Weddings.  Not Mine.

Weddings. Not Mine.

wedding ringsMamacita says: Wedding day!  My baby sister is getting married.  Actually, it’s happening right now, as I write this.  I wish I could have been down there in Tampa to see it, but we plan to have a reunion and celebration when they get back home.  Besides, it’s never about the location or the dress or the photographer or the flowers or the band or any of the silly things that turn so many brainless women into Bridezillas; it’s about the people.  The people here are Kevin and Diana, and nobody else really matters at this magic moment in time.

Well, they MATTER, of course, but they’re not center stage.  Nobody’s in the spotlight here except the bride and groom, surrounded by people they love and who love them.

All those other things – cakes, dresses, etc, – sure seem stupid in comparison  And if you don’t think so, you ain’t right in the head.

Priorities, people.

My sister is deserving of a handsome, kind, funny, loving, hardworking man, and Kevin is deserving of a beautiful, kind, loving, funny, hardworking woman.  It’s a match made in heaven.  And if you don’t believe in heaven, it’s a match made on Facebook.

Much love and all the good wishes in the world to my very lucky sister and her equally lucky husband,upsidedown world both of whom have beaten the odds and found REAL love in this upside-down world.

Then again, I don’t think luck had much to do with it.  More than likely, it was karma, which can shower us with joy as well as bite us on the. . . . well, you know.

May the shower of joy never end, baby sister.

Weddings.  Not Mine.

No More Watermelon, and a Question

watermelonMamacita says:  The kitchen still smells like watermelon even though I threw out the rinds last night.  I’m sensitive to odors and it’s hard to work in here right now because to me, melons stink.  They stink like skunks stink.  It’s not just a strong odor; they stink.  The windows are open, but I can still smell it.  Tim loves melons and in the summer, he used to buy them as often as he could. Melons represented the best of summer to him.  In his family, people fought wars over who got the last slice of melon.  In our house, he gets it all to himself.
Until this summer, that is.  This is the summer of the high blood sugar, and even though he buys the melons and cheats, he pays for it now.  Once in the store and again with the glucometer.  He’s had to cut way back, with the melons.
I don’t like watermelon.  I don’t like canteloupe, either.  (We call them ‘mushmelons’ around these parts.)
I don’t like any kind of melon, actually. Honeydon’t.
picky eater
When it comes to food, I’m seven years old in the head and sitting at the table with my arms crossed in front of a plate of good, healthy food that’s grown ice cold, waiting for me to touch it again.
On the bright side, I always taste it before passing judgment. Usually, I give it several chances to impress me.  Sometimes, it wins me over.  Sometimes, nothing on earth works, no matter how hard I try.  Tomatoes and cottage cheese, for example, always look so delicious to me, but when I put a bite in my mouth, I’m still grossed out.  When I’m dining with friends, I can fake it pretty well, and you’ll never know, but it took years of practice before I could pull it off without a grimace.
I also hate onions.  And Brussels sprouts.  And most casseroles. And “flavored” drinks.
Peas make me gag, even at my age.
I don’t eat gravy. The very concept is disgusting.  I’m pretty good at making it, though, and if you want some, I’ll be happy to make some.  For you.  You can have all of it.
Most cooked vegetables make me all sad and unhungry.  Raw vegetables, I love.  Roasted, boiled, baked, not so much.  In fact, not at all.
I’m also not a big garlic fan.  Or pasta, although there are a few pasta recipes I like a lot.
Tim’s family fought wars over who got the last piece of pie.  I don’t eat pie, either, but I do love to make them.  (Exception:  gooseberry pie if it’s really, really sour.)
Most sweet things:  no.  Most sour things:  yes.  Sugar:  no.  Lemons:  yes.
One of the coolest things about being an adult is that, with the exception of a few social occasions when I don’t want PEOPLE to know I’m a food sissy, I can eat what I want and ignore the rest, and not be sent to bed without any Lost in Space for turning up my nose at good, healthy food starving children in Biafra would give anything to have.
Nobody can make me eat melons.  Nobody.  Actually, most days I eat once a day, late at night, unless I meet a friend for lunch.
I guess my question is, “Why am I so fat?”
Weddings.  Not Mine.

Facts Notwithstanding, I Still Have Hope

Hope is the thing with feathersMamacita says:  While it is true that I tend to rant and rave about how far too many students (one is too many) can’t read or write or add two numbers together, and how far too many students (one is too many) can’t behave themselves, have no intention of learning anything, and have dedicated themselves to preventing the nice kids from learning anything, either, it is also true that I have nothing but admiration and fondness for the students who work hard, pay attention, behave themselves, and laugh at my jokes have a pleasant attitude. Add a quirky sense of humor, and I’m hooked.  There is nothing better than a friendly, hardworking student.  Nothing.

I never minded the “stupid questions” and I still don’t mind them, because if a question is sincere, it is not a stupid question; it’s a legitimate question and isn’t that what it’s all about? I love a student who asks questions; that student means more to me than a student who answers questions. If the question is about a connection between the lesson and something out in the world, even better. Better? It’s FANTASTIC!!!

I’ve had my share of teachers who were interested only in what was in the textbook. Questions that dealt with a connection or a tangent were dismissed completely; I’ve actually seen students punished for asking questions. I know tons of teachers who are lost without the answers pre-printed in their Teacher’s Edition.

What the heck is up with that? I have always assumed that a teacher who doesn’t already know those answers has no business standing before a group of learners in the first place! Sometimes those Teacher’s Editions have mistakes in them, and I’ve known teachers who will count the student’s correct answer wrong because the teacher is fixated on believing that the Teacher’s Edition is always right. I do not believe that these are good teachers, and I really don’t care what kind of scores that particular school is making. Scores are not education, but if I start in on that one again I’ll never make my dental appointment in a half hour.

Now, we all know that there are kids who will pester the teacher with questions just to get attention or get a laugh from his/her classmates; that’s not what I’m talking about here.

I’m talking about students with eager minds who genuinely want to know something. I’m talking about students who suddenly see and understand a connection between a few words in our book and something out there in “real life.” I’m talking about the wide eyes and the amazed expression and the gasp of realization that teachers come back year after year hoping to see. I’m talking about that moment when the student gazes at his/her pen and realizes that it’s actually a magic wand, and that with that wand the student wields power the likes of which make atomic energy seem feeble.

Every year, teachers have less and less authority. Every year, teachers must work in environments that would have most adults calling the authorities on the first day. Every year, teachers must deal with a population that is dangerous to the point of being criminal, and every year teachers risk their lives to try to bring a little light to the few actual learners and workers who hover quietly, in fear of their lives, too, on the sidelines. Every year, teachers must deal with parents who won’t support them, children who won’t try, administrations that won’t guarantee a safe habitat for either the teacher or the students, and buildings that are crumbling. Our students are hungry and sleepy, and far too many of them know far too much about the dregs of society: some because their families ARE the dregs of society, and others because they spend too much unsupervised time watching the trash on Jerry Springer and various television shows that teach our young people to be smartassed single parents who sleep around, have a cell phone glued to their hand, long for designer shoes,  and respect nothing. Every year, teachers must deal with more and more evidence that too many stupid people are breeding like rabbits, too much time, attention, and money is spent on the lowest common denominator in the building and not nearly enough on the students who would really love to be taught something, and the very real possibility of being disciplined or sent to the Rubber Room if they speak out, try to help, or in any way upset the status quo of our extremely dysfunctional school systems. It’s dangerous to speak out, and it’s dangerous to show up for work, it’s dangerous to walk to the restroom, and it’s dangerous to walk across the parking lot before and after school, and it’s dangerous to mow your lawn on the weekend because you never know which disgruntled moron – parent or child – is going to show up demanding “justice,” ie entitlements, favors, exceptions, and freebies.

But I digress.

I believe that the students I have now are the same as students in the public school – it’s just that at this level, it’s safe to be a learner because those who would disrupt and endanger and bully are escorted out of the building almost immediately.  Have you any idea what a difference knowing that small fact can make to a student who really IS a student? Today, for example, we were discussing the fact that many words we all consider to be English were actually stolen borrowed from other languages. The students caught on immediately to the fact that if a person speaks English, a person is actually also speaking Spanish, and French, and Italian, and Russian, and German, and Yugoslavian, and Aztec, and Hawaiian, and Chinese, and Outer Mongolian, not to even mention the dialects of the Fiji Islanders and assorted Scandanavian nations, and dead languages,  because our language is not only vaguely reminiscent of Shakespeare’s English (which catered to the uneducated peasants), it’s also a big stewpot full of every other language on the planet. This is a partial explanation of why we have so many odd spellings and strange plurals and exceptions to all the grammar rules. I love it. Today, my students loved it, too.  Watching them love it made me love it, and them, even more.

I tried this lesson back in the public schools and several parents complained because I was telling their kids that the language of the true patriotic Americans wasn’t “pure.” Of course, this was the same group of parents who were irate because we were talking about homonyms. Can you guess why? I mean, jeepers.

See above, “Too many stupid people are breeding.”

But a student who asks questions, questions that show a longing to KNOW, questions that demonstrate an understanding of a connection. . . questions that tell me that there is yet hope for the human race because in this classroom, today, students were laughing and excited about a few WORDS, and looking at their pens in awe as though they’d just that moment understood the amount of power they had with it?

This is why teachers come back, year after year. This is why we hope. This is what makes it all Hope, featherworthwhile. This is why we risk everything we have and everything we are.

I wonder how many professions require as much hope as teaching? I’d bet money, if I had any, that educators lean on hope even more than the medical professions and the ministers do.

I am Mamacita. Accept no substitutes!

Hitting the fan like no one else can...

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Scheiss Weekly by Jane Goodwin (Mamacita) is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.