Starstruck

I saw George Clooney tonight...on my way to get my hair cut. Granted, if I had actually seen the real George Clooney on my way to get my hair cut, I would have been mortified. My hair has grown extraordinarily fast the past six weeks; which means my gray roots were embarrassingly visible despite the fact that I have "dusted" them with WOW gray concealer every morning for two weeks. The whole process has added an extra 15 minutes to my usually brief morning beauty (and I use that word loosely) routine. I had that much of a skunk stripe to hide.
Why should I care if George Clooney sees that I have gray hair? George Clooney has gray hair.
George Clooney was propped up by the curb, against a trash can. It was drizzling outside. His gray hair looked very handsome...distinguished even.
It always rains on the day I get my hair cut, ensuring that my hair looks great for the 10 minutes it takes for the hairstylist to remove the cape, swipe my credit card, and schedule my next appointment. After that, it's all downhill. My hair gets wet and frizzy on my way from the salon to the car. The next day, I can NEVER get my hair to look as nice as the stylist made it look the day before.
"It's raining," the hairstylist says knowingly. She has been cutting and coloring my hair for years.
"Of course it is," I say. I don't tell her that I just saw George Clooney. I think about it while I wait for the color to set.
Someone must have grown tired of George Clooney, and his gray hair, and his debonair smile. Someone must have loved him once...enough to buy a huge poster of his face...enough to have the poster framed and hang the poster in her apartment.
But now the framed poster of George Clooney is propped up against a trash can, by the curb, in the rain, about a block from my hair salon.
I decide I have spent way too much time thinking about George Clooney...kicked to the curb. I wasted the time I usually spend reading gossip magazines about beautiful people like George Clooney...while the rain drums against the roof. I must clear my head of poor, rejected George Clooney, or I will not be able to fully enjoy my 10 fleeting minutes of beautiful hair.

Morning Madness

"Morning is an important time of day, because how you spend your morning can often tell you what kind of day you are going to have." — Lemony Snicket
My mornings are hectic. I've tried waking up at various times, preparing lunches, outfits, and book bags the night before; but regardless of my careful plans, something always goes wrong in the morning. My blow dryer only burns out, filling the bathroom with the smell of burnt hair, IN THE MORNING when my hair is still wet. My sons only realize they must take the all-white (insert soccer or lacrosse here) uniform (the mud-splattered one that is still in the dirty clothes basket) to school that day IN THE MORNING. I remember, IN THE MORNING, that I parked the car on near-empty the night before and must make time to stop at the gas station on my way to work. The dog only rolls in something vile smelling on her MORNING walk.
This morning, I had to be at school even earlier than usual; and I had to stop at Chick-Fil-A on my way to work in order to pick up a platter of chicken mini biscuits for student council breakfast. I ordered the platter yesterday; but, of course, since it was MORNING, the platter was not ready. I waited impatiently by the register. How long did it take to throw some tiny breakfast sandwiches together? They had had 24 hours notice. I paced in place, rocking from one foot to the other. It did not make time go by any faster. To distract myself, I watched other people going about their morning.
An older gentleman sat at a booth, enjoying his breakfast while reading the newspaper. I heard a member of the wait staff call him by name. He regularly had time to eat a leisurely breakfast at Chick-Fil-A? I felt overcome with jealousy.
A husband and wife stood at the condiment counter, helping themselves to coffee creamers. The napkin dispenser was empty. Neither of them thumped the top of the obviously empty dispenser nor did they whip around frantically, searching for someone, anyone, to hand them a paper towel. Instead, they waited patiently for an available cashier and asked politely for some extra napkins. Why weren't they rushing? I was filled with admiration.
So it wasn't just mornings in general, I thought to myself, when, several minutes later, I was hustling out of Chick-Fil-A, balancing a tray of chicken sandwiches. I had only moments to get to school before student council members would be waiting at my door unsupervised. Some people actually had relaxing mornings. I marveled at the thought.
"That should be my goal," I whispered wistfully, as I whipped into a parking space and ran full-speed into the building, sloshing coffee on my sweater in the process.
Forget about travel or a second career, "I will have a calm and peaceful MORNING...when I retire."

Sack Lunch

My older son is a picky eater; and although my younger son is not particular when it comes to food, I have always packed their lunches...since the day each boy started kindergarten. When they were in elementary school, they carried nylon Land's End lunch bags with their initials embroidered on the front. Jack's lunch bag was red; and Will's was blue. The front of the lunch bags had mesh pockets where, at the end of the day, I would sometimes find the little notes I'd included in their lunch that morning..."You'll do great on the spelling test!", "Here's what Daddy looked like when he was your age (along with a photo copy of their freckle-faced, red-haired dad)!", "I'm so proud of you." Although the notes were crumpled and stained with ketchup, I was happy to know that the boys had saved the notes instead of tossing them out with the empty Ziploc sandwich bags and juice boxes.
The summer before middle school, an older friend advised Jack to leave his Land's End bag at home and carry his lunch in a brown paper sack.
"Are you sure, Jack?" I asked. "Your red lunch bag keeps your food colder and holds more stuff."
"I'm sure," Jack said.
We found large-sized lunch bags at the grocery store; and, for the past six years, I have been packing brown bags full to the brim with lunches for my boys to take to middle school and now high school. I still add a note every now and then. Sometimes, when I'm putting clothes in the washing machine, I find the notes folded up in their jeans' pockets.
What will I do, I wonder, when they are away at college?
I will send care packages, of course; but that will not be the same as packing favorite sandwiches, and green grapes, and a surprise candy bar in those brown paper sacks. It won't be the same as imagining my boys opening their lunch bags at school on a good or bad or regular day and, in the middle of a crowded cafeteria, finding a little bit of home on the table in front of them.
Over the years, those lunch bags have carried a whole lot of love.

Sick Day

Some of my students do not feel well today.
The school nurse tells me a stomach bug is going around. I make a mental note to swipe the desks with Clorox wipes.
One student asks if she can call home this morning. Her face is pale.
"Of course," I tell her.
"What's hurting?"
"Everything," she says.
She calls home, and her grandfather promises to pick her up. I know her family. I am sure her grandma will have a soft pillow and blanket on the couch, ready for her when she gets home. Perhaps her grandma will set a folding tray next to the couch, with a glass of crushed ice and Sprite and a red and white striped straw. The TV remote control or a favorite book will be on the folding tray.
Her grandma will take her temperature even though the school nurse has already done so, reporting to the grandfather that it was 100 degrees exactly. Her grandma will take it again, just to be sure. She will give her liquid Tylenol, even though the girl is old enough to try to swallow a tablet. Why make a difficult day any harder?
Later today, if the girl feels up to it, her grandma will make her clear soup or cherry Jell-O. The house will be quiet. Her grandfather's cool hand will press against her forehead while she's sleeping, checking to see if the temperature has gone down. Her grandma will tuck the blanket around her shoulders.
After the girl calls home, the rest of us watch as she gathers her folders, her jacket, her lunchbox.
"Feel better!" I say.
We feel bad that she is sick; but some kids, I know, would trade places with her in a heartbeat. One student, across the room, looks equally pale. He lays his head on his folded arms.
He doesn't even ask to call home.

Mulch for Sale

We'll deliver to your door
if you buy 10 bags or more

Though I'm not usually the begging sort
high school lacrosse is a costly sport...

Before you say "No thanks" to me
I'll remind you of my generosity

"I'm on a diet!" I wanted to shout
But I bought Tagalongs from your girl scout

I subscribed to magazines last summer
to fund band camp for your snare drummer

You sold me more wrapping paper than I could use
 to pay for the golf teams' new golf shoes

Big donations for twin cheerleaders
Read-a-thon sponsor for avid readers

Bake sales for the high school talent show
car wash tickets and cookie dough

Your garden will look like a new creation
when I deliver the mulch bought with your donation

I appreciate your order, I hope you know...
I've gotta run...I still have 99 bags to go.

Unprepared

During the course of each school day, 105 students make their way in and out of my class; and on any given day, many of them are unprepared.
"Find any pencils lately?" they ask. They know we are at the point in the school year where we are running low on the pre-sharpened pencils I bought at the beginning of the year with school supply money. Now, I keep my eyes to the tiles, rescuing dropped and abandoned pencils I find in the hall. I doctor them up with a hand-held sharpener and a neon pink cap eraser. I hand over a rescued pencil, stifling a heavy sigh.
"Does anyone have lined paper?"
"May I use your scissors?"
"I left my binder in my locker."
"Is it okay if I bring the vocabulary homework in tomorrow? It's on my kitchen counter."
"Could I call my mom and ask her to sign my permission slip?"
"Could I use some crayons?"
I dole out a shocking amount of free school supplies.
Despite the temptation to lecture, I usually just hand over the tape or black Sharpie or my own personal pouch of colored pencils. My students are, after all, only 12-years-old; and any harsh words from me would only postpone (even longer) the work that needs to be done.
They know, though, that I am disappointed by their lack of preparation. My lips form a thin straight line instead of a smile; and my eyebrows arch into question marks...questioning their irresponsibility.
I send them a silent reprimand; and though I don't say a word, I might as well shout. "It's a school day. You've been to school hundreds of days. You know what you need to bring to school!"

* * *

This morning, I woke up early, thinking I had plenty of time to straighten the house, drink a cup of coffee, walk the dog, wash a couple loads of towels, run through the cash machine, and still have time to drive my 14-year-old son to his out-of-town lacrosse game. I even thought I had plenty of time to write my slice before we headed out. I sat down on the couch and reached for the laptop, pausing to check for messages on my cell phone. That's when I realized I had misread the schedule. The game was twice as far away as I had thought. I launched into panic mode. Fortunately, I had already walked and fed the dog. The towels would have to wait. My son loaded his lacrosse bag into the back of the car, I hit reverse, and we leaped out of the garage. My son put the field address into the GPS; and I crossed my fingers that we had enough gas to get us there.
We arrived at the field just in time for my son to hop out and hurry over to the team for warm-ups. The rain started as soon as he got out of the car. Wasn't it supposed to be warmer today? I had not had time to check the weather. On the way out of the house, I had grabbed my short winter jacket (the one without the hood)  instead of my long, puffy winter coat.
After parking, I climbed out of the driver's seat. It felt really chilly, and the wind was blowing. I rummaged through the back seat while misty rain frizzed up my hair. I found my raincoat (thank goodness!), balled up in the back floorboard, and I put it on over my winter jacket. I looked and felt all bunched up; but at least I had a hood now. A pair of thin, fleece mittens were stashed in the glove box; one was ripped at the wrist, but they would have to do. The shell for my older son's ski jacket was in the trunk, along with an old picnic blanket. I gathered it all up, hoping to make do. It was raining harder now; and the weather app on my phone confirmed my suspicions. It was only 40 degrees! Since there had been no time for the cash machine, I was relieved to find four dollars in the zippered part of my wallet and four quarters in the console...just enough for the price of admission, but not enough to buy hot chocolate at the concession stand.
I was facing a miserable hour and a half.
Of course, my comfy stadium seat was folded neatly on top of the thick stadium blanket...back home in our garage.
I spread out my picnic blanket on the hard bleachers and wrapped my son's ski coat around my legs. I'd left home in my lightweight Adidas running shoes; and without my rain boots, the hem of my jeans was soaked through. My thick socks were at home in my sock drawer; and the short socks I had on didn't even cover my ankles.
I was unprepared. I had been irresponsible. I looked and felt like a sorry excuse for a fan.
Over the years, I had attended hundreds of spring sporting events. I knew what I needed; but today I didn't have it when I needed it.
Sitting there, hunkered over in the cold, a steady rain dripping off the hood of my raincoat (the sports umbrella was in my husband's car), I thought of all the little faces who had looked at me with hopeful eyes, holding out their hands to borrow pencils and pens and paper and paperclips. I vowed that if my feet thawed out by Monday, I would hand over whatever they needed with a smile and a wink and a little one shoulder hug.
"We all forget what we need sometimes," I might say encouragingly. "Don't let it get you down."

Anything But Bacon

We have a Schnauzer, Jersey,...a 12 lb., two-year-old Schnauzer who, despite several sessions with a trainer, still struggles with behavior problems.
She stands on her back legs and paws my legs with her front feet, whining frantically for me to pick her up.
"Don't make eye contact with her when she does that," the trainer advises. "Eye contact from you is like a big hug to her. She thinks you are encouraging that behavior."
"Um...okay," I say, trying to go about emptying the dishwasher with the dog pawing at me and the trainer watching. I can't help thinking that Jersey looks like a little toddler reaching up for me. Maybe I have been encouraging that behavior. Usually I lift her right up to my face and give her a little snuggle. Definitely, I have been encouraging that behavior. I decide not to admit that to the trainer.
The trainer has agreed to work with us, at our house; and he wants us to go about our daily business so he can see how Jersey interacts.
"Your house always smells great," the trainer says, sitting down at the kitchen table. It's his third visit. "It always smells like bacon. I can see how a dog would be really happy here."
"Thanks," I say. Does my house always smell like bacon? I have teenaged sons; so I guess we do eat a lot of bacon. Do I smell like bacon? Now, I am not only worried about the dog's behavior, I'm also wondering if I smell like breakfast meat.
After I load the dishwasher, the trainer suggests we take Jersey for a walk.
"Brace yourself," I say. "She goes crazy when we pass another person...or dog...or squirrel." I think to myself that it's a wonder the other dogs don't bark at us...especially if we smell so strongly of bacon.
Jersey has a very high-pitched, anxious bark; and though she is not an aggressive dog, her barking makes her seem out of control. By the time I finally gave in and called the trainer, it had gotten so bad that I found myself walking Jersey at an uncharacteristically early hour each morning to avoid other dogs and owners. Even so, we almost always managed to run into someone...usually the neighbor with the perfect Golden Retriever. Jersey would bark as if her life depended on it. Her shrill voice echoing down the near-empty sidewalk.
I actually started cursing under my breath whenever I saw anyone walking in our direction. I wanted to shout.
"Please stay INSIDE until I have walked my dog! Do you really need to BE OUT HERE at 6:00 AM? You should know by now that my dog is not as PERFECT as yours. All I want is a PEACEFUL walk with my CRAZY dog before I have to go to work. Is that too much to ask?"
Instead, I appealed to my dog. "Please, please, please do not go into a barking frenzy," I would whisper to Jersey the minute I spotted the Golden Retriever prancing along peacefully in the distance. "Just ignore them. Please Jersey, ignore them. You're going to wake up the whole neighborhood. You're going to look mean; and I'm going to look stupid."
It never worked. The minute she caught a glimpse of the oncoming dog, she started her embarrassing, nonstop, ear-splitting yelp.
"She's just a little excited..." I called, waving half-heartedly, as the Golden Retriever and her superior-looking owner walked by.

* * *

Now, with the trainer's support, we head out so he can see Jersey in action.
Of course, right away, she begins her crazy barking.
"Yeah...I see what you mean," the trainer says.
He takes the leash and walks Jersey a few feet away from me. It tugs at my heart when I see her nervously glancing back in my direction.
"Do you mind looking the other way?" the trainer asks.
"Oh...of course...no problem," I say. I look in the other direction. Miraculously, Jersey and the trainer head off down the street silently. Apparently, I can't even watch her walk without causing a problem. I'm the trigger.
Although I feel hopeful for Jersey by the end of the training session, I also feel pretty bad about myself. I love that crazy dog, and I hate the fact that I seem to be the root of her misbehavior.
The trainer explains to me that I have to set some boundaries. I'm so glad my husband and sons are not home to hear this. I'd never hear the end of it. The trainer points out some specific things I need to work on.
I am no longer supposed to pick up the bone for Jersey when she drops it off the couch and barks until I reach down and hand it back to her. I am not supposed to give in when she uses her nose to push my computer off my lap or forcibly squeezes herself between me and my husband when we are sitting side by side, watching TV. I am not supposed to allow my anxiety to travel from my head, to my heart, into my hand, and down the leash to the dog. (Now how in the world am I supposed to prevent that?)
Before the trainer leaves, we set a time for the next session the following week. We also discuss possible new groomers...since Jersey has recently been banned from her previous grooming salon because of her barking.
I walk the trainer to the door, making a mental note of all the things I have to work on before the next session...walk the dog with treats in hand, require her to wait for an invitation onto the couch instead of allowing her to jump up at will, reward the positive, ignore the negative...buy some scented candles that smell like anything but bacon.