Uptown Downton

It's not often a television program instills a sense of wanting to be a better person. Different, yes. But better? Isn't that kind of boring?

The very nature of shows are to show us what it might be like to live a life far away from our own. From the stage to the screen, a show captures the imagination. Want to be a flower peddler? "My Fair Lady" is a show about what might happen. What if you had a ridiculous number of siblings? "The Brady Bunch" could tell you a thing or two about that. Want to get away with murder? Tune into "C.S.I.", or "Criminal Minds", or "Law and Order: SVU"...

I'm really not trying to make a statement about the quality of today's entertainment options. On the contrary, television today is more savy than it has ever been, demanding a sense of realism and authenticity that would've been unheard of even 15 years ago. Granted, there is something to be said about what realism we choose to vicariously experience each night. Actor Mandy Patinkin recently told TV Guide Magazine that his abrupt departure from "Criminal Minds" was not a firing but rather a realisation that he didn't approve of what he was putting out into the world. He no longer wanted to be a part of a program that thrived on showing the worst humanity has to offer. Many in Hollywood probably scoffed at that - why would you leave an extremely high-rated program based on principle?

A friend recently loaned me the first season of Downton Abbey, the critically acclaimed mini-series that airs on PBS. I had it in my possession for several weeks, waiting for a time when I was bored enough to find entertainment in a sweeping costume drama. Totally not my scene.

Boredom hit about two weeks ago, and I put in the first disc. I feel like my life will never be the same....

The set pieces and wardrobe is exquisite, no doubt. What really makes Downton enthralling is the stories it tells and the way they're told. It takes everything you think you know about human nature and turns it on its head. Where you might reflexively assume the worst about Mr Bates for leaving Lord Grantham's employment on such short notice, it is in fact because Mr Bates is trying to spare Lord Grantham from mortal embarrassment regarding his daughter, Mary. Mr Bates never demands his name be cleared. He just thinks about what is best for others and then does it.

So simple. How did the concept become so foreign?

Watch where you're tossing that thing!

I was making myself a pizza for lunch this afternoon.

I wasn't really into it. Halfheartedly I pulled an onion from the fridge, an open pack of canadian bacon, jar of pasta sauce, some cheese...

I sprayed the pan and put the frozen gluten-free crust on top. I slopped a spoonful of sauce on, only to realize I had the pizza crust side up. Too late now.

Sighing, I chopped two slices of the bacon into wedges. I ate one piece and tossed another over my shoulder to my antsy dog.

After arranging the bacon just so on the upside-down pizza, I started in on the onion.

As I went to put the slices on the pizza, I noticed my dog dancing around kind of strangely.

The canadian bacon had landed with a slap! right in the middle of his very long dog back.

He danced to the left, then to the right, trying desperately to reach the slice of heaven sitting mere centimeters from his nose.

I did what any good mom would do - I grabbed my camera and started shooting video.

"Aww, come here boy," I implored. "Let Momma help..."

He saw my outstretched hand as an invader trying to snatch his coveted prize. His nails skittered across the floor as he took off, out of reach.

After three minutes of video, I went back to finishing my pizza and left the dog to his own devices. A few moments later, he scampered into the kitchen looking for another piece of canadian bacon.

"What'd you do with the one on your back?" I asked him.

He didn't answer, instead begging for another piece, undaunted by his recent ordeal.

"Here you go," I said, bending down to hand him the last piece.

His tiny jaws opened wide and transformed into the maw of an angry alligator.

Next time, I think I'll go back to the slice-n-toss.

God is in Australia.

Awesome news! I got a job!!! I will be telecommuting, which was the purpose of retraining to do transcription. I got hired at a company in Australia. How awesome, mate! Fair warning: I am going to do my best to use British spelling in my everyday life in order to make it second nature. So any "recognise," "colour," "paediatrics" does not mean I've lost my spelling capabilities. I'm so excited!

I was unemployed for 4 weeks, and I felt like I was going to die. Each day I felt myself grow heavier and heavier (no, not from stress eating). When I called my aunt to tell her the news, she said, "Wow. That's amazing."

"Why's that amazing?" I said, ready to be offended.

"Because just last night I prayed for you. I hope that was okay? I said, 'Okay, God, enough is enough. This girl is doing all she can. Cut her a break.' And this morning you got a job offer."

I was momentarily stunned into silence. I don't usually believe in prayer. I had never felt its power in my life. I honestly, to the core of my being, believe I survived my bone marrow transplant not because of prayer but because the medicine worked. Sure I've prayed for stuff that I didn't get, further solidifying my skepticism. I can't argue witg this one, though. I think there might have been a higher power working in my life this time. I feel like I'm back on my own, back to working as hard as I can to make my world and the world around me better. This is how it should be - a hand when you need it, distance when you don't.

Each week I spend 2 hours in the special education classroom at the local high school working 1-on-1 with different students. Even though this means getf bed at 6:45, I do it with a smile on my face.

"This sounds crazy," I told my mom, "but it's kind of like church for me. Once a week, a small amount of time, and I leave feeling full of energy, optimism, hope, all this stuff."

"That's not crazy at all," she said. I think she really meant it, but she wouldn't tell me I was crazy even if I had announced I was going to get married to duck-billed platypus. She'd ask if the dresses would be blue.

I feel so blessed right now. Boy, were the parents ever right when we were young: You appreciate most the stuff for which you work hardest.

Life Lesson #857: Never leave the house without a bra on.

RV season is upon us.
Scratch that.
RV season is upon my parents.
This means I will be resident mail-getter and responsible for turning lights off in the morning, changing the blinds around to try to fool any wily burglers that might be surveilling their house, and then reverse the process at night.

I'm not an early riser, so on the last morning of their trip, when they were due to be home around noon, I needed to hurry out of bed at 9 to get the paper and turn off the lights, etc.

Not one to ruin a good sleep, I stumbled out of bed, grabbed my car keys, and drove the half-block to their house.

I pulled into their driveway and pushed the garage door opener.

Nothing.

I pushed it again.

Still nothing.

Well, huh. I sat back in the driver's seat, stumped.

Sitting back offered me a new vantage point. I looked up and realized their house had changed colors overnight.

Horrified, I backed out of the driveway and tried to get away before the actual resident of that house saw me in my car, trying to open their garage door.

One street later, I turned into the refuge of my parent's house. I checked to be sure it was still the same color. Oddly enough, the garage door opener had worked from a street away.

Since it was already half open, I darted out of my car and ducked under it before anyone else could see me.

Serves me right for leaving the house less than fully dressed.

Remarkably mediocre.

So, despite what should have taken me 4 months to complete, over a year later I have finally completed my online medical transcription training.

Bravo.

I took the final test, a 48-hour affair which actually required about 8 full hours of work time. For a week, I bit my fingernails to the quick while I waited for my scores.

94.

I laughed out loud. To get the distinction of having graduated with "high honors," one must get a 95.

Oh well. Cest la vie, right? Plus, I figured my masters would help the other 1 point fly by, unnoticed by potential employers.

Wrong.

15 applications later, I am still unemployed. My parents and I had a "Come to Jesus" discussion last night, wherein reality came home between my ears that perhaps the masters is actually working against me. In this economy, one must take whatever employment they can get, right? Potential employers probably take one look at my resume and say, "Right. She's going to jet the second things turn around."

So, then what? Tell them the truth? That my health sucks and I have no intention of leaving the transcription industry (once I can even get into it...)? Great. Then they see, "She will call in sick every other day."

Leave the masters off the resume? But I worked really hard for it. It shows tenacity. And bravery. The willingness to take on such student debt in the face of unassured career fulfillment takes a certain kind of gumption, right?

I'm retaking my final now. It's open in a different browser window. I'm remarkably unmotivated to do it. I've folded laundry. Paid bills. Walked them to the mailbox, even though it's pouring out and my dog was pissed at having to go with me, even though I put his raincoat on. He stood in the middle of the street and refused to budge. I waved at a neighbor driving by. They ignored me. Work hard, and things turn out okay.

Right?

Right?

Mole`

I was eating a pizza in the bathtub this evening and flipping through the pages of my TIME magazine. I finished the last piece and swished my fingers in the water to clean them off.

Leaning back against my waterproof bathtub pillow, I saw something out of the corner of my eye: A suspicious-looking spot on my right shoulder.

Oh, come ON. My risk of secondary cancer is 75% due to my bone marrow transplant. Melanoma now, huh?

I craned my neck to peer closer at it. The border was well-defined, which was good, but the color was definitely off.

Ever so carefully, I reached over and touched it.

The mole came off on my fingertip.

What the...?

It was a fleck of basil.

As if that wasn't embarrassing enough, I remembered that this wasn't the first time a speck of herb was stuck to my body via bathtub water and subsequently mistaken for terminal illness.

Note to self: Next time, make a sandwich instead.

Sick, sick, sick.

I'm a hot mess. I can hardly keep anything down. I've been in bed almost 2 days now, stomach in crazy pain. Right at the start of my 2-week vacation, too. I just finished my final for school, and now I have to wait 2 weeks for my test score to see if I passed and can go get a job and be gainfully employed.

Epiphany. I bet I'm such a nervous wreck about passing the final that I'm making myself sick. Dammit! And you can't just tell yourself, "Eh, let it go" or "Frankie Say Relax!" Take my mom for instance. If she's upset about something, tell her to "calm down" and the world would have a new nuclear threat to worry about.

My biggest fear is that I don't pass the test.

"So," Mom says. "You take it again. You get 3 tries at it."

You have 48 hours to complete the test. I ended up needing a good 7 or 8 hours of solid work time to do it. I looked up every single multiple-choice answer. I double-checked the spelling on the name of every medical equipment transcribed. I obsessed over comma versus semicolon versus period and what the dictator really intended by their speech pattern.

Yeah, I can take it again if I failed it.

But I don't think I could do a better job. I really don't.

And that's what it's all about - a job. Getting one. Feeling that ever-elusive feeling of self-reliance. I don't get to feel that all that often.

Aw, hell. I guess it's like I always told my grandmother before she died:

It beats the alternative.

General Germless and Sergeant Septic

It's strange that our society greets each other by shaking hands. Our hands are probably the third dirtiest part our bodies, and yet we subject strangers to our germs. If you decline to shake hands, you've effectively destroyed any possibility of friendship/commaraderie with that person.

The military salutes their superiors. Their peers, who knows. Maybe they fist bump, if anything.

I wonder if the Army has lesser rates of communicable diseases among their ranks?

A diary in the Documents folder.

I hit "save as" on the freelance article I was working on. My documents list popped up, seeking verification that the "save as" location was indeed what I wanted.

Instead of confirming and then going on my merry digital way, something caught my eye.

"Leadershipphilosophypaper-KEEP!!!"

I smiled to myself. That was the first paper I wrote for my Masters in Communication and Leadership. It detailed the philosophies I had developed thus far in my educational and professional career (having consisted of a 2-year stint in the drive-through window at Taco Bell). After submitting the assignment for a grade, we were told to keep it because we would be referring back to it in our final theses.

I don't keep things well. I think to myself, "When on Earth will I ever need this again?" and then throw away my passport.

Further down the Desktop Documents list was 9, 10, 11 applications for jobs I never got called for.

There's the 3 novels that are in various stages of completion, all having been rejected by many, many agents.

My housesitter instructions are buried in the list. I've taken to only traveling when my father isn't. He is a great housesitter and doesn't take typed instructions.

They say that social media has become our new diaries, chronicalling our every move online. I think it's more stalkerish, carefully watching, watching, documenting things that are more important to target marketing rather than our life experiences.

If it's conceded that the diary is extinct, I think the word processing "documents" folder is a good substitution. It's a repository that is actually controlled by the user and not a social media interface. Our documents are survivors of the Recycle Bin, evidence of our lives that we not only write down but save time and time again, updating, revamping, and making just a little bit better for the next time we're here.

Bite-sized Blackjack.

Last weekend I volunteered to help out at the nearby elementary school's Winter Carnival, having forgotten just how loud a gym full of 6-year-olds can be.

On approaching the volunteer check-in desk, I was greeted with, "Oh! You must be Susan's friend! So good of you to volunteer!"

"No one volunteers with Susan," I answered. "She tells them when and where to be."

The other lady laughed, thinking I was kidding. "We have you at the '21' table," she said. "It's right inside this gym here."

Yes, elementary schools have more than one gym now. Remember to vote "Yes" on your next school building levy.

"You must be my replacement," said a harried-looking woman.

I set my jacket and purse down on the miniature cafeteria table. "That's right," I said. "So, what do I do?"

"It's basically Blackjack," she answered, "but we don't call it Blackjack. That would be condoning gambling."

I raised my eyebrows. "Of course."

"The point of this table is really just an addition game. Oh, can you be sure to return the cards to my room when you're done? Thanks!" She bolted for the door before I could ask what room was hers. Or who she was.

I scruched myself onto the table seat and took stock. Surrounding me were fake fishing booths, plastic bowling, Matchbox car racing, and hopscotch. Kids were lined up to play the other games, none of which involved math.

After a few minutes, I was starting to feel like a weirdo, fiddling with a deck of playing cards larger than most of the kids' heads.

"Hey, YOU!" I hollered at a kid across the room.

He looked up from his slice of pizza.

"Yeah, you. Come over here." (Realization dawns on me that this is how many jail sentences start.)

The kid ambled over.

"You want to play '21.'"

He shook his head.

"Sure you do. Sit down."

Grudgingly, he sat.

"Do you know how to play?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "It's just Blackjack."

Why does a 7-year-old know this?

I dealt him two cards, one face down, one face up. "Okay," I said. "Are your cards greater than 21 or less than 21?"

He looked at me like I was the dumbest person on the planet.

"What?" I asked.

"Dealer needs to play a hand, too."

A long-lost friend reappears

I found myself at Barnes and Noble the other day. I was with a friend who was shopping for items to put on a bookshelf for her child's classroom auction. After my initial confusion about the classroom auction not being the actual sale of children, I set about helping her select books.

"They studied the human body and eagles this year," she said, "so I want to get books that have something to do with those subjects."

I looked around the kids' section. The bookshelves were all disproportionately low. It makes sense I suppose, as their perusers would likely be short, but I think the retailer should have more respect for the backs of the wallet owners.

Every book in there looked like so much fun. When was the last time you purchased a book that was packaged with a craft kit, or toy dioramas, or a recorder instrument, or a chemistry set?

"Oh my GOD!" I said to my friend, who was an aisle or two away.

She whipped her head around. "Shhh! Indoor voice."

"But look!" I rushed up to her, holding up my find. "It's Mr. Bones!"

"Who's Mr. Bones?"

I eagerly pointed out the plastic pieces, all anatomically correct and just waiting for assembly into a fun skeleton friend, approximately 13 inches tall.

"I had one of these in middle school! It's how I leared the bones of the body so well. You HAVE to get this!" I thrust it into her hands, not waiting for a response.

"Oookay," she said. "Are you sure a book wouldn't be better? It would go better with the theme of the bookcase."

"Smookcase," I said, already lost in the other treasures of the Kids' Section. "Mr. Bones is the raddest thing EVER and I bet your bookshelf will get a lot of bids just because no one will have ever seen anything quite so cool."

There was still another Mr. Bones on the shelf. It was $17.

Never mind that I can recite the human skeleton, musculature, and organ systems by heart. Mr. Bones is educational! It's always okay to spend money as long as it's for an educational purpose.

After carefully assembling his knee bone to his thigh bone to his foot bone, I'd dress him up in seasonal attire and place him on my mantle.

My friend stood next to me and watched these thoughts go through my head.

She took me by the arm. "Let's go," she said. "He'll find a good home. Perhaps to someone who is actually 12 and not 30."

Technology strikes the fat.

I was at a friend's house for dinner, and while I was washing the dishes, her daughter came up to me.

"Hey, Katie! Let me take your picture!" In her hand was the ipad that her grandma bought her for Christmas. I want her grandma to be my grandma.

"Okay..." I said. "Why?"

"I want to Fatify your face!"

I set the sponge down. "You want to what?"

She turned the ipad around so I could see the screen. "It's this really funny app I got. You take a picture of someone, then the app stretches their face and makes them look really fat."

Awesome.

"See? Here's my brother's picture." She pulled up a picture of her 7-year-old brother looking more like a 30-year-old former wrestler gone to fat.

"Nice," I said. "Okay, take my picture." I peered close into the camera lens, partly to ensure a ridiculous shot, and partly because my own 30-year-old eyes could barely see the camera lens.

With a faux digital-sounding "click," the ipad took my picture and rendered it into a likeness of myself that was worrisome for its continued resemblance. I was hoping it would look more like an actor on TV wearing a fat suit, where you know it's still them, you can recognize it's still them, but it looks comically different. (Well, not comically. I find zero humor in fat suits.) Instead, I looked like myself, as if I had repeated my freshman year of college a few times, but still like myself.

"Awww, I'm cute!" I said, trying to ward off any weight insults.

No dice.

"What?" the daughter recoiled. "No you're not! Look at your cheeks!" Her 13-year-old hatred for obesity was good for the future of healthcare, but not good for anyone else's feelings.

"Well, I think I'm cute," I said, turning back to the dishes.

"Mom, look at Grandma's picture," she said, having lost interest in me.

As I rinsed the plates, I wondered exactly what we're doing here. Technological advancement is amazing, especially when it gets a young person so excited.

Somehow, I don't think "Fattify Your Face" is what Steve Jobs had in mind.

Inviting Friendship

"Mom, guess what! Adreanne wants me to spend the night tonight."

Mom looked carefully at me. "Did she ask you if you wanted to spend the night?"

I nodded. "Uh huh."

"You're sure you didn't invite yourself?"

In this particular case, I think I had invited myself over to her house. You would have, too. She had a Nintendo with Mario Brothers and a drawer in the kitchen that had miniature bags of Ranch Doritos and her mom didn't care how many we ate.

Does the rule still hold for adults? Are we supposed to wait for an unambiguous invitation before attending something/hanging out?

Of course, you think. You can't assume that just because you were within hearing proximity of social plans means you were meant to be included.

But in all honesty: the last time you hung out with some friends, did you get a call from a host who requested the pleasure of your presence at a certain time and place? Chances are, it was more like, "Hey, Katie - we're playing Scrabble at 2. Come if you can!" Ours is a society of casualness. Lack of tightly guided social rules can make discerning more difficult. If you're not issued the proverbial engraved invitation, your presence is specifically not wanted. But if you're with some people who are making plans and you're around, are you invited? The 1900s were definitely a time for the black-and-white thinker.

At the Scrabble table, I turned to my neighbor. "Susan, what are you making for dinner and is it gluten-free?"

The rest of the table burst out laughing at my fowardness, the complete lack of any attempt to...well, be smooth about trying to wrangle a dinner invitation.

As I was washing the dinner dishes, I found myself thinking about how glad I was that I had been so rude. I wouldn't have gotten to spend a wonderful couple of hours in her company and the company of her daughter. She probably never would have asked! How often do we not extend invitations, assuming the other person wouldn't want to or would have something better to do, etc.? In the vestiges of manners from a bygone era, we lose the potential for grabbed opportunities.

Okay, so maybe I could've politely asked for the dinner invite rather than grabbing it. I'll give that some more thought as I go nuke my awesome looking dinner leftovers.

Dust-busting Machine

Quick note before we get onto the subject matter at hand:

I hate hyphens. Just when I think I've mastered the wheres and whys, up pops a grammatical situation to prove me wrong. I hate them.

Anyway, so I'm getting ready to go to California for my much-anticipated(there you are again, you flat bastard) birthday trip. My parents will be here in 20 minutes to take me to the airport, and I'm hurridly shoveling a microwaved burrito into my mouth. It's really too hot to be holding, let alone sticking in a place with sensitive tissue, but oh well. What's a 3rd degree burn when you're at Disneyland?

Since my mom, aunt, cousin, and I are going to the Happiest Place on Earth, my dad generously volunteered to not go and instead stay home and take care of my home and pets. Linky (the cat) sheds a lot. I realize that dust is 99% dead skin cells, but the dust bunnies in my home are 99.9% cat hair. Every so often, a person can walk down the hall and spot a cat hair tumbleweed blowing across their path.

Thus, for Christmas this year my parents gifted me a brand-new Dustbuster.

I opened the box and looked at them.

"What?" Mom said, eyes wide with innocence. "You needed one."

Even though I'm on the cusp of 30, my definition of need is still somewhat different than my parents'. See, I "need" the latest stamping and scrapbooking stuff. I "need" to take baths instead of showers (less rushed). But a Dustbuster?

Last night I partook in a very dangerous activity in bed. It didn't involve whips and chains or anything, but it did involve a Rice Krispy treat.

And it got dirty.

Very dirty.

This morning, I woke up amidst a pile of crushed Krispies. They were stuck to the bedspread, to my pillow, and to my dog's head.

"You're a mess," I said to myself. I wouldn't accept this midnight plate-less snacking behavior from anyone else, so why do I let myself be such a grossy?

Grossy...dusty...Dustbuster!

I grabbed it from it's perch on the laundry room wall and went to my bedroom.

It sucked the crumbs from my bedspread without complaint. My dog, on the other hand, had a bit to say about it.

"Trumie, settle down," I said. "I'm helping you shed."

I'm sure my parents didn't intend for me to use the Dustbuster in such a way. Likewise, I didn't expect to find it to be so useful. Once again, Proctor and Gamble bridges the generational divide.

Green-bean Lothario

I was sitting around the dinner table with my parents. Mom and I are terrible and sneak our matching miniature dachshunds treats from the table, much to my father's chagrin.

"Why the hell do you think they beg and make such pests of themselves? If you would stop feeding them..." (insert head shake here) "Geez."

At the end of dinner, a few stray green beans littered our plates. Mom slipped one to her doxie, Susie Q.

I took one for Truman. Instead of handing it to him, I put it between my lips and leaned down.

"Oh my God," Mom said. "He's going to rip your face off!"

Instead, my little man wiggled his lips as he shoogled closer to me. Ever so gently, he took the green bean from between my lips.

I sat up, a triumphant smile on my face. "See? He took it with the utmost politeness." I thought for a moment.

"That was the first kiss I've had in 4 years."

Mom looked at me. "What do you mean? It couldn't have been that long. When were you dating Michael?"

"Summer of '08," I said.

She raised her eyebrows. "Wow. That is a long time."

And thus ended another normal dinner with my family.

Suspicions confirmed.

It's been happening for awhile now.

A cute contestant on "American Idol" would catch my eye, only for me to realize not only would it be barely legal for me to date them, but I crossed into "Eww. Weird" territory and somehow didn't even realize it.

I went to a musical at The Spokane Civic Theater. Before the show, I flipped through the program.

"Hey, who do you think is sleeping with whom?" I asked my friend as I pointed to the cast notes. I'm super-tight with my friend. We see eye-to-eye on almost everything. She's two years younger than my mom.

I turned a page and saw an advertisement for a photography studio featuring a good looking family.

"Oh my GOD!" I said. "See that guy?"

She looked over. "Yeah. Who is he?"

"He was the quarterback of the G-Prep football team this year."

She shrugged. "So?"

I closed the program. My voice was barely a croak. "Eighteen years ago, I used to change his diaper."

Final piece of evidence for the record: I'm turning 30 in a little over a week.

I feel like I was just starting to understand what it meant to be a young woman in her 20s. Maybe that's what it means to no longer be a "young adult" and to just be an "adult"? Just when you think you've got a handle on things, your landscape changes.

Thankfully, some things will always be the same. I'll always love being with friends. I'll always enjoy making fun of myself. Okay, I'll also always enjoy being immature. Whether it's laughing when I shouldn't or embarrassing myself and everyone around me, I'm only just now learning what it means when we say "Age is just a number."

So what am I doing to celebrate my 30th birthday?

I'm going to Disneyland!

Can you believe those jackwagons charge $77 for one day?! Why, back in my day...

We're Goin' a-Eagle Chasin'

My dad and I had been hearing on the news about the eagles making their annual trek (do eagles trek? Or migrate?) to north Idaho to partake in the feast of upriver salmon. As one weatherwoman put it, "You don't even have to try to take a good picture - you just need to push the button."

We drove around the lake, stopping here, stopping there, wherever we pleased.

Despite the cold weather, we weren't alone in our quest for the perfect picture. The proprietor of a local Italian eatery, Capone's, was out, as was a young man disarmingly unconcerned about his equipment. He left a camera worth several hundred dollars on this ledge. North Idaho trust is so reassuring.

Early runoff dripped into icicles across the cliff's face.

Around the bend, we came across two people staring up into the trees.
"See any good ones?" my dad asked.
The man shielded his eyes. "Yeah, there's one on the second tree there," he said, pointing.
I focused my camera.

I zoomed in, and presto. The sharp beak on that sonofabitch could tear my guts out in an instant. And those talons? {shudder}

Despite the breathtaking detail, he wasn't the shot of the day.

This was.

Levied Greatness? Or a Leveraged Cop-Out?

A good friend of mine knocked on my parents' door the other day. I happened to be over, as, well, I'm always at my parents'.

"Would you guys be willing to put a sign in your yard to support the upcoming school levy?" she asked.

My dad mumbled something, not looking up from the newspaper.

"Was that a yes?" she pressed. She's a freakishly upbeat person and nearly impossible to say no to. The CIA should hire her for Guantanamo.

My dad grudgingly nodded. "Yes."

She squealed in delight and gave him a huge hug, no doubt causing him to rethink his consent to yard defilement.

"What about you?" she said, turning to me. "Can we put one up in your yard?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

"Oh, come on. Why not? You went to the schools here. You support education, don't you?"

"Of course I do," I said. "But we've got the highest per student spending of any country and it doesn't seem to be doing the job. Plus, I read an article in the newspaper that listed the salary of our district's Superintendent. She made $214,000 last year. I don't support misappropriation of funds."

My neighbor rolled her eyes. "This isn't about the Superintendent! It's about the kids. The teachers. The librarians."

I shrugged. "If the Superintendent didn't make so much money, I would feel more inclined to pay more than the property taxes I already do, perhaps even extend the life of a levy. But for now, no sign."

We hugged and she left. But I still can't stop thinking about this! Why do I feel like I'm being "mean" (as she said : ) or unAmerican to not support this levy? School funds are being directed and re-directed until no one really knows who (state or local fundraising) funds what jobs and what resources, and then the students are punished when mean people like me say, "Enough."

In a way, it's a neighborhood-by-neighborhood version of what's going on in Washington, D.C. We've got the two entities of Wall Street (supremely well reimbursed administrators) and Main Street (teachers and people trying to provide good education). Programs are mandated but not funded, and textbooks are supplemented with cutting-edge technology. Let us not get me started on the use of iPads in the classroom. The above-mentioned newspaper article quoted this particular district's school board President as having acknowledged $214,000 is a lot to pay a Superintendent, but was necessary in order to lure the top talent.

Why don't we feel that way about teachers and their salaries?

Our education system a knotted skein of yarn, and no one seems interested in trying to unravel it so the yarn can actually be of some benefit. The problem is in all of our backyards, but at least I won't be perpetuating the problem in my front yard.

A Response to a Previous Post

I am so excited! I got my first viscerally negative response to my writing!

I knew this day would come. Actually, there is a little part of me that's surprised it didn't come sooner.

The real surprise?

I feel good. Rather than this being a devastating experience, it's actually exciting! I'm being dead serious here. It means someone not only took the time to read my writing - they took the time to tell me what an awful person I am for it. This means that I once, however fleeting, harnessed the power of the written word.

Quick recap: My last posting was about my ambitions to have my writing reach the vaunted status of being Published. To flesh out my post, I put someone in the crosshairs of my mockery. I didn't reference them by gender or name, only a Facebook posting that they themselves created regarding their writing ambitions. A most important clarification to be made here: I did not mock the ambition. I mocked the pretention.

Never one to assume anyone reads anything that I write, I was surprised to see a comment left on the blog post, awaiting my moderation. It reads:

"I find it disconcerting that you're okay with tearing down another person simply because her ambition is in the same vein as yours. Even more so that you'd post it in such a manner so easily decoded - it's not hard to understand exactly about whom you are writing. Do you think that any of this tearing down of others may have contributed to the "story of isolation?" - anonymous

I am actually being sincere when I thank Anonymous for her comment. It takes great strength to stand up in the world and say, "Hey, I think you're wrong here."

Sometimes I write in a very complex manner. One pass at my written thoughts might leave a reader thinking I'm saying one thing, while the second pass (if taken) might reveal a completely different...shit, I can't think of the right word. It's late, and, after all, I am responding to a less-than-positive critique. Why strain the brain.

I'm going to make life easy on myself and go step-by-step:

"I find it disconcerting that you're okay with tearing down another person simply because her ambition is in the same vein as yours."

Crap. My writing failed here because I was not tearing down Would-be Writer's ambition. I was tearing down the pompous attitude and the complete oblivion about how hard it is to actually write well. I was tearing down everyone who ever calls themselves A Writer before they've earned the right to do so. And no, Anonymous, I do not consider myself as a writer. I am merely one who writes.

"Even more so that you'd post it in such a manner so easily decoded - it's not hard to understand exactly about whom you are writing."

My source came from The Writer's own Facebook update. Facebook is a voluntary and public forum. People who post stupid comments have no guarantee that their postings are not made fun of. It's the nature of the beast.

"Do you think that any of this tearing down of others may have contributed to the "story of isolation?" - anonymous

Good burn, Anonymous. : ) Hmm. Upon deep reflection, my answer to that would have to be "No".

PS-Thanks for reading.