@RASJacobson

January 7, 2012

Ingrate Spotted With Invisible Awards

I got some wonderful attention in 2011, but I was a little ungrateful. It is time to make amends….

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December 31, 2011

Happy New Year Everyone!

Happy New Year to all my blogging friends!…

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December 29, 2011

Lessons From Laryngitis

Having temporary laryngitis was a gift. Being sick away from home made me think about the role I want to play in other people’s lives when I see them struggling….

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December 23, 2011

What We Are: A Hanukkah Post

When Tech Support was a l’il dude, I found myself in the grocery store for the eleventy-seventh time that week. It was our turn to host the annual Jacobson family Hanukkah party that night, and twenty-four people were coming….

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December 2, 2011

No More Bad Hair Days

In the days before mousse and gel and other hair care products, I used to pray to G-d to make my horrible curls go away….

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December 1, 2011

My Cat-Eye Glasses

When I was in elementary school, I had a really good friend named Andra. We did everything the same. We dressed the…

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November 28, 2011

What the Deuce is Fongutter?

Today we continue with Made-It-Up Mondays where I throw out a 100% made-up word and ask you to: define the word, provide its part of speech, and use the word in a sentence that indicates how the word could be used. If it were a real word. …

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November 22, 2011

A Surprise Response

Yesterday I wrote about a student who surprised me by withdrawing himself late in the semester. During the course of the day I received a response….

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November 18, 2011

Scorpios: Were You Born This Way?

I am a Scorpio. Scorpios are notoriously tough. People love us or hate us. Before I knew anything about astrology, I knew this. I felt it in my bones. I know I am my own person, that I have the ability to make choices. But I also possess certain traits that are nearly impossible for me to suppress….

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Way back in September, Leanne Shirtliffe (aka: Ironic Mom) asked me when I might want to have the Things make a stop in Rochester on their Excellent Adventure, and I knew I wanted them during the winter. Duh!

There is so much to do here when there is snow. I figured we would go skiing, make snow critters, go sledding and ice-skating, have them help us make snow tunnels, and bring them inside to a roaring fire. You get the idea. When Leanne contacted me in December, I had to decline her offer because there was no snow in Rochester. She asked me again a few weeks later, and while we were still without snow – I figured by the time the Things made it to me, we’d certainly have some white stuff. But as anyone from this part of the United States can tell you, the weather this year has been positively wonky. Here is a pictorial about our time with the Things.

I swear Rochester is usually much more fun than is perhaps depicted here. Maybe.

• • •

In Rochester, this season,

winter’s been strangely mild.

No sledding, no skiing.

for adult or for child.

When one day,

I found I had nothing to do

I opened my door

And found Things 1 and 2.

They were positively chilled

Having spent the night outside

So I brought them in our home

To entertain them, we tried.

We wanted to show the Things

A most wonderful day.

We took off to Great Places

We took off and away.

Lake Ontario. Toronto, Canada is on the other side.

We drove to Lake Ontario.

We drove with great care.

And though I said, “Pull over carefully!”

Hubby pulled over There.

The Things thought this was funny. Hubby? Not so much.

When he parked There in that spot

Hubby rolled over a bolt.

And when his tire popped,

We felt the horrible jolt.

The Things thought tire shopping was fun. Hubby? No so much.

The Things knew stuff like this happens

As things sometimes do

So they didn’t worry,

No, they didn’t stew.

They played in the tires

That had been stacked, just so.

They played until the people

At the tire shop said, “Go.”

Want some bracelets? Check out http://GoGuiltyPleasures.com Julie will send some to you!

The next morning I found the Things

They were quite a sight.

They’d gotten into some trouble.

(I’d suspected they might.)

They’d found some bracelets from GoGuiltyPleasures

and seemed a little low.

But I untangled them and told them

we’d more places to go.

The Things liked learning about Brownie cameras. Hubby? Not so much.

We took the Things to George Eastman House

Home of Kodak fame

I explained that if it hadn’t been for George

Picture taking wouldn’t be the same.

Jim's Diner on Winton. Tell them Renée sent you.

We all began to shiver

So we drove to our favorite diner.

The Things showed good manners and exclaimed:

“This coffee couldn’t be finer!”

We took the Things to Lock 33

On the Canal called Erie.

We had no mule whose name was Sal

And the Things were mighty weary.

What

Still, we took them to Wegmans Market

Best grocery store under the sky,

And once inside the Things perked up

There were so many things to try.

Jimmy from Produce loved The Things

They thought the store was swell.

They hid in the red peppers

And in a pile of lobster shells.

We took the Things to temple.

To show them how services were led.

They were very respectful

And wore one yarmulke on top of their heads.

One night the Things seemed homesick.

I saw a tear near Thing 1’s eye.

I pulled out a postcard of the Rockies

and brought out the Canada Dry.

The next day, miraculously

the snow – it had arrived!

And Thing 1 and Thing 2

seemed amazingly revived.

Happy Things!

They watched Tech Support at Rochester Fencing Club.

And even took a class.

And while they loved their toothpick sabers

They decided to take a pass.

We took the Things skiing

They liked to go vroom

They liked when I went very fast

So I zigged and zagged and zoomed!

The Things at Bristol Mountain

When their stay was over

We said splendiferous goodbyes.

We gave the Things good scrub downs

And gave each other high-fives.

As I shoved placed them in an envelope

addressed for their next temporary stay

We agreed we would miss those Things

and sent them safely on their way!

Fare thee well, Things. We hardly knew ye.

**NOTE: The snow melted the minute I sent the Things overseas to their next destination. Yup, they are headed to Switzerland to begin the European leg of their Tour! {Watch the news for “global weirding” in Europe.}

To read more about where the Things have been so far, click HERE.

So what would you have liked to have done with me and the Things? In Rochester, New York? In February? With no snow? IYKWIM.

Tweet this Tweet @rasjacobson

I feel like that woman who comes out of the bathroom with her skirt tucked into her pantyhose. Except it’s not in my panty hose, it’s in my underwear. Because I don’t wear pantyhose. Oh, and also, there is toilet paper on my feet. Because I forgot to wear shoes into the bathroom.

Seriously, that’s how embarrassed I am today.

I have been fortunate to receive some attention over the last 6 months.

You know, those sparkly invisible awards that you are supposed to put on your cyber-mantle?

Yeah, well, I didn’t.

Because I don’t have a cyber-mantle.

I don’t even have a cyber-fireplace.

So while I appreciated the awards, I didn’t do anything with them.

I sort of shoved them in a cyber-footlocker.

Which was actually very inconsiderate, and I feel like shitake mushrooms about this.

So I would like to thank a few people.

Waaaaay back in June 2011, Save Sprinkes from How Can I Complain gave me the Sweetest Blogger Award. Only I didn’t see this award until January 5, 2012. (How lame is that?) I just wrote Sprinkes a note letting her know how much I appreciated her recognition. Because I do. And I can’t believe I missed that blog post because Sprinkes is awesome. She hasnt posted in a while, but she was one of my very first subscribers, and I miss her.

I think for that award I was supposed to tell you 7 things about myself and suggest 7 other bloggers for you to read.

In September 2011, Jess Witkins from The Happiness Project sent me a Liebster award. What is a Liebster, you ask? I understand “liebster” is German for “dearest” — and so there is sweet Jess, trying to tell me that she considers me a dear friend. And what do I do? I shove her love in my cyber-footlocker. Nice, right? Four months later, I feel it, Jess. I do.

For that award I was supposed to link back to the person who nominated me and suggest 5 bloggers for folks to read.

Two people gave me the Versatile Blogger Award.

The first person to extend this kindness was Lorna Earl from Lorna’s Voice. A sociologist by training, Lorna started writing about her past when her future looked grim due to chronic illness. Her observations are keen, and I enjoy reading her posts.

The second person who found me versatile was Melissa Ridley Elmes from Cerridwen’s Cauldron. If Sarah Jessica Parker is my Celebrity Doppelganger (Ha ha. Yeah right!), then Melissa is my real life evil twin. She’s a teacher; I’m a teacher. She’s a painter; I’m a painter. She likes bad girls, I like bad boys. I’m telling you, it’s spooky!

For that award I think I was supposed to tell you 7 things you did not know about me and suggest 15 blogs for you to read.

Any math teachers out there?

I think I’m -21 facts and -47 recommended bloggers.

Do you see why I am hanging my head in shame?

Miranda Gargasz of Scattering Moments showed up to tell me that she had nominated me for the Awesome Blog Content Award. I hadn’t even heard of that one before, so I had check it out. When I did, I saw that it had no rules.

Thank goodness. (I like Miranda so much for that!)

I thought I was going to have to go through the alphabet and choose a word or phrase to correspond with each letter and use that to describe myself.

I started planning:

A is for Astoundingly Average.

B is for Beyond Belated.

Somebody should throw me in the Blogosphere Slammer for lack of gratitude.

A day later, one of my favorite bloggers, Gigi, from Kludgy Mom wrote a post called 12 Bloggers to Watch in 2012, and I almost died. Because there I was, on her list with many of my most favorite bloggers. I kept wandering back to the computer and looking at Gigi’s post all day, just to see if it was still there. I also checked this post from my iPhone and my iPad, too. Finally, my husband suggested I print out the article and stick it in my Happiness File that always makes me feel better when I am freaking out about a failing student, or sobbing hysterically about being out of Kona coffee or worrying that my writing has turned to lumpy oatmeal.

Not that there is anything wrong with lumpy oatmeal.

In fact, some people prefer their oatmeal lumpy.

I’m just trying to make a point.

Later that same day — the same day, people! — I was reading a faboo blog post, by the faboo Julie C. Gardner — a woman whose writing makes me “Squeeee!” like a little piggy, I see that Julie has written about how good it feels to be home after doing all her cyber-traveling this last year. (She was a busy little beaver blogger in 2011, and she was taking a moment to kick back and enjoy her home page. And her home life.) At the bottom of her page, she expressed more gratitude, thanking all the folks who had hosted her at their pages this year.

And she listed me.

Which felt like I had won an award.

While simultaneously making me feel like a dooj.

I mean, duh!

I should have totally done that.

And because I am a copy-cat great believer in the adage “Better Late Than Never,” I would like to thank the following writers for making my blog a richer place this year. My fryber Clay Morgan of EduClaytion continues to be a source of support and inspiration as does Leanne “Shirtsleeves” Shirtliffe of Ironic Mom.

The folks who posted for TWITS (Teachers Who I Think Scored/Teachers Who I Think Sucked) provided something special to unify my blog. Some people opted to glorify teachers while others remembered lousy teachers and opted to kick them in the pants. Either way, the variety of voices worked. So special thanks to the following writers. If you have never heard of these people, please consider giving them a look-see.

Jessica Buttram

Save Sprinkles

Steven Hess *

Piper Bayard

Zach Sparer

Larry Hehn

Dances With Chaos

Tyler Tarver

Tamara Out Loud

As A Linguist

Mark Kaplowitz’s

The Decorative Paintbrush

Blackwatertown

Penny Thoyts *

Some Species Eat Their Young

Life & Times of a Self-Proclaimed Saucy Bitch

The Mom Crusades

Six Ring Circus

*non-bloggers

I hope you will accept my belated gratitude.

I will try to be less sucky in 2012.

Or, in the very least, keep my skirt out of my underpants. 🙂

So what should my penance be?

May you all have a wonderful evening!

Thank you for all your support this year!

See you in 2012!

Can you guess which freak person I am?

Google Images

I get sick once a year.

Without fail, I get The December Glurg with a side order of cough that generally lasts until Groundhog Day.

Sadly, this year, things are off to the same hideous predictable pattern.

On the second to last day of classes, I showed up with serious laryngitis.

It’s a good thing my students were doing presentations; otherwise, I would have been sunk. Overnight my normally robust voice had changed into the squeak of a zit-faced boy going through puberty.

And I knew the cough was bad when my husband — who is ultra-tolerant when it comes to illness — moved all three of his striped pillows and disappeared into the guestroom.

None of this would have even been a big deal if I could have just gone home and gone to bed and rested for a week. Or three.

Except, I couldn’t.

I had to catch a plane to Florida the day after classes ended.

It was not a trip that could be rescheduled.

So I became one of those passengers.

The ones we all hate.

The ones who cough and snurgle and hork up luggies during the entire trip.

And remember, my voice was gone.

I carried around a small pad of paper upon which I had written this message:

I figured it would come in handy.

Inadvertently, I had become a walking, coughing sociological experiment. Because I soon discovered that when a person can’t talk, people respond with an awkwardish awkward awkwardness. Which is ultra-weird: kind of like layering the word awkward three times.

Folks fell into four categories:

1. The Avoiders

These people could see I was crazy mad-cow sick and kept a wide girth. They avoided me and my pile of balled up tissues. They pointed me out to their children and said words I couldn’t hear but I imagined were something like: Stay away from that lady, darling. She is sick — maybe even dying — and I don’t want you to get whatever she has. The unfortunate woman who had to sit next to me on the airplane pleaded loudly with the attendant to have her seat changed. Alas, the aircraft was full, so she leaned away — her face toward the aisle — during the entire duration of the flight. Actually, I’m, not sure if that is true. I fell asleep about 13 minutes after takeoff.

2. The Whisperers

When I got to Enterprise to rent my car, I took out my confirmation materials and my little pad of paper. While I tried to whisper, no sound came out. I pointed to my sign. Strangely, the agent – lovely as she was — began whispering to me. She whispered all the rules about renting the car. She whispered my options for insurance. She whispered for me to sign here. And here. And here, too. I was amazed my her bizarre mimicry, which made me prompt her:

She laughed and corrected herself. But this happened several times during my time in Florida. Still, I would pick The Whisperers over the next group any day of the week.

3. The Shouters

While the whisperers adjusted their volume to low, the shouters went the other way. They seemed to assume that my lack of-speech meant that I was deaf and that by screeching at me, they might be able to break through my silence – or something. Or maybe they thought I would be better able to read their lips if they were screaming at thrash rock concert decibel. Again, I took out my little pad of paper:

One day, in need of tissues and cough syrup, I went to the closest Publix. A stock-boy was replenishing the inventory near the pharmacy, and I figured he would be the best able to help me. I showed him my note, and I could tell he was befuddled. It became obvious that the stock-boy was not a native speaker of English, and I wondered if he did not know what “laryngitis” meant, so I added:

I wondered if maybe the colloquialism of “losing my voice” confused him. (You never know.) So I turned a page on my pad and added:

His melodic accent had a musical lilt.

“Are we on hidden camera?”

I shook my head to indicate that we were not. He frowned, disappointed. I began frantically scribbling a message about what I was trying to find in the store, but before I could show him my words, he became hysterical. He shouted: “I don’t know how to help you! Go find someone else!”

4. The Rescuers

Thankfully, there are always people who try to help.

Amazingly, an elderly woman who actually knew American Sign Language materialized in the Publix and offered to interpret for me. I showed her my pad of paper indicating that I wasn’t deaf, that I simply had laryngitis.

She looked at the stock-boy at Publix like he had eleventeen heads.

“For goodness sake,” she said, “This girl has laryngitis! Just read what she writes on the pad and answer her questions.” She looked at me with gentle eyes and offered advice: “Drink lots of tea and rest up.” Then she doddered away.

Like the elderly woman willing to act as my interpreter, help also came in the form of a black man with a broad mustache who helped to lift my small bag into the trunk of my rental car. And a patient tattooed girl in Chipotle, who waited for me to write out my order — even though a line was thronging behind me. Help was the housekeeper in my hotel who gave me a few  extra towels: the Latino man at the main desk in the hospital who helped me find a certain room. He was at the gas station when the pump didn’t work, and she was in the airport when I really needed a Snickers bar.

Now that my voice has returned to normalcy and my husband has come back to our bedroom, I see that having temporary laryngitis was a gift. Being sick away from home made me think about the role I want to play in other people’s lives when I see them struggling: the roles we choose to take on every day in each others’ lives.

Back in 5th grade, I learned about the Holocaust and was amazed by the different choices people made. Later, as I taught novels like Lord of the Flies, I have tried to help students recognize that each of us has the capacity for awesome goodness as well as tremendous cruelty: that we can all be bystanders, victims, perpetrators and rescuers. It is like putting on an outfit: How much bystander do you want to wear today? How does cruel look on you? What about kind? How do you look when you slip into a little kindness? It is simply up to us as to which role we wish to play.

In general, I want to help.

Sometimes, helping wears me a little thin. But I am willing to get a meal and deliver it, pick up a few groceries for a friend: even if I get coughed on or exposed to her germiest germs. Even if there are no germs, just ugly, scary illness, I want to help if I can because I know how much I appreciate those little moments where people go out of their way to make things a little easier for me.

How do you respond when you see someone struggling? Do you try to avoid the interaction altogether? Do you get angry? Or try to help?

Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

When my son was a l’il dude, I tried not to bring him to the grocery store if I could avoid it. But one year, it was our turn to host the annual family Hanukkah party and twenty-four people were coming over that night, so I found myself in the grocery store for the eleventy-seventh time that week.

As a result of poor planning, I had to bring the l’il dude along.

As I zoomed down the aisles – grabbing applesauce and sour cream for the latkes — we rushed past rolls of wrapping paper featuring snowflakes, ornaments in every shape and color, lighted-reindeer for the yard, artificial garlands and wreaths, tree skirts; boxes of 100-count multi-color lights; enormous platters embossed with angels sporting sparkling halos; floppy red, velvet hats with fluffy white pom-poms at the ends; pillar candles in red and green and gold; Godiva chocolates wrapped in boxes with bows and six-packs of chocolate Santas wrapped in silver foil.

It was full-blown Christmas in that grocery store.

My 4-year old – who had spent the last 18 months of his life at a Jewish Community pre-school surrounded by other children who did the same things in their homes that we did in ours — sat trapped inside the grocery cart. He eyed the Christmas fixins with curiosity; his head whipped from side to side, taking it all in.

“Know what’s weird?” my son started tentatively.

I heard his words, but I didn’t.

I needed to find the tuna fish.

And another carton of eggs for the egg salad.

I needed jelly filled donuts.

And I needed more oil. More oil for the latkes.

“What’s weird is that there is so much Christmas stuff because almost nobody celebrates it.”

I stopped pushing the cart.

I looked at my sweet, innocent son.

I thought:

How do I explain that Jews make up 0.2% of the world population?

That in the United States we comprise 1.7% of the population.

That when he starts kindergarten in September, he will likely be the only Jewish kid in his class.

That people might not like him because he is Jewish.

That, once, store owners wouldn’t allow me to clean my clothes in their laundromat because I was Jewish.

That millions of people have been killed throughout history because of their love of Torah. Because of their desire to preserve generations of religious and cultural traditions.

I rubbed my son’s spiky crew cut and I told him this:

“There are many people in this big world and you will find that people celebrate things in lots of ways. Hopefully, when you get older, you will have friends who will invite you to their houses to celebrate Christmas. And a hundred other holidays that you don’t even know about yet. Because there are a eleventy-million-bajillion ways to celebrate what is close to our hearts. And each way is wonderful. Hanukkah is just one way. But it’s ours.”

My son smiled.

And like the wish that it was, it has come to pass.

My l’il dude is now 12 years old. And he has celebrated Christmas with friends. And Kwanzaa. And Eid. And Diwali. He loves being invited to experience how his friends celebrate their assorted religious and cultural traditions. He feels proud to have tasted everything from stollen to chickpea curry. He has sampled poori, spicy khaja, and sweet and nutty desserts like atte ka seera. My boy’s ears have heard many dialects, and he is fluent in laughter. He can understand a smile in any language. He has learned the stories behind why people do what they do, and he understands their beliefs are as right and precious to his friends and their families as ours are to us.

He has sampled many different ways to be.

But he has never wanted to be anything other than what he is.

Other than what we are.

• • •

Now go read Life in The Married Lane by the amazing Rivki Silver.

I would like to thank Streit’s and Doni Zasloff Thomas a.k.a. Mama Doni, the lead singer/songwriter of The Mama Doni Band for providing each of the 16 bloggers involved in #HanukkahHoopla with a little cyberswag.

Click on the button below to be connected to the other bloggers involved in the #HanukkahHoopla project!


Seriously, sometimes it looks like this!

In the days before mousse and gel and other hair care products, I prayed to G-d to make my horrible curls go away.

Each night, I slathered my hair with V-05 — a greasy, grayish paste — and went to bed with a red bandana tied around my head.

All the popular girls had straight, shiny hair — parted at the center and held back by painted barrettes with whales or hearts on them.

My frizzy hair looked stupid when I tried to do that.

Rainy days were the enemy; humidity was my undoing. I learned to stay away from boys at water fountains.

Once, an old woman stuck her fat finger inside one of my corkscrew curls. She muttered words in Yiddish that I didn’t understand. Her translator told me the woman had said she’d had hair like mine when she was young. I didn’t know if that was a compliment or not. Her head was covered with a plastic rain bonnet.

People often told me my hair matched my personality.

*I assumed this meant they thought I was surly and uncooperative.

For decades, I fought my curls. I tried clips and headbands; I even tried straightening treatments to make my hair more manageable.

And then my friend was diagnosed with cancer.

And I watched her lose the soft, dark locks that framed her face. Soon, another friend was diagnosed with something else. And I watched her hair come out in clumps as she brushed it. One day, she brought out the clippers that — until that moment — she’d only used on her son, and she used them on herself. Leaving pieces of herself on the kitchen floor, she hopped in her truck and went off to buy wigs. When another friend lost her hair, she bought hats. Another bought do-rags. Another friend preferred bald. She said wigs went lopsided and scarves itched.

I stopped complaining about my hair.

Because I have hair.

And having hair means that my cells are not behaving badly. That I am not facing chemotherapy or radiation. That I am not making videos for my children to see when they are older because I might not be here. That I am not battling cancer — that goddamn monster — that takes people too young.

I’ve stopped wasting my prayers on hair. G-d has other things to do.

The instructions were to write about hair. Use it as a vehicle to tell us something about your character, a situation, you and/or your life. I tried.

When I was in elementary school, I had a really good friend named Andra.

We did everything the same.

We dressed the same.

We picked out the same books on our Scholastic Book orders.

We asked our mothers to pack us the same lunches.

We even got chicken pox at the same time.

image by dorriebelle @flickr.com

Then, Andra got glasses.

She looked so cool in her cute cat-eye frames.

I soooo wanted to look like Andra in her cute cat-eye glasses.

I told my parents that I couldn’t see the blackboard.

That bought me a ticket to the ophthalmologist.

He tested my eyes.

As it turned out, I saw better than 20/20.

He told me that I probably wouldn’t need glasses for years.

I think I kind of wanted to stick my tongue out at him.

But I didn’t.

Eyeglasses always seemed like such a cool fashion accessory.

So anytime there was an opportunity to dress-up, I would wear pretend glasses.

You know, the kind without lenses.

Then I turned 40.

And suddenly, one day, I was looking at a menu in a restaurant and I couldn’t read anything on my menu.

All the words looked really blurry.

I was all: “What the deuce?”

I asked my husband if we could trade menus because — obviously — mine had been printed badly.

And then I saw that his menu had been printed badly, too.

And I was all: “How can you even read this?”

My husband looked at me knowingly.

The next thing I knew I had a prescription for real life reading glasses.

I was all: “Whoo hoo!”

And then I started my search for the perfect eye-wear.

Who knew it would be so hard?

There were so many choices.

And a lot of stuff was just plain ugly.

Which made me feel ugly.

Which bummed me out.

Friends suggested I find a pair of glasses that I really love, so I didn’t feel as though I’d lost my mojo.

So I started collecting glasses.

And I’ve accumulated quite a collection.

But none were quite right.

Recently, I saw this cute pair of gray cat-eye frames, and I thought of my old friend.

How fun are these?

I wonder what kind of glasses Andra’s wearing nowadays.

Because I’m thinking I have to get these in black.

And purple.

Do you wear glasses? How do you feel about them?

Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

Cover of
Cover via Amazon

Today we continue with Made-It-Up Mondays where I throw out a 100% made-up word and ask you to:

  • define the word
  • provide its part of speech, and
  • use the word in a sentence that indicates how the word could be used.

Why? Because a friend gave me the book The Meaning of Tingo: And Other Extraordinary Words from Around the World which is filled with fascinating words which don’t have any equivilent in the English language.

For example:

“Yuputka” is the Ulwa word for the phantom sensation of something crawling on your skin while walking in the woods at night.

I’m sorry, but that describes the experience way better than goosebumps!

When I can’t find the right word on the word-shelf to fit my mood or predicament, I often make one up.

The last time we did this the word was “ebenscraw,” and Shawnadee guessed:

Ebenscraw …[is] associated with irritation or frustration; … when a person has an irritated reaction that he or she has got something in his or her ebenscraw. This has since been shortened in modern vernacular to “craw”.

Okay, that is damn close.

I have a friend named Rachel. And once I was on the phone with her and her infant son was fussing. She said, “I wonder what is stuck in Eben’s craw?” Now if my son (or frankly, anyone) is being cranky, I’ll just kind of toss it out there.

As if it is a real word.

I’ll say something like, “Wow, that’s enough ebenscraw for one day, doncha think?”

It’s amazing how a good imaginary word can quiet people right down.

Gotta love those imaginary words. So kudos to Shawnadee.

So it is time to continue with the fun today.

Remember, the first person to use the word the way I do shall receive cyber-love. And by that, I mean I will announce your identity in the next Made-It-Up Monday post. If you are a blogger, I will link up to your blog, so folks can head over and check out your stuff.

If you are not a blogger, don’t worry. I will highlight your name in bold (like I did for Shawnadee) and let everyone know how smart you are. If you are looking for a new job, you can put “uncanny ability to define 100% bogus words” on your resumé and direct prospective employers here. I will totally back you up.

Continuing alphabetically, this week, the made up word is:

FONGUTTER

What the heck is that? When would you say it? Define it and give me a sentence in which you show me how you would use it.

You know, if it were a real word. 😉

Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

Yesterday I wrote about a student who surprised me by withdrawing himself late in the semester. I am not one to take student disappearances personally, but this one spooked me because he was doing so well. And it is so very late in the semester.

During the course of the day I received a response.

No, it was not from him.

But it was from a former student, someone I have not seen with my own eyes for decades.

This person gave me permission to share.

So I am.

That's a lot of boxes!

When my parents moved from my hometown, I wasn’t able to go home to look through my room, so they threw everything I owned in bags and boxes (mostly just opening the drawers and dumping the stuff in). They said I could look through it later.

That was almost ten years ago.

When I went to visit a few months ago, they told me I should look through everything and either move it or lose it. I spent hours looking through all the papers from preschool through high school. I found drawings I had made, essays I had written, and report cards.

And in the mix, I also found a very sad poem I had written.

And a note from you.

Since I work with teenagers, I worry all the time I will miss the signs — and hope that they feel as comfortable coming to me as I did to you.

It is scary when someone you know commits suicide; it can feel like you missed something.

But I cannot be the only person you have taught to say you have also caught the signs.

As a teen it would not have been easy, or even in my realm of thought, to say thank you.

But it is now.

And so I wanted to write and say thank you for caring, thank you for seeing signs that things were not right and especially thank you for simply taking the time to listen.

I cannot tell you what I might would have done in high school because I really don’t know, but I do know that I am grateful to you for being there.

The campaign says: “It gets better”. Well it does, and I am so grateful to be here to prove that saying true.

Much gratitude to the person who authored this letter.

It meant the world to me.

So much of teaching is about delayed gratification.

We teachers spend our days with these people — some of whom we come to care about — and then we set them free, and cross our fingers that everyone will land on his or her feet.

I’m so happy to know this person has.

@Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

I am, without a doubt, a Scorpio.

Scorpios are tough.

People either love us or hate us.

Like the mythical Scorpion, people born under the sign of Scorpio are strong-willed.

Every Scorpio I know is a powerhouse. We don’t like to be controlled by others.

Astrologists say that Scorpios tend to function as agents of purging, not only on a personal level but on the collective level as well.

It is safe to say that if I don’t feel something is right, I won’t shut up about it.

I will challenge you about it.

I will call you out and wrestle you to the mat.

This relentlessness can be a good thing, but I have also been blamed for my need to bring uncomfortable issues to the surface. I don’t get involved to cause trouble. I get involved in an effort to find solutions and heal.

But Scorpios aren’t always the most tactful.

Like the scorpion that kills itself rather than letting someone else kill it, Scorpios are determined, and once we’ve made up our minds we are unlikely to change them.

We can be self-destructive.

You know how Mick Jagger sang: “You can’t always get what you want”?

That’s because he isn’t a Scorpio.

Scorpios always get what they want.

I have to admit, I tend to be am stubborn.

Once, I worked on a Committee.

Here is what I learned.

I cannot work on a Committee.

Committees are too slow for me.

People on committees have to talk about things for eleventeen hundred bajillion years and I just cannot stand that. In addition, I refuse to give up when others have long since gotten bored, decided to move on, or abandoned a project.

I can’t do that.

When I am invested in something, I give it all of me. I don’t care about the money or the lack of it. I just need to see the project through. I have tried to not be a completion-oriented renegade.

I can’t help it; it is written in the stars.

Or something.

Scorpios draw people to them.

How much do I want this coat?

That’s because we are intelligent hot.

Because everyone knows Scorpios are considered the most passionate symbol in the astrological chart.

Astrologists say Scorpios enjoy competition and challenge. That we aren’t satisfied with moving along at half-speed or lowering our abilities to allow people with lesser skills to beat us.

I move at full court press hummingbird. I am fast-talking and fast walking. You’d better get those synapses firing if you want to be with me.

I have six games of Words With Friends going on concurrently. And let’s be clear. When we play? We are not friends.

I am trying to destroy you.

As friends and lovers, Scorpios are loyal and devoted. Touch my people, and I will find the closet sharp instrument and spear you.

Because Scorpios can hurt people.

What can I say? I’m a Scorpio; sometimes I sting.

Ironically, while Scorpios can wound, we are also about healing: ourselves and the world.

In nature, if a scorpion loses its tail, it can heal itself by growing a new one. Cool right? Well, Scorpios are about regeneration, too.

Harry Potter fans, you remember the Phoenix, right? Remember how it regenerated itself from the ashes of its death and rose into the sky, reborn. The most highly evolved Scorpios aspire to be the Phoenix, to rise above the ordinary world and into something extraordinary.

While out for Chinese food last night. This is the fortune that was placed in front of my plate:

Scorpios have big dreams, and they tend to get things done.

So my Scorpio-ishness will make sure that one day I will have a published book.

In the meantime, I will transform my weaknesses into strengths to help others.

And I will use my words to bring people up rather than tear them down.

I will wife and mother, daughter and sister. And teacher and friend.

And I will undoubtedly twit from time to time.

Because I am a Scorpio; that’s the way I roll.

And yeah, today is my birthday. I’m 44.

What’s your sign? And how well do you fit your astrological profile? Do you believe in this shizz? Or do you think astrology is for the birds?

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