Gratitude.

I try to exercise gratitude every day. Some days it’s profuse and knee jerk (“Oh, I am so grateful that guy behind me hit the breaks just fast enough!”). Other times it’s more searching (“Well, at least we both have insurance.”)

In any case, for the past several years, mine has been a practice of conscious gratitude, looking around and examining the ways in which I am—my own actions aside—just lucky.

There are the obvious things; but then, once you’re looking around for them, there’s a lot. And recently, for me, my gratitude seems infinite.

I didn’t come into money. I didn’t make a discovery, win a grand prize, or sell my book. No long lost relative emerged from obscurity to tell me I am actually royalty, nor did I encounter a delightful genie in a bottle to grant me wishes. (Though I am still waiting on those last two.)

I started my clinical component of grad school.

My neuro classes have taught me about the wonderful intricacy, mystery, and malleability of the human brain. My clients have demonstrated this; they’ve also humbled me to its power and fragility. Each person I meet at the clinic has a powerful story and is, by any measure, amazing. And they each make me feel thankful daily.

Most obviously, they make me thankful for my healthy brain and body. And they remind me that it may only be temporarily so, increasing my gratitude for each day I’ve been healthy and functioning. That I am healthy and intact makes me grateful for the big things—that I can be in a position to help others, get further educated, be independent, enjoy an active lifestyle—and also for other things I haven’t much thought about. For instance, I do not have to learn how to walk in a little circle every so many feet because I cannot perceive what is on the left of me. I can, without thinking or effort, tie my shoes, walk to class, or casually talk to strangers. I do not have to write everything that happens to me down because I will not remember it in several minutes. These were things I didn't previously realize I should be thankful for.

More than making me grateful for what I can or can’t do, they make me grateful for human resilience and what is possible for them, me, and everyone. They remind me that one can learn and relearn, and though life would be easier without the struggles some face, rehabilitation is possible. They also remind me (a helper by nature) that it is important to let oneself be helped and to rely on others.

In addition, I am grateful to learn from these clients. I’m not just talking about their disorders and deficits; these are really just one aspect of their lives, and though they undoubtedly shape them, it is not who they are. I'm talking about the character, strength, humor, and patience they demonstrate in so willingly sharing their experience and time with me, a novice clinician, full of the insecurity, faults, and silly (or downright bad) ideas that come with being brand new, so that I can learn and grow and help others in the future. As one of my clients once said to me and my co-clinician, “I thought you did a good job today.” And she, the one working so hard!

This is their most generous gift: the reminder that we should use what we have to help and graciously be helped when needed. That’s what it means to be part of a community.

Next stop, Procrastination Station!

The other day, I received the fabric I ordered for two quilts I’m going to make. Now I have the first quilt's batch washed, pressed and ready to go. My pattern is chosen, my blocks are plotted out in a little colored-pencil sketch and I’m eager to get my sew on.

However, over the next week, I have four exams and a packed work and school schedule. And all I want to do is work on my projects.

I don’t know about anyone else, but my most prolific periods in the domestic arts have run concurrent with my busiest times in school.

Cases in point: 

• In my senior year of college, while working three jobs: I threw myself into pastry.

• Preparing to present at two conferences: I painted my apartment and landscaped the patio.

• Applying to graduate school: I made a blazer and two sundresses. 

• Revising my Master’s thesis: I took up knitting, producing a cavalcade of hats, scarves and arm warmers. 

• And once, once, the eve before two papers' deadlines: I made a cheesecake. With my own homemade cheese. 

In the course of my academic endeavors, I have thirsted for tangible tasks and practical outlets. In the midst of critical theory and literary analysis, I just wanted something I could put my hands on, manipulate, mold and finish. And a garment coming into view from a piece of string and two sticks blew my mind as much as anything Foucault could say. 

Though my coursework now is more practically related to everyday life than anything I’ve ever studied, the same holds true. I crave producing something "real" while reading and thinking about speech, hearing and language science, vast and often abstract topics.

In this sense, I think these projects are a perfectly healthy counterbalance to the scholarly task at hand.

On the other hand, they are largely procrastination. I am not a lazy person. But I do procrastinate, in the form of projects that would make Martha Stewart beam (or at least stiffly nod her head in prim approval). Because my procrastination feels productive, avoiding school work seems less wrong, even if the things I choose to do are the last things on earth I should be doing at that point in time.

So yeah, I’m the first to recognize the absurdity of this. I mean, it’s my morning off, when I ought to be studying for my impending exam, and I’m writing about (!) the procrastination I could be (!) doing today. 

Okay, I've sufficiently shamed myself. Off to study communicative processes in aging... and fight the urge to sew quilt squares.

Thoughts on a failed pet store

I just noticed that our local mall's pet store went out of business sometime after Christmas.  (Obviously, I don’t go to the mall very often.)

My reaction was something akin to the munchkins’ when they skip around singing “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”

I suppose my victorious glee was heightened because the closure of the store coincided with two run-ins with irresponsible dog owners. The more notable: I scooped up a mini daschund out for a cruise through a busy intersection. Upon returning him to his negligent owners, they said, “Oh, he gets out all the time under the fence. His brother too; that one got kilt by a car, as a matter of fact.” 

Foundling cat: just as good as any bought from a store!
(No, she's not just a head!)

People who get pets and don’t take good care of them get me on my soapbox. And, in my opinion, nothing facilitates this problem quite like mall pet stores.

I admit, I love me my puppy and kitty therapy, and if I see a pet store, I’ll probably take too long walking by to get some through the window. But I’ve always had a problem with mall stores schlepping living creatures like things.

This place was called “Dog Stop.” And let us "stop" here to analyze this troubling name. You stop off for gas, or a Big Gulp, or, in some cases, drugs. One should never stop anywhere to casually acquire a new completely reliant living thing.

The convenience of the mall pet store makes pets into impulse buys. Just had to have that pair of boots ‘cause you saw them in the window, and they were sooooooo cute? Same principle applies: come to the mall to look around, maybe have a Cinnabon… [SIREN] Impulse buy!  Puppy! 

I guess a more apt analogy than shoes might be furniture or electronics. These puppies do cost between 800 and 1500 bucks (less and less as they grow out of their crates). One might say that the prohibitive cost helps deter buyers who aren’t serious. But then easy financing comes in… and that’s all she wrote.

Formerly neglected, but high quality, dog...
even if given to sloth and carrying around shoes. 

Other on-the-spot splurges typically result in little more than remorse for financial irresponsibility. A pet--especially a puppy--absolutely changes your life and is hard work. Some buyers realize this, but many don’t, and the result is downright depressing.

One only needs to check out craigslist to see the multitude of people ridding themselves of pets bought without foresight. “We are looking to re-home Buster. We just don’t have time…” Or “the landlord says we can’t have animals at our place…” Or “we can’t have him chewing up the furniture…” Or “turns out I'm allergic.”

The worst posts attempt to garner sympathy for the buyer’s own poor decision. “Shadow is just sitting alone in her crate too much. She is chewing her feet because she is bored. PLEASE consider adopting her. Re-homing fee negotiable.” Though it makes me deeply sad for Shadow, if you expect me to weep and reach for my wallet like I do when the Sarah McLauchlan ASPCA commercials come on, you're dreamin'.

Impulse, convenience, and a heavy dose of cute are what pet stores rely on to push their goods--goods that wouldn't be, if not for our patronage. And in my town, people were either too broke or too scrupulous to go for it. (I'll pretend it’s the latter.)

In the meantime, serious lookers should get their booties to the animal shelter and humane society to find their furry lil’ soul mates. And they are out there. You just have to leave the mall and look.

Decal-ifornication

To me, one of the great mysteries of our day is the phenomenon of representing one’s family in sticker form on the back of a vehicle. 

Why do people go out of their way to do this? Does this happen in other parts of the country? The globe? What does it mean about us? And why does it offend my sensibilities so much?

If you haven't been out on the road in the last 5 to 10 years, the baseline decal is this: dad, mom, brother, sister, baby are represented in a neat lil’ row, from biggest (daddy) to smallest (kid, or baby, or cat, or hermit crab, or whatever the smallest family member happens to be). One’s pets can be included, and sometimes the family’s name is printed beneath for all to see.

These stickers have spawned a legion of variations. I’ve observed families depicted in the following forms:

• Bear heads
• Footprints
• Sea turtles
• Mickey Mouse ears
• Hibiscus flowers
• Penguins
• Skulls & crossbones
• Flip flops
• Rubber chickens
• Palm trees
• Surfboards
• Monkeys
• Angels
• Team mascots
• Band members
• Darth Vadar helmets
• Jesus fish
• Tiki heads
• Exotic birds
• Athletes
• T-shirts

Based on my observations, decals available can be grouped into several sub-sets:

1. The too-cute-for-words decal (teddy bears, Hello Kitties)
2. The power family decal (hockey players, scientists)
3. The “California Cool” decal (palm trees, sunglasses)
4. The souvenir decal (family in Hawaiian shirts and hula gear)
5. The  “fuck family decals” decal (the Ass family, murder-suicide family) 

Maybe I read too much into things (I can’t help it, I majored in English). And perhaps I don’t appreciate the decal's playful role of building camaraderie amongst the Reynolds or the Adamses or the Watsons (I can’t help it; I’m not very fun). 

But the trend presents an interesting paradox: a desire to be a regarded as an individual (or, as it were, a family of individuals) and a self-conscious commitment to conformity. One advertises uniqueness (are we a Disney family or a surfer family?) AND fitting squarely in the mold of the middle class nuclear family. It strikes me as kind of dishonest; there are *so many* different types of families in this world.

This blog is supposed to be about finding a shred of positive in things, and here I am blah-blah-blahing again (what I do best).

So the silver lining I present is this: at least they haven’t made a family of Calvins pissing on things. Yet.

Free Essay Advice! (Part 1 of ??)

Upon reflection, I've realized it's (gasp!) the 21st semester I've worked with college writers.

Given ever-growing budget cuts and fee hikes at the university, it seems appropriate to give back to the community and share some of my advice pro bono. The wisdom herein is for any college writer regardless of skill level and is guaranteed to improve his/her work.

Here it is:

• Teachers can tell when you’ve screwed with font and formatting to reach the length requirement of a paper. It’s this advanced technology we have called “eyes.”

• Do not quote Forrest Gump as an introduction to your essay. Especially if it's not a paper about Forrest Gump.

• Do not pose your thesis as a question or an exclamation.  

• Have a thesis.

• No one is “trying to quash your creativity” by not accepting Lucida Calligraphy as an appropriate font.

• Do not buy an essay from a paper mill. Paying for a paper is like paying for sex. At the worst, you’ll be in a world of trouble; at the least, you’ll feel dirty and ashamed.

• There are better titles for your work than “Paper #2” or “English Essay.” Try to find one.

• You say you write better under pressure mere hours before the paper’s due? Maybe so. But a first draft is never a final draft.

• Spell and grammar check help not always.

• As with most crafts, don’t bother breaking the rules in the name of artistic license until you can demonstrate you know all the rules completely. You may spit in the face of convention when you are ready, grasshopper.

• Just know that your instructor is aware your backpack containing your laptop was not stolen from the library the day before the paper was due. (If we act like we buy it, it’s because we once made a similar excuse back in our day.)

• Do not print your final draft in magenta ink because you wanted to save your printer's remaining black ink for your lab report. (Related, do not share this information with your writing instructor.)

• It’s good to spell your instructor’s name correctly in your heading. 

• The thesaurus can be trouble. Use it gingerly, and make sure you aren’t using the iniquitous words.

• Wikipedia is wonderful for a great many things. The sole source of research in a research paper? Not one of those things. 

• Plagiarism happens. Inadvertent plagiarism happens. Both have the same consequences, so don’t do either.

• Give a shit. Or at least pretend to give a shit. I *promise*, it makes everything better for everybody!

Duck Hunt

Now that one of my universities is back in session, I’m dividing my time between

two jobs. Again. It will be a fine day when I can focus on one job. But I've never minded working, and have worked to earn my money for as long as I can remember.

My first *real job* came my way unexpectedly when I was ten. Opportunity literally knocked in the form of a house-dressed octogenarian, our neighbor, Mrs. Rose. She came over to ask if my parents knew any boys to do yard work for her.

I piped up, telling her that I could do it.

“Could you?” She hesitated. “I don’t know. I was looking for a boy.” 

This comment of course only strengthened my resolve, and I insisted I was the girl for the job.

My prepubescent moment of industry and gender upheaval must be tempered by an admission: it mostly stemmed from covetousness.  I had seen my destiny, and it was called Nintendo Entertainment System.  My parents did not understand my truest need for this item, and if I wanted it, I’d have to save $149.99 and buy it myself. 

So, on a hot Saturday morning, I showed up at Mrs. Rose's house. My duties were watering, pulling weeds, clearing brush, and tending her prize-winning orchids. I took to the work quickly and routinely admired my dirty, calloused hands and knees.

I never knew she had so many flowers in her yard: two houses of orchids in individual pots that required tender care. She had prize ribbons hanging around the houses and a framed newspaper clippings of her with the orchid society.

Why she didn’t want to tend to something so important herself, I didn’t fully understand, but I figured it had something to do with her husband, who would yell at me from his bedroom window each week, telling me to get the hell off his property.  She would shout at him once, firmly--“Henry!”--and he would go silent and observe me suspiciously from the window as I went about my duties.

I’d also been unaware that she had a variety of fowl on her property, including a flock (or, if you prefer, a badelynge, bunch, brace, paddling, raft or team) of ducks. 

To this day, I have never seen ducks like these. 

They were HUGE, bigger than our Sheltie, Dolly.  If I were to pick one up (a hellish thought), I would have to use both arms and lift with my knees. They were mottled brown with greenish-brown reptilian feet. Their bills--greenish, bony, and mossy, with little teeth-like ridges lining them like the lip on a box of aluminum foil--gave me the willies most of all.

Until then I’d had no opinion on ducks, and I was not afraid of them in theory. But lord in heaven, I was afraid of them in fact.

And I maintain that these ducks could smell fear: my fear. They did not bother Mrs. Rose. When she walked by them, she kicked her orthopedic shoe at them, and they waddled demurely out of her way.

Conversely, when I walked by they—especially one in particular that I named Chargey—would stick their necks straight out (to achieve some kind of aerodynamic advantage, I guess) and ran at my ankles at full speed with their ghastly beaks wide open.

Running away from them was not effective (they would chase me) and difficult (since the yard was peppered with slippery green plugs of duck shit). Hiding was also futile. Climbing onto high objects seemed to be my only escape, so I did it often.

I had a problem, but I did not want to admit that I had a problem. Though I figured any rational person—even a boy—would be afraid of these monster ducks, I knew that chickening out (pun intended) would cost me my status as a good worker of any gender.

One day, I stopped for a rest in one of the orchid houses. I silently perched on a stack of cinderblocks. Suddenly, emerging from behind the large platform of flowers was Chargey’s horrible head. He looked at me askance. His awful, beady eye narrowed, Jurassic Park T-Rex core.

I sidestepped around the other side of the platform, between orchids and more orchids. But coming that way was the rest of his posse. I was cornered; there was nowhere to go. Chargey assumed the position for which he was named. He darted his head out, and his hideous beak TOUCHED my bare ankle.

Panicked, I scrambled up onto the platform. It was basically carpenter’s horses and cinderblocks holding thin sheets of wood and could not support a kid. And so I—and it—promptly crashed to the floor. I fell on my chest, pots and their barky contents all around me, leaves and blooms from a dozen plus prize-winning plants squashed and severed. 

I was terrified first of the ducks closing in on me in a feeding frenzy. But when I saw that they’d left the house, quacking neurotically, the object of my fear became Mrs. Rose, a tough woman who kept her nice things nice, who would not be bothered with foolishness, and whose good-favor I'd come to value. 

It would only be a matter of time before she would come upon the pathetic scene. I peered out at the big house to see if she had stirred. But she hadn’t. Just her husband, who was having a fit and glowering at me with profound hate.

I realized a miracle had happened: she didn’t hear the crash.

Furiously, I began to clean up the mess, reassembling the platform as best I could, balancing blossoms on their stems. I arranged pots over the giant crack in the board and swept up the dirt, depositing it back in the pots.

It looked passable by the time I was done, but it was essentially a house of cards, waiting to come down at the slightest touch.

I finished my work and received my payment, conflicted at taking the crisp bills in my dirty hand.

By the next weekend, another miracle occurred: it began to rain. And it kept raining, so I did not have to work outside. Loyal to me, Mrs. Rose gave me indoor jobs. Then, after the third week of me polishing brass, re-papering shelves, and decorating the house for Christmas, she announced, “Well, girl, that’s all I have for you.  Let’s talk in the Spring.”

But we didn’t talk. Mrs. Rose's husband died after Christmas, and she moved to be nearer to her family. I never knew if she found out about the orchid house, and while I felt bad about the mess I'd made, I also was certain there was no avoiding it given the circumstances.

In any case, I had earned enough money for my NES, which I promptly bought, hooked up to our TV, and became unhealthily addicted to. 

I knew that money could not buy happiness, as the adage goes. But as I racked up a high score shooting ducks on screen with my plastic shotgun, I felt mighty satisfied.