Flying Off the Handle, Part Two

So rewind a few weeks, I'm back in the airport, getting ready to go to DC.

Get on the plane in Boston on US Airways, uneventful ride. Get off the plane, about to ask representative how to get to connecting flight. I hear the woman in front of me ask the same question and find out we're supposed to go to the United terminal, so I decide to follow her. Don't realize she's moving so fast, I can hardly keep up. I lose her while still in the US Airways terminal. I stand in the middle of the terminal looking for signage about United. Don't see any.

I hear a voice coming from somewhere, faintly, saying, "If you're going to United, come this way." I turn to the left and to the right. Nothing. I hear a man say, "Is this the way to United?" and see a door opening behind the US Airways counter. I make a mad dash to the door.

The man and I go down some stairs and suddenly we're on the tarmac. There's a bus pulling away, and we wave our arms frantically until it swings around to get us. We climb aboard. The first image that comes to mind about this bus is that it looks like those prison buses you see in the movies. We're not going to catch a connecting flight, we're all going to jail.

The bus drives for a few minutes, then stops. The driver gets on the phone and then hangs up, telling the passenger right in back of him what was said. I yell from the back of the bus, "The back of the bus can't hear what's going on!" So the message gets passed down like some weird game of Telephone: there's no stairway to the United terminal, and no one is there to open the door for us. The driver was told to drive back to US Airways. Okay, so now we're all looking at our watches and realize that our plane is leaving in 20 minutes. This is not okay. The driver says there's nothing he can do, and starts driving back.

We get back to US Airways, all pile off the bus, and go back inside. Half the group stays behind to complain to representatives, and half of us gather together to discuss what we should do. Someone says, "Let's just go to the sidewalk and take a public bus to the terminal." We all go outside. We don't even know what terminal we're looking for, so half of our now halved group scans the airport map, and half wait for a bus. We get the terminal letter, and wait. I pipe up, "I feel like we're on a reality TV show. Where are the cameras?" Bitter laughter.

After a few mintues of no bus arriving, someone says, "Look, there's a sign that says, 'Walkway to Terminals'. Let's run!" Sounds good to us, we start booking it. I scream, "Let's pretend we're on The Amazing Race!" We are running, some in heels, some with no coats, some with wheelie bags flying behind. It's 32 degrees.

We run, run, run down the walkway in the dark cold night. None of us knows where we're going, we just figure the guys in the front will lead us the right way. They do. We get inside to whatever terminal it is, B or C or something, and discover that we have to go through security again. Our flight leaves in five minutes.

One woman and I talk about how we're going to get compensation for this shit, this is not okay, are you a student? no, I'm a teacher. I go to BU Law. Oh? says someone else, me too. oh? We're doing this as we're removing our shoes and putting our things into the grey bins for security.

Find out what gate we're supposed to go to, run to the gate. Arrive, breathless, panting, gasping for air. No one is at the gate. One man arrives to tell us the flight is late. We are pissed. We are incensed. We are ripshit. We are hungry. I go over to the little store and buy us dinner: cinnamon raisin bagel chips. We pass the bag around. Pose for a group photo. Talk about who to write the letter of complaint to. Hear a rumor that there were actually three groups of people for this flight: one group made it on the first bus and had no problem, our group, and the last group, who stayed behind to complain and probably got compensated.

The flight arrives. We get on and have an uneventful ride, except for the dramatic story I tell the flight attendant to explain why we all look so upset. She suggests writing to both the airport and the airlines.

We arrive in DC. I can't wait to blog.

Oops

So I'm in the store buying Prince's latest cd (on the day it was released, of course), and there's this $10 cd sale. I buy The Beatles #1 hits, and Funk Soul Anthems.

The reason I buy Funk Soul Anthems is because of the first song I see: "One Nation Under a Groove" by Funkadelic. Oh my god, that was one of the hits of my childhood, and I haven't heard it since. Then I see another classic: "Oops Upside Your Head" by the Gap Band.

I bring the cd into school the next day and introduce the kids to some of the funkiest music of the 70's. The one song that caught the kids' attention and made their little butts wiggle the most was "Oops Upside Your Head." Easy lyrics:

Oops, upside your head, I said, oops upside your head...(meaning a slap with an upward motion on the back of the head given when someone has done something foolish)

We're grooving along, the beat is funky, and then I hear the little rap line that comes in I had totally forgotten about:

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To have a little fun
Stupid Jill forgot the pill
And now they have a son!

Oops, upside your head, I said, oops upside your head!

For the rest of the day I made sure to cough or turn the sound down when that part came on. Oops!

Boston Globe

I'm working on Airport, part 2. Until then, check this out:

http://www.boston.com/yourlife/fashion/articles/2006/03/16/visible_ink/

Click through the pictures and you'll see my legs!

Flying off the Handle, Part One

I went to DC from Boston last weekend. Got a cheap flight, which meant I'd have to change planes. No problem. Or so I thought.

The very first thing that went wrong on this trip happened even before I checked in. I looked on my email itinerary and it said United Airlines flight 2667. Operated by US Airways. What the heck does that mean? Do I go to United or US Airways? Two different terminals. Well, the logo and first airline mentioned was United, so I got off at United.

Got to the do-it-yourself check-in, and they wouldn't take my card. I looked again at my itinerary, and there, to the right, it said, "Please check in at US Airways ticket counter." This is why you should get to the airport early. So I went and asked where the US Airways terminal was, and the guy showed me the walkway. I walked to the terminal, checked in, and went to the gate.

At the scanner gate, we all removed our shoes and belts and put our stuff in those grey plastic bins. I was very proud of myself for making it so I wouldn't have to dump loose change, keys, and my cell phone in like everyone else. Nice and concise, my things. Two bags, coat, shoes, belt. All I had on was my jeans, sweater, and scarf.

Went through the scanner doorway, showed the guy my ticket, and proceeded to walk towards my bags. The ticket guy stopped me and said, "Trying to sneak past me, huh?" and then he showed me that if a ticket has an "S" on it, you have been selected to be searched. He showed me the "S" on my ticket. I said nothing, as I know that these days it is not okay to joke about what a preschool teacher could be armed with.

Having been searched two or three times before, I knew the drill. Stand on the mat with the feet imprinted on it, raise your arms. I did as asked, and the woman searching me told me she was just going to check in and around my scarf. She said, "Next time, just take the scarf off, okay?" Again, no jokes. All I could think of was a headline: Mild-mannered preschool teacher hides weapons in polar fleece scarf (scarf lovingly crafted by preschool parent)

Got through, got dressed, and got to the gate with time to spare. Uneventful ride. Got off at NYC's LaGuardia airport, where I had to change planes. And that's where Part Two comes in. To be continued...

AI

Tonight on American Idol last season's winner Carrie Underwood performed her smash hit, "Jesus Take the Wheel." I'm not kidding, that's what the song was called. When I heard Ryan Seacrest say the name of the song I burst out laughing. Come on!

Then she sang the song, and I must say, I was very impressed. She was never one of my faves, but winning has been good for her. She sounds so much better now, and the song itself was not so bad. Until the part when the woman driving the truck slips on a patch of black ice and lets "Jesus take the wheel." Want to know what happens? He takes the wheel, and she doesn't die! Hallelujah!

My friend Tressa called at the commercial and I answered with, "I can't talk, I'm driving." She topped that with, "I sure hope Jesus wasn't drinking tonight!" Every time I think of that line, I burst out laughing. I look like a crazy person sitting in my armchair with my white bathrobe, bursting into laughter for no apparent reason. If you see me doing this, it's because I'm thinking of something funny someone said. Everyone does that, right? Right?

Who's Lovin' You?

So this week on American Idol I thought the women all sucked, except for Lisa Tucker, who not only sounded great but sang one of my favorite songs, "Who's Lovin' You?". I don't know if The Jackson 5 were the first ones to sing it, but their version (really little Michael Jackson) kicks ass.
I got so pumped listening to Lisa Tucker that I got out my J5 CD and played that song over and over. It made me think about Michael Jackson, and how he got from there to where he is today. Started in the J5 when he was something like five years old, and recorded "Who's Lovin' You?" when he was eleven. Boy could sing! Hit all the notes, had some amazing riffs, and seemed like he really felt what he was singing.

(needle scratching record sound) Say what???

Think about it. An elementary-aged kid crooning songs about kissing, love, and heartache...eww! That's messed up. Sometimes the songs seemed okay for a kid to sing, like "Rockin' Robin" and "Dancin' Machine"; those were cute teenybopper songs. One of my favorite lines is from the song, "Sugar Daddy", which sounds sick, but is very catchy, and funny when little Michael belts out, "I'll even let you drive my Caddy, when I get one, Baby!"

When he was a kid he was treated as an adult, and now that he's an adult, all he wants to do is be a kid. I'm not saying it's okay for him to sleep with little kids and give them Jesus Juice. Alls I'm saying is that it's pretty easy to see how MJ got to be where he is, and it's so sad. Such talent! There was too much pressure, and no childhood. If I could get in a time machine, I'd go to Gary, Indiana, and rescue that boy from future Coke pyrotechnic accidents and facial reconstruction. Say what you want about Wacko Jacko; I'm still a fan.

I quit...and I'm feeling lucky!

I quit karate today. I knew it was coming; you did too, right? I just wasn't feeling it. The Japanese style of teaching conflicts with my desire to process and practice, over and over.

I knew I was going to quit today when I started thinking about having to, yet again, rush home, stuff something in my face, or not and be starving at 7:15, paying $85 for the next month in addition to another class I'm going to take (more on that in a minute), and the feeling of dread if I just skipped this class. Oh, the kata moves I'd miss!

As I went along my afternoon, it occurred to me that I didn't have to continue karate. I am a grownup, and grownups can pretty much do whatever they want to. Karate isn't in my bones, and swimming wasn't either. You wanna know what's in my bones? Dancing. Not partner dancing, but get out there on the dance floor and "shake what your mama gave ya" dancing. That's why I'm going to take...

Music Video Dance--dance like they do in the music videos! The class description read something like this: "Do you want to move like Britney Spears and J.Lo? Learn the steps and routines of dances shown in music videos..."yada yada yada, that's all I needed to read, check is in the mail! An hour once a week for eight weeks, starts at the end of March. I'm psyzziched!!

I went over to the karate studio to tell Sensei I wouldn't be continuing. I felt guilty; he's such a nice man. I went in and whispered (because there was a class going on) that I wouldn't be continuing. He asked why, and I told him I didn't think it was the right thing for me. Then I said something about schedules and how I couldn't train three times a week...and he told me I could do it two times a week. And I floundered, just like I do with my arms in karate class, and I told him that I knew he was there and if I wanted to continue I would come back. He said that he hoped to see me again. Oh god, I wanted to cry, this sweet man with so much patience for me!

Thing is, what I really want to do is have green tea with this man, not ward off some invisible attacker and hear Sensei Bob teach the little kids how to punch and kick someone instead of talking to them. Don't get me wrong, I have respect for martial arts, it's just that it's not my thing.

I left feeling sad and guilty, and that lasted about five minutes. 'Cause then my iPod kicked into high gear with Beyonce's "Naughty Girl" and Earth Wind & Fire's, "You're the One For Me." I can see myself in a glittery outfit strutting my stuff on a cruiseline stage, not standing stock still while I try to kick an opponent the size of a Chihuahua, because that's as high as I can kick.

It felt so good to have the weight lifted off my shoulders from the burden of karate class that I bought some kind of lottery ticket on the way home. I picked some numbers and got instructions to watch the news at 11:00 to see if I'd won. I felt lucky. And free.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go plug in my iPod battery charger.

Down the Drain

I tried to take a bath on Saturday. I do that every once in awhile, take a nice hot bubblebath, followed by a shower. It's not the best for the skin, dries it out, but it's so relaxing.

So I ran the tub and put the product in, this time a packet of bath salts from Japan that I've had for about two years. The woman who gave it to me said, looking into my eyes (when is the last time a Japanese person looked someone in the eye?), "It's relaxing." She also had a hand on my shoulder. Was she trying to tell me I was uptight?

While the tub was filling up, I busied myself by emailing. When I went in to check the water level, it was done. It was a beautiful sight: a tub full all the way to the top, just the way I like it. Ahh...

I got in and realized it was just a tad cooler than my ideal temperature. I let some of the water out so that I could fill it with hot water and really stretch out and enjoy the whole event. I turned on the water...and it was cold. No matter, it's always cold when you first turn it on, I figured it would warm up in a few seconds like it usually does.

It didn't. I kept it on, thinking it really would change. It kept not changing. So now I was sitting in a tub of lukewarm water, not relaxing. I let more of the water out, thinking that by the time more of the water was out, surely the hot water would come back and I would enjoy the hot relaxing bath I had been expecting. It didn't happen.

Unbelieveably, I had to realize my dream of having a hot bath was not going to occur. I got out of the tub and angrily dried myself off, put my pajamas back on and muttered under my breath, "I'm going to start this day all over again, goddamnit!"

And then I said (in my head this time), "Stop being such a spoiled brat! There are people in the world who don't even have cold water, Princess! There are people with no running water at all, and what do you want to do, waste gallons of water so you can dry out your lily white skin?" I told myself it was a lesson: Be satisfied with what you have, and don't be greedy. I started wondering if there was an Aesop's fable to go along with this event, and then the little devil came in my head and said, "For Chrissakes, stop analyzing the shit out of this damn bath! All you wanted was a little hot water, is that too much to ask??"

The next day I tried again. Avon bubble bath, tub filled up 3/4, not all the way. Checked the water temperature often. It worked. Ahh...

words

Words I like the sound of:

ubiquitous
hence
notwithstanding
nevertheless
ergo
brassiere

Words I cannot stand the sound of:

panties
trousers
pianist
dungarees
pronto
blouse
probe

Words I thought I didn't like the sound of, but actually do:

chakra

Feel free to add to these lists. I'm curious.

Funny Talk

I am around kids nearly every day. I love it. They say the funniest things, with dead-on timing. Here are a few recent samples:

I am walking with Ramona, 4, in my arms. She is facing me, and she squeezes my breasts like they're bicycle horns. As she does so, she says, "Boobs!" (squeeze) Boobs!" (squeeze)

Me: Ramona, it's not very polite to squeeze a woman's boobs.
Ramona: You're not a woman.
Me: Oh really? What am I?
Ramona: You're a lady.

I'm at my art class with five kids. I'm telling them my fantasy of skating in the next winter Olympics.

Sila, 10: Alex, you'll be great.
Jasmine, 11: Yeah, in the hospital!
I give Jasmine an incredulous look.
Jasmine: What? Maybe you'll get jello.

More to come...

Skating, My Way

Japan won the Gold in women's ice skating last night. America won Silver, Russia won Bronze. From the reports I had been listening to, it was surprising. Russia or America was supposed to get the Gold, but the two women both fell during their programs. Pressure!

If I were in charge of women's ice skating, I'd change the rules a little bit. I'd change the scoring to a scale of 1-10, easy. 1 means you're just not trying very hard, 10 means outstanding, and the rest fall somewhere inbetween.

I'd cut the long program and make it two short programs. Skating has gotten progressively more demanding, and the women have to do more difficult stunts, turns, and twirls to get higher scores. I heard over and over again how, with the new scoring, every move counted, and saw the skaters fall, either because they were tired, or injured, or not confident. Wouldn't it be more pleasant for the skaters to do programs they could actually do and liked doing, and wouldn't it be more fun to watch? I mean, I love drama, but leave that part for my next idea.

Part of the score would consist of choice of outfit. Why this has never mattered before is beyond me. Some of those costumes are horrendous! Some of them are gorgeous, and the scores should reflect that.

Finally, I would require interviewers to greet skaters in the following ways:

To the skater in 12th place: "Congratulations, you're in the Olympics!"
To the skater who won Bronze: "Congratulations, you won a Bronze medal!"
To the skater who fell twice: "I loved your program. It looked like you landed pretty hard that one time. Are you okay?"
To me, skating in the 2010 Olympics: "Wow, you don't look 41! And that outfit is fabulous!"

Karate--How Long Will I Last?

Karate tonight. I missed one class this week, so Sensei Bob briefed me on what I missed. Turns out I missed sparring. Sparring is fun, because you get to actually apply what you've learned. Your opponent "attacks" you, and you protect yourself. Then you switch.

Today we learned something called "kata". It's a set of moves, and there are about 26 of these sets. We learned part of the first one today, the first 9 steps. We have to practice steps 1-5 for homework. There are 21 moves in the first kata. 21 moves in the first kata, we learned 9 of those moves, and there are 26 kata. You do the math, I can hardly make my arms and legs move at the same time. In my head I quit karate today at the beginning of class, then I rejoined when we did sparring, and I quit again when we did the kata.

I guess I'll keep doing it. In Japan, people don't quit. Whenever I go into that karate dojo, I feel like I'm in Japan. Shopping in Japan I like. Trying to defend myself against invisible enemies...not so much. It's supposed to get easier. I'll keep at it. HAI!

Bon Appetit!

Every once in a while I'll make myself an outstanding meal, one that's well-balanced and healthy. Yesterday for lunch I made one such meal. It was beautiful, a sight to behold.

The main meal was from Trader Joe's. Grilled chicken strips with tortellini, and a side of organic corn. The salad was visually stunning, every color of the rainbow. Baby spinach, baby carrots, grape tomatoes, red onions, and corn sprinked on top. Just looking at it made me salivate.

I set the meal on the dining room table instead of the coffee table, for a change, and turned the tv on its Ikea tv turner so that it would face me. I got my glass of water, my chopsticks (for the salad), and my fork, and prepared to dig in. And that's when I saw it.

A worm. A white little caterpillar-looking thing, sitting very comfortably on the corn. Oh my god, I wanted to vomit. Vomit, vomit, vomit, gross, disgusting! I lost my appetite in record time. I felt nauseous. I immediately got one of my many bug containers and put it inside, so that I could show it to a friend later to confirm it's identity as a worm. I got a magnifiying top and inspected it closely. Could it be a very long grain of white rice? Was it moving? Did it have little leg stumps? Though it wasn't moving and I couldn't see stumps per se, my gut told me that this was, in fact, not a grain of rice.

I tossed the whole meal in the trash, apologizing to the compost gods as I did so. I went to sit down and collect myself, and Shelby came to sit on my lap. She had a nice nap, and when she was done, enough time had passed so that I could think about food again. I went down the block to the local Italian food place and had a pepperoni roll and a bag of onion and yogurt potato chips, mmm, grease and fat and no worms!

Later I to my friend's house for dinner and showed him the container. He confirmed that in fact, my specimen was a worm, and told me that worms are often found in organic corn, that's why they cut off the ends of them at the Farmer's Market. Organic schmanic, Green Giant cans of Nibblets corn, here I come! It's about the product and the processed, in this case. While I'm at it, maybe I'll go see my friend Little Debbie.

Ewww update

He wasn't there when I got back. Ha, he had felt my "I'll kick your ass" vibe and had beat it outta there himself. Hopefully he just went home to make those little hard balls with the middles of his white bread and didn't go to victimize someone else.

My puppy slobber gloves are together again, clean and slobber free. All is right with the world.

Ewww!!!

I just ran into a child molester/serial killer at the laundrymat. It's not yet 10 am on a weekday, perfectly acceptable time for an elderly man to do his laundry, right? No one else was in the place, and he was sitting in the plastic three-in-a-row chair, holding a plastic bag with a loaf of white bread in it. I walked over to the change machine and took a quick glance at the washers and dryers. Not one was being used. I went to my favorite washers, which happened to be right in front of where he was sitting. Forget settling down and reading my book. I was outta there.

So what does a child molester/serial killer look like, you ask? Why did I run out of the laundrymat? White man, probably in his 70's, wrinkled, a little hunched over, white hair, white stubble on his face. Sweatpants, plaid shirt, old vest, ski hat, glasses. "That sounds like my grandpa!" you say. Maybe, but the thing that sets him apart from your grandpa is the vibe this guy was giving off. Creeeeeeepy vibe. In a laundrymat with a bag of stuff and no laundry. Didn't say a word to me, just stared straight ahead. Kind of guy neighbors would later say, "Kept to himself, didn't say much." Just decorated his house with the skins of his victims. I know these types. I read true crime with black and white photos.

I went over some karate moves in my head in case I needed to defend myself, made sure I could get to the door quickly if I had to.

I have to go back in 24 minutes. I don't want to. But my "I'm onto you" vibe will conquer his "Young lady, could you help an old man out?" vibe. I'll spear him with my rolled up copy of People magazine, which has Britney Spears on the cover. Spear him with Spears! How appropriate. Rip off the address label so he can't follow me home. Wish me luck.

Puppy slobber reunion!

Last night my cat Shelby was thinking about whether or not to jump up on my lap. I turned to look at her to encourage her to jump, when I spotted the puppy slobber glove underneath the loft bed ladder. It was fate that I decided yesterday to postpone my laundry doing till today. Hallelujah!

After reading my blog, a friend of mine (and dog lover) told me that puppy slobber was as pure as spring water. Next time I'm parched I'll kiss a dog.

Isn't it ironic...don'tcha think?

Disclaimer: I never lose things. Never.

So two weeks ago I was walking along the street towards karate school. This guy was walking with the cutest little puppy in his arms. Now, I'm a cat person, but really I love all animals, especially cute little baby ones, so I asked the guy if I could pet the puppy. He said yes, and I stuck my gloved hand out to pet the puppy, and he licked my glove all over, cute little fluffy puppy. I thanked the man and went on my way, all the while thinking about puppy slobber on my right glove.

This is one of the things I do not like about puppies and dogs, their slobber. Ick. I thought about my right glove for the following two weeks. Should I wear the gloves? I'll wear the gloves. Eww, there's puppy slobber on the right one. I hope I don't meet anyone new, I'll have to shake their hand and get dried puppy slobber on their hand. Don't wear the gloves! Finally today, I was able to go to the laundrymat and wash the gloves, whew!

So I got all the laundry out, folded all of it, and noticed that only one glove came out of the dryer. Guess which one it was? The left one.

Where oh where is my puppy slobber right glove?
Oh where oh where can it be?
In the laundry basket?
In the middle of the street?
My hands are cold, woe is me!

Oh, Canada!

I just found out that there's no age limit at the Olympics. That settles it, I am going to compete in the women's figure skating event in Canada in 2010. I'll start training after I take karate for a few more months and after my "Music Video Dance" class in the spring.

I've already got my routines figured out. The first routine, which will get me to the Olympics, will be to Whitney Houston's, "One Moment in Time." Have you ever listened to that song? I mean, really listened? It is so inspiring and so perfect for an ice skating routine. I know exactly where to put the move where you go in a semi-circle with your skates turned out, and when to do a death drop. I don't think I'll do a sow cow. I just like to say it. Sow cow. Say it, it's fun! I need to learn the names of the rest of the moves.

My Whitney routine will end with a spin, maybe one of those ones where my knee is bent and then I stand up. At the last note of the song, my right arm will be straight up, and my left arm will be straight out to the left. I will be crying, because no one thought a 41 year old woman (I'll be 41 by then) who had never skated could start training and get so far in just 4 years. I'll show them!

Fast forward to 2010, Canada. For my Olympic debut, I will skate to the music of Prince in the short program (you did know that he composed wordless music, right? At first I thought his music would be too special, but I've changed my mind) and a medley of the opera "Carmen" in the long program. Carmen is well known, and the audience will get involved and get pumped.

And of course I need to think about the outfits. Easy! For Whitney, I'll wear white; demure, no feathers or anything, just classic, not too much skin showing. For Prince, purple, of course, with sequins and something flashier. For Carmen, red. I'll be on fire!

If there was an Olympic event called Daydreaming, I'd win the gold.

Laryngitis

I'm struggling with laryngitis, which happens to me about twice a year. It starts with post nasal drip, which runs down the back of my throat at night and then solidifies over the course of a couple of days. On day two I sound like Demi Moore, and everyone thinks I'm sexy. On day four I sound like Joan Rivers, and my ratings go way down. "Can we tawk??" I bark. One of the dads at my school said to me under his breath, "I know what that voice really is. It's your crack voice!" I told him, "You found me out! Preschool teacher by day, crackhead by night. Don't tell!" How wonderful to work at a parent cooperative school. We're so comfortable with each other.

In my Healthwise Handbook it says that in addition to following a virus, laryngitis can be caused by excessive talking. 'Nuff said. I turned down not one, but two opportunities for dancing last week so that I could rest my voice and kick this thing outta me. I also plugged in the humidifier.

This seemed to help, but my voice still isn't back to all the way normal. I have next week off. I'll try to keep quiet.

Karate

I'm taking a karate class. Had my third class tonight. I'm doing it in an effort to get in shape; swimming lasted for a few weeks but didn't stick, so a friend suggested this. Hey, I lived in Japan for a year. I know the culture, why not?

There are about 10 people in this beginner's class--me, almost 38 with as much flexibility as a ruler, a man about my age or younger who used to be a black belt but hasn't done it in a long time, a couple of 12 year old boys, a 9 year old girl, and the rest are boys ranging in age from 4 to about 7.

I take my karate very seriously, sometimes too seriously, as I often have an assistant telling me to relax and breathe. I can do it as long as the sensei is standing with his back to me so I can copy his movements. As soon as he faces us and asks us switch our movements using our opposite hands, I'm lost. He looks at me and says, "Other hand, other hand." I flail my arms like I'm shooing away an invisible fly.

The only problem with this class is that there's no time for questions or processing. I feel like we're just supposed to do the moves, and just when I've got one down and want to practice it the right way, we go onto another move. Blocking is the worst. Somebody's gonna get me because I won't be able to block them. "Excuse me, Mr. mugger, could you try to snatch my purse from the other side? I'll just get into my stance and block you from the left instead of the right."

Today we added kicking to the side, and I burst out laughing because it seemed ridiculous that sensei was expecting us to do that move. Not only can't I kick to the side, I can't even lift my leg higher than a foot off the floor. The kids and I persevered. It was great when an assistant came over with his hand positioned so I could kick it, and I actually did.

I really felt at home at the end of class in the dressing room, where I helped Daniel, 51/2, take off his uniform and get dressed back in his regular clothes. As a preschool teacher, helping small kids get dressed is something I excel in.

I would like to take private karate lessons so I could punch and kick someone effectively and then process with them afterwards, perhaps over a cup of green tea. Maybe that's the intermediate class. In the meantime, I say, "ganbarimasu"--I will try my best.