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Showing posts from July, 2012

Help! I'm Scared of My Phone

Ok, so maybe scared is the wrong word.Hesitant, nervous, unsure, intimidated by…those might be a bit more accurate.
I ordered the Sprint Intercept sometime last week.I’ve had it now for two days and have yet to take everything out of the box.I will—soon.
A slim, shiny, Droid-capable, touch tone device, I should be excited to begin my next technological journey.
I’m not.
I got this phone by default, more aptly by the fault.I broke my Rant.To say I loved my old phone is to exaggerate.I liked it.Even now my mind—as non committal as ever—is replacing my technology.I like it—my Rant I mean.We shared moments of frustration, joy and adventure as I learned to navigate it as phones of its kind should be navigated: effortlessly (mostly).
I don’t remember this hesitation when I got my old-new phone.
I have come up with several excuses why I cannot or have not activated my Intercept.I was planning to go to the Sprint store to have them activate it so I can get my pictures and contacts moved to…

Miracles of Medicine

Medicine always makes me feel better—especially when I don’t take it.

I have my Aunt Cliss—Great Aunt Cliss—to thank for that. Growing up we didn’t think she was so great. She didn’t seem to have patience for my sister or me. And so, we devised ways to annoy her. It was the 70’s; “Kill them with kindness” wasn’t popular yet.

For years my sister and I were convinced Aunt Cliss was a witch. Her long silver hair tightly wound in a bun or loosely hanging past her shoulders, her thin yet muscular body, the glasses she fretted over but seemed to be able to see perfectly fine without, her frequent unexplained long walks followed by a knack of returning at the wrong time, her disdain for everything ‘us’, and her medicines convinced us she was a witch.

Growing up, we spent a lot of time with our grandmother, and since she lived there, we spent a lot of time in the presence of Aunt Cliss.

If we were sick, Gran would make us wheat pancakes, scrambled eggs with cheese, and bacon. We would spend h…

My Relationship with Food

Over the last few years, my relationship with food has grown infinitely more intimate. Growing up, food was power. Oil shaped alliances: My mother couldn’t cook, my grandmother could. Flour forged allegiances: my mother wanted to become a vegetarian, my grandmother’s fried chicken made it impossible for me to consider life without meat. My childhood memories are a plethora of aromas: fried onions, fried chicken, smoldering greens, cinnamon. Food was a weapon. Crunchy bacon and Ex-lax were weapons against anyone who didn’t love hard enough, long enough, enough. One of the first times my sister and I prepared dinner for our grandparents, we seasoned a whole chicken—oregano, salt, season salt. We put it in the oven at 350°as soon as my grandmother pulled out from in front of her pink and white house in Atlantic City. We took it out one hour later when she arrived to our townhouse in Somers Point. Juice and blood oozed as knife pierced the raw flesh. I don’t remember cooking anything f…

Life in Narration

I realize it’s unnatural.This fascination I have with publishing my thoughts online as if people are less apt to find them has become an addiction of sorts.

I expect to be heard when I speak, to be listened to when I utter, to be read when I write.

But, when I blog…

I blame the power of publishing. This ability I have to indulge in textual espionage –exposing the secrets, thoughts, plots of others—goes exponentially beyond the power of words.

Who among my friends would expect me to write about the perpetual death of one of us?We are 38, 39.We are too young to die. And yet one of us insists on doing it.

This first line demands to be written, and so do the ones to come tumbling after it.It’s how I think—on the page.My life in narration.

How else does a friend calling at 2 in the morning to talk about her dying relationship as opposed to her dying body make sense to me?

Maybe it’s not supposed to.

Maybe I’m supposed to just listen. Listen without writing. Listen without blogging. Listen withou…

Learning About Learning

My son is failing algebra.As an English major I can’t help him. Well, not in the way I would expect to be able to help him. I would love to be able to open the book, flip to the page and see not the answers, but how to solve the problems.
But Algebra 2 does not make any sense to me.
Because my son goes to a Title I school in Baltimore County, they offer students who need help free tutoring services in Math and Reading. The system allows parents the freedom to choose from an array of tutors claiming a number of specialties that in my experience so far, they just may not have.
I first contacted Title I a few months ago; at the tutoring fair they handed me a booklet filled with data, information and resources; and the freedom and responsibility to choose the best provider.
The information is good, relevant, but something in this system is broken and I know broken when I see it because I have broken many things—and I’ve fixed a few too.
My first choice was Gap Busters. They looked good on pap…