Class Trips

When my girls were young, one of the most coveted volunteer jobs was to chaperone class trips. As a class mother I can remember women calling me up before the list was officially posted to see if they could pre-sign their name. And when I told these parents no--that I believed in equal opportunity and equal access; it did not bode well.

And some teachers were unhappy that there was a sign up sheet at all. These teachers preferred choosing the parents themselves. Teachers wanted the ability to appoint the most responsible parents to the trips that necessitated the most vigilance.

So this whole chaperone/class trip business was tricky. As a class mother I tried to appease all parties. Which meant telling some white lies. So if the teacher wasn’t happy with the parent who was listed for a trip, I was forced to broker a deal between the listed person and the teacher’s desired parent.

And that is how I came to be a chaperone for Mrs. Smith’s first grade class trip to the Museum of Natural History. Mrs. Smith wanted me, and not the person who volunteered.

And I only understood when I arrived at the museum why it was so important to have such intensely managerial minded chaperones in place of the not-so-managerial minded ones. Mrs. Smith gave very loose directions. She simply said Go explore and be seated back on the bus at 12:30 pm.

And when 12:30 arrived, my 4 students and I were seated on the bus as requested. But we did not have any assigned seats nor was there any check list when we got on the bus. Mrs. Smith took attendance by calling out Is everyone here? And when the group collectively replied Yes!  the bus went on its way.

Which gave me a belly-ache.

How did Mrs. Smith know for sure that no one was missing? If someone was absent they could not have voiced it. For all we knew there could have been an entire group of kids with or without a chaperone still wandering the museum.

And a few weeks ago a friend messaged me to say did you write your blog this week because I did not see it on Facebook? And two days later a different person said for some reason I stopped getting your postings on my news feed.

It disturbed me. Yet I could not figure out a way to ascertain if there were others out there who were not receiving my postings because if I wrote on Facebook Has anyone stopped seeing my daily messages? only the people who were still receiving  them could reply—and that did not provide me with the information I needed.

And so, just like Mrs. Smith trusted that everyone would return to the bus with all persons accounted for, I am forced to trust that if I do not post my daily “thoughts” my most avid readers will retrieve it directly from the Karenland website. And since Mrs. Smith never lost a child (but for Max Brown for about 20 minutes) maybe I won’t lose any followers either.

Perhaps, just like many things in life, it is a matter of faith.

Icing the Opponent

I learned from Van the tennis pro that if in the course of a match, it became necessary to shift the momentum back to your side of the court, the easiest thing to do was to slow things down--and not just the speed of the ball—although that was often effective too. He meant to slow down the time in between shots. Do anything that caused your opponents time to think rather than react.

Because thinking too much in the course of competitive play is poison.

And one of my most memorable paddle tennis wins was against a team here in town. My partner and I had lost the first set 6-4 and were losing the second set 2-5 when I called my partner over for a little conference. We spoke at length about absolutely nothing. All the time I looked across the net and pointed my paddle as if my partner and I were strategizing.

I observed the opposition getting antsy.

And when we resumed play we came back and won that second set 7-5 and the third set 6-0.

We won the match to the complete frustration of our opponents.

And on Sunday I watched the Jets play against the Dolphins. And just as the Miami’s kicker was about to kick the winning field goal in overtime, the Jets called a time out. Such a move is called icing the kicker. Its intent is to get inside the kicker’s head.

It worked.

The Jets went on to win. The momentum had shifted to their side of the field.

And while many did not appreciate Van the tennis pro’s stoner-esque style;   I did. I understood that sports strategies extended beyond the court. When momentum pulls you in an undesired direction, the best thing you can do is slow down and let the opposition overthink. Time-outs always work to your advantage—especially when someone is having a tantrum---and even more especially when someone is having a tantrum over their loss of momentum on the other side of the net.

Making an Occupied Bed

Having had a few surgeries I was always amazed at how the nurse’s aides were able to completely change the sheets of a bed with me still in it. I was instructed and helped to roll to one side; and the side of the bed devoid of my presence would be stripped and remade. Then I was turned to the other side where the process was repeated.

It was fascinating.

Cosmo, my goldendoodle is my most faithful companion. And unlike Jasper, my former dog, he does not patrol the doors and windows all day long, seeking out intruders. Instead, Cosmo follows me from room to room as I go about my chores.

Often times, when I am upstairs, he jumps on the bed—which is problematic if the bed is unmade. I must drag his dead weight out of the rumpled sheets and comforter to complete my bed-making task.His response is to then jump up on the other side of the bed.

The process is/was unending and most definitely inefficient.

And so I needed to become inventive.

So I watched a YouTube video on How to make an occupied bed.

And now, each morning I successfully change or fix the bedding with my loyal canine in it.

I am proud to say that I have become rather skilled.

It’s one more thing I can add to my resume—as if the list wasn’t already long enough.

"New" Babies

I was cleaning up the kitchen after dinner the other night. Wheel of Fortune was on.

And I have noticed that no matter which contestant speaks with Pat Sajak each one always remarks that they are married to a wonderful spouse and that they have beautiful children.

But I look at these people and think it could not possibly be true in every single case. Some of them must not be all that wonderful or beautiful.

But an added remark the other night got me hoping that the fun fact the contestant was professing was indeed true. The woman contestant gleefully said … and my husband and I have a new grandchild on the way!

I immediately thought as opposed to having what?--an old or refurbished or leased grandchild on the way?By definition aren’t all grandchildren who are on the way considered new? Isn’t that what gestation is all about?

The better terminology would be .....we have another grandchild on the way.

  

Souls may be old; but babies are always new—unless of course you are Benjamin Button.

Augusta National

Several weeks ago at Augusta National two women were offered membership to a formerly all-male country club. This has come 22 years after the first African-American man was offered membership. It demonstrates how sexism is even more pervasive than racism.

 And on a warm June Saturday morning a 23 year old female junior member teed up the ball at our country club. The girl, who can play from the back tees and still beat the majority of the best men, came off of a full work week in the financial world and chose to enjoy her rights of membership.

Her father proudly played beside her as if she was his son.

This female junior member represents a new generation of women—women who are not contented to “know their place.” And if and when she marries I trust she will keep her sole membership—something that in practicality  is verboten right now. She will not forfeit her privileges over to her spouse because she earned her right to play and he did not.

Because the reality is de facto sexism, is still sexism. And if we can put an African-American man in the White House, then certainly the time has come to allow women free reign in the clubhouse.

Handed-ness

When I was little, at most family events, I sat next to my cousin Richard. Part of the reason was because he was the nearest to me in age. And part of the reason was because he was left-handed. No one else was willing to bunk forks with him at holiday dinners.

For as many years as I have been married, I have been annoyed by my husband’s technique for threading his keys on his key ring. I bemoaned the fact that I had to pry the ring open with my right hand and slide with the key facing upwards with my left.

Yet I said nothing. I understood that this little annoyance was not a deal breaker to my marriage. I chalked it up to the fact that all spouses have their idiosyncrasies.

And for as much as I consider myself a critical thinker, until the other day it did not dawn on me that my husband’s insistence on threading his keys incorrectly had nothing to do with incorrectness. It had to do with handedness.

As a leftie, he threads his keys as a mirror reflection to my rightie-ness.

It is much like the coriolis effect in nature---trade winds and currents form counter clockwise patterns in the northern hemisphere, and form clockwise patterns in the southern hemisphere.

So my husband correctly threads his keys based on his brain orientation; and I do the same based on mine. Which, while it explains behavior, does not make it any less annoying.

Because it is a right-handed world. And the only thing designed for lefties is the toll booth.

White Paint

When Kara went into the classroom there was a white sheet draped on a table with several white objects laid on top of it. The AP art teacher then asked the class what was the color of all the objects. And even though the students knew it was likely a trick question, in concert, the class answered white.

When I bought my house the living room walls were painted Benjamin Moore antique white—which between age and hue appeared apricot on my stucco walls and against my dark oak moldings and trim. And so it was a no brainer to whiten and lighten it up.  I chose white dove-- an off-white paint with a  creamy yellow undertone.

Twenty years later I am in the process of updating the living room. I am keeping my palate: navy, raspberry and white. But I plan to update the wall décor and the runner on my stairs. I also planned to paint.

But picking a wall color this time was not so easy. I wanted to keep it off-white—but I wanted to change the undertone from yellow to blue. And that is when I began to lose my mind. Because the lighting and texture of my walls transformed the paint chips into completely different colors. Some looked green, some looked lilac, and some looked violet. All were too intense. My goal was to walk in the room and get a subliminal message—a whisper of a hue—not a shout of color.

Multiple trips to several paint stores and four mini-paint testers later, I made my decision: Benjamin Moore winter white—which in direct sunlight has a grey-taupe undertone which in the room barely suggests blue.

And of course the objective of the AP art teacher was to demonstrate to the class  that nothing that is white is ever truly white. All things white have color. And luster, lighting, and shadows either intensify or lessen the effect.

Which is why the Benjamin Moore man told me his worst nightmare is when women like me come into the store to buy white paint. We are the difficult sale—the one that makes him earn his dollars.

But we are also the ones who earn our own satisfaction.

On Voting

I turned to my mother during a political discussion and said I am nowhere near wealthy enough to benefit from the Republican platform; and I am nowhere near poor enough to benefit from that which the Democrats are proposing.

No matter which candidate is elected, my billfold is getting leaner.

And when my mother and I discussed which of the speakers at both the Republican and Democratic conventions gave orations that rang true, we realized that none of them---on either side of the aisle--were on November’s ballot.

Unlike four years ago, no one makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

And so the question for me isn’t Am I better off now than I was four years ago? The question is Who will enable me to be better off 4 years from now?—because no one can change the past. It’s a matter of who can best impact the future.

And at the end of the discussion my mother wisely said that the best part of voting is that the curtain is closed, and once you pull the lever, no one but you knows your decision.

And I agree.

Why Did the Chicken....?

I am aware that most people chose organic meats and vegetables because they fear the deleterious effects of pesticides, herbicides, antbiotics and hormones. They fear mutagenesis to humans as well as to domesticated plants and animals. And so they prefer that their food supply is sourced with naturally occurring substrates.

I cannot disagree; but I personally chose organic produce and proteins simply because I think they taste better.

And yesterday as I prepared my grain-fed free range whole roaster, I also cleaned and seasoned the internal organs that were supplied and wrapped in the cavity of the bird. The wrapped package contained no neck, two hearts, three livers and a partial gizzard.

I have to wonder if all that healthy eating and lifestyle did the bird in as it appeared by the accounting of its parts to be a mutant.

Why did the chicken cross the road? Because chickens are omnivores not vegetarians—and there was a McDonald’s on the other side.

Hiring Committees--Lessons Learned

One of the select appointments that I enjoyed most during my years in the PTA was sitting on the school district’s hiring committees. I served on many. I learned much from the interaction and consensus building of the group. I also came to understand that which makes an interviewee palatable or not.

And on two separate occasions I found myself on a committee that included the former high school principal John Okulski. Mr. Okulski was a people person. He was an excellent judge of a candidate’s character. His background as a guidance counselor served him well. John was skilled at putting the interviewee at ease which enabled him to ask his two favorite questions: What is your greatest strength? To be followed by What is your greatest weakness?

It was this principal’s belief that self-understanding was the key to success no matter what position was offered.

And upon thought I would say that everyone’s greatest strength is always their greatest weakness.

When my middle daughter was around two or three years old I left the iron on and specifically told her not to touch it. I explained that it was hot and that she could get burned.

Minutes later I saw her holding her hand in apparent pain. I examined her hand and asked did you touch the iron? And she shook her head no, but said apologetically Yes Mommy.

It was a defining moment. My sweet little girl was, and has always been, incapable of pulling off a lie. It is one of the things I have always loved most in her—an inescapable conscience.

Briana’s honesty is her greatest asset. It is what holds her friendships together and gained her the respect of her workmates. It is what makes her so endearing. It is also why she didn’t get away with much as a teenager.

Sometimes honesty can be a flaw. I learned through my hiring committee experience that in this life one needs to tip-toe around the truth from time to time. Sometimes one needs to embellish reality—especially in the job interview process. If a candidate did not know the answer to a question, answering honestly with I don’t know didn’t get them passed on to the next level. The best answers always sounded like I would have to do some research on that before I would feel comfortable answering your question with precision or certainty.

And while John Oksulski’s loose management style was his greatest weakness, it in fact was his greatest strength. By not micromanaging and not viewing policies as absolute the culture at the high school under his reign was cohesive-enough and collectively fair. Morale was high. Teachers were free to be creative and students benefited from his belief in individually tailored educational practices.

And my ability to recognize the simultaneous existence of polar forces in all things is my biggest asset and my biggest flaw. The Chinese call it ying and yang. The Sophists call it dialectics. But my children would just call it Mom being annoying.

Tennis Sounds and Sunday Sauce

There are certain sports that lend themselves well to live audio broadcast and others that do not. The two sports that immediately come to mind that do not translate well are golf and tennis. With golf, one needs the visual of the golf course to imprint the shot—there is no 50 yard line like in football. And with tennis, the shots are so rapid that before an announcer could voice the location of a ball’s placement, another return would have been hit or called out.

I, on most Sundays observe the Italian ethnic tradition of making Sunday sauce. It is a meal that I can prepare with ease. And televised sports programing keeps me company as I go about my cooking. So this past Sunday as I chopped and mixed and sautéed, I chose to watch the Women’s US Open finals for tennis. I did so with my back turned to the television screen, as my TV set sits on a countertop perpendicular to my work area.

And while my ears should not have been able to follow the points—this time, my hearing did not fail me. Each shot by Victoria Azorenka was not preceded by a grunt, but rather by a shrill that reminded me of a rebel yell. I was able to keep score by the continuance or lack thereof, of the most irritating expulsion of air that I have ever heard.

And the very next day, Serena Williams voiced on Good Morning America that she was so focused during the match that she did not hear Azorenka’s rebel yell at all. She only heard the sound of her opponent’s defeat.

And that is a good thing. Because I was so distracted by the cacophony that I switched to the 49er’s/Packer’s game. I do not have Serena’s focus. And my meatballs needed me to carry them on to victory.

Always Remember

The atom bomb was dropped by American armed forces on the city of Hiroshima at 8:16 am on August 6^th 1945. And whether you believe that the decision to launch the strike was just or not, the fact remains that 80,000 Japanese people lost their lives in the acute attack alone. Another 60,000 died in the months afterward. Nearly all the deceased were civilians, not soldiers, who, on a sunny Monday morning, were just going about their daily business.

Sixty-five years later on August 7^th 2010 a group of Japanese journalists traveled the rebuilt city of Hiroshima and randomly asked the young people who were out and about Why is today significant in Japanese history?

It took 10 to 15 encounters before someone knew the answer.

On a clear warm morning on September 11, 2001 people were out and about in and around the World Trade Center in Manhattan. On 8:46 am a plane hit the north tower and on 9:37 am a second plane struck the south tower. Both towers tumbled down into ash. Three thousand people lost their lives that day. All were civilians, not soldiers, just going about their daily business.

And while it is true that life must go on, it troubles me to think on this day 54 years hence  people walking near the Freedom Tower may forget the significance of 9/11. It troubles me to think that 9/11 may be reduced to a one day sale at Macys.

Because mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends and sons and daughters died in Hiroshima and at the World Trade Center on their respective days of attack. They were all ordinary people standing in the crossfire of  ideology. They were human beings--not statistics. They were loved. Their lives had meaning. And they deserve to be remembered always for their sacrifice.

Lassie and Enzo

I am not sure if it was purely for recreation or in celebration of someone’s birthday, but I found myself at the movies with two girlfriends and 7 children. The children were aged 7 years and under. The movie was a remake of the classic: Lassie.

And as the movie drew to its climax, as is typical, Lassie was in deadly peril—there was uncertainty about her survival after saving the day. And one of the children, became increasingly concerned over the prospect of Lassie’s demise. But another child, upon seeing his friend’s anxiety, turned and said Don’t worry--Lassie isn’t dead—she has to come back for the next movie.

I have never cried when reading a book. On occasion the writing has provoked a tear or two, but never a full-on cry—the kind that requires tissues. So when I read the reviews of a book called The Art of Racing in the Rain and the Amazon reviewers spoke of their extreme emotional response to the next to last chapter of the book I thought Seriously? It’s a book—the characters are not real. Who cries when reading a book? There is no visual—like a movie.

So based on the starred reviews I ordered the novel and then chose the story for my book group. And indeed the tale was very engaging. It was written from the perspective of a dog—an Airedale mix. It was humorous, insightful and surprisingly spiritual. I became emotionally attached to the characters—particularly Enzo the dog. And even though I was braced for perhaps a sniffle in that second to last chapter that everyone was talking about, I collapsed into mental-patient variety  cry—sobbing, with a runny nose. I have been less emotional over human real life tragedies.  I was so depleted from sorrow that it took me an hour to get myself together enough to read the triumphant final chapter.

And even though the concern-ridden child understood his friend’s uncanny adult reality-based view on Lassie’s fate, some tears still welled up and one or two of them may have even escaped. The sentiment, while expected, was just too much to bear.

 I too had anticipated an emotional reaction to Enzo’s journey, but I was unprepared for the depth.

It’s funny how sometimes the line between fiction and non-fiction can be blurred. Your brain understands that which is made up, but chooses to shut it down.  Enzo the dog was more real than reality. He seeped into my psyche as much as some people I have known. I am forever changed for having been in his company. It brings you back to the age old question: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it—did it make a sound? Likewise: If a fictionally inspired encounter touches you—was the encounter real?

The reviewers were correct—the book deserved its 4 star+ rating. And my book group agreed—at least among those who actually read it.

The Princeton Review

As I turned the corner to peruse the greeting cards at CVS a mother and daughter were locked in a conversation that had nothing to do with sentimental thoughts printed on folded cardboard. I overheard the daughter to say to her Mom:  If the Princeton review says the school sucks—it sucks. They know what they are talking about. I don’t care what your friend told you. I am not going there.

And upon hearing those words I am positively sure that I grinned and nodded. Because I could feel the mother’s eyes cast on me when she responded This is not the time and place for this—we’ll discuss it later.

But the daughter got the last words in: Oh no we won’t.

And I watched the two of them walk away in silence.

The very first step in the college process is purchasing and studying the big book: The Princeton Review of the Best Colleges. It is from that source that one assembles a list of potential schools. It not only gives quantitative information like standardized test scores, size of student body and tuition, it also gives  a window into the demographic it attracts as well as living conditions. The book describes whether the student body is preppy or artsy. It informs the reader whether the campus attracts staunch republicans or liberals. It rates the campus food and describes what the party scene is like.

And upon visiting the small list of schools we derived from the Princeton review and further research on the individual schools’ website I can say that the information from the big book was absolutely spot on. The dorm rooms at Loyola were indeed palaces. The cafeteria food at Fordham was awful. There was no cohesive social life at NYU. Boston College was a bar school. Everyone at Bucknell had blond hair and wore J. Crew. And Emory had one of the most spectacular campuses I had ever seen and was correctly dubbed “Coca-Cola University”.

The book told no lies.

And 3 days after dropping off Samantha at Lehigh her freshman year, the newly published 2006 Princeton review rated Lehigh as the number one drinking school. The student body had the “work hard, play hard” ethic down pat.

I was so proud.

And if I could go back in time I would tell the mother who was locked in disagreement with her daughter over colleges to just let it go—stop pushing the issue---you are never going to win the argument. The Princeton Review does their homework. And even if the debated school truly does not suck, the daughter thinks it does and the damage cannot be undone no matter what you do. Unless of course a wise president of a University reads how its school is ranked number for drinking and promptly makes the appropriate changes so that the following year it is not so highly ranked. Which further goes to show how influential the big book is--and why it should be believed. Even the colleges understand the big book is their best and worst advertisement.

It Is What It Is

I was flipping through the cable channels and I caught Chris Rock doing some stand-up comedy. He said “nothing that precedes the phrase it is what it is, is ever good.”

I had a good laugh over it—because it is so true.

But as I thought about it some more I realized  that the phrase did not necessarily have to apply to all things bad—if someone falls in love or gets the new job or wins the lottery that is what it is too. The addage still applies.

Because the colloquilism is meant to invoke surrender over things one has no control over.

So, in of itself,  it would seem the phrase  it is what it is---is what it is.

Feirsen's (Non) Fiction

I noticed not too long ago that there were several hits on a blog post I had written a long while back. It was called In Praise of True Educators. It highlighted the educational talents of the former assistant superintendent of curriculum who is now the superintendent of Northport Schools. I wondered what had prompted the recent reads. So I investigated my site and saw that someone had googled Dr. Marylou Mc Dermott with Thoughts from Karenland and my blog came up. I surmised that the “google-er” read my post and then forwarded it on to several others.

So I decided to google our own superintendent of schools, Robert Fiersen, curious if some of the blog posts I had written on him came up. But what popped up intrigued me even  more than my blog.  I was surprised to learn that Rob (as the inner circle likes to call him) had co-written a book.  Its copyright was in 2000  with a revised edition in 2004. At the time of the writing he was still in the employ of Manhasset as their Assistant Superintendent for Curriculum.

 I wondered if the book was about bettering educational practices. I knew full well that his published resume was heavy on curriculum and instruction---it’s why Garden City hired him. But the book was not about education at all.  The book was titled How to Get the Teaching Job You Want.

And now I was really curious.

I learned that the book was a guide on how to use key verbiage and educational jargon to pique the interest of a school district. It gave step by step instructions on how to write a resume and cover letter to match the criteria of the employer---how to appear qualified for the job post. And it also listed what questions to expect on the interview so that the interviewee could be prepared with snap answers.

The customer reviews were positive. Most felt the author’s job obtaining recipes guaranteed success—the persons who put his plans into action won their job seeking bake-off.

But the book did not deal in any way as to whether the job seekers could adequately fill the jobs they seeked. It was merely a detailed roadmap of all the things one should say and do to land the position—whether you were qualified or not.

And I thought wow---along with all the other things about this superintendent that challenges my moral compass, the topic matter of this book feels particularly disdainful. I wondered if Rob Feirsen had practiced what he preached when he applied for the superintendent position in Garden City. I wondered if the actualization of his own job-landing formula accounted for the disconnect between the man’s resume, so heavy on curriculum and instruction, and what we have seen day after day for the past 7 years in our schools. Had the district been the target of How to Get the Superintendent Job You Want?

And the fact that our national ranking has improved while Rob Feirsen has been in our employ is really not as stellar as it seems upon investigation. Our district’s ranking has climbed upward not because our SAT scores or AP scores have increased dramatically—i.e. our improved ranking is not based on increased academic achievement. But rather the elevation is based on an increased number and offering of AP courses without much academic restriction, beginning in the 10^th grade. We have increased two key pieces of the ranking formula—the ones most easily modified upward---without touching scores.

 It would seem our district’s resume has been tweaked to match the criteria of the rankings. Our district does not produce students that are any more academically qualified than they once were; it’s just that they appear more qualified.

Perhaps we have played a game of How to Get the Increased Ranking You Want, whether you improve education or not.

And all this made me think back to the days at Stewart School when Dr. Braccia would tell the parents how teaching to a standardized test, while tempting, is never the best educational practice for the child. It leads to false confidence in a student’s ability—it’s how children get left behind.

And education was designed to be about churning out highly qualified students; and not educators or school districts with well-spun resumes or straw rankings.

Thongs

When my eldest daughter was in high school all the girls wore short pleated Abercrombie skirts. And when the wind blew the skirts would puff up like an umbrella revealing that which was not meant to be seen.

VPI (visible panty line) is a fashion faux pas. It is deemed unsightly. And designers, in an effort to prevent this undergarment grievance invented a thong. And so instead of seeing an elastic line cutting the flesh at the base of the buttocks and above and across the hip, we must now see a T-band of fabric disappear into crevices that I do not care to ponder and endure the wiggle-waggle associated with an un-arrested derrière.

I do not find VTI (visible thong line) any less egregious than VPI.

And during the time the girls wore those short pleated Abercrombie skirts a popular football player would position a mirror in his hand such that as the girls proceeded up or down the stairwell he could take a gander at things not meant to be seen.

That is—until the principal took the mirror away--and the boy had to wait for windy days.