me about piety, Ms. Leidenthal told everyone my voice was cute. My voice didn’t sound particularly cute to me, but then I heard a message I had left for my mom on our answering machine and it sounded different than when I hear myself talk.
In Mr. Moran’s class we read To Kill a Mockingbird and Inherit the Wind. We learned how to write. We really learned how to write. We learned the five paragraph essay. I love the five paragraph essay. I loved it then and I love it now. I think that the five paragraph essay is the perfect model of clarity. During my senior year of college I gave a talk in church, and a girl from my ward approached me after to tell me she loved that I used a five paragraph essay format in my talk. The single most valuable thing I learned in my junior high and high school educational experience was the five paragraph essay; thanks, Mr. Moran.
In the midst of this love of conformity, I was defiant. I loved rules and obeying them only to a point, only when the rules seemed logical or reasonable or I respected the person teaching me the rules. Our school had a “Senior Lawn” and a “Senior Patio.” The summer before learning about the five paragraph essay, I was taking algebra—for fun—and our classroom bordered the senior lawn. I walked across the senior lawn to get to my classroom. I stood on the lawn during our breaks from our daily four hours of class. Some soon-to-be-seniors on the cross country team (I think one was named Tatiana, I can still see her face) saw me one day, and I think I even made a face at them. On the first day of eighth grade copies of my yearbook picture were posted all over the wall by the senior patio with the words “Kick Me” written on the posters.
I cried during home room with Mrs. Page. My friend, Caia, abandoned whatever teenager fight we were having that day and went with me to the pay phone so I could call my parents. I’m sure my mom made some calls to Mr. Bachman, the school principal, but this time, my dad called too. Mr. Bachman talked to the senior girls involved. They said I had taunted them. He didn’t do anything. My parents decided I would go to public school the next year.
The rest of eighth grade passed with only minor disruption. Mrs. Ensor, my history teacher, arrived at school one day after being in the bank while it was robbed for the seventh time. She was shaking. Now that bank is a Citibank, and the only one in the area that has bulletproof windows. Katie Kimble won the school science fair when her mom was our science teacher and her dad was the judge. I played my flute in Mrs. Abernathy’s “orchestra” and hated it. I settled for nothing less than an A+, except in P.E. where I kissed-up to Mr. Fernandez in order to get an A. I continued to follow the rules and resent them when they were illogical. And over time, I loosened up. Other things started to matter. The five paragraph essay found its proper place, and occasionally, I break the mold.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Living in a Senior Citizen Center
My apartment building is a cross between a retirement home and the opening scene of Disney's cartoon version of 101 Dalmations. You know the scene where Pongo starts barking so Roger will take him to the park and you see all the dogs with owners to match (like the artist with the long shaggy hair whose dog has those long furry shaggy ears) before Pongo and Roger meet Perdita and Anita (wow, their names even rhyme)? This all makes for some interesting scenes in the lobby and at the park in front of our building.
Indicators that I live in a retirement home:
1) Every Monday morning there are Krispy Kreme donuts in the lobby and a group of old people sitting in the chairs having their breakfast. Sometimes when I ride the elevator with an old person I overhear the greeting, "you're late!" so this is obviously an integral part of their week.
2) Every month each apartment gets a calendar of events. There is something for every day of the month. Thursdays are book swap days; Mondays are, of course, donut days; and sometimes there are even pet contests. I think if you dress your dog up for Halloween and take him to the leasing office you get a treat (and I think your dog does too). No other apartment complex I have lived in has a monthly event calendar for the residents, but I think my grandfather's nursing home did.
3) I frequently ride the elevator with one elderly woman. She is under 5 feet tall, but she sure is a fireball. Recently we had a cold spell and this woman spent our entire elevator ride telling me how it was time for management to turn on the "damn" heat. I didn't tell her that I was still using my air conditioning. Now that they've turned on the heat and temperatures are back in the 70's outside, it's "hot as hell" in our apartment. Thanks, old lady.
Indicators I am living a scene from 101 Dalmations:
1) The management office plans events for not just the human residents, but yes, also the dogs that live in the building.
2) There are doggie treats right next to the bowl of mints by the elevator.
3) I have seen more types of dogs in the past two and a half months than ever before in my life. Short dogs, tall dogs (yes dogs can be quite tall). Skinny dogs, fat dogs. White dogs, black dogs, and everything in between. Poodles and pit bulls. Chihauhaus and collies. I feel like I'm rewriting P.D. Eastman's Go Dog Go!
Indicators that I live in a retirement home:
1) Every Monday morning there are Krispy Kreme donuts in the lobby and a group of old people sitting in the chairs having their breakfast. Sometimes when I ride the elevator with an old person I overhear the greeting, "you're late!" so this is obviously an integral part of their week.
2) Every month each apartment gets a calendar of events. There is something for every day of the month. Thursdays are book swap days; Mondays are, of course, donut days; and sometimes there are even pet contests. I think if you dress your dog up for Halloween and take him to the leasing office you get a treat (and I think your dog does too). No other apartment complex I have lived in has a monthly event calendar for the residents, but I think my grandfather's nursing home did.
3) I frequently ride the elevator with one elderly woman. She is under 5 feet tall, but she sure is a fireball. Recently we had a cold spell and this woman spent our entire elevator ride telling me how it was time for management to turn on the "damn" heat. I didn't tell her that I was still using my air conditioning. Now that they've turned on the heat and temperatures are back in the 70's outside, it's "hot as hell" in our apartment. Thanks, old lady.
Indicators I am living a scene from 101 Dalmations:
1) The management office plans events for not just the human residents, but yes, also the dogs that live in the building.
2) There are doggie treats right next to the bowl of mints by the elevator.
3) I have seen more types of dogs in the past two and a half months than ever before in my life. Short dogs, tall dogs (yes dogs can be quite tall). Skinny dogs, fat dogs. White dogs, black dogs, and everything in between. Poodles and pit bulls. Chihauhaus and collies. I feel like I'm rewriting P.D. Eastman's Go Dog Go!
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Ultra-Pasteurized Milk
Growing up I learned two things about grocery shopping: 1) always get the best price per ounce of anything you are buying, especially cereal (my dad's rule mostly); and 2) always get the "best date" (the latest expiration date) for your purchases (my mom's rule mostly). One time when I was in college and on vacation with my family I put these grocery shopping skills to use. It was a Saturday evening, and we needed milk for our cereal the next morning (we don't shop on Sunday because of our religious beliefs, so it was critical to get milk on Saturday night). My mom dropped me off at the door of the grocery store and instructed me to HURRY.
Once in the store I skimmed the milk quickly, found the 2%, and looked for the best date. I found some milk that didn't expire for a good three months and figured that exemplary satisfaction of grocery shopping rule number 2 in this case trumped the higher cost of the milk. I mean, really, super-milk that doesn't expire for three months has got to be worth the extra cost. Plus, it was Mom who dropped me off at the store instead of Dad, so Mom's rule wins. And personally, I don't like milk very much--I only use it for cereal, milkshakes, and occasional baking. My milk usually goes bad in my fridge before it is half gone, so getting the best date on milk actually saves money in the long-run.
I got back in the car and shared the joy of finding "the best date" with my mom. Fast-forward to Sunday morning when my dad is eating his cereal (probably Honey Smacks purchased on sale). It turns out this super-milk was chalky and dry. My dad took a second look at the milk and discovered it was lactose-free. We are a strictly lactose-rich milk family. Automatic fail. Don't even think about trying to buy milk for this family again.
When I moved to D.C. two years ago I discovered Harris Teeter (a grocery store). The expiration dates on Harris Teeter milk are always about a month away. If I buy my milk anywhere else, I inevitably throw a substantial portion away, but not Harris Teeter milk. I almost couldn't believe it when I read that first expiration date: "Really, you don't expire for a month? Are you sure you have lactose? I don't buy lactose-free milk anymore, you know?" But it's true! Harris Teeter milk isn't lactose-free, it's ultra-pasteurized. After two years of enjoying milk-on-my-cereal-and-with-my-ice-cream-only bliss, I started to wonder.
What is ultra-pasteurized milk anyway? I have lived in six cities in different parts of the world and shopped at countless grocery stores, and I only find ultra-pasteurized milk at Harris Teeter. Could any liquid even closely resembling natural milk from a cow possibly stay fresh for a month? It looks like milk, it tastes like milk, but what is it really? I don't want to know anymore. Thanks to ultra-pasteurized milk I can live life without ever opening a smelly carton of milk or ruining a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios (or Cocoa Krispies) with sour milk. Thank you Harris Teeter. Thank you ultra-pasteurized milk.
Once in the store I skimmed the milk quickly, found the 2%, and looked for the best date. I found some milk that didn't expire for a good three months and figured that exemplary satisfaction of grocery shopping rule number 2 in this case trumped the higher cost of the milk. I mean, really, super-milk that doesn't expire for three months has got to be worth the extra cost. Plus, it was Mom who dropped me off at the store instead of Dad, so Mom's rule wins. And personally, I don't like milk very much--I only use it for cereal, milkshakes, and occasional baking. My milk usually goes bad in my fridge before it is half gone, so getting the best date on milk actually saves money in the long-run.
I got back in the car and shared the joy of finding "the best date" with my mom. Fast-forward to Sunday morning when my dad is eating his cereal (probably Honey Smacks purchased on sale). It turns out this super-milk was chalky and dry. My dad took a second look at the milk and discovered it was lactose-free. We are a strictly lactose-rich milk family. Automatic fail. Don't even think about trying to buy milk for this family again.
When I moved to D.C. two years ago I discovered Harris Teeter (a grocery store). The expiration dates on Harris Teeter milk are always about a month away. If I buy my milk anywhere else, I inevitably throw a substantial portion away, but not Harris Teeter milk. I almost couldn't believe it when I read that first expiration date: "Really, you don't expire for a month? Are you sure you have lactose? I don't buy lactose-free milk anymore, you know?" But it's true! Harris Teeter milk isn't lactose-free, it's ultra-pasteurized. After two years of enjoying milk-on-my-cereal-and-with-my-ice-cream-only bliss, I started to wonder.
What is ultra-pasteurized milk anyway? I have lived in six cities in different parts of the world and shopped at countless grocery stores, and I only find ultra-pasteurized milk at Harris Teeter. Could any liquid even closely resembling natural milk from a cow possibly stay fresh for a month? It looks like milk, it tastes like milk, but what is it really? I don't want to know anymore. Thanks to ultra-pasteurized milk I can live life without ever opening a smelly carton of milk or ruining a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios (or Cocoa Krispies) with sour milk. Thank you Harris Teeter. Thank you ultra-pasteurized milk.
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