Value wIT

Transgendered Polygamists, Just Greedy

Just when I’m ready for bed after a 90-minute massage and a hot bath, The Professor casually lets slip a comment about his transgendered teaching assistant. Now I have to spend the next twenty minutes writing a post that will more than likely lead to more questions than answers.

Most importantly, why didn’t The Professor race home the very day last August when he met said transgendered person and tell me about her…him.  I need to know these things!  When quizzed, The Professor said that he didn’t think it was important.  Honestly, he is genuinely oblivious to life’s ticking heartbeat.

The transgendered person’s name is Emerald. Sounds awfully feminine. Does she look like a girl who used to be a boy? It’s like pulling teeth to get The Professor to give me any information. Finally he tells me that Emerald looks like a girl. “She paints her toenails.” Now that’s a detail!  Tell me more, I beg. “How do you know Emerald is transgendered? Did she tell you?”

Emerald approached The Professor early in the school year and told him that she/he thought some of the students were likely offended by his heterosexually based analysis of Paradise Lost. Apparently during that conversation The Professor divined that Emerald does not wish to be referred as a male or female. “Did she tell you that in words? How did you know?” I dig.

Total frustration on my part. “Does she look like a boyish girl or a girly boy?” I nag. The Professor shrugs his shoulders like he has been wearing blinders all year. Just when I am ready to drop the bone, The Professor says, “She’s going to Spain this summer to study Transgendered Polygamists.”

What?

I breakdown the words and still wonder what the hell Transgendered Polygamy could possibly mean? Then it dawns on me that Transgendered Polygamy is a title for sleeping with everybody all at once.  Come to think of it, I know some Transgendered Polygamists.

Off in my own world I begin Googling Transgendered Polygamists. The Professor says to the air, “Emerald will do very well in the professional world. She’s exactly what people want to hire.”

Me? I think Emerald is greedy.

God Poured Coffee On My Head

Why would God dump a grande, nonfat, two Sweet  & Low, latte right on top of my freshly washed and carefully coiffed hair?  Does (s)he hate me, or was (s)he trying to get my attention because all the other times (s)he tried to make a point I didn’t listen? 

Earlier in the morning I had ignored God when (s)he made me bump into the kitchen counter and bruise my hip, or when (s)he jammed my finger into the chair and bent my fingernail backward.  Possibly by flooding my hair with hot sticky coffee God made me breakdown and scream,

“I can’t do this anymore!!”

It was a typical morning. The children wouldn’t wake up, despite the fact they had slept for 11 hours.  There was whining about the cold house; complaining about the bed-hair that wouldn’t lie down; and rejection of all breakfast offerings. 

Happy, perky me had gotten up early to pack the backpack with supplies that would get me through the day with no car and no trip between offices:  computer, assorted cords, phone, low-calorie lunch, shoe change, cash and credit, and the ever present notebook.  After three days of being forced to drive the car – which makes me angry – I was going to ride my bike to work.

Flat tire. Fixed! 
Lost sunglasses. Found!
Spot on shirt. Cleaned!

One by one I swatted problems like mosquito's.  Then, the problems ceased being solvable.  My offer to help with unruly hair was rejected with,

“Stop, Mom!  You’re doing it wrong!” 

Fine. Deal with it yourself. I’m off to scramble the eggs.

After a large expenditure of my positive energy, the other child was cajoled into eating and dressing.  Then, Crabby Child entered the room spouting venom about my abandonment during the hair crisis.  In a flash, a memory of Crabby’s nasty spew over last night’s dinner entered my mind. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” I call into the air.  Jesus answered.

Picking up my ceramic coffee cup I am motivated to heave it across the room in a fit of anger.  However, my monitor kicks in and insists I refrain from throwing breakables (that I would later have to clean-up.) Instead I attempt to replace the cup back in its spot on the counter.  Somehow my wild wielding of the cup sloshes the liquid in such a violent manner that a large wave of coffee finds its way onto my head and soakes my hair in nonfat, Sweet&Low latte.  The remaining coffee galoshes onto the counter and runs down the cabinet onto the floor.

The physics of this 6-second incident escapes me.  All I know is that my carefully planned biking-into-office outfit was moist and my styled hair was drenched in coffee.  The shock of coffee dripping from my hair found me repeatedly chanting like a psycho “I can’t do this anymore. I can't do this anymore” while I mopping 16 ounces of coffee from the floor.

Perhaps I should have listened when my son expressed,

“Mommy, I don’t want you to do that job anymore. I want you to pick me up from school, but not with the car.  Walk home from school with me and love me like you used to.”

EEEEE. It’s the old “working mother” dilemma. What more is there to say?  I would feel guilty not working. Why?  Because all the mothers for whom it is a necessity to work should not be forced to work.  But me, I can do it – I’m strong enough and organized enough to work and be a good mother. All I ask for is the occasional bike ride.  Right. Then there is that question about what God is trying to tell me and why I answered, “I can’t do this!”

Cash For A Cosmo Girl

After years of working late into the night on essays, projects and tests while begging off weekend parties and social time-wasters, our smarty-pants daughter graduated valedictorian. Neat.

“What did she get for that honor?” my mother probed  “A silver bowl, “ I replied.

Now at a wood-paneled northeastern college, our daughter maintains a 4.0 while pushing back her warm blanket on cold mornings to practice with the rowing team.  We’re so proud of her that we don’t mind paying tuition that equals the annual average annual income of 139 Afghanistan families.  SmartGirl has declared a science-based major and is an eager participant and organizer within the department.

In contrast to our over-achiever, I recently reviewed 500-word scholarship applications that awarded $5,000 to a high school senior who took the time to write about an “idea” to solve a relatively harmless community problem. (500 words is about twice as much as I’ve written so far.)  These essays were pathetic: poorly written with immature ideas and weak academic achievements. Nevertheless, three students were awarded cold-hard cash.

I got to thinkin’…

Visiting the website of the college to which we pay the equivalent of a yearly mortgage on a half-million dollar house, I was encouraged to read that 75% of the student body receives financial aid.

Ring.

“Hello, I am a parent of current student who has excellent grades but is not eligible for a need-based scholarship. Do you offer any merit-based scholarships?”

Nope.

Click.

Realizing that any scholarship money I can scrounge for this child will be like receiving a wire transfer to my checking account, the Googling begins. Scholarships.com begs me to visit, but after I review the scholarship opportunities I’m mad enough to throw a shoe.

What is happening to the values of this world? Values. As in what does our society VALUE?  Specifically, what do most Americans think is valuable?  What has value?

Let me tell you what Americans value  - fashion, marketing, mediocrity and virtual sports!

Of the scholarships offered, the highest awards were from Cosmopolitan magazine, American Greeting Cards and Chuck E. Cheese. Stunning that the scholarships requiring any degree of academic accomplishment offered relatively low dollar prizes, while Cosmo Girl of the Year offers $20,000 to its winner! A mere 300-word essay wins a Cosmo Girl cash for college plus a weekend in New York with Hollywood’s biggest stars -- like many of Hollywood’s finest have ever seen a college.

The rules state that the essay should describe something big or small you've done to make your school a better place. How would such an essay to CosmoGirl read?

(Spend a moment thinking about what the ad to the left suggests.) 

Dear CosmoGirl,

I read your Bedside Astrologer every January. It’s my bible and I keep it on my nightstand as a reference guide when choosing my classes.  When the moon is in Saturn I steer clear from Home & Family class because I know I’ll drop the plastic baby and fail the course.

What has really changed my life and made a significant impact on my school is your article entitled, “How to Please Your Man – A 21st Century View”.  That little trick about testicle squeezing before – well, you know when I mean – has made a huge difference to my school. Almost everybody with the exception of my old boyfriend who turned gay, is so much happier.

Cosmo, thank you for making in a difference in our school. If awarded your $20,000 scholarship, I will go to college and ensure the whole college is happy,

Crossing my fingers (not my legs) in hopes of winning,

CosmoGirl

Cosmo associates its award with a marketing strategy. Web traffic is routed by the subscription center. Smart - bet that generates the $20,000.  American Greeting also offers a $20,000 prize and has a similar approach.  It’s so encouraging to know that crafting a greeting card message that will promote the industry-serving Mother’s Day holiday is more VALUABLE than excelling in biology.

The real kicker was Chuck E. Cheese who hawked a $25,000 prize to the college-bound student who could sink a basketball in a virtual game of hoops. What message does that send?  Don’t spend time studying, just visit Chuck E.’s website every day and click on a rigged basketball game and pin your college hopes on computer code.   BTW, what idiot is in charge of the Chuck E. Cheese marketing strategy?  College-aged students are not their audience??

It is easy to look around and see idiocy and lunacy in practice. However, to be hit in the face with it is another matter.  Why does society want to pay for fashion designers to go to two-year colleges where they can barely make the grade? 

If none of this makes any impact at all on you, at least think of all the poor training your plastic surgeon is getting.  Don’t you want more for America?  Your liposuction is going to go terribly wrong if you don’t support the smart kids. Think it over.

Teaching: Makes Living Dangerous

MONDAY: The Professor gets an email from the dean (or some high ranking school official) saying that one of his students had been suspended and that he is to give the kid an incomplete grade. The email further stated that the student was not allowed to return to campus.  THEN, the email said something to the effect of “I know you probably have questions about what is going on. Here is the student’s telephone number if you want to call him.”

TUESDAY: It’s not that The Professor is callous, but he’s just not one to chat on the phone, nor is he interested in hearing a personal story (unlike me who would have called the kid the minute I got the number.) While The Professor did not call the student, the student called him to say he was sure The Professor had heard the news of his suspension but he wanted to make an appointment to visit about his grade.  Possibly because he has five other jobs and was really busy, or perhaps because he has a lick of sense, The Professor told the student they should wait until the suspension was removed.

WEDNESDAY: The Professor wakes me up with a piping hot latte (as he does every morning) and says, “Now I know why my student was suspended. He threatened to blow up the school.”

Watch this and tell me that teaching is not a dangerous job!

Greetings from Chicago’s Magnificent Mile

Chicago is a nice enough city. Good public transportation. Big fancy stores. Roomy enough hold important gatherings. Sturdy, healthy citizens.

Two questions:

1. Why are these people wearing winter clothes? In Texas we’ve dragged out the white sandals.  Someone should speak to the weather regulator in this town.
2. WHY IS THERE NO FREE WI-FI?  It’s very inhospitable.

Recession Plan & Party Ideas

Central Texas is spreading the word that it’s recession proof.  Too bad ‘cause I’ve got a plan and am ready to take on the recession. Reminding me that we are both employed in tertiary fields, The Professor told me to shut my mouth and cease such reckless talk.   He has no imagination.

Think of the possibilities of how much fun a recession could be.  Changing eating habits would be a major key for a successful recession ride.  How many of us could afford to cut back on the chow? Certainly, I would let my Weight Watchers membership lapse and use that $10 to buy a tomato plant for my backyard.  The New York Times featured an article this weekend about how grocery shoppers are forgoing expensive red meat for turkey substitutes. How bad can that be…unless you are a cattle raiser or a heart surgeon?

The same NYTimes’ article said that while some shoppers choose a cheap can of Manwich over a monthly visit to Denny’s that electronics sales are still climbing. (Stage direction here – grab my hand and help me onto the soapbox) If you’ve read Value wIT only one time, surely you are aware of how much I despise a video game or flat screen television.   Clearly, the buyers of unnecessary electronics cannot be in my Recession Club. First rule is that all purchasers of X-boxes, Wii’s or Hdtv’s will be refused membership.  However, if Club members wish to forgo their weekly wine in lieu of AT&T monthly iPhone service payments, then that is perfectly acceptable.   Furthermore, all Apple product purchases take precedence over less essential expenditures, like for instance, private school tuition for ones children.

About that private school, isn’t it the small class size that is the big draw?  Why not rent an extra bedroom to a teacher in trade for a few points on the SAT?  This past weekend I participated in a work group whose mission was to determine how to interpret an 1850’s museum. Part of the discussion focused on how the building had once hosted boarders.  Conversation ensued on how boarders were common in times past. My mind began to dance as I envisioned our house filled with fun guests who would make for interesting meal conversations and jovial back porch frivolity – like a party that never ends? Think charades and line dancing…all free!

Then the thought of Mr. Private (The Professor who is clueless that I write about him and 3,000 people read about his idiosyncratic habits. Whoops.) Mr. Private-Persnickety would not be good with interlopers who did not adhere to our neurotic lifestyle that involves lowered voices, extra clean surfaces, precisely nutritious dinners and strict bedtimes.  I’m envisioning the boarder who sits in the kitchen strumming a guitar and singing the recession blues while sipping on homemade hooch. Maybe on Saturday night the boarder’s restless friends come over and the “down in the mouth” talk turns a little rowdy and reckless. Hmm.  Better scratch the boarder idea.

You know I love to hate the car. There is no better way to fight the recession than to ditch the car. Lately I’ve been slipping and driving my car – mostly to take the little child to North Jesus to learn to hold a pencil. This driving makes me insane. If the recession forced me into the Poor House and I had to completely rid myself of the car, how happy would I be?  With all my extra time not driving…or working or eating or shopping…I could teach my very own child to hold a pencil.  Imagine the possibilities of how good and right life could be.

This recession could be a win-win for everyone if we just give it a chance. Mostly, and this is my sincerest of all wishes, I wish that the recession could curb the insanity of consumer berserkism and mass over-consumption.   Instead of cranking-up the Hummer and driving to Costco to buy all new plastic patio furniture, the consumer could save their money and buy a nice piece of antique silver that could last a lifetime.  Ice cream forks might go out of style, but they always come back.

MissingThePoint Mom Is Back!

The first three years of my children’s preschool world put me in direct contact with MissingThePoint Mom.  This is the first year since my child was three-years old that I have had the luxury of being free from MissingThePoint Mom.  However, in an ironic twist, once again life placed me in her path.

Actually, MissingThePoint Mom is nice, and most likely she has a good heart.  If she weren’t so off, she could be tolerable.  However, her priorities and decisions epitomize the reason for Value wIT’s existence. MissingThePoint Mom is the core of why I want to move away from America.

To provide a flavor of MissingThePoint Mom, recall the time I went to her gigantic house to retrieve my child from a playdate. Ding-donging the doorbell of her castle, I peered through the glass doors to notice the soulless furnishings and the almost complete absence of décor – even the landscape lacked personality. A $4 million shell that is empty on the inside (foreshadowing.)

MissingThePoint Mom answers the door in some type of dancewear involving a Lycra “car-wash” style skirt and tights. Her hair is damp hair slicked back with gel.  My mind races to place the look. Is she going to a party, taking an ice-skating class or participating in a Dancing with Stars episode? No control over myself, I twist my head, squint my eyes and blurt, “What’s that you are wearing? And why?”

MissingThePoint Mom clears the confusion by saying, “Oh, my husband harasses me about exercising. Before he gets home I put on exercise clothes and wet my hair so it looks like I worked out.”

Bu, of course.

Distracted by the yapping, crated Bichon Friese positioned by the Jolly Green Giant’s fireplace, a second muttering pops out of my mouth, “What? Plastic toes? Why?”  You see, the small dog in the large house was enclosed in a cage and his toes were encased in plastic. Apparently the toenail covers prevent the dog from scratching the wood floors or the kids.  The kids? Where were the kids?

MissingThePoint Mom leads me out of the house past the pool with its various waterfalls and down the hill around the tennis court to the Children’s House,which also serves as the nanny’s house.  The nanny, who in later years will have a title change and be referred to as Teacher, is leading the children in a Popsicle gluing exercise.  My child swaggers over to me and says, “Let’s go.”

Preschool and Kindergarten come and go and MissingThePoint Mom becomes known amongst the school crowd for employing the largest staff of childcare consultants ever known to mankind: daytime nannies, weeknight nannies, weekend nannies, reading teachers, tennis teachers, swimming teachers, speech therapists, manners consultants. In addition to all the women who work at this household in an attempt to raise the children, the children are always at extra curricular classes: cooking class, art class, ABC camp, music school, gymnastics, hip-hop, horseback riding… it’s tiring just to list all those lessons – imagine attending that many classes.

Again, MissingThePoint Mom is nice. That’s not the problem. The problem is that she and her doctor husband have blatantly chosen to ignore every bit of common sense that one should use when raising children.  For instance, the child stamped her foot and refused to eat vegetables or any food with nutritional value.  As a result, the little girl became constipated. Instead of making the child eat some decent food the parent’s answer was to buy a wholesale sized tub of Senokot and make it a part of her daily diet.  Of course, everyday laxatives will cause a person to shit like a pet coon…at inopportune times. 

MissingThePoint Mom is pretty. Not a traffic stopper, but better than average. For some reason, the husband, I suspect, MissingThePoint Mom has spent more than her fair share of time under the knife…gut, butt, eyes, lips. After one major face reorganization, I was so embarrassed to look at her. Meeting her eyes was unsettling because she looked like another person. Seeing MissingThePoint Mom at a school performance, I was rendered speechless and couldn’t maintain a conversation with her as she tried to get her puffy lips to form words.

My children’s new school has been such a relief because the parents are unremarkable. These everyday parents limit my writing prompts, but they keep my sanity in check. However, my newfound calm was shaken when I bumped into MissingThePoint Mom last week.

In order for my son to learn to hold a pencil, it appears the only solution is for him to participate in occupational therapy. In case you don’t know, OT is where you pay for your children to jump on trampolines and squeeze Play-doh. Certainly, if I were a more committed mother or at least a mother with more than 5 extra minutes in my day, I would be able to teach my child to write. However, I know my limitations and have enrolled my son in this handwriting class. Guess who is at the class? MissingThePoint Mom.  Of course, her daughter is getting writing help, which I suspect is not to bring her up to par, but to help her get ahead.

Oddly, MissingThePoint Mom evokes a humble tone. This warmth accompanied by the fact that she is wearing an apron gives her a mom-who-was-baking-cookies-but-had-run-an-errand look. Reread that sentence. I said MissingThePoint Mom was wearing an apron … over her St. John separates. An apron. 

My mouth says, “Why ya wearing an apron?” Her answer, “Oh, I’m really into aprons these days” does not satisfy me.  However, I am unable to ask a follow-up question about the apron because I am distracted by her Invisalign and her eyelash extensions.

It was all too much handle, and seeing MissingThePoint Mom made me tired. I was reminded that while I’ve been lazing around enjoying my children’s new school and its socially unconnected student body, the other school’s moms are still running the race.  Across town children are getting a leg up with movie-making classes while their mothers are getting fresh fetal lamb cell injections to smooth fine lines.

My competitive tendency flairs, and for a teeny-tiny minute I consider enrolling my children in an Architecture for Children class and making myself a Botox appointment. Instead, spent the next thirty minutes watching..."Mommy, watch me. Mommy, look at me. Mom, come see this carnival we made."

Death March

Deadlines. Event time. Call-in time.  Pick-up time. Wake-up call. Due date. Ends time. Working lunch. Early Dismissal. Field trip. Black tie. Pre-breakfast meeting. After hours party. Date stamp. Kick off. Final. Get in. Pick-up the slack. Holding the elevator...

Please. Only you. Just this once. Today. Pop-in. Help. Take on. Advice. Own it. Quick draft. Volunteer. Chaperone. Host. Lead.

NO

Write. Breathe. Sleep. Smell. Eat. Smile. Walk. Play. Stare.

“You have reached the email of Bitsy Parker. I am away forever and will not be taking on any volunteer projects, contributing or raising any money or handling any tedious tasks or dealing with any irrational people for low or no pay. Thank you for your understanding.”

7 Years - $700 of Webkinz

The mail at my house is explosive. Six days a week the mail-lady drops a load of correspondence and parcels at the door.  She always refuses to put the mail into the iron mailbox (that I spent weeks selecting), but chooses to drop it at the front door. As is probably the case with you, the brunt of the heap is fuel for post-consumer recycled products, or if you are on the devil’s team, the mound fills a neat little spot in the landfill.

With the recycling bin handy, the catalogs and shiny postcard advertisements go first. Then, whatever Blue Cross Blue Shield sends is tossed -- with a family of six someone is always at the doctor or the hospital, and BCBS feels the need to track all those many visits. A more organized person might file or at least open such correspondence, but with the stack so steep, there is no hope for my reading anything with a plastic window on the envelope. Following medical documents go all the prospectuses sent by some company who apparently holds the key to my far distinct retirement. My mother-in-law insists I should keep all those official documents, but no dice.  Lean, clean and uninformed is the plan in my house. Finally, the packages, which are always books for The Professor are opened. Seriously, he receives (and reads) a book a day. The titles are always riveting like:

• The Liberal Ideal and the Demons of Empire: Theories of Imperialism from Adam Smith to Lenin
• Development and Underdevelopment: the political economy of global economy
• Orientalism, Culture and Imperialism
• An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations
• Theotonio dos Santos, Dependencia económica y cambio revolucionario in América Latina

I don’t ask questions like, “Hey, will you tell me about that book?” I just open the mail.

In midst of a daily mail pile fight, I can tell the war is being won because the stack dwindles and the recycling bin fills. Almost at the end, I tear into a box and find three Webkinz. Dialing The Professor I call to inform him that his package has arrived – how sweet he is to order our children a present, and it's a damn good thing  because it’s our son’s birthday, and there are no gifts. 

“Don’t know whatchaya  talkin’ ‘bout,” the hubby claims. Hmm?

The next day another box of Webkinz arrives. What?  The Professor and I dive into this mystery like two tranquilized tigers.  The spirit of Nancy Drew did not stir us to immediately put the puzzle pieces together.  Finally, The Professor offers that he might have a clue.

“Lately, I’ve received numerous emails stating that my ‘package has shipped’. Wonder if that has something to do with this?” Yeah. It just might be a clue, Sherlock.

Oliver and Hardy finally solve the riddle -- our 7-year old has ordered $700 of Webkinz on the Internet.  The next three days finds the friendly mail-lady filling the front stoop with stacks of boxes. 

A first-grade computer class has taught my daughter how to Google. She loves to Google. One day she Googled snow leopards and for hours repeated random facts about the near extinct animal. The next day she Googled shark attacks. Such fun that I counted my blessings she was busy. For the past 7 years I have restricted my children from touching the computer because I didn’t want to risk my documents. However, four months ago I gave the children my old desktop computer and was pleased that my daughter knew how to use Fact Monster and Fun Brain. When she got into Webkinz World, my naive side said, “What could that hurt?” When she combined Google and Webkinz she hit the motherload -Amazon where my "one-click" settings were memorized.

Return all the Webkinz, you say. The problem is that the Webkinz were not bought from one place or even a store with a name.  There are 31 orders consisting of numerous plushy animals from random individuals across the country. The box might be from Jane Doe, Lansing, MI, and matching Jane’s name to an email address like crittercountry@yahoo.com is proving difficult. To complicate the issue, my son opened one day’s worth of boxes thinking they were his birthday presents. Who knows which Webkinz were in which box.

Suffice it to say, it’s a mess.  Once the total expenditure was calculated The Professor got motivated and matched 25 Webkinz to their sellers. Hopefully, ABCToyTimz will refund our account.  Please don’t mention the cost of return postage. We can’t process that additional deficit at this moment. (Look at the cute retired kangaroo. He was a steal at $24.99.)

Surprising Visit from My Mother

My mother visited this weekend. In case you are looking for a general flavor of the visit, I will share a few of her comments, which all involve the word surprise:

“Your house is always so clean, which is why I was surprised to find the toilet in the guest room needing a scrub.”

“I was so surprised to see your new breakfast room. It’s just not like you to decorate and not put one pretty thing in the room.”

“I was surprised that only one beer was drunk at the party.  I thought the Mexican man would drink a beer.”