For breakfast: Homemade French Toast (Binta insisted on an Eggo waffle instead)
Next book I'm planning to read: Treasure Island
In the Attic: What the hell has happened to the Santa tradition in our country?
Today we went to visit Santa. Here's what I thought it would be like:
Binta would sit on Santa's lap and he'd engage her in a conversation including what her name is, whether she has been good or bad this year, and what she'd like for Christmas. I'd snap a few photos, and he'd give her a candy cane.
Or rather, that's what it was like 20 years ago when I was a kid and visited Santa each Christmas. I projected those memories onto what today might be like. Turns out, I was way off. Our culture has made quite a diversion from that picture in the course of the past few decades. Here's how things have changed:
First of all, some photography studio has evidently stepped in and decided to claim all the rights to take the Santa/child photos. I don't know when that happened, but everyone around me was acting like it was perfectly normal! Packages ranged from $25 to $50, and these people were paying it! I was not even allowed to pull my camera out of my purse, when it came to our turn. In order to use their Santa, I had to hand over the joy of snapping my child's picture to some kid in an elf suit. And in order to take one 5 X 7 home with me, I had to fork over $14.13.
Kids were not the only ones using Santa's Photoshop. Grown up children, adults, even entire families were having their pictures taken with Santa. The last time I had my picture taken with Santa was when I was about 10. And go figure: around that same time, I stopped believing in Santa. When I was 11, he became just some strange old man dressing up in a Santa suit. And it became inappropriate for me to spend time posing for pictures with him. When I look back at the pictures of me and my brother sitting with Santa, I can tell that we really think we are in the presence of a magical being who will bring us toys based on reports of our good behavior. Derek looking up at him with wide, awestruck eyes. Those pictures are magical. But why would a 17-year-old with a thong hanging out of her pants want to sit on Santa's lap? That's just plain creepy. And the family pictures. Sure, I'm totally for people having family pictures taken for the holidays. It just so happens that there are plenty of photography studios in the area who will do just that. And there won't be a strange old guy dressing up like a fictional character in the picture with you. And anyway, you're holding up the line for the kids who do believe in Santa!
Which brings me to the wait. We stood in line for 1.75 hours for the total event (including waiting to have our picture printed for us). Don't get me wrong, I knew there would be some amount of a wait. But during this extended period, I got to witness all kinds of miserable parenting strategies and ill-behaved children. What is the matter with a child who will misbehave right in the vicinity of Santa Claus? When I was a kid, all it took was the mention of Santa, and the fact that "Santa's watching" to keep me in line. Now, parents are bribing their kids to behave during the wait to see Santa! How backwards is that?
Finally, there was Santa himself. This guy was the most lifeless, boring Santa I've ever seen. Our Santa sat on his bench and passed off the kids, smiling simply for the pictures, and barely even speaking to them. Come on, Santa's supposed to be lively and jolly! We should hear his "Ho, ho, ho!" echoing through the whole mall! I know the guy's tired; has had a million people visiting him. Perhaps we should restrict Santa visits for small children who still believe, if the old man is going to get that tuckered out. Put out a lifesize cardboard image of him for people who just want his pretty face.
Christmas still comes only once a year. Glad that's the same.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Saturday Night at Starbucks
Number of days of school cancelled due to snow: 1 (so far)
Month showing on my calendar: November
Number of days since Binta saw her dad: 94
In the Attic: Remembering the freedom of pre-single-parenthood
Actually, Binta's dad showed up on Thursday at 6:00 PM. So I have been kid-less for about 2 days and 3 hours. He hasn't been here since the end of August. I cannot even begin to describe the joy and freedom I am experiencing right now. I'm not sure how much more time I get before he has to leave again. I don't dare call to find out how things are going. As far as I'm concerned, I think perhaps they've forgotten about me, and I certainly don't want to got stirring up any attention to myself. My strategy: Lay low.
I love my daughter, don't get me wrong here. She is without a doubt the coolest kid I've ever known. (Cliche alert) She is the best thing in my life and I love her more than anything in the world.
But.
Being a single mother for 94 days in a row has worn me down to complete and total exhaustion. So bad, so that when faced with the reality that I was actually kid-less, I didn't know what to do. I knew I did NOT want to do anything that feels like an obligation. Like clean house, or get some school work done. Nope. I can do those things with her playing in the background. What I was faced with was complete freedom from being a responsible parent. I needed to fill my time with things that I could not get away with as a mommy. So, I spent the entire day yesterday with my boyfriend, and this morning, when I woke up, I was still at his house. I didn't need to hurry anywhere to relieve a babysitter from duty. Instead, I went to Walmart, and spent 2 whole hours walking up and down every aisle. I even walked through the sporting/hunting aisle, just because I could. Normally, if I were shopping with Binta, I would have a list planned out ahead of time, and a strategy in place that would incorporate the shortest walking distance in combination with avoiding any hazzards, such as toy aisles. We would get in and out as quickly as possible, before she expired and I had to haul her out throwing a fit.
Next, I went home and spent hours getting myself addicted to a new computer game. I dressed myself in comfy clothes and put on my slippers. I didn't have to cook anyone any dinner, I didn't have to put up with the sounds of Barney in the background, and I didn't have to feel guilty for not playing with her.
Around 7:30, I realized that I had another freedom that I had overlooked. I could leave the house if I wanted. I could actually walk out my front door and leave my house! There was no little girl sleeping in her bedroom. (Actually, lately, she spends more time sleeping in my bedroom). I knew I had to go out, just because I could. So I got dressed again, bundled up into my scarf and gloves, and scraped ice off my car, just because I had to exercise my freedom to do so. With the latest David Sedaris book in hand, I drove to the corner Starbucks, ordered a warm drink, and spent the next hour and a half sitting by myself in a soft, oversized purple chair.
I started reading my book, but became fascinated with the others that surrounded me. I fantasized coming home and describing the other customers in a very Sedaris-ish manner. But knowing damn well that it wouldn't even be close.
There were the 2 guys who looked like they were about my brother's age, and appeared to be working on some sort of homework assignment. (Homework? On a Saturday night? What was with these guys?) They were working out some sort of problems, defining characters from their reading, when one suggested that this particular character was the "tragic hero." They both thought that was hilarious. Then, the conversation shifted to another classmate, described as "...actually very smart. He won the Bill Gates Scholarship. He's great at math."
The Starbucks barista came around at this time, gently telling the patrons that they'd be closing in about 10 minutes. My drink was long gone by this time. The guys looked so disappointed. "Where are we going to go now?" they asked. The barista gave them directions to another Starbucks, which evidently stayed open later. They gathered up their things and left, and as I was doing the same, I overheard a mother say to her child:
"I told you, Mommy doesn't like you to call her that name. Mommy's going to have to tell Santa if you call her that name again."
Yes, I was tempted to ask her what he called her. But instead, I drove off thinking what a perfect ending that was to my child-free day.
Month showing on my calendar: November
Number of days since Binta saw her dad: 94
In the Attic: Remembering the freedom of pre-single-parenthood
Actually, Binta's dad showed up on Thursday at 6:00 PM. So I have been kid-less for about 2 days and 3 hours. He hasn't been here since the end of August. I cannot even begin to describe the joy and freedom I am experiencing right now. I'm not sure how much more time I get before he has to leave again. I don't dare call to find out how things are going. As far as I'm concerned, I think perhaps they've forgotten about me, and I certainly don't want to got stirring up any attention to myself. My strategy: Lay low.
I love my daughter, don't get me wrong here. She is without a doubt the coolest kid I've ever known. (Cliche alert) She is the best thing in my life and I love her more than anything in the world.
But.
Being a single mother for 94 days in a row has worn me down to complete and total exhaustion. So bad, so that when faced with the reality that I was actually kid-less, I didn't know what to do. I knew I did NOT want to do anything that feels like an obligation. Like clean house, or get some school work done. Nope. I can do those things with her playing in the background. What I was faced with was complete freedom from being a responsible parent. I needed to fill my time with things that I could not get away with as a mommy. So, I spent the entire day yesterday with my boyfriend, and this morning, when I woke up, I was still at his house. I didn't need to hurry anywhere to relieve a babysitter from duty. Instead, I went to Walmart, and spent 2 whole hours walking up and down every aisle. I even walked through the sporting/hunting aisle, just because I could. Normally, if I were shopping with Binta, I would have a list planned out ahead of time, and a strategy in place that would incorporate the shortest walking distance in combination with avoiding any hazzards, such as toy aisles. We would get in and out as quickly as possible, before she expired and I had to haul her out throwing a fit.
Next, I went home and spent hours getting myself addicted to a new computer game. I dressed myself in comfy clothes and put on my slippers. I didn't have to cook anyone any dinner, I didn't have to put up with the sounds of Barney in the background, and I didn't have to feel guilty for not playing with her.
Around 7:30, I realized that I had another freedom that I had overlooked. I could leave the house if I wanted. I could actually walk out my front door and leave my house! There was no little girl sleeping in her bedroom. (Actually, lately, she spends more time sleeping in my bedroom). I knew I had to go out, just because I could. So I got dressed again, bundled up into my scarf and gloves, and scraped ice off my car, just because I had to exercise my freedom to do so. With the latest David Sedaris book in hand, I drove to the corner Starbucks, ordered a warm drink, and spent the next hour and a half sitting by myself in a soft, oversized purple chair.
I started reading my book, but became fascinated with the others that surrounded me. I fantasized coming home and describing the other customers in a very Sedaris-ish manner. But knowing damn well that it wouldn't even be close.
There were the 2 guys who looked like they were about my brother's age, and appeared to be working on some sort of homework assignment. (Homework? On a Saturday night? What was with these guys?) They were working out some sort of problems, defining characters from their reading, when one suggested that this particular character was the "tragic hero." They both thought that was hilarious. Then, the conversation shifted to another classmate, described as "...actually very smart. He won the Bill Gates Scholarship. He's great at math."
The Starbucks barista came around at this time, gently telling the patrons that they'd be closing in about 10 minutes. My drink was long gone by this time. The guys looked so disappointed. "Where are we going to go now?" they asked. The barista gave them directions to another Starbucks, which evidently stayed open later. They gathered up their things and left, and as I was doing the same, I overheard a mother say to her child:
"I told you, Mommy doesn't like you to call her that name. Mommy's going to have to tell Santa if you call her that name again."
Yes, I was tempted to ask her what he called her. But instead, I drove off thinking what a perfect ending that was to my child-free day.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Trick-or-Treat
Surviving Halloween tradition: Watching The Wizard of Oz
Favorite Halloween memory: Sorting my trick-or-treat booty on the living room floor
In the Attic: Observing my first Halloween with my own daughter
So I've been off trick-or-treating for many years now. I'm 31, after all. I was explaining to my uncle yesterday that trick-or-treating is one of those things you need to voluntarily decide to give up because you accept the fact that you're too old. It's not cut and dry like that "You must be this tall to ride" indicator outside the gate to the roller coaster. Somewhere around 12, 13, or 14, you realize that it is an activity for little kids. More friends are dropping off each year. Except you don't really want to give it up! You fight it! Hence, you will still see 16- and 17-year-olds at your door asking for candy. Sure, they either don't dress up at all, or else will dig up an old mask from some year before. It's their way of saying, "I know I'm too old for this little kid game, but I can't let go of it."
I have memories of trooping around the neighborhood with a handful of friends and no parent chaperone. It was completely normal to be unsupervised. We would hurry ourselves through a painful dinner, with the doorbell ringing every 5 minutes, worrying that all the candy would be gone if we didn't get ourselves out there in the game soon. Excitedly, we finally got dressed up, and took off carrying a plastic jack-o-lantern with which to hold our loot. I can remember learning about centrifugal force when a seventh-grader snatched it away from me and whirled his arm around like a windmill on speed and I didn't lose one piece of candy. We'd go up and down the streets until we were supposed to report home. We could have gone all night.
I've taken full advantage of Binta being too young to understand Halloween traditions. She's 3, and has never experienced trick-or-treating. She's worn a costume each year, but only because they were given to me for free. She's seen references to trick-or-treating on TV, in books, and most importantly, from other kids. She's on to it.
Here are Binta's past costumes (in order):
Favorite Halloween memory: Sorting my trick-or-treat booty on the living room floor
In the Attic: Observing my first Halloween with my own daughter
So I've been off trick-or-treating for many years now. I'm 31, after all. I was explaining to my uncle yesterday that trick-or-treating is one of those things you need to voluntarily decide to give up because you accept the fact that you're too old. It's not cut and dry like that "You must be this tall to ride" indicator outside the gate to the roller coaster. Somewhere around 12, 13, or 14, you realize that it is an activity for little kids. More friends are dropping off each year. Except you don't really want to give it up! You fight it! Hence, you will still see 16- and 17-year-olds at your door asking for candy. Sure, they either don't dress up at all, or else will dig up an old mask from some year before. It's their way of saying, "I know I'm too old for this little kid game, but I can't let go of it."
I have memories of trooping around the neighborhood with a handful of friends and no parent chaperone. It was completely normal to be unsupervised. We would hurry ourselves through a painful dinner, with the doorbell ringing every 5 minutes, worrying that all the candy would be gone if we didn't get ourselves out there in the game soon. Excitedly, we finally got dressed up, and took off carrying a plastic jack-o-lantern with which to hold our loot. I can remember learning about centrifugal force when a seventh-grader snatched it away from me and whirled his arm around like a windmill on speed and I didn't lose one piece of candy. We'd go up and down the streets until we were supposed to report home. We could have gone all night.
I've taken full advantage of Binta being too young to understand Halloween traditions. She's 3, and has never experienced trick-or-treating. She's worn a costume each year, but only because they were given to me for free. She's seen references to trick-or-treating on TV, in books, and most importantly, from other kids. She's on to it.
Here are Binta's past costumes (in order):
- leopard costume (2 months old): A hand me down thing that zipped up the front and had a hood with tiny ears and a little tail coming from the rear. Adorable.
- Husky cheerleader(1 year old): Borrowed from a friend. We even taught Binta how to pose.
- Tigger(2 years old): Another hand me down. Similar to the leopard, but more Tiggerish.
This year, I asked her what she wanted to be. I was fully prepared to purchase this costume. Her response was: Queen.
I checked online, and found a nice queen costume for $30.00. I was hoping I wouldn't be spending that much, so I kept searching. I found a very nice princess costume, for only $20.00. That seemed more reasonable. They're both royalty, so I figured she wouldn't see any difference. I called her to the computer and said, "How do you like this queen costume?" Her response: "I don't want to be a princess. I want to be a queen."
Costume #4. Queen (3 years old): Red crushed velvet (fake) with a gold collar and gold crown. Her posture immediately changes when she puts it on and she walks around slowly, saying, "Yes, Your Majesty," and "Thank you, Your Majesty."So I guess tomorrow we'll be off, walking the neighborhood, knocking on strangers' doors and accepting food items from people we don't know. When I was the kid, it seemed like so much fun. I guess that's nature's way of insuring that people eventually give up the tradition. I'll be looking forward to my annual trek to Oz when we return home.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Spiderweb Woman
Strangest thing found today: little caterpillar curled up in the bottom of my laundry basket
Number of days since my last haircut: 134
In the Attic: What is it like to discover you're a superhero?
Every morning, I drive 30 minutes to get to school. Yesterday, during my drive, I counted 73 spiderwebs! I'm certain I actually saw more, because I had seen quite a few by the time I said to myself, "Wow, I'd better keep count of the massive number of spider webs I'm seeing." I guess what makes that number so impressive is than on a normal day, I never see any spiderwebs! But yesterday, I saw spiderwebs absolutely everywhere. Most of them were suspended high up above the road, between the black power lines. Others were stretched between a tree limb and a road sign, and I found some neatly clinging between the slats of wooden fences. It was like I couldn't not see them everywhere I looked!
I know that there is probably a reasonable, scientific explanation as to why I saw so many spiderwebs this particular morning. It probably had something to do with a formula including the morning dew that had settled with the bright early morning sunshine. But I preferred to think of it as some sort of spiderweb sensing x-ray vision that allowed me (and only me) to see all of these spiderwebs as I sped past. "Pow! There's one in a tree! Pow! There's one by the mailbox!" I would think to myself.
I am Spiderweb Woman, the Great Seer of Spider Silk.
Surely, I can use this super power, this gift, to save and improve the suffering of mankind in some way. But alas, today, while I drove to school, I was saddened to notice than my powers were gone. Either the spiders have all packed up and moved on or my gift has expired. I guess it's better this way, because I never did work out how this super power was going to save the world.
And besides, what would I wear?
Number of days since my last haircut: 134
In the Attic: What is it like to discover you're a superhero?
Every morning, I drive 30 minutes to get to school. Yesterday, during my drive, I counted 73 spiderwebs! I'm certain I actually saw more, because I had seen quite a few by the time I said to myself, "Wow, I'd better keep count of the massive number of spider webs I'm seeing." I guess what makes that number so impressive is than on a normal day, I never see any spiderwebs! But yesterday, I saw spiderwebs absolutely everywhere. Most of them were suspended high up above the road, between the black power lines. Others were stretched between a tree limb and a road sign, and I found some neatly clinging between the slats of wooden fences. It was like I couldn't not see them everywhere I looked!
I know that there is probably a reasonable, scientific explanation as to why I saw so many spiderwebs this particular morning. It probably had something to do with a formula including the morning dew that had settled with the bright early morning sunshine. But I preferred to think of it as some sort of spiderweb sensing x-ray vision that allowed me (and only me) to see all of these spiderwebs as I sped past. "Pow! There's one in a tree! Pow! There's one by the mailbox!" I would think to myself.
I am Spiderweb Woman, the Great Seer of Spider Silk.
Surely, I can use this super power, this gift, to save and improve the suffering of mankind in some way. But alas, today, while I drove to school, I was saddened to notice than my powers were gone. Either the spiders have all packed up and moved on or my gift has expired. I guess it's better this way, because I never did work out how this super power was going to save the world.
And besides, what would I wear?
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Field Trip to the Local Jail
Time that Binta woke up: 5:36 AM
Time she woke up after I rubbed her back and coaxed her back to sleep: 7:11 AM
Number of times I played hooky this week: one
In the Attic: Are we all just one bad decision away from messing up our lives?
I'm not sure if it was playing hooky in the true sense, as my motivation was partly physical and partly mental. The cold from last week (my "partly physical" excuse) is holding on, but making me miserable only upon first waking. Then it's gone until the next morning. So in that sense, I really didn't need to miss school. The other half of my excuse, the "partly mental" break was needed without question.
Calling in sick is so easy. Actually, it's done online, so there is no need to fake a raspy-sounding explanation to someone at the other end of the phone. It's done very quickly - just plug in the day, hit "Submit Absence," and you're set! At any time of the day, I'm just a few clicks away from reporting an absence for the next working day. Yes, that's very dangerous.
I got up as usual, took Binta to daycare, and returned home to start working on the "search and rescue" mission in my living room. I found a total of seven drier sheets in the piles of clean laundry. (Hmmm... I did 3 loads last week, and three loads the week before. That means some of the clean laundry has been crumpled on my living room floor for at least 3 weeks.) I vacuumed, spot-treated the carpet, piled Binta's toys into her bedroom, and looked back with great satisfaction at the house of structure and order that I was once again proud to live in.
It turned out to have been a good day to stay home. Last Sunday, a friend of mine and I made plans to meet for lunch. After waiting a half an hour for her, I called her cell phone, only to hear an unknown man's voice say, "She's not available right now." I explained that we had plans to meet, and asked where I could reach her, and he repeated, definitely holding something back, "She's just not available right now."
I was so stunned to have such a weird conversation, that I didn't think to press him, or even ask who he was. I just hung up feeling a little confused and stood-up. In previous conversations, she had mentioned that things were "really messed up right now" so I waited anxiously to hear from her, as this missed date had to be a result of the really bad things that were going on with her.
During my "sick day", I discovered an email from her. It said she was sorry that she hadn't been able to get in touch with me, but she had been in jail.
What?
How does someone I know, another teacher with a Masters Degree, living in a beautiful suburban neighborhood with houses the color of slate and cream, with a daughter the same age as mine, wind up spending the weekend in the Pierce County jail?
We arranged to meet for lunch that day. (Aren't I glad that I'm not at work?) We sat down in a booth at Red Robin while cheerful waiters and servers wove in between tables and each other and a nearby table packed with jocund conversation bounced around the dining room intermixed with the clatter of dishes and laughter. I looked at my friend, hair and makeup beautifully done, and stylishly dressed, as if she was headed to a job interview, as she confessed to me that she had had an affair with a guy from work. (bad decision #1) She told her husband, who wasn't happy. (probably the right thing to do, but added to the mess) He proceeded to "share" this information with the family and every friend of theirs that he could get in touch with. In addition, he cut her off financially, so that she is now living in an Extended America with no money in sight until the end of the month. In anger, late Thursday night, (bad decision #2) she went to the home to pick up her daughter, only to be told by her husband that she could not take her. She attacked her husband (bad decision #3) and used a pie cutter (yes, a pie cutter, we laughed for a moment) to cut her wrists. (bad decision #4).
The police wound up getting involved, and even though her husband had no injuries that needed medical attention, she was taken into custody and placed on suicide watch.
The story is dramatic and exciting, and has all the ingredients for a good Lifetime movie. What was even more fascinating was watching my friend move from shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders, acknowledging her guilt, to sniggering about her ridiculous behavior and shameful loss of self control. Each time that she mentioned her daughter, with the thought of not being allowed to see her girl, however, her eyes darkened, her lips began to quiver, and her eyes brimmed with tears, sometimes spilling down her face creating a stripe of mascara on her cheek.
She tells me what it was like sitting in jail, believing that she had lost absolutely everything, wanting to die. She tells me of every suicidal strategy she explored while she was left alone in her cell, from trying to suffocate herself with the garment she was forced to wear, to using the restraining order that she was served to cut into her wrists again. My friend then describes the woman who checked on her, talked to her, and helped her find a tiny bit of strength. The woman offered her a book to read, which she ended up reading 5 times. My friend credits this woman and that book, together, for saving her life. Somewhere, in the mess of the Pierce County Jail cell that she was in, she began to feel a force, like a spirituality. A sense of clarity entered, allowing her to refocus. Her defeated energy was transformed into a positive push of energy she used to do crunches and running.
Our lunch date would only last one hour, for she had an appointment with her school district to see if she still had a job. After that, she would be pawning her wedding ring for additional cash to get her through the month. I drove back to my house, replaying the events through my mind, remembering the last time I had seen her, one month ago, when I had been admiring her life. It seemed that through a series of bad decisions, she had severly diverged from the direction she had been headed. And it terrified me to think about how easily one could dart off the road, dipping onto a path headed for disaster.
Time she woke up after I rubbed her back and coaxed her back to sleep: 7:11 AM
Number of times I played hooky this week: one
In the Attic: Are we all just one bad decision away from messing up our lives?
I'm not sure if it was playing hooky in the true sense, as my motivation was partly physical and partly mental. The cold from last week (my "partly physical" excuse) is holding on, but making me miserable only upon first waking. Then it's gone until the next morning. So in that sense, I really didn't need to miss school. The other half of my excuse, the "partly mental" break was needed without question.
Calling in sick is so easy. Actually, it's done online, so there is no need to fake a raspy-sounding explanation to someone at the other end of the phone. It's done very quickly - just plug in the day, hit "Submit Absence," and you're set! At any time of the day, I'm just a few clicks away from reporting an absence for the next working day. Yes, that's very dangerous.
I got up as usual, took Binta to daycare, and returned home to start working on the "search and rescue" mission in my living room. I found a total of seven drier sheets in the piles of clean laundry. (Hmmm... I did 3 loads last week, and three loads the week before. That means some of the clean laundry has been crumpled on my living room floor for at least 3 weeks.) I vacuumed, spot-treated the carpet, piled Binta's toys into her bedroom, and looked back with great satisfaction at the house of structure and order that I was once again proud to live in.
It turned out to have been a good day to stay home. Last Sunday, a friend of mine and I made plans to meet for lunch. After waiting a half an hour for her, I called her cell phone, only to hear an unknown man's voice say, "She's not available right now." I explained that we had plans to meet, and asked where I could reach her, and he repeated, definitely holding something back, "She's just not available right now."
I was so stunned to have such a weird conversation, that I didn't think to press him, or even ask who he was. I just hung up feeling a little confused and stood-up. In previous conversations, she had mentioned that things were "really messed up right now" so I waited anxiously to hear from her, as this missed date had to be a result of the really bad things that were going on with her.
During my "sick day", I discovered an email from her. It said she was sorry that she hadn't been able to get in touch with me, but she had been in jail.
What?
How does someone I know, another teacher with a Masters Degree, living in a beautiful suburban neighborhood with houses the color of slate and cream, with a daughter the same age as mine, wind up spending the weekend in the Pierce County jail?
We arranged to meet for lunch that day. (Aren't I glad that I'm not at work?) We sat down in a booth at Red Robin while cheerful waiters and servers wove in between tables and each other and a nearby table packed with jocund conversation bounced around the dining room intermixed with the clatter of dishes and laughter. I looked at my friend, hair and makeup beautifully done, and stylishly dressed, as if she was headed to a job interview, as she confessed to me that she had had an affair with a guy from work. (bad decision #1) She told her husband, who wasn't happy. (probably the right thing to do, but added to the mess) He proceeded to "share" this information with the family and every friend of theirs that he could get in touch with. In addition, he cut her off financially, so that she is now living in an Extended America with no money in sight until the end of the month. In anger, late Thursday night, (bad decision #2) she went to the home to pick up her daughter, only to be told by her husband that she could not take her. She attacked her husband (bad decision #3) and used a pie cutter (yes, a pie cutter, we laughed for a moment) to cut her wrists. (bad decision #4).
The police wound up getting involved, and even though her husband had no injuries that needed medical attention, she was taken into custody and placed on suicide watch.
The story is dramatic and exciting, and has all the ingredients for a good Lifetime movie. What was even more fascinating was watching my friend move from shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders, acknowledging her guilt, to sniggering about her ridiculous behavior and shameful loss of self control. Each time that she mentioned her daughter, with the thought of not being allowed to see her girl, however, her eyes darkened, her lips began to quiver, and her eyes brimmed with tears, sometimes spilling down her face creating a stripe of mascara on her cheek.
She tells me what it was like sitting in jail, believing that she had lost absolutely everything, wanting to die. She tells me of every suicidal strategy she explored while she was left alone in her cell, from trying to suffocate herself with the garment she was forced to wear, to using the restraining order that she was served to cut into her wrists again. My friend then describes the woman who checked on her, talked to her, and helped her find a tiny bit of strength. The woman offered her a book to read, which she ended up reading 5 times. My friend credits this woman and that book, together, for saving her life. Somewhere, in the mess of the Pierce County Jail cell that she was in, she began to feel a force, like a spirituality. A sense of clarity entered, allowing her to refocus. Her defeated energy was transformed into a positive push of energy she used to do crunches and running.
Our lunch date would only last one hour, for she had an appointment with her school district to see if she still had a job. After that, she would be pawning her wedding ring for additional cash to get her through the month. I drove back to my house, replaying the events through my mind, remembering the last time I had seen her, one month ago, when I had been admiring her life. It seemed that through a series of bad decisions, she had severly diverged from the direction she had been headed. And it terrified me to think about how easily one could dart off the road, dipping onto a path headed for disaster.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Pornograpy, Quilting, and Wedding Rings
Piles of laundry: 3 dirty, 2 clean, and 1 unknown (will just treat it as dirty)
Most recently watched movie: Finding Nemo
In the Attic: So who the hell is going to read this, anyway?
I've checked my blog around 11 times since posting the first one yesterday. (That's a low estimate. I have not actually kept a count of the number of times I've checked it. I'm certain it's higher, but don't really want to confess it.) I'm finding I'm thinking about my blog several times an hour. I wonder about who's reading it and I plan out the content of future postings. The emotional response to becomming a new "blogger" is just like getting your first boyfriend, when all of your thoughts revolve around what he may be doing and when you'll next see each other. Wanting to call him all the time. (But knowing you shouldn't.) So I guess I've realized a little love affair with my new blog medium. I'm sure it's simply puppy love, and that, just like any relationship, the newness will wear off over time, and posting will become a chore, as my blog and I become more comfortable with each other. Soon we'll be telling each other, "I feel like I don't even know you any more. What happened to the blog I once fell in love with?"
First thoughts immediately after posting Blog #1: Is it really out there in cyberspace? Is it really out there, available for anyone to read? Or is it just something that registers only on my computer from home? UPDATE: I now have verification from an outside source that it has registered on a number of other computers. It is, in fact, out there.
Next thoughts: If it really is accessible to anyone, than who in the world would want to read it? Sure, I've notified a circle of family and friends to be on the watch, (and even they are questionable!) but other than them, who would want to read this blog, and what's more, how would they come across it? Google searches from a 15-year-old boy looking for free pornography? A 50-year-old woman searching for quilting patterns? A newly engaged couple hunting for platinum wedding rings? I suppose there's a chance, now that I've placed those key words on my site. But unlikely, I know.
Current thoughts: What if I want to vent about a person, and that same individual reads my blog and identifies him or herself in my post? Guess I should have thought of that before notifying "the circle" that I'd be here... But I can't imagine not sharing my new hobby with them. Hmmm.... How do other bloggers handle this?
This morning, when I checked my blog, and it was still here, I found my first comment! What delight! What elation! Unfortunately, it turned out to be a spammy comment, however, advertising a gas card. So I deleted it. Not because the content had absolutely nothing to do with my post, but because of the principle that if someone wants to post a comment, he should at least have the decency to read my posting first. I felt slightly deflated at the thought that the only one to come across my blog was a computer. A computer, who didn't even bother to read my post.
I guess the moral of the story is that, whether or not a human being is actually reading my writing, it's the chance that someone might read it that is fueling me to continue. And for now, that is providing just enough difference from journaling in a regular old Word Document to keep me going with the blog.
Most recently watched movie: Finding Nemo
In the Attic: So who the hell is going to read this, anyway?
I've checked my blog around 11 times since posting the first one yesterday. (That's a low estimate. I have not actually kept a count of the number of times I've checked it. I'm certain it's higher, but don't really want to confess it.) I'm finding I'm thinking about my blog several times an hour. I wonder about who's reading it and I plan out the content of future postings. The emotional response to becomming a new "blogger" is just like getting your first boyfriend, when all of your thoughts revolve around what he may be doing and when you'll next see each other. Wanting to call him all the time. (But knowing you shouldn't.) So I guess I've realized a little love affair with my new blog medium. I'm sure it's simply puppy love, and that, just like any relationship, the newness will wear off over time, and posting will become a chore, as my blog and I become more comfortable with each other. Soon we'll be telling each other, "I feel like I don't even know you any more. What happened to the blog I once fell in love with?"
First thoughts immediately after posting Blog #1: Is it really out there in cyberspace? Is it really out there, available for anyone to read? Or is it just something that registers only on my computer from home? UPDATE: I now have verification from an outside source that it has registered on a number of other computers. It is, in fact, out there.
Next thoughts: If it really is accessible to anyone, than who in the world would want to read it? Sure, I've notified a circle of family and friends to be on the watch, (and even they are questionable!) but other than them, who would want to read this blog, and what's more, how would they come across it? Google searches from a 15-year-old boy looking for free pornography? A 50-year-old woman searching for quilting patterns? A newly engaged couple hunting for platinum wedding rings? I suppose there's a chance, now that I've placed those key words on my site. But unlikely, I know.
Current thoughts: What if I want to vent about a person, and that same individual reads my blog and identifies him or herself in my post? Guess I should have thought of that before notifying "the circle" that I'd be here... But I can't imagine not sharing my new hobby with them. Hmmm.... How do other bloggers handle this?
This morning, when I checked my blog, and it was still here, I found my first comment! What delight! What elation! Unfortunately, it turned out to be a spammy comment, however, advertising a gas card. So I deleted it. Not because the content had absolutely nothing to do with my post, but because of the principle that if someone wants to post a comment, he should at least have the decency to read my posting first. I felt slightly deflated at the thought that the only one to come across my blog was a computer. A computer, who didn't even bother to read my post.
I guess the moral of the story is that, whether or not a human being is actually reading my writing, it's the chance that someone might read it that is fueling me to continue. And for now, that is providing just enough difference from journaling in a regular old Word Document to keep me going with the blog.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
The First Blog
Hours of unrestful sleep: 8.5
Number of loads of dishes it will take to clean the kitchen: currently 2 (but could be more)
In the Attic: What does one write on a first blog?
I'm experiencing the beginnings of a cold. All night, I slept/woke with my mouth wide open, because air passage through my nostrils was blocked. So when my daughter finally woke me up at 7:30 AM, my lips and throat were parched. I needed a good drink of water before I could even form my first sentence. In one piece of my dream, I remember I was apologizing to someone for my snoring.
Binta's typical Saturday begins with Disney Playhouse. She's a big fan of the Wiggles, and I have to confess, so am I. On occasion, I've been known to put a Wiggles CD on even if she were not around. I know, it's sick.
My Saturday began with Step Up to Writing, by Maureen E. Auman. (I know, that's REALLY sick!) Our school district has newly adopted this writing program, and we spent yesterday with no students, receiving training on the program. It is district inservices like these that bring to my attention how hard it is to sit and listen for 8 consecutive hours. Although we did receive an hour (yes, that's 60 whole minutes!) for our lunch. Such a luxury when you live in a world where your 30 minute lunch ends at exactly 1:05, whether or not you've finished eating or made it to the bathroom. Anyway, I picked up the "Classroom Reproducibles" manual, returned to my cozy bed, and thumbed my way through it. However, one thought kept reoccuring to me as I looked through all of the clever, cutesy diagrams and images.
This summer, I joined a single parent website, in which I met one individual in Australia who wrote particularly well. We developed a summer relationship through email correspondence, sharing bits and pieces of our personal histories with each other. My writing took on a fervor that I hadn't identified since my poetry writing back in high school. For the past 10 years or so, I've desperately wanted to sit down and write about the little and big things that go on in my life. But the thought of turning on the computer and opening up a Word Document only to write a little piece that only I would see seemed pointless. I'd rather clip my toenails. (Which I frequently did). When I think about the energy my writing had this summer, I realized that having an authentic audience allowed me to write so well. I knew that every piece I wrote would be read by someone, and was working to put a little more of myself out there with each message that I wrote. I noted to myself that when I returned to the classroom, in the fall, I would need to find ways to make my students feel like they were really writing to someone.
Which brings me to how I put down "Step Up to Writing" and ended up going straight to my computer to research how to create a Blog. My hypothesis is that I will be better able to tap into what is going on with the writing process (and therefore become a better teacher of the writing process) if I myself experience writing on a regular basis. I went to my friend's blog (thanks, Amy) and proceeded to "Create Your Own Blog."
Periodically, I will continue with this little "educational experiment" of mine, unloading some more bits and pieces from the Attic. As for now, the diswasher has quieted. It's time to unload, only to load once again.
Number of loads of dishes it will take to clean the kitchen: currently 2 (but could be more)
In the Attic: What does one write on a first blog?
I'm experiencing the beginnings of a cold. All night, I slept/woke with my mouth wide open, because air passage through my nostrils was blocked. So when my daughter finally woke me up at 7:30 AM, my lips and throat were parched. I needed a good drink of water before I could even form my first sentence. In one piece of my dream, I remember I was apologizing to someone for my snoring.
Binta's typical Saturday begins with Disney Playhouse. She's a big fan of the Wiggles, and I have to confess, so am I. On occasion, I've been known to put a Wiggles CD on even if she were not around. I know, it's sick.
My Saturday began with Step Up to Writing, by Maureen E. Auman. (I know, that's REALLY sick!) Our school district has newly adopted this writing program, and we spent yesterday with no students, receiving training on the program. It is district inservices like these that bring to my attention how hard it is to sit and listen for 8 consecutive hours. Although we did receive an hour (yes, that's 60 whole minutes!) for our lunch. Such a luxury when you live in a world where your 30 minute lunch ends at exactly 1:05, whether or not you've finished eating or made it to the bathroom. Anyway, I picked up the "Classroom Reproducibles" manual, returned to my cozy bed, and thumbed my way through it. However, one thought kept reoccuring to me as I looked through all of the clever, cutesy diagrams and images.
This summer, I joined a single parent website, in which I met one individual in Australia who wrote particularly well. We developed a summer relationship through email correspondence, sharing bits and pieces of our personal histories with each other. My writing took on a fervor that I hadn't identified since my poetry writing back in high school. For the past 10 years or so, I've desperately wanted to sit down and write about the little and big things that go on in my life. But the thought of turning on the computer and opening up a Word Document only to write a little piece that only I would see seemed pointless. I'd rather clip my toenails. (Which I frequently did). When I think about the energy my writing had this summer, I realized that having an authentic audience allowed me to write so well. I knew that every piece I wrote would be read by someone, and was working to put a little more of myself out there with each message that I wrote. I noted to myself that when I returned to the classroom, in the fall, I would need to find ways to make my students feel like they were really writing to someone.
Which brings me to how I put down "Step Up to Writing" and ended up going straight to my computer to research how to create a Blog. My hypothesis is that I will be better able to tap into what is going on with the writing process (and therefore become a better teacher of the writing process) if I myself experience writing on a regular basis. I went to my friend's blog (thanks, Amy) and proceeded to "Create Your Own Blog."
Periodically, I will continue with this little "educational experiment" of mine, unloading some more bits and pieces from the Attic. As for now, the diswasher has quieted. It's time to unload, only to load once again.
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