Boiling Blood

For some people, their blood boils when they're really, really mad.
For others, their blood boils when they're really, really hot.

For me, my blood boils when I'm really, really mad because my daughter has turned on the gas fireplace in 90 degree weather.

She was cold, she explains. She had just run through the sprinkler outside. In the 90 degree weather. So she came inside and turned on the fire.

It was my nose that alerted me. I had naturally assumed (as I think anyone would) that the excessive heat I was experiencing at the other end of the house was a result of the 90 degree weather. Not once did I guess that the heat was caused by the flames of hell burning in my family room. Not until I recognized the familiar smell the gas stove puts off as it is burning hot and strong.

It is 10:30 pm. It is a sticky 79 degrees outside my house. It is a miserable, sweltering 84 degrees inside my house.

When Michael Jackson Dies

I'm strangely affected by the sad news today...

As a child growing up in the 80's, Michael Jackson had a huge impact on my generation. To start with, his music was just awesome. And he was so cute. Seriously. Remember the picture of Michael in the fold-out section of the "Thriller" album wearing the white suit holding the little tiger cub? I had at least one Michael Jackson picture on my bedroom wall.

But his videos. That's where he got me.

I remember the puffy white jacket with the dragon on the back from "Beat It." When the guys decided they'd be better off dancing than stabbing each other. I remember the light-up sidewalk of "Billie Jean." The still shots of him dancing, flipping his collar up. But the best video of all, by far, was "Thriller." To make essentially a short movie using one song...that was groundbreaking! I remember the zombie coming up the manhole, the amazingly choreographed dance of the dead, and the creepy contacts at the end.

When I was a kid, we didn't have instant-access u-tube. So when MTV advertised days in advance when "Thriller" was going to be aired, or better yet, when "The Making of Thriller" was going to be aired, I was right there, watching hungrily.

For some strange coincidental reason, Binta and I had been talking about Michael Jackson earlier this week. I was telling her how much I liked him when I was a little girl, and how he had such unique trademarks...the white glove...the sparkly jackets...the aviator sunglasses...and of course, the moonwalk.

Nowhere was this displayed better than his 1983 performance at the 25th Anniversary of Motown.

Binta watched the following video with wide eyes, absorbing all of his jerky-yet-somehow-amazingly-fluid dance moves. Towards the end, she asked if he had moonwalked yet.

"Oh. You'll know when he moonwalks."
"But does he really walk backwards?" (she acts it out on the desk with her fingertips)
"Just keep watching. You will know when he moonwalks."

And then he does it. And I feel like I'm 9 again, watching his gravity-defying performance. He is a singer. A dancer. The King of Pop. A magician. I quickly look over at Binta, as her jaw drops and her eyes widen even more at what he has just done.

Thank you for the magical moments in my childhood, Michael. You will be missed.

Slideshow Hello

I learned how to create a slideshow today! This is one designed by Binta!

Graduation Announcement

It came in the mailbox this week. A rare find...a personally addressed letter/card to me.
I opened it to find a graduation announcement and this picture:













Immediately, my mind flashed back to 1997. I had just graduated from college, and gotten hired to be a first grade teacher. I wasn't hired in August, like most teachers. I was hired on November 1. The class had started out the first two months with a different teacher. She had struggled with finding a way to handle some of the kids' behaviors, and finally, fed up, at the end of October, walked out on those kids, never to return.

As any first year teacher will tell you, that first year is a magical year. You try 1,000% harder than anyone else in that building, because there is so much to learn, and you feel charged with such an amazing responsibility. You don't want to let anyone down. I had 25 kids, their families, and a school district who believed I could do the job.

The only one who doubted me, I think, was me.

In your first year teaching, you discover many, many things that you are not taught in college that you need to know in order to be a successful teacher. For example, that was the year I learned how to get a bee out of the classroom. I learned which brand of scissors worked best, and I learned how to keep the desks in place.

I made very little money as a first year teacher, and much of what I did make was spent on materials for the classroom. Which turned out to be fine, because I had no social life whatsoever. I spent weekends at school, sometimes as late as 10:00 PM. In my free time, I watched videos and read books, all of which related to the work I was doing in my classroom.

I even scheduled surgery for December 26th, so that I wouldn't miss any school that year.

I stared at the picture of the grown woman. In my mind, I still see her as a little girl, along with these 24 other kids:Looking at this picture, I have so many memories flood back to me. All the while, tears flood down my face.

I remember creating a behavior plan for the little girl who had a stealing problem.
I remember the boy who was licking his desk on the first day I arrived.
I remember making a mom cry when I referred her daughter for reading assistance.
I remember the girl who had attachment issues, and cried frequently in class.

That was the year that one boy lost his father to suicide.
That was also the year another boy lost his father to manslaughter. I remember attending the funeral for this man. I remember the look on the boy's face when he recognized me. It lit up like I had come to his birthday party, and I heard him say, "That's my teacher!"

These 25 kids went through so much that year. Having a teacher abandon them was traumatic. The other things that occurred out of our control added to our collective trauma.

It was my first year, and I had no idea what I was doing.

And yet, when I think about that year...how hard I worked, and what those kids experienced, I can't help but hold it in my memory as my absolute favorite year ever. It was a magical year. All along, that year, I thought it was about me teaching those 25 kids.

Come to find out it was really about 25 kids teaching me how to be a teacher.

Congratulations, class of 2009. I love you.

Just Call Me Juror #22

In the mailbox...a jury summons. My first one ever.

Today I arrived at 8:45 for my first day of Jury Duty. Sat in Courtroom #3 with 48 other registered voters on Kent Municipal Court's "list." Filled out the paperwork. Explained that I'm scheduled to be out of town for the Washington Education Association's Rep Assembly from Wednesday to Sunday. The clerk told me that unless I had a health reason, I was committed to this.

I said that the thought of having jury duty for a whole week and missing out on RA made me want to vomit. Is that enough of a health concern?

(Ok, so I just thought that in my head.)

I waited. On a hard bench.

They told us we would probably hear something by 10:30.

By 11:00, the unlikely prophecy came true. The clerk drew eighteen numbers. The clerk called #22. Stood up as I was asked to. Followed the clerk into Courtroom #1.

Waited. On a different hard bench.

A new clerk arrived. Told us to go sit on the other side of the courtroom. We shuffled over silently. The judge came in and our numbers were drawn once again and we sat in a new order.

I was #8 called.

The attorneys asked us questions. Out of the six-person jury, two jurors were asked to leave. Guess who got seat #5?

That's right! Juror #22!

They told us we could go have lunch. But to be back by 1:45 so we could get started.

I used my lunch hour driving around like a madwoman, dropping off materials that would be needed for tonight's class in the event that this trial went beyond 5:00.

Arrived back to Courtroom #2 (moved yet again) to find the jurors waiting in the jury room.

Waited. In chairs that squeaked.

For 35 minutes.

Finally we were called out. Sat in the jury box. The judge thanked us. Said the parties had settled the case during the break and we wouldn't be needed.

And to call again tomorrow by 9:00.

Happy Birthday

We were born 4 years apart, yet our birthdays fell 2 days apart in January.

Derek always loved the 6th and the 7th because he could claim he was only 3 years younger than me. On the 8th, just like a good big sister, I'd rub it in that I was again, 4 years superior.

My mom used to have a "double birthday" party for us on the 7th. Finally, I realized I was getting gypped, and insisted on my own party. As adults, we returned to the double birthday party. For the first 4 years after his death, I could not bring myself to "celebrate" either his birthday, nor my own.

But today, I am celebrating Derek's birthday. Today, my little brother would be 31. Happy Birthday, Derek...

My Last Bus Ride

I've long been a fan of public transportation, whether it's for the convenience of having someone else deal with the stressful driving, or for the sake of "going green" and saving limited resources, or for the cost effectiveness of saving money. I get teased about it, but I actually like to take the bus.

Today, I made the choice to take the city bus into Seattle so that Binta and I could enjoy the downtown area during the holiday. All of the above reasons applied, including the bonus fact that Binta and I see it as a "treat." Yes, it takes longer than driving myself, but that time is private time that we get together, to talk, snuggle, and play word games with no interruptions or distractions from the TV.

During our return trip home tonight, I became aware of a very disturbed individual sitting next to us. He looked at me and was mumbling something, something that sounded like the words "sorry" and "blood." I asked him if he was ok. He was clearly either high or drunk or both.

My immediate desire was to get far away from him. Unfortunately, I was traveling on a bus that was packed to capacity (or perhaps over capacity). So many buses had been having trouble due to the poor road conditions, that all the buses that were running were severely overcrowded. To complicate that, we were traveling on the freeway, with no stops in the near future.

I made eye contact with a guy I had spoken with back at the bus stop and leaned forward to tell him I was feeling uncomfortable. He understood and nodded; then shrugged when I indicated that I was considering moving towards the front of the bus. It looked impossible.

Here's where the reader will likely be thinking, "I wouldn't have cared if the bus was packed and it was traveling down the freeway. I would have done anything to get away from that guy."

I guess my only explanation is this. Sometimes making an action can be as scary as not making an action. In tonight's case, that's what I was experiencing. I was terrified sitting near this individual. I was equally terrified, to the point of being frozen in my seat, of what might happen if I were to try to move up to the front of the bus.

My deepest thanks go to Ryan, the guy I mentioned before. He engaged me in conversation that gave me something to do while I sat in fear. He continually kept his eyes on our neighbor, and flashed me reassuring looks while we talked. Binta, completely unaware of what was going on, was thrilled to find a new friend in Ryan, someone she could talk with.

Every time the guy reached into a pocket of his coat, I felt my breathing quicken. What would he pull out? I felt waves of heat pulsing from my head to my chest, and I quite literally felt like I was going to vomit.

After the first stop, Ryan, Binta and I were able to shuffle ourselves forward a few spots on the bus. When we were about 15 minutes away from our stop, a guy behind me suggested that I lift my packages up from the floor, because the creepy guy had urinated on the floor. Sure enough, his pants were unzipped.

I got us off the bus a few stops earlier than I would have liked. Upon leaving the bus, a lady informed the driver that a guy had pissed on the floor in the back of the bus. His response? "Yeah, I know. I've reported it."

I walked into the front door of my house and fastened all of the locks. I realized that my temperature had gone from burning hot adrenaline on the bus, to frigid cold, including shaking. Every single muscle that I can identify (and some that I can't) is tense and fatigued. I took a bubble bath and drank a glass of wine in an attempt to calm myself down.

And now my daughter is in bed and I find that I cannot stop crying.

Since when did the choice to utilize public transportation result in forfeiting one's personal safety?

What about the people who use public transportation not out of choice, but out of necessity? Do they not deserve the right to feel safe as they travel from work to home?

In so many ways, I feel that I am very lucky to be able to say that tonight, I took my last bus ride.

The Monkeys that Flew out of my Butt

Gentle reader, I do urge you to sit down before proceeding with this post.

Seriously.





Have you found a seat?

Today, at 3:00 PM, I met with Binta's teacher for our annual parent teacher conference. As with last year, I invited Binta's dad to attend. Last year, he had said that he would come, and Binta's teacher even arranged a special time to meet with us that worked with his schedule.

He didn't show.

I did receive a phone call from him, though. Approximately 2 hours before our conference time. He explained that he was in Idaho.

IDAHO.

He didn't think he'd make it to the conference.

Ya think?


So. Fast forward to this year. As with last year, I made sure he knew what time the conference would be held. I reminded him several times. I placed bets that he would not attend. My guess was that this year, I'd get a call from Wyoming.

Are you still sitting down?

Ok. Not only did he show up for the conference, but he was 10 minutes early. Not only did he hang out afterwards to spend time with Binta, but he stayed until 7:30 so that he could watch her entire Tae Kwon Do class.

Now I've seen absolutely everything.

Meet Rocko

Imagine my disappointment.
A quick google search reveals 502 other blogger moms going on about how cute it is that their kid calls the President Elect "Rocko Bama."

Please tell me I don't sound as annoying as they do.

But how many of them have an actual rock? Hmm? Now whose kid is special?

Immacculate Conception

Binta: What was the baby's name? Gene?

Me: Jesus.

Binta: What was the mom's name?

Me: Mary

Binta: So Mary was married to God?

Me: No. Mary was married to Joseph.

Binta: So who was married to God?

Me: No one was married to God.

Binta: Then Joseph was the dad?

Me: No, God was the dad.

Binta: I thought you said God didn't have a wife! I'm confused!


I'm probably not the best person to explain this, 'cause I'm confused, too...

A Song

Amy regularly chooses a song to highlight in her blog. Most recently, she chose this one.

I remember holding the weight of the reality that my brother was dead. One day earlier, I had been immobile on the couch, shivering under a blanket and getting up to pee every 10 minutes. The effects of being in shock, I'm told.

A day later, I was sitting at the kitchen table, as we began planning out his memorial service. We pondered questions about what to have written for the newspaper statement, where to direct any donations, and what the details of the service might include. Mom was on the phone with a friend of Derek's.

Mom asked the friend to suggest any songs that Derek liked, that we could use during the service. The voice at the other end responded with a suggestion, and Mom looked at me and repeated the person's suggestion. "Bittersweet Symphony?" She hadn't heard of it, and wanted to know if I thought it was a good choice.

In my head, I heard myself say, "Yes, that's the perfect song." However, my voice wasn't teaming well with my body, and all I was able to respond with was nodding weakly as tears began streaming down my face.

Mom told the friend that I agreed with her suggestion, based on my reaction.

And it truly was the perfect song. First of all, Derek loved the song. He played it so loudly, I'd have to ask him to turn it down. He even found a way to program his cell phone (this was back before you could download ringtones) to play the opening notes of the song.

And later that day, when I looked at the lyrics I had printed from the internet, I discovered again that it was the perfect song. No, Derek didn't have a heroin addiction as the lyrics indicate, but the "you're a slave to money till you die" line seemed to fit so appropriately in Derek's case.

It will always be a song I associate with my brother.

Thanks for your post, Amy. I played it loudly.

Politics

Binta informed me that she is supporting Rocko Bama in the coming Presidential election.
"Go Rocko Bama!"

Member

I have been a long-time listener of my local NPR station. I can track my listening habits back to 1994. During those 14 years, I've experienced a minimum of 28 Fund Drives. My only contribution to those Fund Drives has been a substantial amount of guilt. I don't imagine that's helped them much in providing high quality programming to listeners.

Today, I made my first contribution. I am officially a sponsor and member of KPLU! I've even got a KPLU tote bag coming my way to prove it!

I feel both very proud and very ashamed that it took me this long to finally contribute.

Sunday Worship

Upon this beautiful Sunday morning, I rose from my bed to take my daughter to the Temple of Target, in which we worshipped the Lord of Wii.

Yup. We finally got one.

The Donahue Show Comes to Third Grade

I am now using an FM system in my classroom, for a student with auditory processing issues. I got rather excited when our psychologist first approached me with the idea, because I envisioned myself running up and down the aisles like in the good old days of the Donahue Show, thrusting the microphone in front of the outraged audience member. Or, in my case, a third grade student.

Come to find out, it's a tiny mic clipped to my shirt, with the rest of the system clipped onto my belt (or shoved in my pocket, as I ended up wearing it). The student wears earbuds, which are attatched to a similar-looking unit at his desk.

Not quite as noticable as Phil Donahue, but still noticeable enough for the speech therapist to suggest I have a conversation with the class about what they would be seeing both the other student and myself wearing.

I must have "sold" the program pretty good, because when I explained that I didn't have a set of earbuds for all 25 other students, there was a collective groan of disappointment.

He's now the coolest kid in third grade.

And I don't think he's at all worried about looking differently in class. During a transition today, he was suddenly overcome with the desire to run up to the front of the room, and thrust his face near the microphone (hanging between my breasts, yes) so that he could hear himself say "Funky Chicken" through the FM system.

Wonder if Phil ever had that problem?

Ordering a Pizza

We swagger up to the counter. The 17-year-old in the Papa Murphy's shirt smiles uneasily at me.

Me: It be a pizza we be wantin'

Pizza Guy: Um, huh?

Me: You do know it's International Talk Like a Pirate Day, don't you?

Pizza Guy: What? Seriously?

Me: That it be!

Pizza Guy: So you've been talking like a pirate all day?

Me: I teach elementary school, so...

Pizza Guy: ...so you have been talking like a pirate all day.

Me: Can you be fixin us a delicious pizza today?

Pizza Guy: How do you say "yes" in pirate?

Me: "Aye."

Pizza Guy: Oh. Aye. What... you be... wantin... on your pizza?

Me: (clapping hands enthusiastically) Arr! That be some fine pirate talk, matey! We be wantin to have some fine cheese on one side of that thar pizza, and ye can put some of that pepperoni on the other half.

Pizza Guy: That will be $8.07.

Me: Will ye accept me Pieces of Eight?

Pizza Guy: What is that?

Me: Pirate money. Here. Take me fine debit card, instead.

Pizza Guy: What name can I have for your pizza?

Me: Captain Binta.

Shrimp Stink

On tonight's menu: Top Ramen

It's pain and torture to get my child to eat anything. Top Ramen is one thing she will usually tolerate. Tonight, I prepared shrimp flavored Top Ramen for her dinner.

As a side note, I must remind my readers that I do not eat seafood. I define seafood as: "anything that has lived in, looked at, or ever considered the sea as its home."

So I thought I was being pretty generous to not only provide her with a shrimp-flavored packet of sodium and other nasty crap, but I also put real shrimp into the dish!

Real shrimp! Yeah! These are the things I do for my daughter!

So as she's eating, wrapped up in a blanket (why? I don't know) she knocks the bowl of shrimp-flavored Top Ramen with real shrimp into her lap. The blanket catches most of it.

Horrified, I manage to carry the blanket over to the garbage can to dump the remains of the ramen noodles and real shrimp. Some of those little tiny ramen noodles remained clinging to the blanket.

I thought it would be a smart idea to take the blanket outside to shake the remaining noodles from its clutches.

Wrong! I feel the shrimpy broth spray all over my arms and face! Bad idea! I'm now covered in a Shrimp Stink!

Going OUT

Participated in a "Girls' Night Out" extravaganza last night. Complete with limo service! It was nice.

But...
it has reminded me of why I don't go "out" much anymore.

"Dancing" on the dancefloor surrounded by way too many other drunk, sweaty strange bodies of people you don't know. I hate touching people I don't know.

One time, as we were bumped and jostled from side to side by the masses on the dance floor of the Phoenix Underground, my friend Kim said to me:

"This isn't dancing. This is what molecules do."

Or rather, she yelled it. I think that was sometime after someone's "Sex on the Beach" splashed on my arm and someone stepped on my toes, but sometime before the girl with the scratchy sweater started gyrating with some guy, oblivious of the fact that she was way too close to me.

Yeah. I'll be staying IN next week.

"What is it With You and Spiders?"

That's the question I was asked on Thursday morning, as I pulled up to the Ford dealership to give Tina and co. a lift to school, and we discovered a significant-sized spider clinging to the back of my new car.

Ok, back up. So first off, I'd like to address the fact that I seem to have angered many reliable readers by leaving the Hummer post up for so long. It was disturbing, they say, to log in each day, only to be greeted by the same disgusting scene of Hummer on my hallway floor. This "torture" was the inspiration of one of Amy's posts on her blog.

Please understand. As the writer, I am charged with the tremendous responsibility of getting my feelings and emotions across to you, dear reader, with only the 26 letters of the alphabet. And the occasional photo. Quite a task.

You think it's easy being me?

Some ideas are easier to convey than others. In the case of Hummer, I knew I had a daunting task ahead of me, to get my reader to truly shiver with the horror of what I had discovered in the sanctuary of my home. I knew my words would be a good start, I knew the picture would be a huge help, but most of all, I knew that by leaving Hummer up for so long, by forcing my readers to confront this monstrosity day after day, that the emotions would truly leave the page on the screen and begin to make an impression on my reader.

Ok, so this is really just a load of bullshit. I've been busy. Holy mother of god. I've been really really busy. Hummer just came along at an unfortunate time for us all. I'm sorry about it, all right?

So we're back to Thursday morning. You know, with Tina?

As Binta and I leave the house to get Tina and co, I discover a spider has made a web which extends from the gutter of my house to the back of my car.

Tina has a saying: "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results each time."

Well, my friends, I have a spider who is in need of a straight-jacket living at my house. Each morning, as I leave, I see this idiot has once again built his web in the same location, stretching from the gutters of the house to the back window of my car. Each morning, I fire up my car, pulling his house apart as I coast down the driveway.

Actually, I guess the straight jacket will now need to be delivered to the Ford dealership. For this time, as I pulled away from the house, I pulled the spider with me. He hitched a ride all the way to where Tina and co. were waiting for their ride to school.

"What is it with you and spiders?" Tina asked as she removed her shoe and removed the spider from my car.

Well, now he lives at the Ford dealership. He's got plenty of cars to build webs on now.

Hummer

Ok, I know this is uheard of in The Attic.

Two posts in one day?

So, as you know, I was working on the computer. (See previous post.) I got up off the couch, headed for the bathroom. As I rounded the corner, my eyes instantly darted to a huge dark object on the floor.

I'm not sure if you uttered a sound there at your computer, looking at that image, but when I saw that sucker on my floor, I heard myself say:

"Jay-sus fucking christ!"

Sitting there, like a Hummer parked in my hallway, with the engine running. I wasn't even sure if it was a spider at first. I thought possibly it was a huge beetle. My eyes darted to Binta's bedroom, door closed. Thank god the child was sleeping. She must not see this. Which means I have to take care of it myself.

I hate being the adult.

So I went and put on my big clompy Doc Martens and edged past the Monster. I had to get to my camera, but I didn't want to disturb him and send him into a panic. 'Cause I don't think I could have dealt with watching all 8 of his legs flailing around, as he tromped all over my house.

Got the camera, undid the velcro and the zipper. Worried that the loud sounds might startle him. Then I wondered if spiders have ears and can hear loud sound in the first place.

I snapped the photo, using all of the zoom capabilities my camera has, so as not to edge too close to the beast. All this time, he sat there, idling, but not budging.

For at least ten seconds, I stood facing the Hummer. I knew what I had to do. I visualized a perfect excecution of the kill in my mind. Finally, I raised my left foot and slammed it down on top of the beast before it could move. I even heard an audible sound escape my mouth, very much like the sound a person makes when doing karate.

I remained in that position for a bit, as the adrenaline coursed through me. I allowed my breathing to return to normal. I was certain to grind my foot into the carpet a little bit just to make sure he wouldn't be able to retaliate. When I finally worked up the courage to lift up my foot, I was relieved to see he was a crushed mess on my carpet.

I disposed of the body, but there is a stain on the carpet. There was also a juicy stain on the bottom of my shoe.


I'm more upset now than I was when I first encountered him.

How long has he been in my house?
How did he get in?
Are there others?

I'm edging around corners in my house with caution. Like Frank "Ponch" Poncherello, on TV. Except I'm really in danger.