Doing the Best We Can

The National Board of Professional Teaching Standards' website has had difficulty posting this years' winners--and I'm not upset.
Last year I attempted to become nationally board certified, which is something many teachers here in North Carolina do. It required a lot of detailed documentation, evidence, and reflection. It also requires an on-line test of content-specific knowledge (in my case, English) and case-study reflection and recommendations.
In short, it's a butt-load of work.

I was happy to do it, because I think I'm a pretty good teacher. I have always claimed to do the best I can with what I have--in terms of supplies, equipment, and kids. I think I bring something to the table that other teachers may not--enough knowledge to integrate information from other content areas--art, history, psychology, business...even science--to make kids understand that everything relates in one way or another and that learning and understanding should never occur in isolation.

But those details--page numbering, word and time limitations, video quality? Those things kicked my ass. And I didn't pass. The things I did well, I did very, very well. But the things I failed, I failed miserably.

So I decided (to the tune of a month's mortgage payment) to re-try. And as I put the last piece of evidence in the envelope to send away to be judged, I realized that it just didn't matter.

On my first attempt last year, I was assigned a mentor, a teacher who was already board-certified, to help me wade through the myriad crap and read my entries. After I had the first entry done, I contacted my point person to see if she would read it and make suggestions. I e-mailed her through our school contact list (she was at another school in my district) and didn't hear from her for nearly three weeks. At that point she apologized, said she'd been out for two weeks, and was just checking e-mail when she saw mine. She explained that she was going to be out again, but that I could send it to her at home and she would read it there and make notes.
I learned in subsequent e-mails that she was fighting breast cancer--in her thirties--with two preschool-aged children and a husband who was as in need of attention as she was, thinking he was going to lose her. She couldn't work, and didn't have the energy to both care for two active children and fight the disease and I wasn't going to add one more thing to her plate. So I told her not to worry about my national boards, and asked if I could do anything for her. She politely declined, said her mom was staying with them, and that was the end of our connection.

I plowed through the plethora of instructions, scheduling and minutia, determined to get the stuff done and in on time, worried less about the quality and more about the rules and put the other teacher's troubles out of my mind. I knew I would have the opportunity to re-do anything that was sub-par and sent it off. I took the computer test, realizing part-way through that I had bungled the first half by not doing the second page of some of the selections and running out of time on other parts and knew that I could take it over if necessary.

But when I saw a familiar name in the obituaries, I knew that the teacher who was to be my mentor was not getting any more do-overs. That her time had been cut short NOT by a computer test, but by a disease that had left two small children without a mother, a scared young man without a wife, and grieving parents without a child.

I am not a great teacher. I hope I am a good one. But if I don't get a passing score, I really won't care. Because now I am less about doing the best I can with what I have and more about doing the most I can with the time I've got.

Ignorance is, well....something.

I was chatting with a friend, talking about the latino kids in my classroom. I mentioned how difficult it must be for them to transition between Spanish and English and why vocabulary is keeping them from reaching their full potential. I enjoy having them help me with my Spanish and they have taught me the simple phrases that I can use to give instructions. (I've mastered "sit down," but I'm still working on "get your journals.")

My friend mentioned that she would love to learn Spanish, but she'd rather learn Vietnamese, because then she could listen to the conversations of the technicians in her nail salon. Another friend, overhearing the conversation, said "Your nail ladies are Vietnamese? Mine are asian."

How does one respond to that statement?

I know that geography has taken a back seat to "tested" subjects--reading and math--but if we want to keep up with the rest of the globe, we can't ignore geography, science and history. Because we don't want folks to think we are idiots.

My husband has a story about a VP in his office, talking business with a gentleman from Austria. Apparently, after a drink or two, the gentleman suggested the VP take his wife to Vienna for a romantic vacation. The VP replied that he'd love to go to Vienna, as he always wanted to visit Scandanavia.

WTF? Would you want to do business with a group who doesn't even know where your country is? (To add insult to injury, the VP continued to argue, then offered to beat the Austrian up if he didn't admit that Vienna was in a northern European country. That's what REALLY makes this country great, folks!)

Moving to the common core standards (more about this later) is supposed to take care of the heavy emphasis on the multiple-choice reading and math tests, but what it cannot do is teach kids that there are things you just need to know--like knowing where the people with whom you do business are from--simply to keep from looking like an idiot.

What am I doing now??

It's been a few months since I posted at this site--mainly because I have completely changed my focus. I originally thought I was going to segue from being in the classroom to doing educational and corporate training consultation, but when states had no more money to spend on education and corporations were struggling to keep their doors open, that idea kind of $hit the bed.

Then, I thought I'd go back to my first love: making stuff. Like Martha Stewart, but not as old and huffy. But I need a regular income, and the pay for being a "Lifestyle Guru" is sporadic at best.

Next, I thought "to heck with it all...I'll find something FUN to do for a living!" But all fun has apparently been cancelled.

So I went back to work this fall, my tail between my legs. Meanwhile, opportunities to become that "Lifestyle Guru" have begun to appear.
Mysterious ways, my peeps....mysterious ways.

I have begun a new blog on a new site which provides me with the opportunity to grow as (I hope) my business will. I am continuing to work for my regular income, and this blog, Fifty, will be about education. It will be a compilation of information, ideas, and what is going on in education today: the good, the bad, and the ugly. It will provide insight from the folks on the front lines...the teachers who are trying to do what's best for kids and learning. If you're interested in education, this may be a good blog to check up on now and then!

An open letter to all the folks who won't interview me...

Dear Sillyheads,
I have been led to believe that one of the reasons you will not honor me with an interview is because I am over fifty. Not much over fifty, but still over fifty. As if the fifty is a line you refuse to cross.

Oh, I know it's ILLEGAL to discriminate on the basis of age, but I'm no dummy. You use terms like "up-to-date-technology" and "energized workforce" but I know EXACTLY what you mean. You mean you think I'm too old to work for you.

Let me tell you something, Bukkoes--I have a hell of a lot more to offer you than someone in her twenties, thirties and forties. Not that you're going to let me prove it or anything, but here's the lowdown:

1. I have more energy to dedicate to my work than someone younger. I know! Hard to believe, isn't it? The old broad can focus more energy on work! Why? Because she isn't focusing her energy on her kids! My kids are grown! They don't need me to read to them, or help them with homework, or chauffer them to the myriad activities. I'm not staying up at night, waiting for them to come home from whatever-the-hell teenagers come home from. Nope! I can put that "kid energy" into my job.

2. I will be honest when I need to be, but will be gentle in that delivery. I won't ignore or gloss over a problem (unlike the terminally vapid Katie Holmes on the finale of "So You Think You Can Dance), but I'm not gonna verbally kick you in the balls, either. If there's a problem, I'll let you know. And I'll also offer ways to fix it. Because that's what mature women do--it's in our nature to help fix problems.

3. I will not have to take maternity leave.

4. Or move to be with a man.

5. If it's EXPERIENCE you want, then who better than a fifty-year-old woman? We have experience. A whole lot of it. I've driven home just in front of a tornado and not pi$$ed my pants, so you know I can handle an irate co-worker. I've spent the holidays on a broken foot with two kids under 12, so you know I can work through minor inconveniences. I got my Masters degree while working full time, raising those same two kids under the age of 12 AND taking care of a household with little help from my spouse so you know I can organize. Throw it at me. I'll handle it.

In reality, I think you are chicken$hit. I think if all women over the age of fifty got together, we could take over this entire country. And we would not play your silly games. You would have no other choice than to straighten up and fly right.

The fact that you are afraid lets me know that I am right.
Your loss.
I'll take my wonderful self elsewhere.
Sayonara,
Kirby

Who Put the Poopyheads in Charge?

One of the things I've noticed lately is that there are a whole lot of folks who have their own agendas. (Kind of like our representation in Washington.) While I am a big proponent of goal-setting, I feel as though one's right to extend one's arm stops where that arm would interfere with another's body. Unless, of course, that arm was invited.

There has been a lot of discussion about the economy as of late. We could be moving into a double-dip recession, and times are difficult for a lot of people. And while I'm not suggesting we should all become Communists, I do think that the people who have agendas need to stop, take a breath, and think about how their personal desires might impact other folks.

I hate to admit it, but people my age tend to be a tad soulless when it comes to...well, just about anything. I'm not talking about individuals, but of the collective. "Stuff-worth" has replaced self-worth, and we love our stuff. McMansions, expensive automobiles, Coach handbags, and gourmet meals...we have replaced what should be intrinsic in nature with extrinsic trappings. I'm not saying that we should all live in cold water flats, but we have our priorities skewed.

According to the AFL/CIO (okay--I'm going to get a lot of flak here for using their data, but please hear me out), average total compensation for a CEO in a Standard & Poors top 500 company is over ELEVEN MILLION DOLLARS. That's for ONE YEAR, people! Even if the AFL/CIO has inflated the amount to double the 'real' amount, it's still over $5.5M for a year's employment.

Think about it.

I know that CEOs work hard. Some of them are very well-educated. Some of them give up a 'normal' life in order to get to the top of their respective fields. But many of them are irresponsible, buttholey folks who will think only of themselves and not of the people whose daily lives are impacted by the decisions they make.

Oracle Packaging is one of those companies. The CEO of this small, privately held company has basically used the company as his own personal bank account, taking all profits for himself and not reinvesting or saving it as working capital. Multi-million dollar mansions? Check. Expensive gifts for various cronies? Check. First-class travel? Check. 350 employees who will be out of work when the creditors come knocking? Check.

Where do we find leadership with common sense for the common good? Certainly not in business. Not in Washington, either. And for a lot of us, it's not in our social circles. But we have the power to turn this tide, if we so choose. For some of us, it's time to quit looking outside for our self-esteem, and start looking inside. I think we can do it if we all work together.

Life is Hard, Then You Die.

...that's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.

Okay...not really. Actually, I have been incredibly fortunate. My parents were awesome, my hometown idyllic, I have life-long friends (truly--from shortly after birth, right Hoop?) and everything was relatively easy. I did what I was supposed to do...graduated from college, found a great guy with a bright future, had the good fortune to be able to to stay home with my two awesome kids, and went back to work at a job that (up until recently) I love.

But life doesn't always go according to plans. Sometimes, $hit happens and you have to steer onto a different course. My peeps in Wayne County would call these "character building opportunities."
I call it "maybe losing my house."

But I also look at it as an opportunity. It's a timely topic: professionals who are without their incredible salaries and who are cast afloat--without the "Greed is Good" lifeboat they had assigned themselves to.
Oh, yes...I see so much potential.

When Do I Get My Turn?

There are people out there who assured me that my fifties would be easier than my forties. Like an idiot, I believed them.

Other people seemed to believe that in this decade of life, I would be able to do those things that I really WANTED to do...not just the things I had to.

Things I want to do, but can cross off my list 'cause it'll never happen:
*be a movie star
*marry a prince
*grow three more inches
*make a zillion dollars
*live in a big city
*be one of the 'cool' people.

Any advice from the youngsters?

What's Next?

These are the things I am currently "playing with":

Buying an antique/consignment business
Leaving the teaching profession
Freelancing
Focusing on updating Brandywine

Here's the reality:

No regular income
No health insurance

It would be predictable that I would quit my job and get into an accident where I am badly injured and horribly disfigured and they would have to pull the plug because I'd have no insurance.

*sigh*

Scopin' Things Out (Some People Might Call It Stalking, but Whatever.)

When I go for my legendary (or at least they will be, soon) walks through the neighborhood, I like to keep tabs on stuff. I walk a different way every day, on a five day rotation, just in case something exciting happens. And I make sure that at least once a week, I check out the Rapunzel House.

The Rapunzel House has been an ongoing concern since 1984. It is STILL unoccupied and uncared-for, and I am starting to get nervous. Someone is going to buy the Rapunzel House...and tear it down.

If you are a peep of mine, you know that my husband and I are like OSI's Oscar Goldman. We take outdated, run-down properties and fix them.
"Gentlemen, we can rebuild him. We have the technology. We have the capability to build the world's first bionic man. Steve Austin will be that man. Better than he was before. Better...stronger...faster."

(Okay, maybe not faster. And obviously, a house ISN'T Lee Majors. But you get the picture.)

And I am afraid that once Rapunzel's out-of-state owner decides to sell (oh, yes...I have done my research. I know who she is. I know where she is. And I imagine that she is hanging on to this house because she grew up there), it will be too late. The house will be in such a state of disrepair that there will be no saving it.

Do yourself a favor, Chickie. Sell the house. To me.

Because You're Mine, I Walk the Line. (Not Really. Because I'm Chunky, I Walk the 'Hood.)

Last year, I wrote about BV Bootcamp and the rules for walking. And now I'm walking and not just observing the rules (sort of), but getting to see my neighborhood when the sun comes up. And it's really interesting.

First of all, there is the little old guy I like to call "White Baseball Cap." He runs every morning about 9 am. His little legs look like they would snap in a strong wind, but he always waves as he jogs against the traffic. I wave back, from the safety of the sidewalk, as I don't trust cars to avoid my big-butted self.

Then, there are the "Little Mamas." They always walk in pairs and threes, pushing big honking strollers with one or two children strapped in. They chat and laugh loudly, sometimes as if they are forcing themselves.

The group I love is the "Seventies Shorts." The group varies in size--sometimes as few as three, sometimes as many as five, who jog before they go to work. They are young women in their 30s, and they wear those little jogging shorts from back in the day when I was young and fearless, sort of.

"Blonde Audrey" is always interesting. She's very young and very thin, blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her skin-tight clothes are head-to-toe black and she wears oversized black sunglasses. I'm of the belief she is trying to channel Audrey Hepburn.

But the best of all are the two old(er) ladies with the Westie. I like them because they are always smiling and never fail to say hello. They seem to be grounded in reality: they wear comfortable clothes and have not attempted to turn back time by coloring their hair.

And I wonder what those people think of me? I know what the "Little Mamas" think-- they tend to look at me as if I am the friendly neighborhood child molester. I want to tell them that once upon a time I had little children I pushed in a stroller, even though it was through a different neighborhood, and that just because they're privileged doesn't mean they're perfect. But they're young--what do they know? The "Seventies Shorts" probably think I need to join them and lose a few. "Blonde Audrey" doesn't strike me as the type that thinks at all.

But the gray-haired ladies? They probably think I'm a pleasant person.
And some days, I am.

Eat Me!

So, I have learned one thing....that white food taunts me.

It sits there in the kitchen, calling me...softly at first, and then louder. "Kirby,,,I'm here....you know you love me.....you know you want me....puh-leeze....I'm here...."

And white food is tricky. Potatoes, in particular. Potatoes want you to THINK they're vegetables, but they're really WHITE! And totally off-limits.
(I tried to think of them fried, and therefore more of a yellowy-tan. But Doc Adam, whom I will discuss at a later date, says that it doesn't count--potatoes are still white on the inside.)

White food? Is the Debbil.

Kicking My Own A$$, Part I

I will admit it. I am a food racist.

I love white food.

Bread, pasta, biscuits, cake...all receive a big "Hell Yeah!" from me.

And, as most of you know, it was a long,cold winter and, being unable to grow a fur coat, I have put on another layer of a different sort.

Ten years ago, I could lose fifteen pounds in a couple of months. All I had to do was eat a little less and exercise a little more. But that doesn't work any more. Now I need to try something drastic. My "Kirb Appeal" this summer will be NewThirteen, trying to weigh what I did at 13. (This is a HUGE joke, peeps. At thirteen I weighed 101. Like the song. Now? I would need to remove all my insides PLUS a leg in order to weigh 101. Which I believe would be drastic.) And lest you think I want to LOOK thirteen again? Let me correct you. That would involve braces, headgear, and perhaps the ugliest wire-framed glasses on the planet. Nope--I'll settle for losing 15 pounds and looking 50 instead of 51.

I have done lots of research these first two weeks of summer, and I will be blogging about some of the things I've learned about dieting. (By 'learned' I mean read with a healthy dose of skepticism.) For now the easiest, albiet the most painful, choice is to give up a lot of my white food.

Alas, little Biscuitville, I hardly knew ye.

My Love/Hate Relationship with Menopause.

Why I love menopause:
1. I can use it as an excuse. As in "Hey, I'm sorry I'm late, but I was driving along and all of a sudden I had this terrible hotflash and I had to pull over into the nearest Cook Out and get a peach cobbler shake.
2. I can use it to scare people (particularly those of the male persuasion). As in "Do you REALLY want to mess with a menopausal woman? Go ahead. Go there."

Why I hate menopause:
I look every day of fifty-one.

Why this is a problem:
I was still getting carded into my late thirties. I am not joking. And it wasn't just a clerk or two being nice, either. It was "I'm sorry, ma'am. I need to card everyone who looks like they might be under thirty."

So my challenge to myself this summer is to get my cuteness mojo back. Kinda like Valerie Bertinelli, only blonder.


Because I want to stop looking like this Kirby:




And start looking like this Kirby:

I Win!

I don't know who started it...I have a notion it was my mother...but there's been a lot of discussion regarding "who gets what" after her death. It almost makes sense, now that she's in her late seventies, with multiple health concerns, but this talk began when she was, oh, I don't know....fifty.

(Younger than I am now. And to my kids--if you're reading this? You get NOTHING! I'm taking it all with me. j/k.)

There has been some discussion among my siblings. The protracted discussion (by protracted I mean twenty-year long) has been regarding a certain corner cupboard, which my sister and I both covet. Why? Who the heck knows--it's not an antique, nor is it particularly beautiful, but the scale is perfect and the style beautiful in its simplicity. The inside is wide board tongue-in-groove, painted sage green, and the rest is dark-stained knotty pine. And frankly? I love me some knotty pine.

This corner cupboard was the one piece (besides the bed and sofa) that my mother insisted had to come with her to the old lady apartment. I think she has been putting off making the inevitable: to whom should this corner cupboard be bequeathed?

Recently, the winner of this nice (but not old or particularly valuable) corner cupboard is *Tah-dah* me! And yes, it would look great in my living room. But you know what? In the past twenty years, there have been a lot of changes. And for my brother, sister and me, it's not really all that important who gets the corner cupboard. It's that we can all pitch in together--first during my dad's loss and the subsequent sale of my mom's house, then moving her to an apartment, and now through her health issues. We can sit down together and talk and laugh and there isn't any underlying animosity. (Of course, I am speaking for everyone because I am the big sister. I guess I could be wrong, and they both hate my guts and I just don't know it.) But in so many families, where there is so much bitterness, I figure that corner cupboard or not, I still won.

No, Kiki, do not get your hopes up. The corner cupboard is still coming home with me. ;)

Look into the crystal ball

Spending this week (please bring drugs and/or liquor) with my mother has been like getting a glimpse of the future.

And the future isn't pretty, peeps.

It's not just that your body begins to betray you and you are not young and cute and energetic anymore, as if that's not bad enough.

It's that you become an OLD PERSON.

It was funny...when I told people I was coming back here to care for my mom for a week, they invariably asked her age. And then it was, "Well, that's not old."

I am here to tell you...seventy-seven is old. Your body breaks down, your memory has glitches, and you develop old person habits like accumulating tons of junk "just in case" and that unmistakable "old person smell."

Yesterday, I mentioned that getting old was not for the faint-of-heart. But neither is staring at the person you will most likely become.

I will begin stockpiling liquor as soon as I get home.

Between a Rock and...well...

Todaay, I did something I've done before. And it doesn't get any easier.

I left my mom in the hospital.

Just for the night--she had a procedure today that involved some girl parts. Like she said, it's not as if she's going to use them any more.

And I'll pick her up tomorrow and she'll come home, where I'm supposed to force her to walk around some.

But I could tell that she was scared, and I didn't want to leave.

Taking care of elderly parents wasn't something I ever thought about, when I was in my 20s and 30s--maybe was because I was too busy taking care of my little kids.

But it's something I need to think about now.
Sometimes getting old stinks.

This is interesting...

This is an interesting article from Newsweek. Apparently, I'm not the only one thinking Fifty is the New Thirteen. Okay, so Newsweek says Sixty is the new Eighteen, but still....

Hey, Newsweek...I thought of it first!

I Want to Be in Their Club!

Well, it finally happened.
Two of my favorite authors got together and interviewed each other. It was all I could do to keep from yelling "I WANT TO BE IN YOUR CLUB!"
And I am in a writing club. (I am not in any other clubs. Clubs don't want me. I was briefly in a sorority in college, and one time somebody mentioned I might want to join a book club, but they did not offer theirs. I am in Bunco, which is kind of like a club, but it's mostly for drinking, and that I can do alone.) The writing club let me in because they had to. I paid the money, and now they send me e-mails. I get together twice a month with folks who critique my work, but most of them are either (a) memoirists, or (b) traditional fiction folks, and I am YA.

(YA, for the uninitiated, stands for "Young Adult." It comes in many forms--supernatural, James Bond-y, chick lit for teens, or angst-ridden prose. I don't write any of those. I write weird stuff about kids who are a little different.)

YA doesn't have a club here.
YA has a very cool club somewhere else, too inconvenient for me to join. Like Pheonix, where Stephanie Meyer lives, or Northern New York (Laurie Halse Anderson), or Vermont (Karen Hesse), or 'islands up and down the east coast' (Judy Blume). Hell to the yes (!) for Judy Blume! Islands up and down the east coast?? How much money did a book about a girl who wants her period MAKE you, Judy Blume?? I can write a book about a period--I had thirty-nine years of those mothereffers!

So, because I can't join a YA club (is it because I'm too snarky?), I'd like to join the "funny girls who drink too many Flirtinis and do a little facebooking under the influence" club.

Do they have one of those??

Let's torture our old people!

In the past four months, I have filled out over a dozen job applications and sent out several dozen resumes. I have not received one. single. response.

I know times are tight. I know we're in a recession. And I know that there are thousands of middle-aged folks out of work. Middle-aged middle management has taken a swift knee to the b@lls, and there's no real chance for those folks to recover. After all, we can only absorb a certain number of pompous a$$es.

But please hear me out.

*we won't get pregnant and be out for ten weeks' maternity (or paternity, for that matter) leave.
*we are pretty boring. You don't have to worry about us coming in all hungover, unless you expect us to work Saturday morning. Even then, it's unlikely.
*we are pretty responsible. There's not much chance that we'll do anything stupid; we need the job.
*we won't be wearing inappropriate clothing. Mainly because that kind of stuff no longer fits.

So, if you need to hire someone...you may want to look into hiring someone older. We don't have the sense of entitlement that younger folks do.
We know better.

Okay....apparently I am no longer an asset, but a liability.

I have never been one to believe I was anything other than average. (My parents made sure of that!) But there's one thing I always knew, whether anyone wanted me to know or not--I could write.
In kindergarten, Helen Countryman told me I was a good writer. (She might have meant my printing, but who knows? Let's pretend she believed I was Pulitzer-caliber.) In fourth grade, Mrs. Russell told me I was a good writer. This was after I'd written a story based on a magazine photo. Mine was about a birthday party. In high school, Norma Gunkler encouraged my writing, and Betty Coman (despite the fact that she initially believed I was an idiot) finally came around and admitted I was the best writer in my class. (Sorry, Stuart.) Years later, she said she was sorry for both giving me a lousy grade the first semester of my Junior year with her, making me forever ineligible for National Honor Society, and for not giving me the English prize at graduation. I figure she paid for those grievous errors by having to drag around an oxygen tank like a dachschund with no legs, but I digress.

(Those of you who know me can skip the next part, because you've heard it all.)
So when I turned forty-nine, I decided I was done caring what other people thought...I would do and say exactly as I pleased and blame it on old age. So I "cut off my hair and grew a pair." And ignoring everyone who ever said I would never write...I wrote. First I wrote "Kirb Appeal"--both the videos and the blog--and I now have 41 subscribers--six of whom read regularly! Now, it's "New Thirteen" which is basically my journey through (old) age. Then, I joined a writers group, and I learned something about myself: compared to other folks? My writing is GOOD. (Don't believe me? Take a look at the serial romance the group is writing. Some of it is--well--pitiful.) Then, I went to programs that were led by writers and asked questions. Do you know what I heard?
That I am too old.
Too old to write.
Too old to have anyone interested in publishing anything I have to say.
Publishers are looking for hot young women who can write, not old farts who can write. They want either Sex in the City or Mommy Bloggers. Better yet...Sex WITH a Mommy Blogger.
Believe me, back in the day when I was a mommy, I would have been a Mommy Blogger. But there wasn't any such thing back then, and so I wasn't.

So I am planning something new: Post-Mommy Blogging. For Moms who used to be mommys but are now way cooler. Won't you join me?
You don't have to have sex in the city or anywhere else. Old age has it's privileges.