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.