Isn't it time for another one?
You need to have a little girl.
When is the next one coming?
He needs a brother or sister.
I just don't understand why other people think they know what I, my child, and my family need. I don't question your decision to have no kids, two, or ten, at least to your face, so please leave mine and my husband's choice in our hands. It is so nosey, so rude, and so annoying to hear this over
and over
and over again lately.
Not even my mom asks, nor my sisters, not to mention my closest friends.
Maybe we had trouble conceiving the first time, and our child is a miracle. Perhaps we have been told we can't have more children. It may be that we have received confirmation from above that we are a complete family. There is always the possibility of the snip-snip already being performed. Or we just want one kid.
Whatever the reason or reasons, how insensitive for those not in our shoes to ask.
Mind your own, please, and I will mind mine.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Fall in St. Johns
This scene in my backyard made me smile: a living, blooming flower amidst the snow.
Only in St. Johns can you get such different ends of the weather spectrum within days. I love it. It keeps me guessing and on my toes. Flip flops or my winter coat? Turn on the AC or build a fire? Lemonade or hot chocolate?
Like Forrest Gump said, "You never know what you're gonna get."
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Blah Blah Blah Blah Blog
Sigh.
I have nothing about which to blog. I'm not saying my life isn't full of experiences - the good, the bad, and the ugly. In fact, my existence offers moments upon moments of joy, sadness, anger, and amusement. I just don't see most of these times as blog-worthy. Perhaps I am just uninspired by my current goings-on.
Or - Oh, perish the thought! - am I just BLAH?
I mean, does anyone really care what I ate for lunch? I wolfed down, and I mean w.o.l.f.e.d. down, two of the best-ever wheat rolls, made by my bread-making friend who would win a yellow fair ribbon easily with these.
Does anyone care that the football teams for whom I fervently cheer are not doing all that well right now? I need more Tums to get through this season.
Does anyone care that I made up a great recipe for crab quesadillas last night? They were yummy.
Does anyone care that I am quite enjoying creating and delivering sugar cookies? The looks on the recipients' embarrassed faces entertain me to no end.
I am busy. I have a wonderful life. My days are full of love and laughter. I don't need to blog, or tweet tweet tweet, or put my face in a "book" to know that, nor to tell others that. Still, I eagerly await that time when something happens - something major, something that causes a pensive mood, something heart-wrenching or gut-busting - that time which will bring me out of this blah blah blah blah blog funk.
Until then...
I have nothing about which to blog. I'm not saying my life isn't full of experiences - the good, the bad, and the ugly. In fact, my existence offers moments upon moments of joy, sadness, anger, and amusement. I just don't see most of these times as blog-worthy. Perhaps I am just uninspired by my current goings-on.
Or - Oh, perish the thought! - am I just BLAH?
I mean, does anyone really care what I ate for lunch? I wolfed down, and I mean w.o.l.f.e.d. down, two of the best-ever wheat rolls, made by my bread-making friend who would win a yellow fair ribbon easily with these.
Does anyone care that the football teams for whom I fervently cheer are not doing all that well right now? I need more Tums to get through this season.
Does anyone care that I made up a great recipe for crab quesadillas last night? They were yummy.
Does anyone care that I am quite enjoying creating and delivering sugar cookies? The looks on the recipients' embarrassed faces entertain me to no end.
I am busy. I have a wonderful life. My days are full of love and laughter. I don't need to blog, or tweet tweet tweet, or put my face in a "book" to know that, nor to tell others that. Still, I eagerly await that time when something happens - something major, something that causes a pensive mood, something heart-wrenching or gut-busting - that time which will bring me out of this blah blah blah blah blog funk.
Until then...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
What Comes Around ...
I have to apologize to all the stay-at-home moms out there. I used to think you did nothing all day. I bought into the stereotype of bon-bon eating and soap-opera watching. I would think to myself, "She has the time to take a meal to so-and-so or bake bread or paint her nails. I work. I don't have the leisure time to do all that."
Oh, was I wrong. Very very wrong.
I have had a to-do list for over a year now. Some of it is accomplished; some is not. I am hoping not another whole year will pass with unchecked items. I now know how much time the kiddos take out of a day. I eagerly await naptime, when I can sit down and finish a task without interruption, when I can clean or do laundry or cook without chasing Mr. Busyman from another possible danger or disaster.
I am so extremely sorry for thinking you had all the time in the world. We don't. This is my karmic slap in the face. I get a lot of them lately.
The worst part of it all is that I judged my fellow women, my sistas out there who are doing the best they can. Aren't we all? We really can't win. We stay home with our kids, and there are those who think we are lazy bums that aren't contributing to our family's finances. We go to work, and there are those who wonder why we aren't home with our kids, nurturing and guiding them as we mothers should.
What is the answer? I really wish I knew, but I think it is different for everyone, and not one of us should question another's choice. I know this is the right choice for me, to have quit my job and stay home with this sweet boy of mine.
Even though I know this is what I am supposed to be doing, that doesn't make it easy. It is back-to-school time. I'm not going back. I have had a couple of the nightmares that always accompanied this time of year for me - students running awry, lessons unplanned, etc., but I am no longer a teacher.
I miss planning a new lesson.
I miss seeing a kid understanding a concept.
I miss being called Ms. Baca/Mrs. Hancock every day.
I miss my friends. A lot.
I miss decorating my classroom.
I miss the butterflies of a new year and the possibilities that await.
I miss complaining about the administration.
I miss Chinese food Thursdays.
I have read about the allergy to work that is going around, and I marvel how I am experiencing the opposite.
I guess the grass is always greener, right?
However much I miss teaching, though, I will keep my grass. My grass with some yellow spots, some weeds, but a whole bunch of green. My green grass of my husband, who would work five jobs to keep me at home with our little guy. My green grass of awaking each morning to exercise, not to hurry off to the middle school. My green grass of having a little extra time to make those cookies for my friends. And my pure green grass of seeing curiosity in my son's eyes, satisfaction when he figures out how to put those colored doughnuts on the yellow stand, and joy as he drags a book to me to read to him.
I suppose I am still a teacher, after all, but this time my lessons are for a class of one.
Oh, was I wrong. Very very wrong.
I have had a to-do list for over a year now. Some of it is accomplished; some is not. I am hoping not another whole year will pass with unchecked items. I now know how much time the kiddos take out of a day. I eagerly await naptime, when I can sit down and finish a task without interruption, when I can clean or do laundry or cook without chasing Mr. Busyman from another possible danger or disaster.
I am so extremely sorry for thinking you had all the time in the world. We don't. This is my karmic slap in the face. I get a lot of them lately.
The worst part of it all is that I judged my fellow women, my sistas out there who are doing the best they can. Aren't we all? We really can't win. We stay home with our kids, and there are those who think we are lazy bums that aren't contributing to our family's finances. We go to work, and there are those who wonder why we aren't home with our kids, nurturing and guiding them as we mothers should.
What is the answer? I really wish I knew, but I think it is different for everyone, and not one of us should question another's choice. I know this is the right choice for me, to have quit my job and stay home with this sweet boy of mine.
Even though I know this is what I am supposed to be doing, that doesn't make it easy. It is back-to-school time. I'm not going back. I have had a couple of the nightmares that always accompanied this time of year for me - students running awry, lessons unplanned, etc., but I am no longer a teacher.
I miss planning a new lesson.
I miss seeing a kid understanding a concept.
I miss being called Ms. Baca/Mrs. Hancock every day.
I miss my friends. A lot.
I miss decorating my classroom.
I miss the butterflies of a new year and the possibilities that await.
I miss complaining about the administration.
I miss Chinese food Thursdays.
I have read about the allergy to work that is going around, and I marvel how I am experiencing the opposite.
I guess the grass is always greener, right?
However much I miss teaching, though, I will keep my grass. My grass with some yellow spots, some weeds, but a whole bunch of green. My green grass of my husband, who would work five jobs to keep me at home with our little guy. My green grass of awaking each morning to exercise, not to hurry off to the middle school. My green grass of having a little extra time to make those cookies for my friends. And my pure green grass of seeing curiosity in my son's eyes, satisfaction when he figures out how to put those colored doughnuts on the yellow stand, and joy as he drags a book to me to read to him.
I suppose I am still a teacher, after all, but this time my lessons are for a class of one.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Cough cough sputter sputter
I hate smokers.
Okay. I should correct that. I hate rude smokers. You know, the ones who think that they have the right to MAKE me inhale the poison they CHOOSE to inhale. I would rather not have lung cancer, thank you. Plus, I have mild asthma, and smoke of any kind will bring on an attack or worsen my ability to breathe. Once I got older and grew a partial spine, I have coughed with much emotion, held my breath in an obvious manner, and occasionally said something loudly to whomever I am with, so that the offender would notice that I didn't approve of his/her puffing around me.
Now I have a child. Gloves off. Spine complete.
I have the Arizona anti-smoking reporting line programmed into my cell phone, and I am not afraid to use it. It is listed under NO SMOKING!. I laugh every time I scroll down and see it. I have already gone into two businesses and informed them that there were smokers outside their stores breaking the law. Businesses are required to take care of it, or they may be reported and eventually fined. Both times, the employees were clueless. I didn't care. I proceeded to tell them the laws of which they were ignorant. They looked at me like I am a crazy woman. Better crazy than chemo, I say. Better crazy than my sweet baby having to walk through a cloud of tobacco dust.
My latest experience with rudeness took place this past Saturday night. I was with my husband at a hotel in Phoenix, where we were celebrating his birthday with a weekend getaway (fun times!). We had a little pool all to ourselves for awhile, which gave me time to practice the only skill, the clam shell, I remember from my synchronized swimming lessons one summer in high school. I would do the clam shell, and he would give me a score from one to ten, like in gymnastics. My highest was a 9, my lowest a 2. Oh yes. Do we ever really grow up? I can't wait to earn a ten!Come to think of it, I only took ballet for one year, as well. I didn't really want to stick with these things, I guess. They taught me some great skills for entertaining, though, I tell you.
Back on track ... a woman and her two cute little boys joined us in the pool. We were all swimming, swimming, having a nice time. I smelled smoke, so I asked my eternal companion if he did. I didn't have my contacts in, so I had no idea from where it came. I asked loudly, by the way. He said, much more quietly, that he saw it. Once I knew it was the mom of the boys, who had exited the pool, we decided to adjourn to our room. As we walked out of the area, past the cancer-spreader, I plugged my nose and coughed. Only part of my backbone was working then, I suppose. Why didn't I say something? I kick myself.
I don't know the law for smoking at pools, so I didn't really have any firm ground on which to stand. I will learn it, however, mark my words, and next time, watch out!
Okay. I should correct that. I hate rude smokers. You know, the ones who think that they have the right to MAKE me inhale the poison they CHOOSE to inhale. I would rather not have lung cancer, thank you. Plus, I have mild asthma, and smoke of any kind will bring on an attack or worsen my ability to breathe. Once I got older and grew a partial spine, I have coughed with much emotion, held my breath in an obvious manner, and occasionally said something loudly to whomever I am with, so that the offender would notice that I didn't approve of his/her puffing around me.
Now I have a child. Gloves off. Spine complete.
I have the Arizona anti-smoking reporting line programmed into my cell phone, and I am not afraid to use it. It is listed under NO SMOKING!. I laugh every time I scroll down and see it. I have already gone into two businesses and informed them that there were smokers outside their stores breaking the law. Businesses are required to take care of it, or they may be reported and eventually fined. Both times, the employees were clueless. I didn't care. I proceeded to tell them the laws of which they were ignorant. They looked at me like I am a crazy woman. Better crazy than chemo, I say. Better crazy than my sweet baby having to walk through a cloud of tobacco dust.
My latest experience with rudeness took place this past Saturday night. I was with my husband at a hotel in Phoenix, where we were celebrating his birthday with a weekend getaway (fun times!). We had a little pool all to ourselves for awhile, which gave me time to practice the only skill, the clam shell, I remember from my synchronized swimming lessons one summer in high school. I would do the clam shell, and he would give me a score from one to ten, like in gymnastics. My highest was a 9, my lowest a 2. Oh yes. Do we ever really grow up? I can't wait to earn a ten!Come to think of it, I only took ballet for one year, as well. I didn't really want to stick with these things, I guess. They taught me some great skills for entertaining, though, I tell you.
Back on track ... a woman and her two cute little boys joined us in the pool. We were all swimming, swimming, having a nice time. I smelled smoke, so I asked my eternal companion if he did. I didn't have my contacts in, so I had no idea from where it came. I asked loudly, by the way. He said, much more quietly, that he saw it. Once I knew it was the mom of the boys, who had exited the pool, we decided to adjourn to our room. As we walked out of the area, past the cancer-spreader, I plugged my nose and coughed. Only part of my backbone was working then, I suppose. Why didn't I say something? I kick myself.
I don't know the law for smoking at pools, so I didn't really have any firm ground on which to stand. I will learn it, however, mark my words, and next time, watch out!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Baby Steps
My son took his first steps tonight (sniffle, smile, sniffle, smile), which put me in a contemplative mood.
He stumbled, leaned too far forward to keep his balance, tried to go too fast, and needed his dad and me to be there to catch him. He went back and forth, back and forth, his face a smile, our excitement contagious. We all clapped, we all laughed, we all cheered. I wish I could bottle those five minutes and drink it up every day.
Isn't this how we all are throughout life?
We try something new, a career, marriage, a baby!, a friendship, opening our hearts, forgiving someone, embracing who we are.
It is hard. We stumble, we try too hard, we go too fast, but we keep trying. If we don't, we never learn to walk on our own, with our own confidence, our own faith, our own destiny.
We need others to catch us and stand us back up. Without our cheering sections, our successes are mere footnotes rather than headlines.
May we all take the steps that allow us to grow, but more importantly, may we applaud each other's efforts, even calling for an encore.
He stumbled, leaned too far forward to keep his balance, tried to go too fast, and needed his dad and me to be there to catch him. He went back and forth, back and forth, his face a smile, our excitement contagious. We all clapped, we all laughed, we all cheered. I wish I could bottle those five minutes and drink it up every day.
Isn't this how we all are throughout life?
We try something new, a career, marriage, a baby!, a friendship, opening our hearts, forgiving someone, embracing who we are.
It is hard. We stumble, we try too hard, we go too fast, but we keep trying. If we don't, we never learn to walk on our own, with our own confidence, our own faith, our own destiny.
We need others to catch us and stand us back up. Without our cheering sections, our successes are mere footnotes rather than headlines.
May we all take the steps that allow us to grow, but more importantly, may we applaud each other's efforts, even calling for an encore.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Small Acts of Kindness
You know those times when you just need to hear something nice about yourself or have something good happen? It is amazing to me that when that pick-me-up is just what the doctor ordered,
my mom emails me,
my friend sends a text,
a ward member gives me a hug,
my husband says I love you,
a friend blogs something nice,
or my Heavenly Father sends a beautiful evening to sit on the porch swing with my family.
my mom emails me,
my friend sends a text,
a ward member gives me a hug,
my husband says I love you,
a friend blogs something nice,
or my Heavenly Father sends a beautiful evening to sit on the porch swing with my family.
What ever happened to customer service?
Whatever happened to the customer is always right? You would think that in this economy, businesses would be busting their butts to try to get people to spend their money at their place of commerce.
How may I help you? Thank you. I apologize for the inconvenience. I will be glad to do that. All phrases that have gone by the wayside.
What is the deal? I am irritated. If you choose to go into the business of customer service, you need to do your best to SERVE the CUSTOMER.
I was never a waitress because I wear my feelings on my face too well. If I don't like you, I can't pretend. It wouldn't make for good tips.
I have had several experiences in the past few months that lead me to this rant. Yes, I admit that this is a rant. Dish Network telling me I need a Smart Card to update my receiver, yet neglecting to get it sent for four months, while all the while messages annoyingly flashed on my screen telling me to insert the card. Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am; it was sent from Phoenix a month ago. What? By pony? We live four hours away!
A waitress literally ignoring me and my dining companions, bringing our appetizer almost with our meal, if our meal weren't delayed while all the other diners around us finished eating. Really? And I am supposed to tip you 20%?
A toy company passing the buck to another business who actually makes the toys, when my son's star stopped playing the classical music three weeks after we got it. No, we didn't drop it in water. Yes, we changed the batteries several times. Still no music. Well, let me refer you to... Um. No. Let me refer you to basic cs101. You tell me you are sorry for the toy not working properly and let me know how it will be corrected.
Verizon not working to upgrade a phone for months, even though they work on commission. Each place I went, each time I called, I got a different answer. I was willing to spend the money, if you would work out something for me. Loyal customers meant nothing.
A hotel room's thermostat breaking in the summer heat at midnight. We got moved then to another, cooler room, but they refused to let us leave our luggage in the other room. They weren't full - it was summer in Phoenix for goodness' sake. We were leaving the next day and would get our luggage in the morning. It was midnight! Sorry, but I won't be returning there.
The good news:
1. I finally got a Smart Card; I still don't know why it is so smart, either. My television watching hasn't changed.
2. The restaurant sent me a gift certificate after I sent an email about our experience there.
3. My son got a new music-playing star, which he loves.
4. I got a new phone after a kiosk employee worked a deal. He graduated from cs101.
5. My friend took the hotel night manager, chewed him out, and ate him for a midnight snack. That was worth the inconvenience to hear her on the phone with him. Memories. . .
How may I help you? Thank you. I apologize for the inconvenience. I will be glad to do that. All phrases that have gone by the wayside.
What is the deal? I am irritated. If you choose to go into the business of customer service, you need to do your best to SERVE the CUSTOMER.
I was never a waitress because I wear my feelings on my face too well. If I don't like you, I can't pretend. It wouldn't make for good tips.
I have had several experiences in the past few months that lead me to this rant. Yes, I admit that this is a rant. Dish Network telling me I need a Smart Card to update my receiver, yet neglecting to get it sent for four months, while all the while messages annoyingly flashed on my screen telling me to insert the card. Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am; it was sent from Phoenix a month ago. What? By pony? We live four hours away!
A waitress literally ignoring me and my dining companions, bringing our appetizer almost with our meal, if our meal weren't delayed while all the other diners around us finished eating. Really? And I am supposed to tip you 20%?
A toy company passing the buck to another business who actually makes the toys, when my son's star stopped playing the classical music three weeks after we got it. No, we didn't drop it in water. Yes, we changed the batteries several times. Still no music. Well, let me refer you to... Um. No. Let me refer you to basic cs101. You tell me you are sorry for the toy not working properly and let me know how it will be corrected.
Verizon not working to upgrade a phone for months, even though they work on commission. Each place I went, each time I called, I got a different answer. I was willing to spend the money, if you would work out something for me. Loyal customers meant nothing.
A hotel room's thermostat breaking in the summer heat at midnight. We got moved then to another, cooler room, but they refused to let us leave our luggage in the other room. They weren't full - it was summer in Phoenix for goodness' sake. We were leaving the next day and would get our luggage in the morning. It was midnight! Sorry, but I won't be returning there.
The good news:
1. I finally got a Smart Card; I still don't know why it is so smart, either. My television watching hasn't changed.
2. The restaurant sent me a gift certificate after I sent an email about our experience there.
3. My son got a new music-playing star, which he loves.
4. I got a new phone after a kiosk employee worked a deal. He graduated from cs101.
5. My friend took the hotel night manager, chewed him out, and ate him for a midnight snack. That was worth the inconvenience to hear her on the phone with him. Memories. . .
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Calling All Contestants!
I was watching Miss USA a little on Sunday night. I enjoy viewing these pageants for a few reasons: 1) I like to make fun of the: too-much make-up faces, fake boobs, stupid answers, baton-twirling talent portion, etc., 2) I want to see if they mess up, and 3) I like to cheer for the brunettes and short-haired girls (sorry, blondes, if there are any real ones out there).
In light of the fact that I'll never win that crown, nor would I ever have had the chance, what with my freckles, 5'3" height, and never-braced teeth, I am proposing a real-women pageant.
Preliminary Competition: The contestants are chosen to represent their states via the following point system: five points for each stretch mark, ten points for each size worn above size zero, and twenty points for each original body part (i.e. chest, hair color, eye color, teeth). The more points, the better.
RWP (Real Woman Pageant) Round One: Swimsuit competition: Each contestant will be given ten swimsuits in her size. She will proceed to try them all on, in a dressing room sans camera but equipped with a hanging microphone, and choose the one that she feels accentuates her positives, such as making her eyes look greener in hopes that the thighs look smaller. Points will be awarded for the most entertaining commentary while putting on the swimsuits and for the cutest flip flops (no high heels here with our swimwear!).
RWP Round Two: After being narrowed down to the top ten contestants, the women will don their evening down wear, as opposed to their evening gown wear. Sweat suits and pajamas will be showcased as each woman makes her way to the freezer to choose a pint of ice cream. The five women who finish their pints first will advance to the final round.
RWP Round Three: The question and answer segment will be hosted by three to eighteen year olds, who will proceed to interrogate the contestants on such things as why various things occur, why the kids can't do something, and how the family pet disappeared. After the intense interrogation, the winner will be crowned based upon who kept her cool the best and did not strike one of the children.
The crown will be made of macaroni glued together with Elmer's and decorated with sprinkles.
Donald Trump? Want to sponsor this?
In light of the fact that I'll never win that crown, nor would I ever have had the chance, what with my freckles, 5'3" height, and never-braced teeth, I am proposing a real-women pageant.
Preliminary Competition: The contestants are chosen to represent their states via the following point system: five points for each stretch mark, ten points for each size worn above size zero, and twenty points for each original body part (i.e. chest, hair color, eye color, teeth). The more points, the better.
RWP (Real Woman Pageant) Round One: Swimsuit competition: Each contestant will be given ten swimsuits in her size. She will proceed to try them all on, in a dressing room sans camera but equipped with a hanging microphone, and choose the one that she feels accentuates her positives, such as making her eyes look greener in hopes that the thighs look smaller. Points will be awarded for the most entertaining commentary while putting on the swimsuits and for the cutest flip flops (no high heels here with our swimwear!).
RWP Round Two: After being narrowed down to the top ten contestants, the women will don their evening down wear, as opposed to their evening gown wear. Sweat suits and pajamas will be showcased as each woman makes her way to the freezer to choose a pint of ice cream. The five women who finish their pints first will advance to the final round.
RWP Round Three: The question and answer segment will be hosted by three to eighteen year olds, who will proceed to interrogate the contestants on such things as why various things occur, why the kids can't do something, and how the family pet disappeared. After the intense interrogation, the winner will be crowned based upon who kept her cool the best and did not strike one of the children.
The crown will be made of macaroni glued together with Elmer's and decorated with sprinkles.
Donald Trump? Want to sponsor this?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
My dear friend's daughter turned 18 yesterday. Eighteen! Where has time gone? She is a beautiful girl in every way. I admire her and have learned much from her. I am blessed to know this amazing young lady. Yesterday was a day to celebrate her and her 18 years, but it also was a day to reflect on the passing of the days,
the months,
the years.
I am always aiming to improve myself, to become better and more knowledgeable, more kind and compassionate, less selfish and stubborn. Time is my friend in this, and it is my enemy. One day I will awake and be saddened by mistakes I have made, ones that may too late to correct. I will not, however, regret the time I am spending as a mom.
Thanks for the day to realize this, you sweet girl of 18, and your sweetest mother of not-much-older. :)
I am going to leave his hand-prints on the windows a little longer, and play peek-a-boo with him instead. Those messy marks of one who will be grown in a blink will remind me of what I am doing here.
the months,
the years.
I am always aiming to improve myself, to become better and more knowledgeable, more kind and compassionate, less selfish and stubborn. Time is my friend in this, and it is my enemy. One day I will awake and be saddened by mistakes I have made, ones that may too late to correct. I will not, however, regret the time I am spending as a mom.
Thanks for the day to realize this, you sweet girl of 18, and your sweetest mother of not-much-older. :)
I am going to leave his hand-prints on the windows a little longer, and play peek-a-boo with him instead. Those messy marks of one who will be grown in a blink will remind me of what I am doing here.
NerdFest
Every year, I volunteer my time to score essays at the state Academic Decathlon competition. Having participated on the team many moons ago, I enjoy spending a few hours helping, so that the students may compete. When we had an Acadec reunion a few years ago, my then-fiance husband remarked that I was going to the nerd fest. I rebuked him, then, and corrected him to the term geek, per the definitions of both labels. Although I pretended to be offended (how dare you!), I fondly declare myself both a geek and a nerd and am honored to be among these types.
Anyway, the geek/nerd thing was only reinforced when I showed up to score these essays. What are twenty-six adults doing on a Friday night reading the words of high school students? For free? Well, we did get "dinner," which was more of a boxed lunch. The chocolate chip cookie was perfect, soft and chewy, but the rest of the meal left much to be desired. I must say, we are not the coolest cats out there. I even travelled four hours, one way, to participate.
At my table, six of us sat. My good friend, who read forty essays that night, sat to my right. She won the contest. The very fact that we had a contest attests to our nerdiness. We also kept track of how many wrote on each of the three prompts and then figured out the percentages. We snickered at some students' witticisms and groaned at others' misspellings. We laughed aloud when one decathlete decided to use asides in his/her essay, shared the invented words of another, and we prayed that the essay in our hands would be one with subject matter from the less-chosen prompts. When it did happen, we rejoiced with each other, exclaiming, "I got a prompt two!" Wow. Geeks.
One man at our table had the answers for everything, from why a student scored the way he did to how the essays should be handled. He was the nerdiest of us all, I believe. A computer programmer and know-it-all, I did enjoy battling with him when I could, and when I had the energy.
The man in charge was a control freak, with three colored folders on each table to "help" us stay organized: purple for never-read, red for once-read, and green for finished. Thanks so much. It is so hard to figure out. The shades of organization truly made everything progress so much more smoothly. When "dinner" time arrived, Nazi essay guy shouted, "Stop right where you are! It is time to get your food." I abruptly sat upright, slammed my pencil down, and reverted back to my Scantron-testing days.
Wandering to find our nourishment, we encountered the younger nerds, looking dapper in their suits and dresses, competing on this night, what they have been preparing for all this year. They impress me every time, these scholars who study and learn and deliver an oft-practiced speech. They are the reason I continue to do this.
Well, that, and I am a nerd.
Anyway, the geek/nerd thing was only reinforced when I showed up to score these essays. What are twenty-six adults doing on a Friday night reading the words of high school students? For free? Well, we did get "dinner," which was more of a boxed lunch. The chocolate chip cookie was perfect, soft and chewy, but the rest of the meal left much to be desired. I must say, we are not the coolest cats out there. I even travelled four hours, one way, to participate.
At my table, six of us sat. My good friend, who read forty essays that night, sat to my right. She won the contest. The very fact that we had a contest attests to our nerdiness. We also kept track of how many wrote on each of the three prompts and then figured out the percentages. We snickered at some students' witticisms and groaned at others' misspellings. We laughed aloud when one decathlete decided to use asides in his/her essay, shared the invented words of another, and we prayed that the essay in our hands would be one with subject matter from the less-chosen prompts. When it did happen, we rejoiced with each other, exclaiming, "I got a prompt two!" Wow. Geeks.
One man at our table had the answers for everything, from why a student scored the way he did to how the essays should be handled. He was the nerdiest of us all, I believe. A computer programmer and know-it-all, I did enjoy battling with him when I could, and when I had the energy.
The man in charge was a control freak, with three colored folders on each table to "help" us stay organized: purple for never-read, red for once-read, and green for finished. Thanks so much. It is so hard to figure out. The shades of organization truly made everything progress so much more smoothly. When "dinner" time arrived, Nazi essay guy shouted, "Stop right where you are! It is time to get your food." I abruptly sat upright, slammed my pencil down, and reverted back to my Scantron-testing days.
Wandering to find our nourishment, we encountered the younger nerds, looking dapper in their suits and dresses, competing on this night, what they have been preparing for all this year. They impress me every time, these scholars who study and learn and deliver an oft-practiced speech. They are the reason I continue to do this.
Well, that, and I am a nerd.
Friday, February 27, 2009
I love Mayberry!
Headlights shined on the gigantic-redskin-head bus as it embarked over Grover's Hill, the end of its journey from the arena in Glendale. Some people emerged from the vehicles to take pictures, cheer, and wave to the passengers on the bus. Others remained in their cars and honked horns as the carrier of champions passed. The fire engine and a police vehicle escorted the bus down from the hill and into town, and all followed. The spontaneous parade continued down the main street, past the post office, the bank, Corky's, the old high school, around the Fina gas station, and back up to the high school. When the bus came to a stop, the fans formed a half-circle near the door and joined in a cheer led by one. "Where you from? St. Johns High! Who's your mascot? Redskins!" The voices filled the space of the cold winter night. The basketball team got off the bus, one by one, to cheers, hugs, and accolades. The fight song was sung. Smiles and tears, surprised faces and grateful embraces, hard-working girls and admiring spectators - these were the sights of this night. One by one the participants returned to their vehicles and their homes, a few minutes of their night gone, but a memory made forever.
Tell-tale Signs My Body is Getting Older
1. When I ate a Costco Polish sausage last week for lunch, I burped it the rest of the day. It did not taste good coming back up in vaporous form.
2. I can no longer drink a Dr. Pepper after three o'clock in the afternoon, or I will not sleep at night.
3. My shoulder hurts. My back hurts. My knee hurts. My neck hurts. . .
4. I need to have bunion surgery. Well, maybe not yet. I just looked it up online, with before and after photos, and those feet are way more misshapen than mine.
5. When I eat fast food, I regret it for the next twenty-four hours that I spend in discomfort. The bathroom must be close.
6. Staying up all night means going to bed at ten.
7. I am going to have to start eating All-Bran for breakfast.
8. Metabolism? What is that? I lost that on my twenty-fifth birthday.
9. I want to use one of those motorized carts when I go to Wal-Mart (just so I can run people down).
10. I order cottage cheese instead of fries as a side.
11. I am saving for plastic surgery.
2. I can no longer drink a Dr. Pepper after three o'clock in the afternoon, or I will not sleep at night.
3. My shoulder hurts. My back hurts. My knee hurts. My neck hurts. . .
4. I need to have bunion surgery. Well, maybe not yet. I just looked it up online, with before and after photos, and those feet are way more misshapen than mine.
5. When I eat fast food, I regret it for the next twenty-four hours that I spend in discomfort. The bathroom must be close.
6. Staying up all night means going to bed at ten.
7. I am going to have to start eating All-Bran for breakfast.
8. Metabolism? What is that? I lost that on my twenty-fifth birthday.
9. I want to use one of those motorized carts when I go to Wal-Mart (just so I can run people down).
10. I order cottage cheese instead of fries as a side.
11. I am saving for plastic surgery.
12. El Camino beans are not a good idea.
13. Ditto for uncooked broccoli.
14. Sit and Be Fit is looking like a great exercise program to follow.
15. Bedtime Activities: Sex=10% chance, Sleep=90% chance
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Ignorant Sports' Fans
I am sick of going to sporting events and hearing the fans yell at the officials. I believe people go to these competitive games and matches to cheer their teams to victory. Perhaps I am incorrect in this thinking. Maybe the real reason they go is to vent their every anger at the injustices in the world. Poverty abounds, our economy is in a near-depression, murderers and rapists commit the unimaginable daily . . . but "Call it both ways, ref!" is what some choose to use their voices to say to confront the atrocities that face us. Their loud, loud, loud voices.
I am all for disagreeing, just ask anyone who knows me, but I am not for disagreeing in ignorance, or worse, stupidity. I follow local high school and middle school sports, so I am at many games and matches. It is sickening, although somewhat amusing, to hear what people have to say.
"Holding! Holding! There was holding!" Really? On a football play? Duh! If you know football at all, there is holding on every play. EVERY PLAY! Do you really want the officials to call it all the time? C'mon now. They should, and usually will, call it only when the holding directly would impact the play.
"Foul! Three seconds! Over the back! Traveling!" and my favorite, "The foul count is off!" So, what you're telling me is this: The officials are supposed to be sitting there keeping a tally of fouls on a Post-it note to ensure that it's all even-steven? While your kid on the other end gets elbowed and begins to bleed, you want the ref. to make sure it's four to four on the fouls? Okay, idiot. By the way, there is no over the back call. Read a rule book, please.
The worst is when a fan picks and picks and picks at the officials, disagreeing with every call against his/her team and then decides to cheer for those in stripes once a call is anti-opponent. It is remarkable how quickly the refs. became good! Weren't they blind and biased just thirty seconds ago? Laser surgery and an attitude adjustment in under a minute, guaranteed!
Can you imagine if all the effort that went into screaming at the officials was transferred to cheering on the team instead, what would happen? Wow! I get goose bumps just thinking of it.
The incessant wailing at officials is getting so bad that one fan wore ear plugs to the last game. Many of us moved from our original seats to watch the game more peacefully, and - oh, the insanity!- cheer for our team.
I am not saying the officials are always right, or even 90 percent correct. I am married to one, so I know. They are human, and they will miss calls. Most of them will admit to this if you ask them. They are not, for the most part, there to hurt either team. If we didn't have them there, the contests would not be able to take place. I also know that a) your yelling will not change a call b) your yelling will not make the official start changing his/her calls and c) your yelling at an official will not help your team win.
For the sakes of all of us who are actually there to rally our teams to victory and don't want to wear ear plugs, please find some other way to release your pent-up emotions.
I am all for disagreeing, just ask anyone who knows me, but I am not for disagreeing in ignorance, or worse, stupidity. I follow local high school and middle school sports, so I am at many games and matches. It is sickening, although somewhat amusing, to hear what people have to say.
"Holding! Holding! There was holding!" Really? On a football play? Duh! If you know football at all, there is holding on every play. EVERY PLAY! Do you really want the officials to call it all the time? C'mon now. They should, and usually will, call it only when the holding directly would impact the play.
"Foul! Three seconds! Over the back! Traveling!" and my favorite, "The foul count is off!" So, what you're telling me is this: The officials are supposed to be sitting there keeping a tally of fouls on a Post-it note to ensure that it's all even-steven? While your kid on the other end gets elbowed and begins to bleed, you want the ref. to make sure it's four to four on the fouls? Okay, idiot. By the way, there is no over the back call. Read a rule book, please.
The worst is when a fan picks and picks and picks at the officials, disagreeing with every call against his/her team and then decides to cheer for those in stripes once a call is anti-opponent. It is remarkable how quickly the refs. became good! Weren't they blind and biased just thirty seconds ago? Laser surgery and an attitude adjustment in under a minute, guaranteed!
Can you imagine if all the effort that went into screaming at the officials was transferred to cheering on the team instead, what would happen? Wow! I get goose bumps just thinking of it.
The incessant wailing at officials is getting so bad that one fan wore ear plugs to the last game. Many of us moved from our original seats to watch the game more peacefully, and - oh, the insanity!- cheer for our team.
I am not saying the officials are always right, or even 90 percent correct. I am married to one, so I know. They are human, and they will miss calls. Most of them will admit to this if you ask them. They are not, for the most part, there to hurt either team. If we didn't have them there, the contests would not be able to take place. I also know that a) your yelling will not change a call b) your yelling will not make the official start changing his/her calls and c) your yelling at an official will not help your team win.
For the sakes of all of us who are actually there to rally our teams to victory and don't want to wear ear plugs, please find some other way to release your pent-up emotions.
It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.
Today is a bittersweet day for me. I have been on a leave of absence from teaching this school year, and today I made that permanent. For 31 years of my life, since I was five, I went to school in August, as a student and as an educator. For fourteen years I taught seventh through ninth grade students, and for seven months I have been a mom. The latter role won out for this chapter of my life.
There is a Sarah McLachlan song, whose title escapes me now, that keeps going through my head: "I have the sense to recognize that I don't know how to let you go. I don't know how to let you go." Even though the song seems to be about losing someone you love, I identify with it in a different manner, as I lose a me that I used to be. I'm not saying I am such a completely different person, that motherhood has reduced me merely to a cookie-baking, Yukon-driving, nursing-at-a-wrestling-tournament woman (although those are all a part of me now). I am still (mostly) the same person I have been. For example, I continue to love shoes, reading, cooking, my friends, my family, and being passionate (that is my husband's nice way of saying I am a hot-head). I have changed, however. I am a more complete person. I can relate more fully to the heartaches of parents and their joy in their children as well. I have smiled more in seven months than I have in ten years. It is a wonderful thing.
It is strange, too.
In two and a half short years, I have gone from one who was single, teaching, making and spending my own money, doing what I pleased, and caring mostly about myself, to one who is married, staying at home, carefully watching the one-income finances, doing what pleases my son and husband, and caring more about two other human beings more than myself. Heck, since May, I left my job for the leave of absence (I had to vacate the classroom I'd occupied and filled for four years), moved into a new home, and had a baby. It has been an adventure, to say the least.
I wouldn't trade it for anything. I really and truly wouldn't.
That doesn't make it any easier to say goodbye to this person I was. I loved her. Yet, this chapter is over, I will keep turning the pages, and what is yet to be written will one day be the ending of another era. I only hope I love this new me even more than the one to whom I bid farewell today.
I sing the Body Electric. I celebrate the me yet to come. I toast to my own reunion, when I become one with the sun. And I'll look back on Venus, I'll look back on Mars, and I'll burn with the fire of ten million stars. And in time, and in time, we will all be stars.
There is a Sarah McLachlan song, whose title escapes me now, that keeps going through my head: "I have the sense to recognize that I don't know how to let you go. I don't know how to let you go." Even though the song seems to be about losing someone you love, I identify with it in a different manner, as I lose a me that I used to be. I'm not saying I am such a completely different person, that motherhood has reduced me merely to a cookie-baking, Yukon-driving, nursing-at-a-wrestling-tournament woman (although those are all a part of me now). I am still (mostly) the same person I have been. For example, I continue to love shoes, reading, cooking, my friends, my family, and being passionate (that is my husband's nice way of saying I am a hot-head). I have changed, however. I am a more complete person. I can relate more fully to the heartaches of parents and their joy in their children as well. I have smiled more in seven months than I have in ten years. It is a wonderful thing.
It is strange, too.
In two and a half short years, I have gone from one who was single, teaching, making and spending my own money, doing what I pleased, and caring mostly about myself, to one who is married, staying at home, carefully watching the one-income finances, doing what pleases my son and husband, and caring more about two other human beings more than myself. Heck, since May, I left my job for the leave of absence (I had to vacate the classroom I'd occupied and filled for four years), moved into a new home, and had a baby. It has been an adventure, to say the least.
I wouldn't trade it for anything. I really and truly wouldn't.
That doesn't make it any easier to say goodbye to this person I was. I loved her. Yet, this chapter is over, I will keep turning the pages, and what is yet to be written will one day be the ending of another era. I only hope I love this new me even more than the one to whom I bid farewell today.
I sing the Body Electric. I celebrate the me yet to come. I toast to my own reunion, when I become one with the sun. And I'll look back on Venus, I'll look back on Mars, and I'll burn with the fire of ten million stars. And in time, and in time, we will all be stars.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Fashion Faux Pas
I was at Basha's last week, loading up on a great deal on baby food for the ever-starving boy, when a woman tried to maneuver around my cart. I said nicely, "Oh, excuse me," and moved out of her path. A moment later, I moved again, not knowing she had stopped, and I accidentally hit the back of her ankle with my cart. I apologized. She slightly whimpered, sneered at me, and limped away. I didn't hit her that hard. Really, lady. As she walked away, I noticed why she pulled a drama-queen attitude and acted like I purposely ran my cart into her Achilles' tendon to ruin her Thank-you card shopping experience: she was wearing fur-lined, mid-calf, bobble-laden boots. In my experience, women who wear these feel entitled to go wherever they choose to go and do whatever they choose to do, especially in a far-below-them grocery store with an I-scoured-the-Wampum-saver-sale-shopping mom. I don't get these boots. On little or teenage girls, they are fine. They work for them, well most of them. On grown women? Nope. Sorry, ladies. They may keep your feet warm, but they are u.g.l.y. on us. That got me to thinking about age-appropriate fashion.
An audible alarm should sound when women try to enter a store with clothing that is just not for them. A silent alarm DOES sound when the salespeople in Forever 21 approach us and ask if we are shopping for our daughter, or when they simply give us the look. You know the one. Um, does she think she can fit her birthed-a-kid butt into OUR skinny jeans? Whisper whisper. Just go across the mall to Sears, where your kind are welcome and loved. I know. I've been there. It is a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. I bought some socks and left, looking for the nearest Cinnabon to drown my sorrow at being too old for some things.
It's not so bad to be older, though. I'm learning to accept and even enjoy it. I don't have to follow fashion trends. Instead, I have a license to avoid them. Things like too-tight jeans, tee-shirts with cute sayings or cartoon characters, short skirts, hooker boots, tube tops, bikinis, and anything that shows too much. Leave something to the imagination, please. Don't get me wrong - just because I'm in my late thirties, I'm not turning to muumuus and velvet jogging suits, but I am steering clear of the styles worn by those twenty, or even ten, years my junior. I had my day of being "in"; now, it is their turn. Okay, stop laughing, I know I never was really "in." After all, I grew up in the high-hair, legwarmer eighties and lived in SJ. Yellow Front and the JC Penney catalog made up our shopping mecca. Nevertheless, I am 36, and I know I should try to dress my age. Then, maybe I don't have to act it all the time. That's my rationale, and I'm sticking to it.
Furthermore, we should try to dress as our bodies dictate. I know I am short and also short-torsoed. Therefore, I don't tuck in with my belt showing. It makes me look like I've been chopped in half. Come to think of it, most women aren't flattered by this look. Some are, and they are making millions walking catwalks, posing for photo shoots, and eating celery for their three meals a day. Because we real women eat ice cream (yum!) and greasy French fries, when we tuck and belt, we roll - as in showing our rolls. Again, I know. I look in the mirror.
I'm no fashionista, trust me. I have a closet full of style-questionable items that I still hold on to and wear. Plus, I am sitting on my couch in my pajamas at five typing this post. I just think we should do our best to be proud of our ages and our bodies, thus wearing what will make us project that image: Strong, older, sexy women, who don't have to dress like they're sixteen to show it.
Just my opinion.
An audible alarm should sound when women try to enter a store with clothing that is just not for them. A silent alarm DOES sound when the salespeople in Forever 21 approach us and ask if we are shopping for our daughter, or when they simply give us the look. You know the one. Um, does she think she can fit her birthed-a-kid butt into OUR skinny jeans? Whisper whisper. Just go across the mall to Sears, where your kind are welcome and loved. I know. I've been there. It is a bitter, bitter pill to swallow. I bought some socks and left, looking for the nearest Cinnabon to drown my sorrow at being too old for some things.
It's not so bad to be older, though. I'm learning to accept and even enjoy it. I don't have to follow fashion trends. Instead, I have a license to avoid them. Things like too-tight jeans, tee-shirts with cute sayings or cartoon characters, short skirts, hooker boots, tube tops, bikinis, and anything that shows too much. Leave something to the imagination, please. Don't get me wrong - just because I'm in my late thirties, I'm not turning to muumuus and velvet jogging suits, but I am steering clear of the styles worn by those twenty, or even ten, years my junior. I had my day of being "in"; now, it is their turn. Okay, stop laughing, I know I never was really "in." After all, I grew up in the high-hair, legwarmer eighties and lived in SJ. Yellow Front and the JC Penney catalog made up our shopping mecca. Nevertheless, I am 36, and I know I should try to dress my age. Then, maybe I don't have to act it all the time. That's my rationale, and I'm sticking to it.
Furthermore, we should try to dress as our bodies dictate. I know I am short and also short-torsoed. Therefore, I don't tuck in with my belt showing. It makes me look like I've been chopped in half. Come to think of it, most women aren't flattered by this look. Some are, and they are making millions walking catwalks, posing for photo shoots, and eating celery for their three meals a day. Because we real women eat ice cream (yum!) and greasy French fries, when we tuck and belt, we roll - as in showing our rolls. Again, I know. I look in the mirror.
I'm no fashionista, trust me. I have a closet full of style-questionable items that I still hold on to and wear. Plus, I am sitting on my couch in my pajamas at five typing this post. I just think we should do our best to be proud of our ages and our bodies, thus wearing what will make us project that image: Strong, older, sexy women, who don't have to dress like they're sixteen to show it.
Just my opinion.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Seventh Grade
If only I could go back to those days with what I know now, with the confidence and filter-less mouth I have grown in 24 years. Oh, heavenly days!
I would call the eighth-grade bully's bluff and meet her after school. (She threatened one of us Every. Single. Day). I would not slam the door and yell at my mom, but open it and tell her I love her. I would learn to do a lay-up before basketball tryouts, so I didn't get cut from that sport, too. Or maybe not. That led to cheerleader Suzanne. :) Go team!
But I really wouldn't go back. (or would I?)
To explain more about my beloved "Twitch" friend, whom I mentioned in the last post, and who told me that my brief mention didn't paint her in the best light, I travel back to seventh grade, dusting off cobwebs to get there. . .
We had just moved to SJ a month earlier, and now it was the first day of school. I was, of course, ultra self-conscious, but that didn't stop me from picking the only purple-chaired desk (it was totally my fav. color!) in the VERY front row of the classroom, so that my new teacher would see his best student up close right away. The bell hadn't yet rung to begin the day, so students milled around and chatted in their cliques. I sat, staring straight ahead, butterflies bumping violently against each other in my stomach. I just wanted school to start, for I knew how to feel comfortable completing mindless worksheets and reading. A boy behind me loudly asked, to everyone within a mile of his voice, "Hey, is that new kid a boy or a girl?" Um, that would be not-even-close-to-developing me (I didn't acquire the ladies until college!), with my boy-short haircut, to whom he was referring. I gulped, fighting back tears. Another voice, female this time, retorted, just as loudly, "She has earrings on, stupid." I turned towards my rescuer, timidly but oh so grateful, who smiled and beckoned, "Come back here with us." I got up from my seat, walked to where she stood with her cool friends, and eagerly joined them.
Fast foward a few months. . .
Changing classes from homeroom to social studies, we discovered a new seating arrangement, with desks placed in groups of four. Because this teacher had no clue, he let us pick our seats. My rescuer and I both wanted to sit by the same girl (she's my BFF, no she's my BFF, are you my BFF? You know - so seventh grade). She sat by her, I called her the word that rhymes with ditch, the tenured teacher was still outside his door, unaware of any happenings in his classroom, and the encouraging words began. Fight! Fight! She slapped me (for which I don't fault her- I had called her that, after all); I slapped her back. The crowd began to gather round. She pushed me. I pushed her back. Teacher finally entered the room and broke it up. Sent us down the hall to "work it out" (really? can you say lawsuit?!). We went, we cried, hugged each other, apologized, and went back to class. So seventh grade! Not only was she the last person to whom I cussed (okay, maybe a couple more times in my life after that), she was my only physical fight (so far). Honored?
Fast forward many years. . .
One of my oldest and dearest friends, this not-even-a-bit-of-a-twitch sis of mine. We have a history, but more importantly, we have a present. She still has my back, and I hers. I cherish each part of who we are to each other. My cup runneth over.
I would call the eighth-grade bully's bluff and meet her after school. (She threatened one of us Every. Single. Day). I would not slam the door and yell at my mom, but open it and tell her I love her. I would learn to do a lay-up before basketball tryouts, so I didn't get cut from that sport, too. Or maybe not. That led to cheerleader Suzanne. :) Go team!
But I really wouldn't go back. (or would I?)
To explain more about my beloved "Twitch" friend, whom I mentioned in the last post, and who told me that my brief mention didn't paint her in the best light, I travel back to seventh grade, dusting off cobwebs to get there. . .
We had just moved to SJ a month earlier, and now it was the first day of school. I was, of course, ultra self-conscious, but that didn't stop me from picking the only purple-chaired desk (it was totally my fav. color!) in the VERY front row of the classroom, so that my new teacher would see his best student up close right away. The bell hadn't yet rung to begin the day, so students milled around and chatted in their cliques. I sat, staring straight ahead, butterflies bumping violently against each other in my stomach. I just wanted school to start, for I knew how to feel comfortable completing mindless worksheets and reading. A boy behind me loudly asked, to everyone within a mile of his voice, "Hey, is that new kid a boy or a girl?" Um, that would be not-even-close-to-developing me (I didn't acquire the ladies until college!), with my boy-short haircut, to whom he was referring. I gulped, fighting back tears. Another voice, female this time, retorted, just as loudly, "She has earrings on, stupid." I turned towards my rescuer, timidly but oh so grateful, who smiled and beckoned, "Come back here with us." I got up from my seat, walked to where she stood with her cool friends, and eagerly joined them.
Fast foward a few months. . .
Changing classes from homeroom to social studies, we discovered a new seating arrangement, with desks placed in groups of four. Because this teacher had no clue, he let us pick our seats. My rescuer and I both wanted to sit by the same girl (she's my BFF, no she's my BFF, are you my BFF? You know - so seventh grade). She sat by her, I called her the word that rhymes with ditch, the tenured teacher was still outside his door, unaware of any happenings in his classroom, and the encouraging words began. Fight! Fight! She slapped me (for which I don't fault her- I had called her that, after all); I slapped her back. The crowd began to gather round. She pushed me. I pushed her back. Teacher finally entered the room and broke it up. Sent us down the hall to "work it out" (really? can you say lawsuit?!). We went, we cried, hugged each other, apologized, and went back to class. So seventh grade! Not only was she the last person to whom I cussed (okay, maybe a couple more times in my life after that), she was my only physical fight (so far). Honored?
Fast forward many years. . .
One of my oldest and dearest friends, this not-even-a-bit-of-a-twitch sis of mine. We have a history, but more importantly, we have a present. She still has my back, and I hers. I cherish each part of who we are to each other. My cup runneth over.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Famdamnily
I don't cuss/swear/express myself in four-letter words. I just don't. I am not judging those who do, (trust me, I have no room to cast any stones with my glass house), but I'm merely pointing out that this isn't me. I did have a brief period of potty mouth in seventh grade, calling one of my now-best friends a word that rhymes with twitch, but I digress (that is a great story for later, though).
But being around a lot of family makes me want to let out a string of words that would make my cussing friends shout, "It's about time!"
I love my family. Truly I do. They are great, supportive, wonderful, loving, tender-hearted, thoughtful, and compassionate. Some of the best people I know. I am blessed to be a part of them, to have them a part of me.
That being said, when you get a bunch of people together and stick them all in one house for awhile and have to make some hard decisions, the nerves can get rattled. Hairs stand on end. All of a sudden you want to have a full flask of something in your purse to drown the annoyances.
Just give me strength to get through this week, I pray, and to remember we're all just doing the best we can.
But being around a lot of family makes me want to let out a string of words that would make my cussing friends shout, "It's about time!"
I love my family. Truly I do. They are great, supportive, wonderful, loving, tender-hearted, thoughtful, and compassionate. Some of the best people I know. I am blessed to be a part of them, to have them a part of me.
That being said, when you get a bunch of people together and stick them all in one house for awhile and have to make some hard decisions, the nerves can get rattled. Hairs stand on end. All of a sudden you want to have a full flask of something in your purse to drown the annoyances.
Just give me strength to get through this week, I pray, and to remember we're all just doing the best we can.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Death Sucks!
My Grammy passed away at 2:02 P.M. today. It took her a week, well actually 90 years, to die. It was her time. She'd lived a good life. She was in pain and is no longer. She is in a better place. She's reunited with my Grandpa, her parents. I will see her again. We are sealed together for eternity. All this I know, but it still sucks. Big time.
I was fortunate to know this woman - this strong, beautiful, stubborn, intelligent, crossword-doing, and Oatmeal Creme Pie-eating woman. I am blessed to have parts of her in me. Parts I love and treasure and celebrate. Her love of travel. Her vanity. Sense of style. Ice cream passion! Forgetfulness. Loyalty. Jewelry wearing. Sense of humor.
I know there is more; I just can't think of it all now. My mind is a jumble of memories and thoughts at this late hour. My heart is sad, but happy at the same time. I am conflicted.
I had the opportunity to have last precious moments with her, truly as her, on Thursday. She has always lit up when she sees my son, even though her senility prevented her from realizing who he is. She spoke of him being the cutest baby she'd seen in a long time. She said again Thursday, quietly, as I sat before her on her bed, "He's so cute." He "kissed" her nose.
Our last conversations:
As she awoke for a few minutes, Me: Hey, pretty lady!
Taking her hands in mine, Grammy: You're the pretty lady.
Me: No, you're the pretty lady.
Grammy: You're a pretty lady.
Me: Well, people tell me I look like you, so what does that say?
Later, saying goodbye, for the day, and, as it turns out, for this life:
She repeated that my son is cute. I told her, "I love you, Grammy," about five thousand times, and kissed her on her forehead. She looked at me, and I knew she knew who I was (that hadn't happened for awhile). I turned to go, holding my son, and my cousin said, "Suzanne, she's talking to you." I turned back to hear her, but I missed the words. My uncle hadn't, though, and he told me what she had said: "I love you, too."
I know she does.
I was fortunate to know this woman - this strong, beautiful, stubborn, intelligent, crossword-doing, and Oatmeal Creme Pie-eating woman. I am blessed to have parts of her in me. Parts I love and treasure and celebrate. Her love of travel. Her vanity. Sense of style. Ice cream passion! Forgetfulness. Loyalty. Jewelry wearing. Sense of humor.
I know there is more; I just can't think of it all now. My mind is a jumble of memories and thoughts at this late hour. My heart is sad, but happy at the same time. I am conflicted.
I had the opportunity to have last precious moments with her, truly as her, on Thursday. She has always lit up when she sees my son, even though her senility prevented her from realizing who he is. She spoke of him being the cutest baby she'd seen in a long time. She said again Thursday, quietly, as I sat before her on her bed, "He's so cute." He "kissed" her nose.
Our last conversations:
As she awoke for a few minutes, Me: Hey, pretty lady!
Taking her hands in mine, Grammy: You're the pretty lady.
Me: No, you're the pretty lady.
Grammy: You're a pretty lady.
Me: Well, people tell me I look like you, so what does that say?
Later, saying goodbye, for the day, and, as it turns out, for this life:
She repeated that my son is cute. I told her, "I love you, Grammy," about five thousand times, and kissed her on her forehead. She looked at me, and I knew she knew who I was (that hadn't happened for awhile). I turned to go, holding my son, and my cousin said, "Suzanne, she's talking to you." I turned back to hear her, but I missed the words. My uncle hadn't, though, and he told me what she had said: "I love you, too."
I know she does.
Filter
I was born with a brain-to-mouth filter. It was genetically implanted from my mom, who is the nicest woman and doesn't (hardly) say anything bad about or to anyone. As I've grown older, I've noticed my filter getting clogged and not quite working anymore. It used to prevent me from saying things to people that might hurt feelings or cause friction.
My mom gasps in horror when I tell her things I say. She gets that oh-no-what-did-you-say-now-to-embarrass-me-and-how-are-you-my-daughter-with-that-mouth look and searches for a blank note to send to the person who most recently was subjected to my venom/sarcasm/questioning.
I, on the other hand, welcome this lack of a filter. I feel liberated. Mischievous. And real. Yes, fake-smile cheerleader Suzanne does still exist, happy and bubbly and all happy happy joy joy I have a great little boy! But there is another Suzanne under there, too - one who doubts and fears and makes fun and watches too many episodes of rerun sitcoms. Mean girl Suzanne. She does exist. Hear her roar!
One lady at a Show Low wrestling tournament last December did hear me, but I blame that on the psycho pregnancy hormones. Without them, and with my filter out of commission, I'm ready to take on the in-laws who ignore my very presence now.
My mom gasps in horror when I tell her things I say. She gets that oh-no-what-did-you-say-now-to-embarrass-me-and-how-are-you-my-daughter-with-that-mouth look and searches for a blank note to send to the person who most recently was subjected to my venom/sarcasm/questioning.
I, on the other hand, welcome this lack of a filter. I feel liberated. Mischievous. And real. Yes, fake-smile cheerleader Suzanne does still exist, happy and bubbly and all happy happy joy joy I have a great little boy! But there is another Suzanne under there, too - one who doubts and fears and makes fun and watches too many episodes of rerun sitcoms. Mean girl Suzanne. She does exist. Hear her roar!
One lady at a Show Low wrestling tournament last December did hear me, but I blame that on the psycho pregnancy hormones. Without them, and with my filter out of commission, I'm ready to take on the in-laws who ignore my very presence now.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Visor Boy
I decided to have two blogs. My first one was established for the sole purpose of posting pictures and information about my child for those who are nearby and far away and wanted to know. It is private because, yes, I am paranoid. Since I want to share this first blog with my child someday, I haven't put all my innermost thoughts and feelings there. Instead, I've let them bottle up inside me until I am ready to burst. I should just keep a journal, but this seems easier. Thus, this second blog. The title explains it all. I will keep it real. I may not reveal all (about me anyway!), however, as that is too scary and weird. I am thinking more Seinfeld-esque observations about the goings on in my small-town life. We'll see what develops.
Here goes.
Why does one need to wear a visor indoors? I may be missing something here, but I don't get it. At all. Did I not get the fashion memo about them being the new "in" thing? Are there basketball plays taped underneath for quick and easy access? Is there a hairpiece attached for early-pattern baldness? What is it? Maybe visor boy can tell me. I don't even know his real name. That's okay. He doesn't know mine, either.
Here goes.
Why does one need to wear a visor indoors? I may be missing something here, but I don't get it. At all. Did I not get the fashion memo about them being the new "in" thing? Are there basketball plays taped underneath for quick and easy access? Is there a hairpiece attached for early-pattern baldness? What is it? Maybe visor boy can tell me. I don't even know his real name. That's okay. He doesn't know mine, either.
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