Gifted and Talented Programs in elementary schools started in the upheaval and experimentation of the 1970s, and were then known as G & T Clubs.  Teachers, weary of overseeing kids with scraggly hair, sunburns, lawn dart injuries, fractured skulls and jean-made pants would meet for gin and tonics in a special room (the teachers' lounge) after pulling the smart kids out of class and dropping them off at the library for independent reading. 

Then, during the 1980's a national commission cited G & T Clubs as an example of how the quality of American schools had eroded. A quick-thinking representative of the American Federation of Teachers stated that it was all a misunderstanding -- and that the G stood for Gifted and the T stood for Talented. "Shit happens," said the commission, as people were wont to say back then, and the matter was dropped. Legitimate Gifted and Talented Programs were then put into place.

But problems persist, especially with the name of the program, which as we now know, was hastily thrown together. Calling the kids gifted and talented is off-putting and harmful to the children who are more dumb. Also, the words Gifted and Talented are redundant, which is poor writing, and hence not at all representative of these kids who are supposed to be able to string a good sentence together.

Here are some thoughts on how schools could address this issue: 

1. Change the name to Gifted and Talented: Academics, and rename all the clubs and sports teams in the same way. For example, the softball team would become Gifted and Talented: Softball. This tactic has worked extremely well for the producers of NCIS. 

2. Drop the word Gifted, which makes one feel as though these anointed kids wake up and eat frankincense and myrrh for breakfast (for those of you who don't know about frankincense and myrrh, it's what the wise men brought for baby Jesus to eat in the manger).

3. Keep the word Talented but put it in perspective for school kids by calling the group Born Lucky and Talented (BLT). This aw-shucks approach is more palatable to outsiders and it gives a wink to the original program from the 70's, which was named after something that tastes real good.

I've got a cold that has blown through me like it's a hurricane and I'm the Wait For It trailer park, just south of town. People give names to hurricanes, so I'm calling my cold Gus, which is short for Gusto and also Disgusting. Normally, I wouldn't gripe about my condition because really, who cares about someone else's cold? But Gus has been anything but common.

It's Wednesday morning now, and though I'm feeling a little bit so ravaged, I'm clearly on the upswing. Wasn't it just Monday morning, just two days ago, when I felt that little ahem-tickle in my throat? "Wait, am I getting a cold?" I asked myself. And then it happened -- that "Sixth Sense" moment when I realized I was already dead.  

By Monday afternoon, my throat was a sexual, free-for-all fire-pit for the lusty virus reproducing in my cells. Knowing that this was a real sin, my immune system released hordes of mucus nuns to fight the evil virus by entrapping it, and then making everyone involved feel dirty.

My usual cold remedies: Airborne, Motrin, Tootsie Pops and Hot Toddies* were ineffectual, so that night I sent my husband on a guest room sleep-away from my germs. Then I lay awake in our bed with unearthly pressure in my head. At one low point, I wanted to wake him and cry about my misery. But that would have been ridiculous overkill, like the people who phoned 911 when they got lost in a corn maze.

Yesterday, Tuesday, was a blur. Did the Terminix Man come while I was watching Bob's Burgers? That may or may not have happened. All I know is that at about 7 pm, Bo came home with Werthers Original candy, Cepacol extra strength cough drops and Mucinex (both day and nighttime formulas). He had been asking around about cold remedies at work and put this combination together to surprise me. It worked and I slept through the night.

Right now I'm feeling good and I'm hoping that Gus stopped here. If not, I hope that no one can trace his awfulness back to me, as cold tracing is something that we're all wont to do. 

The Team

*Hot Toddy Recipe:
 Some Tea
 Some Agave Nectar
 Some Lemon Juice
 Some Goslings Dark Rum

Lisa Taylor is my beautiful, brilliant, saucy, snapdragon demigoddess friend who just turned flompty-three. Since demigoddesses are both divine and earthly beings, the best way to honor one on her birthday is to sculpt her likeness out of produce. Then, go ahead and invite some friends over to eat her in effigy. 

You don't have to be super artistic like I am to build vegetable models of your loved ones for their birthdays. If you do take a stab at it, I'd say hair is the most important feature to replicate because it’s such a defining physical aspect of a person. Since Lisa is a sable-maned enchantress, whole black olives were perfect for her hair (note: I used sliced olives around the edges of the bowl to depict the alluring looseness of her curls).

Another recommendation: Study a photo of your subject to match your veggie dip to her skin tone. Lisa's ancestors are Lebanese, so I went with Annie's Tahini Goddess Salad Dressing™ because it captures her tawny Mediterranean radiance.

If you find that your guests aren’t eating your artwork because they don't want to destroy it, remind them that vegetable platter art is always meant to be temporary, like sand castles and ice sculptures. If that doesn’t work, get huffy and say, “Okay, well I'm not bringing out the steak tips till that thing is gone.” Then stand back and watch your get together become a Donner Party.

At the Dentist (continued from last time):

"We're all done now," Keratin said. "And I have to tell you that in all the years I've been a dental hygienist, I've never had someone sleep through a cleaning."

I yawned. "hmmmmm, yeah, that's the ThunderShirt Effect© for you (I hugged myself under the leaded x-ray apron). "But more than that," I said, "you're simply great at what you do. My mouth is super clean and I've never felt better. And I apologize if I've been hard to deal with. Let me run something by you, Keratin. Let's say that you're babysitting me and I lock my infant sister in my dad's banjo case. Let's say we pull her out on the early side and she's fine. Then I say I'm really sorry and we all go on to have a great night. Are you the kind of babysitter who would tell on me when my parents get home?"

"I'm telling the doctor that I think your x-ray is showing a cavity," she said. "And, hey, speak of the devil!"

Without saying hi to me, he walked behind my chair, directly to the laptop that displayed my x-rayed teeth. "Show me the money!" I heard him say to Keratin. Or he may have said, "Let's see what we have here."

"Right here," she pointed, "between 18 and 19."

"Yes, I see. Well, young lady, you have a cavity," said Dr. Cakehole (not his real name), as he came around to chat.

He sat down beside me and said, "Why are you wearing the x-ray..."

"It's fine," said Keratin. Just explain to her what's going on with the cavity." 

He started, "When we age, hormones change, saliva dries up, and gums recede."

"Shut it, Cakehole," I said. "Keratin has already explained to me that only young people get cavities, so I pretty much have the mouth of a six year-old, so this is all very flattering."

I peeled off the apron, jumped out of the chair, grabbed a novelty ring from the display (diamond: my birthstone) and went to the front desk to make a follow-up appointment. Driving away, I passed the old folks home that I'd been looking at when my appointment started. "Lucky them," I thought. "Many with no teeth. Practically babies."

At the Dentist (continued from last time):

"Wait though!" said Keratin. "Before I start to clean your teeth, let's get that heavy old x-ray apron off of you. I forgot you were still draped with it. Why didn't you say something?"

"Because I like it," I said.

"Don't be silly," she said, and she stood up to remove it from my torso.

"Keratin," I said, with my right hand blocking her. "If no one else in this office needs the x-ray apron right now, I'd like to wear it, please, if it's all the same to you."

"But why?" she asked.

"Okay, you've made me extremely anxious with this maybe-cavity and the x-ray apron's heaviness is having a dramatically calming effect," I said. "It's the same thing with my sister's Wheaton Terrier, Harry Potter. He's very disturbed by severe weather. But when he wears his thundershirt, he's able to collect himself."

"His thundershirt?" she asked. "Did your sister make that for the dog?" 

"Well, Keratin, you really can't make a ThunderShirt™, because the hugging feature of the design is patented," I said. "Its constant but gentle pressure has a soothing effect on Harry Potter's nervous system. Experts think that endorphins may be at work here. Keratin, you're a health care professional. Are you following me?"

"Yes."

"Can I wear the x-ray apron?"

"Yes. But only if my colleague, Cuspid (not her real name) doesn't need to take x-rays while you're here. Now can we get on with the cleaning?"

I closed my eyes, did a snuggle-in movement with my shoulders, and opened my mouth.

At The Dentist (continued from last time):

"Your saliva is probably fine," said the hygienist, Keratin (not her real name). "In any case, it's up to the doctor to decide if what I see here on the x-ray is a cavity or not. So we'll just wait and see."

She disappeared behind my reclined chair. SNAP! (her first glove). SNAP! (again). "Anyway," she said, "I'm thinking of buying a small SUV, either the Honda CRV or the Nissan Xterra." SNAP! (she's three-handed?) "Do you know anything about these two vehicles?"

"Aren't you supposed to wait until my mouth is full of dental instruments before you start probing me with questions? When vowel sounds are all I'm physically capable of making and I'm utterly inconsonant? Isn't this humiliating technique just another one of your power tools?" I asked her all of this.

Keratin sat down beside me, her shiny, pointy things tray within easy reach. She slipped her mask up over her mouth and looked at me.

"How do I know you're not sticking your tongue out at me right now, Keratin?" I asked. "Also, are dental hygienists unionized? And if so, don't you think it's high time that your guild change its professional title, which is highly degrading to the people you serve? Because when you call yourselves hygienists, you implicitly suggest that we can't go it alone on something as basic as hygiene. How about Mouth Attendant? It's way less biased. Stewardesses made this move about twenty years ago and everybody loved it."

"You're stalling," she said.

At The Dentist

As I stretched out and looked over my blue paper bib, between my parted boots and out through the picture window at the old folks home in the distance, she said, "You may have a cavity."

I spun my head around at the dental hygienist, who was looking at my x-rays that, earlier, I had tried to wriggle out of by saying that I had eaten after midnight. "That doesn't matter," she said. "I kind of ate a lot," I said. "Nope," she said.

Presently, regarding my possible cavity, I said, "Okay listen, that's impossible. I don't eat Warheads™ or Fun Dip™. Plus, I didn't know that 54 year-old girls could get cavities."

"When we age," she said, "hormones change, saliva dries up, gums recede."

"What are you? A hygiene expert?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Well, I have scads of saliva!" I said, "which will make itself apparent when I spit into this giant-tiny sink of yours, on which I see a plastic cup that you have already filled with water, which I won't even need because I make so much saliva. So that's a waste."

"We'll see."

"I can make saliva on command," I continued. "And just so you know, the command is:  Wed-ding-cake."