Inessential Oil

To “jennymoore it” means to attempt to fix or improve something but with shortcuts and missing steps, thereby making matters...worse. 

I have a history:  of trying to pry the security dye capsule off a pair of pants I LEGITIMATELY bought (but was too lazy to take back to the store)...of using Sharpies to cover bleach spots, and then needing another something that erases Sharpie marks...of supergluing stuff that requires spackle or caulk, or, caulking things that require spackle...or using whatever happens to be around to patch holes (homemade papier-mache, for example).  I've even jennymoored my hair.  Have you tried hair dye on your eyebrows--haphazardly? That's JENNYMOOREING IT to the next level.  

So tonight I jennymoored my sinuses.

I fall prey to a sinus infection every year or so.  And nothing makes me fantasize about strange remedies—like shower nozzles and vacuum cleaners focused up my nostrils—than a sinus infection.  My entire face/nose/head region has been driving me bonkers for a few weeks now and I KNOW!  I should see a doctor at this point!  But who has time for that because:  HOLIDAYS.  And anyway, I can totally handle this myself, DUH...which (spoiler alert) is the basis for all epic jennymooreisms.

Enter oregano oil!  A home remedy with only anecdotal evidence of efficacy.  But hey, desperate times.  I bought myself a vial while I was at the grocery store and was so excited to use it that despite nothing but the satisfaction that "oregano oil" and "sinuses" have Google searches in common, and no other preparation than to confirm that the oil in my vial was in fact diluted, I went ahead and hopefully droppered some right into each nostril.  Boldly, during Middle Sis's piano lesson, like someone with nothing to lose.

And then the fire began. An intense burning sensation spread quickly up my nose and into my eyes and throat.  My nose felt suddenly swollen by two sizes.  My heart started pounding.  I sneezed and both my nose and eyes watered profusely, so I wiped my nose on my sleeve and then used the SAME sleeve to dab at my eyes, thereby spreading the offending cousin-of-stinging-nettle oil to EVEN MORE MUCOUS MEMBRANES.  I tried to remain calm and quiet and NOT PANICKY! while marveling at how crazy my face and head were feeling and wondering if I would be scarred or disfigured from this self-inflicted horror.  A strange numbness then took over and my nostrils throbbed along with each beat of my heart. I silently wallowed in regret.  

When the piano lesson ended minutes later and our beloved piano teacher turned to talk to me, I was visibly weeping and ruefully attempted to explain my sinus remedy mishap.  She offered me a lifeline in the form of tissues and we wished her happy holidays. We walked to the car; I, smelling like pizza and hoping I could drive home, muttering recriminations about my impulsive purchase and how I would soon be offering oil up for free on the "buy nothing" Facebook group of which I'm a member.  I recalled that growing up, there was banter about substituting oregano for marijuana or mistaking one herb for the other.  Back in the day, you know.  When the prospect of ODing on oregano was a FUNNY JOKE.    

Meanwhile, the spectrum of sensations wrought by said oil did serve to momentarily distract me from sinus pain.  

So as I write this I predict that if I am cured of my maladies by tomorrow, I will dip into the oregano again, maybe in another year when my sinuses have me banging futilely on my temples and the memories of searing sinus flames have dimmed.  

Otherwise, free oregano oil to the next hapless victim!  Or, expect to be served some richly oregano-infused pasta sauces at my house.  To be eaten, not snorted.

Eulogy: Sandy Ferguson 1947-2019

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My 11^th grade daughter frequently reminds us that she loves every single one of her teachers this year.  It’s  wonderful to know your child is inspired, loved, and motivated by her teachers.  In turn, she has genuine interest in who they are as people and thinkers.  I, like her, felt that extraordinary connection with my teachers at Coronado High School, and the idea that I could be part of the kind of relationships these giants in my life inspired is why I am an educator today. 

Sandy Ferguson, or “Ferg,” or "Fergie," and yes, we once dedicated the song "Fergalicious" to him at a Homecoming dance late in his career, was my teacher in 9^th and 10^th grade history and then for half of my classes in 12^th grade (for history, ASB, and then, well, I signed up to be his TA too).  I spent half of my school days my senior year with this man who was kind of like my dad at school.   I admired his humor, his expressive eyebrows, his handwriting, his VW bus, the tee shirts whose life he stretched past viable structural integrity, and that he ran on the beach. In turn, I felt smart, funny, capable, challenged, talented, understood, and real around and because of him.

Sandy Ferguson met each person he encountered, adult and child, with humanity first—not with authority, not with superiority, despite his intellectual prowess and vast funds of knowledge. Instead, it was as if he set out to demonstrate that taking mutual respect for granted actually made it happen.  He treated us like adults but understood that it was in our adolescent nature to test boundaries. He figured we’d learn from navigating them in the context of safe and trusting relationships with adults. He gave us independence and freedom as both students and leaders of our peers, saying yes more often than no, but challenging us to figure out if we got it right. A master of mischief himself, he tolerated our incessant pranking (we turned his posters upside down, moved classroom furniture to his office or the hallway--capers made possible by his often late arrival to class).  

He was also the teacher who called my parents in spring of senior year when I’d been accepted to college and was blowing off notes and assignments (after giving me fair warning). His manner of intervention was inspiring you to reflect on your own behavior, as if your choices and their consequences were a discussion you needed most to have with yourself. He taught us about geographical features like drumlins and all the rivers of South America, and then pushed us to think critically about history and politics and brought back former students to talk passionately about what they were learning in college.

Because I came back to Coronado to teach, I had the privilege to be not only Sandy’s student, but his colleague, and then his administrator, both supporting and feeling daily gratitude for his devotion to CHS and district athletics and facilities.  You can imagine how poignant it was when, after Sandy retired and Alzheimer's was affecting his acuity, he would stop by CHS from time to time and implore me to put him to work in any capacity.  I need to be here, he’d plead, I need to work with you all. And we made plans for him to come back and help, but it would be weeks or months before he returned.  And perhaps he might have regretted that it seemed too late for him.   And though his illness robbed our brilliant friend of many productive years, what I’d really like to say to Ferg is, you achieved it all in the time you had with us, and you, my mentor, also achieved Ralph Waldo Emerson’s definition of success:  "To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."

Thank you, Sandy Ferguson. 

List: Little Loves

In honor of Valentine’s Day, I’m thinking of all the people and things I love as well as those which may never receive valentines, but nevertheless warrant my recognition and affection.

Here’s my Little I Love You list:

1.  Mittens and pacifiers and stuffed animals, etc. dropped out of strollers but picked up by someone and hung in a noticeable spot (fencepost, bench) in hopes that the owner will discover and recover that lost and loved item.
2.  Little kids sporting backpacks of disproportionate size to their growing bodies and featuring numerous dangling thingamajigs from zippers, etc.
3.  Plants that grow in seams and cracks of brick walls, freeways, bridges and other seemingly uninhabitable spots.
4. The transportation workers who are installing spikes on our bay bridge to prevent people from dying by suicide.  I hope they feel as important as they are in saving lives.
5. Yarn bombers and Banksy and Shepard Fairey and other folks who spread messages of goodwill or needed change through visual magestry.
6.  The kid in the class who, in moments of teacher exasperation, makes meaningful eye contact to convey, Yeah, I feel you. And every other form of similar kinship that happens subtly out there when two people share an empathic moment, even strangers in a crowd, traffic, subway car, etc.
7. People who feel little disappointments every day—not being picked for the team, not winning the classroom raffle, not getting the top score ever, not being asked or invited to the group thing, but who pick up and dust off and show up everyday cheerfully nonetheless.
8.  Hummingbirds and butterflies.
9.  Hilarious (and harmless) people on the internet.
10.  Elderly people with walkers or canes who walk their dogs daily, even in the rain.

Friends and Stuff

Ornaments of 2001

I began cleaning up Christmas with the plan to sort, weed out, and reorganize our decorations. I hoped to resent the Post-Holiday Fer of 2019 less than I did the 2018 Me when I opened our haphazardly and hastily packed boxes of decorations and ornaments this season.  I imagined myself testing for sparks of joy a la Marie Kondo to determine which tchotchkes to keep and which to discard.  I pictured fewer bins of decor in the garage.  I visualized a minimalist Christmas this December.

I enlisted Middle Sis, Tootsie, and her cousin to de-ornament the tree and my grand plans were quickly abandoned when one by one, the ornaments some of my oldest friends sent to me back in 2001 were plopped in my lap. 

In 2001 my then-fiance/now-husband and I bought our first house.  Amidst counting pennies from our change jar and trying to believe we'd "grow into" our mortgage (as our broker cheerfully reassured us we would), we packed boxes and piled them in the carport for ferrying across the bridge to our new (old) house and neighborhood.  The rental house we were leaving opened onto an alley, as do numerous rentals in the town in which we grew up.  Alleys in Coronado have their own characters, stories, and rules to live by.  Everyone knows that furniture and discards placed along the alley are up for grabs.  And nothing abandoned in an alley lasts long.

But my boxes of Christmas ornaments were stacked temporarily at the top of our carport driveway, nestled against our storage space attached to the house (in lieu of a garage).  Inside those boxes were the ornaments my parents had given me each year of my 30, often with a theme matching a family trip or significant event.  It's safe to say that those ornaments were probably the first, second, or third items I would grab in the event of fire, along with photo albums and some sentimental jewelry.

Needless to spell out, during the short time I and my fiance were away from the house, those boxes were taken.  All my ornaments.  I was crushed.

But because those were the only boxes left there, I figured whoever took them was likely disappointed or at least not interested in the contents and might return or discard them after recognizing their sentimental value.  It was 2001, so I placed an ad in the local paper with a passionate plea for their return, to no avail.  I lamented their loss to everyone I knew.

My parents, it turned out, had some duplicates of our annual ornaments which they gave me.  Family friends and students presented me with new ornaments. 

And then my high school friend group organized to send me ornaments from their current homes across the US.  The dolphin from my friend's annual holiday Hawaii trip is missing its tail, but the significance of not only the ornament, but those annual family trips which don't happen as frequently, sustains.

I learned in 2001 that beloved ornaments, like so many other material things, are just "stuff."  And while seemingly irreplaceable, if those ornaments my buddies sent me 18 years ago were to disappear tomorrow, I'd know that my friends, who remain true and present today, would come through. Instead of new ornaments, their enduring friendship is all I really need.

So sorry, Marie Kondo, this isn't the year for tossing ornaments.  And cheers to lifelong friends, true sparks of joy.