Two of My Favorite Things

Apparently I’m into lists lately. This one’s short. It’s bullet points, really...don’t say I didn’t warn you.

For those of us who can still appropriately make wish lists for Santa, Macy’s has set up Santa Mailboxes in its stores for us to drop them off for the ol’ guy. Feeling too old for that, I'm publishing a short list of my favorite things instead…actually it’s just Two of My Favorite things that I discovered I love on one lunchtime walk.

I know a lot of girls that swoon for a guy with a dog. In fact, I’ve heard many of my friends list in the attributes that make their newest love interest eligible, “he has a dog.” And, vice versa, “He said he wasn’t into dogs, so I don’t know…” Well this gal is taking Guys With Dogs to a new level. First on my list of Two of My Favorite Things is: Guys Who Say “Bless You” to their dogs. Taking a walk during my lunch hour yesterday, I was enjoying the sun on my back (another unofficial one of my favorite things) when this average looking guy with a cute dog walked by. When the dog sneezed, without hesitation the guy said audibly and enthusiastically, “Bless you!” and sooner than you can say, “Thank you,” this guy went from Random Average Joe to Santa Barbara’s Own Jake Gyllenhaal. Being that I too converse with pets—both my own and stranger’s—I guess you could say it was love at first sneeze.

On this very same walk, just on the other side of the street, I stumbled upon the other one of my Two Favorite Things—something I named Spaced Out Pine Trees (please see photo.) I first noticed these organic beauties in Australia. The star shaped top put a twinkle in my eye for these toy-like wonders that hasn’t faded yet. These are my favorite trees; I don’t know their real name, and frankly I don’t care to find out. 

Ironman Denver, or A Day in the Life of a Fifth Grade Teacher

I still remember my fifth grade teacher—quirky, artsy and dedicated. She wore patterned socks and weird sweaters. I liked her.

My best friend from college is a fifth grade teacher in Denver, but she wears plain socks and J.Crew sweaters.  When I booked my ticket to visit her, she invited me to be a guest in her class for the day. “Yahoo!” I thought. “A relaxing, fifth grade day.”

Ya, it’s 5:15 a.m., dark outside and Becca is pouring me a second cup of coffee. Driving through Northern Denver’s dark streets forty minutes later, the smart-ass in me groggily inquires, “Am I ever gonna get to see the sun in Denver?” Becca chuckles.

At 6:10 a.m. we walk into the classroom of which I’ve seen pictures. The asparagus-colored paint attempts to wake me up. Fail.

Becca plans her lessons, enter grades into the system, writes the end-of-the-week newsletter and runs copies of today’s writing assignment.  I sit in a plastic, primary blue chair and try to read a book.

It’s the ten-year-olds themselves that jumpstart me. They’re so filled with energy and curiosity when they start stumbling in around 7:30 it’s contagious. The questions start almost immediately.

 “Miss Ryan, is that your friend?” they echo.

I try to remember what my fifth grade class was like. I remember the people and my favorite outfit—plaid skirt with matching Scotty dog sweater and loafers—but the class dynamic is lost forever. Looking around this classroom there are girls who are 5 feet tall and girls whose shoes look like doll accessories. Some of them sit quietly, diligently work, eager to please. Others would rather socialize. Suddenly a memory comes back: I was a quiet grade schooler but a loquacious middle and high schooler. I want to tell Carolina that if she can just stay focused for a few more years, she’ll find a vocation that will appreciate her chatty nature.  Broadcast journalism, for example…

In second period, they get more inquisitive:

“Are you a teacher?”

“No.”

“Oh…what do you do then?”

“Ummmmm….I’m a…writer.”

“Did you write this book?”

“No.”

“What do you write then?”

(Sigh) Blog posts?

“Are you married?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be.”

“That’s weird.”

“What is your favorite sport?”

“I like baseball.”

(Eyes wide and sparkling) “Do you play baseball?!”
“…No.”

(Sparkle fades.)

As the afternoon settles in, my energy level pools and resides like the tide depending on the students’ presence that day. Their excitement runs through me, inspires me to tell them about what it’s like to be in college living with your best friends—a concept they neither comprehend nor desire at this point in their lives.

The highlight of the afternoon is the poem a little girl hands to Jorie, or “Miss Clarson.” I can’t remember the whole thing, but “your eyes sparkle like the ocean,” and “your smile is better than mine” were two unforgettable phrases. 

The students’ school day ends with an intense game of Four Square into which they invite us. Bouncing and yelling until they’re sweating, the kids don’t want the game to end, but at 4 p.m. we walk them to the front of the school where their parents sit in a line of cars to pick them up. 

A half hour later, everyone but two are picked up. Becca leads them inside, cracking jokes along the way. How does she have the energy to keep talking and joking? I’m a walking zombie complete with bloodshot eyes. I can see the day’s end in sight, but I know that usually Becca stays at school until at least 6 p.m., grading, planning, copying, creating, grading, planning, and so on.

Becca and Jorie chat on the way home. I rest my eyes and head in the back. I laugh when Becca says she sometimes goes straight to the gym after school. I think she’s kidding.

She’s not.

So it’s official: to be a teacher you have to also be superhuman.

So proud of you Bec, and thank you Mrs. Crochetti. I had no idea. 

Dog-on-it

Hey, Pippa here, and I get to write Kate’s blog post this week! Kate’s been on vacation and going to a lot of yoga, so I’m sure you can understand that she’s just too tired to write this week. So, it’s Pippa Kimball to the rescue! And, I have so much to tell you.

Well, I guess I’ll start by introducing myself. I am Pippa Jean Kimball, but I like to go by Pippa Kimball or Peepo. I am an 18-pound Shih Tzu, and I like it when it’s cool outside. I like Cool Weather because I have a birthday during Cool Weather, and also I have a lot of fur, which tends to keep the heat inside me and the heat is known to make me do snapping, growling and fighting with my sister.

Oh, ya! My sister! I have an older sister named Bella who would be the perfect snuggle partner, except for the fact that Bella doesn’t like me. She openly wishes she were still an only dog. I think that’s why she loves our big (human) sister, Brooke, so much; they relate on the level that they both resented our parents when little sisters (me and Kate) came along. Anyway, I love Bella and refuse to leave her alone. Persistence is key when you’re trying to get someone to like you, so I make sure to jump on her as she wakes up each morning, which sends the message, "GOOD MORNING, BELLA! I'M RIGHT HERE AND I LOVE YOU AND YOU LOOK GREAT EVEN AT THIS HOUR!" I also sit very close to her when she eats, for her comfort. And I think I’m making progress, because Bella and I even made up a game that we play together; it’s called Wrestling & Biting. It’s a great game that is fun at any time of day, but personally I prefer to play right when I wake up and right before I go to bed. The game ends when someone is tired, except sometimes I get fed up with Bella and her “independence” so I do a little bit of ear biting and then she—little princess that she is—plays the “I’m smaller” card and yelps until I get harshly picked up and stowed in the living room while she rolls over onto her back to enjoy a belly rub from Mom.

Anyway, I live in a pretty cool house with my mom, dad and big (human) sister, Kate—the one who writes this blog! Kate is pretty nice, gives good belly rubs and we have some common interests, like taking walks, talking, and lying on the ground. Kate and I also like to walk in nature, but Kate usually just looks at the leaves and trees and birds and bugs; she never stops to smell these wondrous things, and often hurries me along in my sniffing. And everyone knows you can't be an efficient sniffer under so much pressure and leash pulling. She's really missing out. Kate’s other downside is that she doesn’t eat meat or cheese, so her “treats” that fall when she’s cooking are usually quinoa kernels, grapes or carrot chunks. Still, I’m not a particular eater (I mean I like to eat poop), so I still fight Bella for the chunk of onion that falls from Kate’s cutting board. The other thing about Kate is that she always telling Bella and me how much she’ll miss us when she moves out. She wants to move out so she can go out on The Weekend with her friends. I’m not sure, but I think The Weekend is a boat. I know Kate is used to working on The Weekend, so she’s probably really excited about going out on The Weekend for pure enjoyment.

Ok, back to my house. My house has lots of windows, a nice deck and some cool tile to lie on after summer walks. But my favorite part of the house is the kitchen. There is a big white door in the kitchen that doesn’t really lead anywhere, but the smells inside—oh my! Cheese! Salami! Pizza! Beans! But every time I get close enough to really explore, my dad or Kate comes along and snaps it shut in front of me. Humans are weird about food. In fact, I think my mom and dad are practicing a religious ritual of some sort. I think they’re making food sacrifices to the gods. A few times a day, every day, my mom or dad (and even Kate!) opens a door underneath the water spout in our kitchen and puts some food in a bag that sits in a tub in there. And once a week they take the bag outside and put it into a bigger tub where all of our neighbors have put their sacrificial food as well. Once a week the gods send their delegates to collect the food in a big truck, and I’m guessing they have it delivered right to the gods’ houses. Because I mostly stick to filling my days with searching for food, taking naps, barking and chasing leaves, I’m happy my family is considering our position with the gods. I hear that all dogs go to heaven, so it’s good to know I’ll be welcomed there.

Well, I think it’s Bedtime. I know that because my eyes are getting droopy and mom has on those funny leopard print pants she puts on before Bedtime every night. I don’t mind Bedtime, because you know what time comes after it? Time To Eat! So, good night! Take care! I love you! See you tomorrow! I have floppy ears! I love Pupperoni treats! Please rub my tummy! Good night!

A Tuesday in Suburbia

I was invited to Brian’s birthday party.

I didn’t even know Brian. And, I’d only know Tom, the guy that invited me, for a matter of minutes before I received the invite. And when strangers invite you to birthday celebrations, a red flag goes up with the alert message announcing loud and clear: this guy doesn’t have any friends; STEER CLEAR.

That said, I didn’t plan on making the party.

It’s hard to work with two little pups wrestling at your feet—one of the very few downsides to working from home (if you can even call the ability to take a break and go for a walk at anytime a downside.) So with a quick swoop of the sunglasses and latch of the leashes, Bella, Pippa and I were off to the big hill behind our house, where all three of us could release some pent-up energy amongst the birds, grass and sunny skies.

Along the way, we passed a park where people were waving in our direction. Brian’s birthday party. I had forgotten, and now it looked like we were coming to the party. I thought about it, but decided we couldn’t just walk past the fiesta. We’re new to the area, and while I don’t plan on sticking around long, I don’t want to soil the family’s rep up here.

We entered the park. Even Bella and Pippa were hesitant. (Who can blame them for preferring the open Aptos beaches to a fenced patch of grass?)

Anyway, the party was set up nicely with balloon bouquets, sweet treats, bottles of wine, finger sandwiches and more. Friends brought gifts. Cameras flashed and birthday greetings sing-songed around the park.

Tom approached to say hello and distinguished the birthday boy from the rest of the crowd for me. I probably could have figured out that the guy wearing the special scarf was the man of the hour if it weren’t for Brian’s friend Matt, who was the only one wearing a party hat. I believe Matt is what Monica Geller calls a “thunder stealer.”

I wished Brian a happy birthday as he came closer. But he was very much wrapped up in the birthday excitement. I understood. His friends had started a wrestling match in the middle of the park. I had to give 'em credit: they were all pretty laid back, silly and good looking, but I was still wary of the possibility of friendship.

You see, Brian is a dog—a thirty-pound beagle with long ears and a deep howl that he employs when he’s not getting enough attention. His party was at the local dog park, and I was invited by my dear friend Tom, a seventy-something year old man who wants to welcome me to the dog park community.

Oh, the thrills of suburbia.