Because You Never Know Who Might be Watching

I was hard at work in my classroom, when Mari poked her head in the door, and indicated that she needed to speak with me in the hall. This only means that one of my kids is in trouble for something.

Fortunately, I was wrong!

Shocker #1: Mari's friend is too sick to attend the Daughtry concert that night, so she's invited me to go in her place!

Our group (which included myself, Mari, Lisa, Lisa's husband, and their two daughters; one of the girls a former student of mine, now a sophomore in high school) went to the doors to wait in line at about 6:15. The venue featured a "general admission" seating, so we knew we needed to get there early. While in line, Lisa suddenly recognizes a student from our school.

Shocker #2: It's a student of mine from last year. Remember crutch girl #2? Looks like her parents are taking her and her little friend out to the same concert we're going to.

Isn't that nice.

They're walking to the end of the line (which is now quite long) so they pass without noticing us. We're all quite relieved, because each of us have experience with this girl, and none of us care to call attention to ourselves. We each share stories, recalling things that the sneaky girl tried to get away with, and that the mom defended to the end, occasionally resulting in calling staff members names. Can you blame us for not wanting to socialize with her outside of our contractual hours?

The concert was great. We were right up at the front, just about 10 feet away from the nearest performer on the stage at any given time. Our early arrival really paid off. I was comforted to know that Crutch Girl and her family would be nowhere near us, based on how long the line was when they arrived.

During the last song of the encore, I suddenly become aware that someone has pushed herself between me and Lisa's husband, who I was standing next to. She's yelling something to Lisa's husband about "her daughter." It doesn't take me long to register who it is.

Shocker #3: And a quick look in front of us, clinging to the rail by the stage, reveals none other than Crutch Girl #2.

Crutch Girl's Mom is facing Lisa's husband, screaming at him to let her through, and he's holding tight to his hard-earned real estate on the floor. She gets her elbows working, and finally pushes Lisa's husband a little too hard, to which she receives a huge push from him, sending her...

...right into me! I fall back into the crowd behind me, who is sympathetic, and also angry about this little hot-headed lady thinking she can push up to the front. She's claiming that she's just trying to get up to her daughter, who has gone off without her. But my year of experience with her tells me that the truth is that she suggested that Crutch Girl go to the front, and she planned to ride that ticket up to the front, herself.

The pushing dies down, and Crutch Girl's Mom settles into a spot right in front of me. Fortunately, she's quite a bit shorter than me. And fortunately, I had just enough professional strength in my reserves to refrain from backhanding her. Because get this: she still has not noticed either me, Mari, or Lisa, all around her. She's completely oblivious that she's surrounded by staff members from her kids' school.

The next day, at school, I was working in my classroom while my class was at recess. Guess who walks through my door?

Shocker #4: Yeah.

She's got an envelope in her hands, and she says, "Do you have a second to look at something?"

"Sure," I say, standing up from my computer with a professional smile.

"We went to the Daughtry concert last night," she says, as she fans out a one-inch stack of photos on a nearby desk.

Immediately, my mind begins calculating my next move. She's not acting like she saw me, but what if she did, and this is a test? Do I admit I was there, or pretend I wasn't? Quickly, my mouth makes my decision.

"Really? I was there, too!"

"You were?" she's really astounded.

"Yeah! That's so weird!" I lie.

"Where were you?" she asks.

"Oh, we were pretty close to the front, way too close to the speaker," I laugh.

"We were right up at the front!" she tells me.

"Oh, really?" I feel my stomach twisting at hearing her lie to me. I want to out her, but don't want to risk getting into something unfriendly at work.

"I knew you'd like to see these pictures, since you were such a big fan of his last year," she goes on to say.

"Yeah, I didn't get any pictures, because I only went at the last minute, and didn't have a camera," I say, looking at the photos spread in front of me; many of them duplicates, and several enlarged to 8 x 10s. I figured that would provide a nice opportunity for her to offer one of the many pictures of Chris leaning out over the audience, screaming into his microphone with his eyes closed.

But of course she didn't.

"(Crutch Girl #2) will be so excited to hear you were there, too! She's going to be disappointed she didn't see you." She scoops up all of her pictures and tucked them back into her envelope, astounded that we were at the same show and she didn't see me.

"Thank you for showing me your pictures. I'm glad you had such a wonderful time last night," I say, opening up her opportunity to vent about "the jerk who pushed her," and mention seeing someone who looked very much like me there.

But she didn't. And I finally rested, knowing that she definately did not see us there. That her whole reason for this spontaneous Wednesday morning visit really was to show off her pictures and brag about being "in the front row" of the concert.

I should seriously consider taking up acting. Don't you think?

Laundry Day

I want to assure all of my readers out there that the world is a cleaner place, thanks to my daughter. She's the kid-sized super hero who brings it all home on the knees and rear end of her pants.

Yes, I am quite proud of her, thank you.

Helpline for Harry

Now, I think I'm as big of a Harry Potter fan out there as any, but is a helpline for grieving readers really neccessary?

Of course, I reserve the right to change my mind on July 21, after I get that book in my hot little hands...

Another First

I just drank a whole bottle of wine by myself. Yup.

Deflowered

A rough day in the world of Tiffany, dear readers.

I not only experienced being pulled over for the first time, I received my first speeding ticket.

This morning, on the way to daycare, I became suddenly aware of police lights behind me. I pulled over, as I have hundreds of times, to allow the fuzz to speed past me, while I took a relieved breath that it wasn't me.

But this time, in the pit of my stomach, I knew. I knew he wouldn't be passing me.

It was just like I imagined it. Like I've seen depicted hundreds of times in movies:

"License, registration, and proof of insurance, please."
I fumbled with my glove box, CDs and suckers embarrassingly spilling out onto the floor. I identified the requested items, and handed them over, saying, "You're not going to believe this, but I've never been pulled over before."

And then came the wait. Sitting in the car, while others drove and walked past my public display of naughtiness. Binta repeatedly asking questions about what was taking place. By the time her stuffed monkey started asking me questions, I snapped, saying, "Can we just leave it alone, please?"

Binta, slightly taken aback, responded, "That was my monkey, not me."

"Well, Monkey, Binta knows all about what is going on, so just ask her."

But the worst part. The worst part...

No, not the fact that I had been caught speeding through a School Zone. (God! A school zone, of all places!)

No, not the fact that my unblemished driving record was now tarnished with the ridiculous shame of driving carelessly.

The worst part was when the officer's wrist moved to reveal the sum of the ticket. What I thought must have been a portion of my insurance policy number actually revealed the $239.00 that I now owe "City/Town of Black Diamond."

Today, while walking around underneath a greenish-brownish cloud of misery, I shared my devastation with my family, friends, and colleagues (who offered a satisfying balance of both empathy and interest with the fact that my infraction could be regarded as "reckless driving").

I'm taking donations, readers.

A Reason to Look Forward to Mondays

I've got a new addiction: Brotherhood 2.o.

These two brothers are working on a very unique video-blog project this year in which they alternate communicating with each other via 3-minute video segments submitted to their blog, "Brotherhood 2.o." They started on January 1, and intend to continue during the entire year.

They are absolutely hilarious. I mean, these guys are so funny!

I spent an evening catching up on the segments I missed, and now fully intend to continue checking their site on a daily basis. The only downside is that they take the weekends off, so now I'm finding myself looking forward to Monday with an enthusiasm that I had not known before.

Please check out the "In Your Pants" segment. After watching, you, too, will have trouble looking at book titles without snickering. I turned around and found these titles from my own shelves to be side-splitting.

• Stupid White Men (in your pants)
• Second Helpings (in your pants)
• Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase (in your pants)
• The Client (in your pants)

See? Even now, I am laughing uncontrollably.

Because Every Good Funeral Needs a Little Family Dysfunction

The dysfunctional members of our family had the idea, following Mom's (my grandma) death: "Let's just wait until Dad (my grandpa) dies, and then we can have a memorial service for both of them."

Um, no.

We decided to press on and hold a quiet, family service that Dad could attend, right there at the nursing home. My mother's older brother goes ballistic, under the impression that we're holding some sort of religious ceremony, and pulling Dad in unwillingly. We persisted, and had ten family members (including Dad) sit around a table and pass photos around, and share some select stories, while a reverend friend provided a little structure and words of hope.

Four family members were not present.

The most difficult parts of our memorial were when Dad would interrupt the reverend, asking, "Did we lose Jane?" "When did she die?" or "Was she sick?" During the fifteen minute gathering, he asked us a variation of these questions three times.

Even though it was difficult, it still feels critically necessary to hold some sort of memorial service after someone dies. I mean, even the dog of some families gets as much recogntion that he existed, that he was loved, and that he'll be missed. We owe our grandmother at least as much respect.

This part of the family that was not present did invite the nine of us (minus Dad, who cannot easily be transported) over to their home for appetizers and drinks following our nursing-home-service. We would then pile into cars to drive to the cemetery to see where Mom would be resting.

It took us by surprise, then, when we pulled up to their home, to find them already in their car, with the engine running, waiting for us to arrive so that they could pull away for us to follow them straight to the cemetery.

Dysfunctional observation #1: We thought we were being invited inside.
Hypothesis: Upon realizing that we would actually be inside their home, surrounded by all of the items of value that formerly belonged to Mom, they decided that rather than scoop up all of the loot and shove it into the closets, it would be better to skip the indoor festivities and head straight for the cemetery.

Dysfunctional observation #2: Most families greet each other in person, especially when a death has occurred, or a great amount of time has lapsed since the last visit.
Hypothesis: Upon realizing that greeting each other in person would likely result in the inevitable show of affection such as hugs or handshakes, they decided to stay safely locked in their vehicle.

Dysfunctional observation #3: The two grown grandchildren were not present during the visit to the cemetary.
Hypothesis: Who knows? Had a headache? Washing their hair?

After visiting the cemetary, we were on to the restaurant, where we would have a big dinner, just like a normal family. Except when we got there, we were surprised to find that we were alone, and that our hosts had not yet arrived. When their daughter (one of the missing grandkids from the cemetery) walked in to see all nine of us, sitting there, she said, "Where are my parents?" We answered that we didn't know, so she turned around and walked back out the door.

Dysfunctional observation #4: Most people greet their family with a minimum of: "Hello."
Hypothesis: Hates us.

About fifteen minutes later, in she walks with her parents. The remainder of the night was blissfully uneventful, although by then I had consumed one very strong Bloody Mary, so who knows what I might have missed.

Maybe they're right, maybe we should have saved ourselves the pain and misery and waited until Dad died so that we wouldn't have to endure each other again.

Messy, Complicated, and Emotional

I lay on the bed, pressing my fingertips to my eyes, but feeling some tears slipping through, anyway. Binta comes in.

"Why are you crying?"

"I feel sad."

"Why?" (always why!)

"I miss somebody."

"Who? Uncle Derek?"

No.
Yes.
I don't know.
How can you explain any of this to a 4-year-old? Finding out that my tiny, fragile, 90-year-old grandma (Mom) died peacefully in her sleep was sad news. It was also a relief. She will no longer be in pain or feeling miserable. We were all expecting this. This was supposed to happen.

However, this loss triggers my emotions, and I suddenly find myself re-living parts of my initial grief after losing Derek. These two losses couldn't be more unlike. Grandmas are supposed to die. Twenty-six-year-old brothers aren't. Experiencing death again causes the two to be related. And when I find myself grieving, I find I can't distinguish one from the other. Yes, I'm crying because I miss my grandma. But I've been missing her for several years, since her health and her mind started to deteriorate. And now I finally have the closure and the permission to publicly miss her. But I find that I'm thinking of Derek, and reminding myself that at some point, I'll be by myself.

We visited Dad (grandpa) yesterday, and when my mom asked him how he's doing, he answered:

"Oh, not too good."

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Bring Jane back."

Again, the messy mix of emotions. It hurt to see Dad so sad, aching for his wife of 68 years. But it was also relief to know that his mind was lucid enough to be able to understand this news from several days ago, as well as retain it.

Dad asked how old he was, and we told him that he was 91. He looked at me and asked who I was. I told him, and he told me that I looked old, not like a little girl. I laughed and told him I just celebrated my 33rd birthday on Monday. I'm not the little girl he remembers.

That evening, while buying a bottle of wine at the store, the clerk looked at me and asked if I was over 21. I know I should be flattered for being mistaken for being so young, but in light of what the day had been like, all I could do was to force a smile, and assure him I was.

Some Assembly Required

alternate title: Two O'Clock AM on Christmas Morning

My first great idea was to get the substitute Little Mermaid Kitchen. My second great idea was to have it all assembled for her by Christmas morning. That idea was brilliant.

When it was sometime in the afternoon on December 24, that is.

By the time it was 2:10 AM on December 25, it was just plain moronic.

When I got Binta to bed at around 9:30, after firing off all of the "Santa will pass you by if you're not asleep" threats, I had only to wait until about 9:45 to hear her deep, regular breathing drifting out into the hallway. My cue to get crackin' on the kitchen.

The box, deceptively large, contained approximately 1,000,000 pieces inside it. That is, of course, an angry exaggeration. What it contained were ten "sheets" of plastic pieces, all connected with the plastic "webbing" that must be twisted to detach the 7 - 10 plastic parts per sheet. There were about 10 larger pieces that I added to my stack of materials. That gave me just over 100 pieces of plastic, all labeled with clever names, such as piece AA or PR.

By 10:40, I was ready to start constructing the play kitchen. I scanned the family room, now entirely covered in plastic parts. I had the first realization that my brilliant idea was going to be costly. Well, this was actually my second realization. To be honest, I knew I was in trouble the minute I opened the box.

The directions, of course, were challenging to work with. In an attempt to reach all parents, both English-speaking and non-English speaking, the toy company had printed the directions with minimal words, using drawings and sketches only. In effect, getting through to none of the parents at all. I kept reminding myself: "I have a masters degree. I can do this."

I kept working at a serious pace, ignoring the raw, tender spots on my palms from using the screw driver too many times. I took a break only to consume Santa's cookies and milk. I kept focused on my objective, jumping at every little sound that could be Binta, rising from her sleep and catching me red-handed. But she didn't.

As the project neared completition, I was directed to place two AA batteries into the range. Immediately after doing so, I bumped the button, triggering loud sizzling and boiling noises to erupt. Attempts to silence the toy by re-pressing the button were not satisfied. The noise continued and cycled through again, for each desperate, panicked push. Even swearing at it didn't help. In the still, quiet evening, the noises ricocheted off the walls of the family room like the roar of a jet airliner. I glanced down the hallway, certain that I would see Binta walking towards me. I would have preferred having her walk in on me having sex than being caught with the disassembled kitchen sprawled out in front of me, wearing a milk moustache and having cookies on my breath.

She didn't wake. I continued on, finally finishing at around 1:30. The problem now facing me was to complete the wrapping, which I accomplished in record time.

At 2:05, I began the clean up process - disposing of all the plastic "twigs" from the webbing, unused scraps of wrapping paper, and the store bags and receipts. I stepped out into the backyard to dump the large cardboard box, and when I turned around, I saw Binta rounding the corner.

She was completely groggy, and hadn't seen a thing, although I had already prepared my lie: "Santa already stopped by, and he was just so busy with all of the other toys he had to deliver, that he asked me to finish putting your kitchen together for him." I carried her to the bed, and she instantly fell asleep again.

I collapsed in my bed, trying calm my racing heartbeat from too many shots of adrenaline in the past 4 hours. I discouragingly counted on my fingers the five more Christmases I'd be put through this tribulation.


Just a few hours later, she was opening her present. She was thrilled with the kitchen. She tried out all the sound effects (which strangely sounded so much softer during the day), opened all of the cupboards, and prepared "snacks" for us to eat between opening other presents. She reflected on what a great job Santa's elves had done, building her kitchen.

I thought back to those five Christmases I was dreading last night, and already regretted that there wouldn't be a hundred more to enjoy.

Privacy

Binta pushed the bathroom door open, and with a puzzled look on her face, asked me, "Why did you close the door?"

Well, I had something going on in there that I didn't care to share with (or waft to) the rest of the house.

"I just wanted my privacy, now please close the door."

"Why?"

(every statement, command, or comment from me is always, without fail, followed by a "why.")

"I just do. Close it!"

Several hours later, I'm using the bathroom with the door in its usual open position. Binta follows me in, promptly closes the door, announcing, "This time, you get to have your private seat."

I Didn't Know Parenting Would be This Hard...

It all started when I asked Binta, several weeks ago, what she would like for Christmas. She immediately responded that she'd like a "Little Wermaid Kitchen" [sic]. I did a little research on the computer and quickly discovered the unflattering reviews left from some disgruntled consumers who pointed out how difficult the kitchen was to put together. Those who were able to successfully piece it together, were quick to mention what poor quality it was, how difficult it was to operate, and how several pieces had already cracked. I investigated the floor model at Toys R Us and confirmed that the grouchy reviewers were not just looking for something to gripe about - the floor model had already taken a bit of a beating.

I attempted to dig deeper, to find out just what it was that Binta really liked about the Little Mermaid Kitchen. Was it really the fact that it had a female half-fish character beaming from the stove top?

Of course it wasn't. When I clicked through some of the other photos available on the product, Binta became highly animated when this image appeared:

"See the eggs? It has eggs with it!" Just as I had suspected. Ariel, screw off.

I can find fake eggs for less than $69.99.

And I did. I found an entirely suitable substitute kitchen with play food (including fake fried eggs) for $49.99. And it looks to be of a stronger type of plastic that will not crack so easily.

Yesterday, as I dressed her in her red couduroy dress for her visit to Santa, I got a little smug and asked, "So, what are you going to tell Santa you want for Christmas?"

She responded, "A Sponge Bob Square Pants camera!"

Huh?

"What are you talking about? You said you wanted a Little Wermaid Kitchen!"

"Well I saw a Sponge Bob Square Pants camera on TV, and I want that so I can take pictures. I don't need eggs, anyway."

To be honest with you, I'm not sure if I was more disappointed that she had switched on me without notice, or that her new request involved (ack!) Sponge Bob.

Well, my research for this product revealed not only that the camera runs around $40.00, but that it is a digital camera recommended for kids 8 and older.

Hideous, isn't it?

So far, Binta has requested two items for Christmas, neither of which she has a chance of getting. But she's pretty sure she will, because she informed my mother of such this afternoon. Mom, being a quick thinker, used this opportunity to prepare Binta for the likely fact that she will not, in fact, be snapping Christmas photos with Bob this year. She did it gently and logically, explaining that just as Santa will not be bringing Nana a cane this year, because Nana's not yet old enough, nor will Santa be bringing Binta a Sponge Bob Square Pants camera this year, because she, too, is not old enough. Nicely done. Sounded good to me.

Binta, however, clearly crestfallen, retreated to her bedroom. Door closed.

Another pickle. Now what?

When Binta emerged, red-eyed and puffy, she mumbled something about how she's worried she's not going to get any toys for Christmas. The next 20 minutes involved tears, arguing, attempts to comfort and assure, attempts to redirect and distract, followed by a final strategy of "some kids don't get anything at all for Christmas." None of which were successful. Binta, usually the master Drama Queen, was not being dramatic at all. She was clearly heart-broken.

I quickly ran through some of my options: buy the damn camera, take back the kitchen, or plow through and "let this be one lesson, of many to come, that life is filled with disappointment."

Or, quickly pull out one of her littler toys I had reserved for her stocking, as evidence that she would, in fact, be getting toys for Christmas.

Ranking right up there as some of the hardest mothering minutes I've logged since taking her home from the hospital - I felt a few tears surfacing as she hugged me and thanked me for the $3.99 toy that she held in her hands - proof that happiness would prevail and she would receive toys this Christmas after all.

Recovery

Number of school days missed due to Thursday's windstorm: 1
Number of days remaining before Winter Break: 2 (if the power's restored)
In the Attic: Recovering from The Move, Conferences/Report Cards, Holiday Preparations, etc.

I'm way past due for getting a new post out to you. I am very sorry for each time you logged in to check The Attic, and found the same old, wilting post glowering back at you. The busyness of the past month has interfered with so many of my routines, including our attendance at the gym. I experienced a particularly strong surge of guilt last night, when Binta asked, "How come we never go to the gym anymore?"

But with only two more school days to go before my two weeks off, I'm ready to bring my regular taking-care-of-myself routines back into my life. So today's post will be a little journey back into what's been going on the past month. Hang on.

Chapter 1: Getting OUT
Upon soliciting a few friends for moving support, I decided to release them from the misery of spending a day with me, sweating and lifting. I had only found a few willing volunteers, (thanks, guys) and none of them were available on the same day. After considering the "big items" that I'd definitely need a second person's assistance with, I decided that I could hire a moving company to lift and move the large and particularly heavy items for me. It would only be a few things, and would only take them minutes to load them into their large truck. I would move the remaining things myself, one carload at a time.

I am so stupid.

One would think that a person like myself, with the Black Belt of "Moving" Resumes (13 moves in as many years), would have some sense as to developing reasonable estimates regarding time, number of boxes, number of truckloads, etc. Wrong. I am clearly retarded in this area. Not only were my estimates on how long it would take way off, but my estimate of how many "big things" I had was ridiculously low. I suddenly saw the light, five days before my moving date, when the moving company sent me some correspondence telling me how pleased they were to be helping me with my upcoming move. They also included a few fine print details, including the fact that they get to charge me for the time it takes them to get from their site to my house and back again after the move was complete. Suddenly, I realized I could not afford their assistance.

Fortunately, around this same time, I got a phone call from my ex-husband. He was in town for the weekend. I couldn't think of anyone else who better deserved the honor of hauling my crap around for the day. To his credit, he was very helpful and nice. And to my credit, I was very appreciative. We got most of the apartment emptied out that Saturday.

The remaining items, I decided to save for the next day. My mom and stepdad were very helpful. The problem with the Sunday move was the weather. It was not just rain, but torrential rain. I followed the truck, watching the blue tarp fight with the wind and rain. Suddenly, a big gust ripped one half of the tarp loose. My stepdad and I hurried around the truck, grabbing at the tarp and the ropes, and tried frantically to re-cover the pieces of furniture underneath.

You know those movies where the guy is pleading his undying love to the girl, and he's standing out in the rain and the water is so ridiculously strong that it's running down his face and dripping off his nose and chin, and it would be a really romantic moment, but you can't digest that part of the story because your brain is constantly telling you how unrealistic that much rain is?

It was that kind of rain.

After about 3 minutes of fastening down the tarp, I got back into the car to find that my hair was completely saturated and my sweatshirt was totally soaked. I never want to move again.

Chapter 2: Getting IN
Just having all of my belongings in one location was truly an exciting landmark. But that joy was not to last, as I then started the process of scurrying around, pulling boxes open, looking for specific items: lightbulbs, remote controls, towels. Again, my glowing resume concealing the fact that I not only suck at estimating, but also at packing. Starting off with great intentions, the first several boxes containing like items, packed very logically and carefully. The latter 75% of boxes looking like someone had just scooped up various piles of crap and dumped them into the nearest box. Which is unfortunately, a pretty accurate description of my packing. One box contained such items as a keychain, a measuring cup, and some of Binta's artwork.

Another challenge with relocating is working with the new space you have and the former spaces you have given up. I've purchased many pieces of furniture, mostly of the storage variety, to help me deal with where to put all of the stuff, and I have several more pieces to purchase later on down the road.

To date, I have put so many pieces of new furniture together, that the direction sheets had only had text, I could consider them my reading for the month. Instead, they have sketches and very abstract-looking human figures with either pleasant or distressed expressions on their faces, encouraging you to do or avoid certain behaviors as you construct the piece.

My face looked pretty distressed during most of the construction, and the guy in the pictures didn't have blisters like my hands did.

Chapter 3: Getting CLOSURE
Another landmark of closure was getting the former residence cleaned up. This process, for whatever sick reason, I've always enjoyed with all of my moves. Not so much the cleaning of the bathtub and the oven, but mostly taking the vacuum over every square foot of carpet and seeing the place completely empty. I often find myself drifting back to the first moment I had seen the place, before I had moved in, when I was thinking, "This will be a great place to live!"

I began to recall many significant events during my stay, including the day that I had come home to find the water heater had leaked all over the floor, causing a squish squash noise with every footstep. Binta had said, when we walked in, "Who peed in here?" She had been potty training at the time, and had a lot of familiarity with wet carpets.

I remembered when I discovered Binta had gotten a hold of the nail polish and had decorated the wall and TV table with lavender and pink rose.

I remembered spending an entire day watching the first season of Lost, while Binta was with her dad.

Mostly I remembered not being really thrilled to be living there and how happy I was to be leaving.

Chapter 4: Moving ON
If moving simply involved packing up all of your things and moving them to the new location, I could entertain the idea of moving about once a month. But the thing that really pushes me over the edge, is the phone calls and address updating. The act of establishing new accounts, or transferring existing ones to your new location, absolutely exhausts me. Perhaps it's because I really don't care to talk on the phone with people I don't know. Whatever the case, I have one remaining call on my list to make. If I could do my calling on Saturday, that would help quite a bit. As it has been, I've made a majority of my calls from my car, on my way to or from work. I never want to move again.

And all during this, I accomplished writing 21 report cards, conducting 20 parent-teacher conferences, and started some holiday decorating and shopping.

But, as Binta pointed out, we "never go to the gym anymore."

System Overload

Number of report cards complete: approximately 21
Number of boxes in my apartment: 7 filled, 35 empty
In the Attic: WAY too much in the attic right now.

You know what was a very bad idea? Moving to a new house in November, during fall report card and conference time. Not that I could have controlled the unfortunate timing, however. My lease is up in 13 more days, so it stands to reason that this is a good time to be packing up to leave. Conferences start in 2 days, so finishing report cards is another good objective.

Any teacher will tell you how busy and stressful report cards and conferences are. Any idiot will tell you how much exhaustion comes from moving households. I am so over-filled right now.

I keep telling myself: "In a week, this will all be over."

How Crest Both Ruined and Saved the Day

This morning, it seemed like an effective time-saver to brush our teeth at the same time. I starting brushing, hollering at Binta through a mouthful of pasty foam to get her toothbrush and get started. As I did so, a huge gob of toothpaste dropped from my mouth, onto my shirt.

"Aw, crap!" I heard myself yell, disgustedly.

I felt instant remorse for having used a word that I shouldn't be using in front of Binta. I knew that I'd be hearing the same foul word repeated from her mouth, most likely in front of more linguistically responsible parents.

And she didn't let me down. As if on cue, she echoed me.

That's when I realized that when you say "crap" with a mouth filled with toothpaste foam and a Sonicare, to the other person, it sounds more like "crack."

Crest had just redeemed itself and saved the day.

The Very Worst Four-Letter Word

Have you guessed what word I'm referring to? I'll bet you've made some very interesting guesses (hopefully not out loud), but I'd be surprised if you thought of the one I'm thinking of.

move

I'm moving. Moving sucks. I've known I was going to move for about 3 months, now. I've been in denial for the past several weeks about the fact that moving not only means that I've got to pack up all my stuff, but I have to beg and plead with friends to give up some of their relaxing weekend time to help lift very, very heavy things.

Anyone out there interested?

The regular reader will be pleased to learn that I am moving out of this crap-hole apartment, into a nice, new house. It's been no secret that I don't like my current residence, and have been longing for a house. In the past 10 years since I graduated from college, I've moved 9 times. This move makes move number 10. Those readers who are quick at math will figure that's roughly a move each year.

Some people go on vacation once a year. I pack all of my crap into cardboard boxes and haul it off to a new residence.

Each time I move, I tell myself, "The next move will be my last." Or at least, "The next move will last more than 12 months." And so it goes. Rent increases, new relationships, and breakups are some of the unforseen contributors to my eventual transient lifestyle.

I started exploring options into buying a house on my own last fall. However, I quickly noticed that there was no way I would qualify for the type of home I wanted. I guess I just imagined something slightly more grand than a cardboard box behind K-Mart. Something that would at least have electricity. And running water.

Discouraged and definitely depressed, I admitted to myself that misery in my apartment would be my reality for at least 3 more years, until Binta was out of daycare, and I'd possibly be getting more child support.

But that was not ok for my mom and stepdad. They sold their former rental property in order to purchase a new home, with the intentions of renting to me. This was definitely a deal that I could not pass up.

So there's a lot of emotion going on inside me right now. Some sadness and shame that the home we're moving into isn't "mine." Plenty of excitement and elation to move from this ghetto into a new, adorable little "cottage." But overall, so much appreciation and love for my parents, for being able to, and finding it important to, help make this happen for me. I'm a pretty lucky girl.

Your Regularly Scheduled Post has been Interrupted to Bring you this Message

My voicemail message this morning reveals a call from Binta's dad. He (his girlfriend, rather) had a baby last night. A boy. His voice sounded excited and proud, just as a dad should after becomming a dad (again).

Frankly, I'm surprised by my emotional reaction. I found myself holding back tears that I didn't know were there. I always guessed that ex-spouses who got upset when the former spouse got married, or had a new child, were demonstrating lingering emotion for the ex-spouse himself.

I'm realizing today that the sadness that I'm feeling does not come from any sort of regret that he and I are no longer in a relationship. (Dear god, no. That we're not together is a really good thing. Believe me.) The sadness is seeing my dream thrown back into my face. The dream of having a "family."

I remember "the plan" that her dad and I had made, in regards to having children. Probably 2 kids, and about 4 years spaced apart. My brother and I were 4 years apart, and it just seems like a pretty good difference in age. Enough time to recuperate from the new baby, diapers, and toddler whining. Just enough distance from the really hard parts of raising little kids to make one think, "Gee, having another baby and going through all that crap again sounds like a good idea."

But that option died the moment her dad and I split. I've felt sadness for some time, realizing that Binta won't get to have that other sibling like I did. But now, her dad has had another child. The boy he always wanted. Binta's half-brother.

I feel sad, because this new baby is the closest she will get to having a sibling like I had. I feel sad, because I don't get to share this significant development in her life. I feel sad, because this new baby will get a lot more time from their father than she gets. And I feel sad, because someday, she's going to have an emotional reaction to this event, herself.

My New Job

Late fees owed to the King County Library: $5.40
Number of My Little Ponies on the living room floor: 5
In the Attic: I started a new job 10 months ago. Guess I should mention it.

I still have my other job, teaching. This job I'm referring to is strictly volunteer, so I'm holding on to that teaching one because the paycheck comes in real handy at the end of the month. No, this job is for The Compassionate Friends.

Never heard of it? Well, aren't you lucky. Twenty-five months ago, I hadn't either. I stumbled across it six months after my brother died, when searching for support groups. There it was, in a book I was reading about grief. I went to the computer, and looked it up. The Compassionate Friends was originally founded to support people who have survived the death of their child, but later was extended to support the siblings and grandparents as well.

I remember thinking how bizarre it was to realize that there had been this entire organization out there, living and growing, without any awareness at all on my part. And that suddenly, when I was in need of such a group, there it was, almost waiting for me. I'm reminded about what a different life I led before surviving the death of my brother.

The Compassionate Friends has a website. Through this website, I began participating in a few online support chats with other siblings who had experienced losing a brother or sister. My mother and I even attended a couple of local support group sessions, held in the chapel of a local hospital one day a month. The support and relief that comes from participating in these groups gave me a lot of strength. I started to look forward to the evenings that I could participate in an online support group. It was nice to know that in only a few hours, I would have an opportunity to really focus on my grief with others who also had experienced much of what I was going through.

So last December, I was approached by one of the moderators, asking me if I'd be interested in becomming a moderator for one of the online support groups. I was honored, yet hesitant to accept. After all, what did I know? I certainly was no expert, nor a professional. How would I know what to do?

When, after some time considering the offer, I realized the beauty in The Compassionate Friends. You become the expert simply by having the devastating experience. The comfort I've received from The Compassionate Friends is not because of working with highly trained, professionals. It's because I've been allowed to cry and exchange stories with other people who miss their brothers and sisters like I do.

So, I gladly accepted. And every Sunday evening, at 6:00 PM, I sit down at my computer to moderate my support group. Sometimes a brand new person will join the group. I always tell the person I'm so glad they found us, but saddened to know that they have a reason to. I am distinctly aware of a mental and emotional shift that I have been experiencing, as I move from being entirely dependent on others' support, to being able to offer my own. The kind of support I get now is a hybrid combination of both elements.

Speaking of that, I need to excuse myself - it's 6:00.

The Whereabouts of My Missing Muse

First of all, my apologies for not having written sooner. It's certainly not because I don't have anything to write about. Here's a sampling of blog topics I've considered over the past few weeks:

• seeing Dave Matthews Band and the Rolling Stones in concert.
• my upcoming move to a house.
• Halloween update on Binta.
• the fact that my neighbor's front teeth are entirely missing. (that one is really bugging me. One week, she has teeth. Next week, she doesn't. What's up?)

It's that every time I actually had a moment to write, I talked myself out of it, convincing myself that it wouldn't come out as good "on paper" as it was in my head. Not a new struggle for me. I'm hopeful that other writers have a similar inner struggle. I'd also love some advice on how to push through when they occur.

Anyway, Binta is with her dad today, and I have spent a wonderful day to myself. The only problem I've had today is the accelerated rate with which the hours pass by. But I'd really like to get a decent post in before the weekend's end. I'll pick a topic and write a decent post for you this evening. Promise.

When Teaching the Salmon Life Cycle Can Get You in Trouble

In my district, third grade gets the honor of teaching the salmon life cycle. I'm sure to the average reader at home, the salmon cycle may seem somewhat harmless. Today's annecdote illustrates the dangerous potential of this topic.

We started off today's lesson with a description of a female salmon laying her eggs after just having spawned. After some time pondering this, a student raised her hand.

"Why does it take humans so long to mate, when it only takes salmon just a few minutes?"

Misunderstanding her question, I responded by explaining that neither species is fully developed instantly. That with humans, the egg develops inside the female for nine months, and with the salmon, the eggs develop after they've been laid outside the female, and that it takes them several months, too. Next question.

Clearly, that was not what she was asking, because she returned with:

"No, I mean that it only takes salmon a few minutes to mate, and it takes humans like a day."

Hmm... Either she has misunderstood some part of the human reproduction process, or she knows something I don't know. Cause for me, the longest I ever got was like 20, 30 minutes, tops.

God, what I'd give to be a fly on the wall during their dinner conversation tonight when her parents ask her what she learned in school today.

Such a Creature of Habit

Found on my porch: 9 rusty nails
Latest movie watched in the theatre: Open Season
In the Attic: An awareness of my routines

A conversation with a friend last night got me thinking about how many routines I have in my life. I am a person who thrives on routine and predictability. I never really think about it, however, unless I'm talking with someone who is different than me in that department. Without my routines, I feel insecure and uncomfortable. Uncertain as to when I would accomplish mundane tasks, worried that I'd leave out critical pieces of my day.

Take a look at my morning routine:
1. I get up each morning 10 minutes after the alarm goes off so that I can hear the weather report and plan my clothing accordingly.

2. I shower in the same order: shampoo hair, wash face, rinse hair and face; condition hair, wash body, rinse hair and body.

3. I towel dry in the same order: face, hair, upper body and arms, lower body and legs. I wrap the towl around me in the same way each morning.

4. I get dressed in the same order: underwear, bra, pants, shirt.

5. I dry my hair, style my hair, and apply makeup. All in that order.

6. I even wrap the cord around the hair dryer in the same way each morning.

7. I eat the same type of breakfast each morning, and pack my lunch afterwards.

8. I brush my teeth and apply deodorant, in that order.

9. I drive the same way to work and park in the same place every day.

I certainly didn't set out to have a nine-step morning routine when I grew up. I really didn't even know it was there, until this morning, when I noticed that the cord to the hair dryer was wrapped up differently - alerting me to the facts that 1) my friend had used it while visiting, and 2) I have a very solid routine guiding me in the morning. (see item #6)

A Professional Goal for this Year

Car: washed and vacuumed
Gift on the first day of school: Flowers
In the Attic: Reflecting and goal-setting a new school year

It's been an amazingly smooth start to the school year. The first days of teaching kids are always stressful and demanding. They require all of the energy from one's reserves. There simply is no way around this fact. During this time, it is completely normal to find me in bed and asleep before 9:00 PM. By the second week, though, things have a way of settling into a little routine. By now, I have been able to transition from a full-page of scripted, play-by-play lesson plans that I kept glued to my hand, to simply filling in a phrase or two into the appropriate space of my plan book, which stays open on my desk. It's starting to feel like the kids and I know what to expect.

I went out to a party organized by a colleague of mine. While holding a beer in my hand, I announced to my co-workers that this was my professional goal for this year. I received laughter and cheering.

But I was serious.

Somewhere, between getting divorced, becoming a single parent, and taking on extra responsibilities at work, I have gotten lost. I do an excellent job taking care of my daughter. I do a fantastic job of taking care of my students. But when it comes to taking care of me, I realize that I have gotten the shaft. I don't seek out activities that I would enjoy, I have gained too much weight, and I turn down social opportunities that come my way.

So I wasn't kidding when I shared my professional goal this year: to put myself first. I'm going to find time to spend on my hobbies and interests. I'm going to go to the gym on a regular basis and eat healthier. I'm going to participate in more social events.

If an airplane is going down, the flight attendants aways instruct the adults to put their own masks on first before taking care of anyone else. The obvious realization is that if you pass out, you will not be able to help anyone else. Well that's what's happened in this case. This is why I argue that this is a professional goal, even though people laugh at me. By making certain that I am well taken care of, I will be able to provide for my daughter and students in an even more effective manner than before.

You'll have to excuse me now. I have an oxygen mask to put on.

As Summer Comes to a Close...

Today's post will feature a reflection of the highlights of our summer.


Best stadium concert: American Idols Live

Best free concert: Captain Bogg and Salty

Most shocking news: Binta's dad having a baby

Best book: The Kite Runner

Worst book: Raggedy Ann and Andy and the Paper Dragon

Proudest achievement: filing the stacks of papers on my desk

Sheepish confession: addiction to vintage Sesame Street clips on YouTube

Best puppet show: The Adventures of Sinbad

Most disturbing find: maggots

Coolest library: Seattle Central Library

Best outdoor fun: swimming

New skill learned: how to make pickles

Old CD dug out: The Smiths: Louder Than Bombs (and I still know ALL the words!)

Best movie: Hoodwinked

Best overall outcome of the summer: feeling closer than ever to my daughter

Binta Hits the Big 04!

Four years ago, I achieved the greatest feat of my life. I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl. My labor - a miserable, vicious period of discomfort - lasted a full 24.5 hours, with the last 2 hours being consumed with active pushing, alternating with vomiting.

I had some kind of freak type of "morning sickness" that lasted every damn day, every damn hour, for the full 9 months. Eventually, I had been prescribed a medication that prevented me from puking every hour, on the hour, and I am greatly in debt to the makers of that miraculous drug. During the labor, however, all bets were off, as the medication had no power during the transformation my baby was making to the outside world.

It's difficult enough to push a human being out of your body, but it just seems to be cruel and unusual punishment to have to spend the time in-between contractions vomiting into a dish held at your chin by a nurse. Other women use that time to rest before the next contraction arrives. My mind kept busy by fantasizing about a tall glass of ice water and a cold, cold, shower.

Four years later, I'm focused on the cold beer that I'll get to enjoy after Binta's "My Little Pony" party.

Preparations began with the My Little Pony invitations, filled out and mailed. My clever contribution to the Event of the Year was to use my school overhead projector to blow up an image of a Pony for a riveting game of "Pin the Tail on the Pony."

How do you follow an act like that?

With a pinata!

Please note that the pinata in the photo is not a genuine "My Little Pony" pinata. The store we went to didn't have any, but this white horse-shaped form with rainbow strands of crepe paper for a mane and tail seemed to be a logical substitute. I saw the slightest hint of a spoiled teenager as she wrinkled her nose and pointed out the obvious to me:

"That's not a My Little Pony pinata."

My response:

"Of course it's not! You don't expect the real My Little Pony to let herself get strung up just so we can beat the crap out of her for our amusement, do you? This is the My Little Pony stunt double. She's been specially trained to get beat with a bat after having her belly loaded with candy."

What Do You Do the Day After You Find Maggots in Your Cupboard?

You scour your house - top to bottom. Twice.
















Now does that look like a kitchen that had been providing both room and board to a sack of maggots only 14 hours earlier?

The house has been fully sanitized, and I'm sleeping better at night. I do thank those of you who have contributed your own personal tales of horror. Keep 'em coming!

The Post I Hope My Mom Doesn't Ever Read

Warning: This post contains contents of a highly disturbing nature. The reader is hereby advised to skip this post entirely.

It seems that we've noticed a lot of little gnats in our house recently. Actually, I hadn't been convinced that we had an excessive amount living with us. I wondered instead if my highly sensitive entomologist roommate (Binta) was just making a big deal about the same 3 or 4 guys. Three or four seems like a manageable number. I'm sure I could find that many in any given home.

But that foolish attempt to self-deceive ended the moment I happened to open the cupboard this evening to put a measuring bowl away. Now, those three or four have been joined by a colony of gnats. It's a problem now.

Just so my reader doesn't lose faith in me at this point, I'd like to remind him or her of several things:

• I've never forgotten to pay my rent.
• I've never forgotten a student's report card.
• I've never forgotten my child at the grocery store.

But I did forget about a 5 pound bag of russett potatoes in the back of my cupboard.

Instantly, my olfactory senses detected the problem. As I lifted the dripping (yes, dripping!) bag out of the cupboard, the gnats (or maybe they're not gnats, after all...I'd rather not know, at this point) flew in all directions, clearly angered and disturbed by my inconsiderate act. The bag felt dense and pudgy in my hand - distinctly wrong, not at all what a sack of potatoes should feel like.

I knew enough to get the rotting 5 pound corpse of rancid potatoes out of my house immediately. As the sack skulked on the concrete, I warned Binta to stay back.

Although I didn't know the horror we were about to witness. I should have had her run back in the house and lock the door and put her head under her pillow and start praying to god.

Instead, I leaned in with the scissors, so that I could slice open the bag to get the exceptional camera shot. My hand poised above the muck, I suddenly sensed movement coming from inside the bag.

There was something moving inside the bag.

I looked closer and retched with repugnance. Yes, if you haven't yet figured it out: Maggots. Maggots in the bag means there were MAGGOTS in my house!

I'm still a little shaky from the events of this evening, and feeling a little reluctant to go to sleep in the house. However, I wonder if perhaps I'm being too hard on myself?

I'm going to tell myself that this kind of thing is common, and has happened to many others. In the comments section below, I'd appreciate you sharing a time when you found maggots in your house. Make something up if you have to. Please.

Heaven: 1000 4th Ave, Seattle WA

If you were suddenly abandoned on a desert island, what would you take?

I'd take the Central Branch of the Seattle Public Library. Now it's no secret that I like the library, but wow. This library defies description. Check out this little slide show. If you haven't been there yet, I encourage you to visit. I'll be in the living room.

And Then There Was None

It seems that only a week ago, I was sharing my elation with my readers that "the system" had finally come through for me and my daughter, as DSHS finally had been able to begin withdrawing payments directly from the ex's employer.

And that lasts up until he quits his job.

Which he did.

And now, he's working under the table.

Teacher's Corner: A Lesson on "Oxymoron"

New favorite website: youtube.com
On hold for me at the library: CSI season 2 (so, for obvious reasons, today's post will be a quickie)
In the Attic: Relief. There's only one week of summer school left.

I don't think I've mentioned yet that I've taken a position teaching summer school this year. Yeah, you heard right. Summer. School. As in: teaching school during the summer. I've got 3 weeks down and one more to go.

Each year, around April or May, I always think of what a great idea it would be to teach summer school. It's half days, only lasts four weeks, and you get paid a decent amount. And you have a much smaller class than during the regular school year.

This year, I let that little voice talk me into turning in an application. Now, between you and me, the biggest driver in my decision was obviously the money. I'm quite confident in suggesting to you that it provided the same incentive for other teachers who offered to give up a portion of their well-earned summer vacations to slave away in a sweaty classroom. Sorry to burst the image of the charitable teacher for you, but it's true. This reality, however, becomes a perplexing challenge when filling out the application. Because although this knowledge is widely accepted among teachers, those who hire the teachers like to believe that there is an altruistic desire that represses teachers from wasting away summer instruction opportunities.

Here's an excerpt from my application:
"I am interested in this position because I love teaching kids. I especially enjoy being able to provide a variety of teaching approaches to struggling learners. I provide many different opportunities for these students to practice specific skills. I look forward to the small group instruction in the summer school approach."

Clearly, I did pretty well, as I got the job. Although it has not been determined how many applicants they had to choose from...

Here's what I wish I could have written:
"I am interested in this position because I am flat broke. I am in need of extra cash this summer to make up for my low salary. I look forward to receiving my first paycheck."

And then, after several days into teaching summer school, you realize that it's not as great of a deal as you had convinced yourself. You've got a small class, yes, but they are a class entirely composed of low achieving, highly unmotivated students who dislike school from September to June, and are now forced to attend for another month, while all of their other friends are off at Camp Fun-n-games. Sometimes I wonder if hot pokers in the eyes would be less painful.

Payday is Monday.

Being in a teacher-y mood, I'll close today with a mathematical equation.
Solve for x in the comments section below.

summer + school = x

Windex

Why does my daughter have to watch TV with her hands?

An Exercise in Futility with a System of the American Government and an Ex-Spouse

I've been having challenges with my ex-husband. Today's post will only be in the area of getting him to pay his court-ordered child support. Although there are certainly other post-worthy topics, I'll save them for another day.

After months of little to no payment, in August 2005, I completed the Application For Nonassistance Support Enforcement Services. Fancy way of saying the ex hasn’t been paying, so I need to get the government involved. I hate it. It’s like being a kid and saying, “I’m telling!” in the grown-up world.

I dreaded having to prepare him for what I'd done, because I knew he'd be less than thrilled. He'd no longer be able to get away with little to no payments every month. And here comes the dilemma in having an altercation with someone you had been married to. Unlike trying to resolve a dispute with someone you work with, with your ex, you have an unlevel playing field to start with. He knows all of my "buttons" and weak spots. He knows how to use guilt and emotion to get to me. And he did. I stayed insistant, arguing that this way would be easier for all, as he wouldn't have to mess with wiring money to me when across the country, and I could finally stop "nagging" him as to when a payment might be coming. And he retorted with painful and pleading remarks that were accusing and hurtful.

DSHS was less than helpful. Finally, after about three months of having submitted my paperwork, and having heard nothing from them, I decided to inquire about the status of my case. (This is the government, after all, they do work in molasses - but I thought 3 months was a bit excessive). During this call, I was told that DSHS had mailed him the document informing him of the case, and that the papers had been returned, undeliverable. They informed me that until they had an address for him, they were unable to begin taking payments from his employer.

Me, I would have liked a phone call or a letter informing me that they were sitting around twiddling their thumbs, so that I could take steps to get things in motion.

My ex is now a truck driver, so he is gone for long stretches of time all over the country. When I was finally able to get a hold of him, and ask for his address, he explained that he had just moved, and could not yet remember his address.

He did give me a P.O. box number, but DSHS was unable to use that, as that does not qualify as having served an individual. The case worker explained that to get him served, the papers would either need to be sent to a home address, or an officer would need to hand him the papers in person.

Getting him served in person proved to be even more of a challenge. DSHS wanted at least two days advance notice of when he would be in town, to schedule a time to send an officer to his home. My ex conveniently has never been able to give me notice. Out of the blue, I'll receive a phone call from him, saying that he's in town for a day or two, and many times, this call comes on a Friday. By the time Monday rolls around, and I can contact the DSHS office, he's long gone, off in Colorado or Arkansas.

If I were a cynical person, I'd say he was doing a great job of avoiding the system.

Meanwhile, my case has been transferred to different locations three times. Each time I got a letter notifying me of my new case worker, I would call and explain my difficult situation, praying for a response from a fresh set of eyes on the case.

No good.

Finally, after about eight months of starting this process, I was asked to complete a payment worksheet, detailing all of the payments I have received directly from him since the order was in place. I easily provided this information, as I regularly track it in my budget.

A copy was sent to him, and upon seeing the $15,000 debt he owes in back child support, decides that I must have lied to DSHS in order to cheat the system and get more money out of him. He, of course, has not been tracking the payments he's given me, and is rightfully shocked at the sum of all of the missed payments. It adds up if you're not paying attention!

The unbelievable twist in this ridiculous story is that this information is the catylast that finally gets things moving! He contacts DSHS and he establishes a funds-withdrawl system with them, so that I can't continue to use the system to fuck him!

This is exactly what I tried to accomplish so unsuccesfully back in August!

And get this irony: my ex was right - I have been lying to DSHS. But in his favor! When he expressed frustration as our divorce finalized, that he was already behind in payments, I stated to the court that he was paid in full, to give him a fresh start. And as he was attending trucking school, and beginning his new job, I also reported that he had been making full payments.

Finally. After eleven long months, guess what I found in my mailbox?
I'm so excited, I'm going to frame it.

A Bachelorette Party from the Back of the School Bus

Question: What do teachers do when faced with throwing a bachelorette party for a colleague?
Answer: They charter a school bus!

I kept laughing and shaking my head as I approached the big yellow bus, pumping diesel fumes out of it's back end. I found it impossible to believe that we were voluntarily boarding one of the most miserable vehicles licensed to travel on the roads. (Although this time, a banquet permit had been purchased for the journey, allowing the passengers to transport and injest alcohol while enroute - something that would make field trips to the zoo with screaming third graders much more tolerable!)I took my first look at the bus driver, a large woman with a very serious look on her face as she parked the monster at the top of the driveway.

"Uh, does she know what we're doing tonight?" I asked a friend.
"I think so," the friend responded, uncertainly.

It turns out she did know, and from her opening speech covering "the rules," I knew that she would be contributing to our rambunctious evening.

"We all want to have fun tonight, and I just have a few rules that will make sure everyone has a good time.

"Sometimes, though, people can have too good of a time. If you think you might have had too much fun, please use a bag." A smattering of giggles from her passengers. She holds up a roll of plastic bags at the front of the bus. Someone decides that we may be better off passing a "just in case" bag to all of the girls on the bus.

"The second thing is: all body parts need to stay inside the vehicle. Now, I don't care what body parts you show through the windows, just as long as they stay inside the bus."

This time there's cheering and laughter.

"And lastly, please try not to leave any garbage behind on the bus." She points to where the garbage bags are located, turns back to the wheel, and we're off!

We had several stops scheduled for this adventure. The first was a little dive near our place of employment that we teachers frequent on Friday evenings (and shall remain nameless in this story, for obvious reasons). Several other teachers from our school (male teachers who were not invited on the bus) had arranged to meet us there. The guest of honor got lap dances from several teachers, both male and female, and one from an old guy wearing leather motorcycle chaps. Shots were consumed, drinks were served, and dancing had begun. When it was time to leave, we boarded our bus, said goodbye to the guys (some by flashing body parts at them), and pulled away, leaving an inflated penis balloon drifting down the road in the wake of the bus exhaust.

During our trip to Seattle, we amused ourselves by singing loudly to music, enticing drivers behind us with various body-part-revealing activities, and consuming the alcohol that we had packed. I found it to be very thrifty to drink beer on the bus, which was already purchased, rather than buying it in the bar, so I was stocking up.

About the time we were driving over the bridge, however, that ceased being a clever idea, as the pressure on my bladder increased to an unbearable level.

I was not so distracted by my discomfort, though, that I missed the flabbergasted looks on the patrons' faces at the martini bar as the school bus pulled up with loud punchy women hooting out the windows.

Our next stop, after a few martinis, was another bar downtown. It was after this visit, that we lost our first guest. She fell asleep on the bus and was not able to be roused when we unboarded for our next stop, a very "Coyote Ugly-ish" type bar.

This bar had beautiful women dancing on the bar and a mechanical bull. Needless to say, the patrons of this establishment were having a wonderful time! Our guest of honor got to consume a shot from the crotch of one of the dancers. Myself, I was having a hard time taking my eyes off the dancers, but did manage to watch a few of our party-goers have a round on the mechanical bull.

We lost a few more guests after this visit, our last stop on the trip. We wound up at a Shari's restaurant (those of us who were both awake and not feeling ill - about nine from our initial fifteen girls).

I think the best part of the whole party, though, was that next Monday morning at work, when we laughingly discussed how some of us were still recovering from the rowdy events of the evening, and the difficulty we encountered in removing the penis tattoos (you know, the kind applied with water) from our bodies.

How to Stay Fit While Saving Money on a Gym Membership

This is it, folks: "Butthead." (No, I'm not making the name up).

Imagine wearing a velcro cap on your head, while tossing balls at your opponent. You simultaneously dodge, jump, and dive to either avoid or attract balls to your head. Add to that frantic dashing around to collect balls from all corners of the room. Inevitably, you'll be laughing so hard that your abs will feel like they have done the equivalent of about 92 crunches.

Hey, Bally Total Fitness. I want my money back. This beats the hell out of the stair climber any day.

Preparations for "International Talk Like a Pirate Day"

Your Pirate Name Is...

Bloody Jenny of the High Seas

What's" Your Pirate Name?

Give it a try yourself, you little bilge rat!

Be ready to set sail the high seas on September 19 with plenty o' swashbucklin' pirate talk!

Book Report: The Kite Runner

I really don't even know why I decided to read it. I hadn't even heard of it until a good friend mentioned it in an email:

"Have you read The Kite Runner?"

That's all she said. No recommendation, no criticism, no plot synopsis. Just a question. I have great respect for this person's literary opinions. Probably more than my own. So her question certainly piqued my interest.

Anyway, I was ready for my next book.

I put the title in to the online library catalog, and came up with a novel by Khaled Hosseini that looked relatively new, and had already received quite a bit of recognition from such sources as The San Francisco Chronicle, Entertainment Weekly, the American Library Association, and, of course, The New York Times.

Upon starting the book, it seemed as if it would be a little slow, as the author spent quite a bit of time establishing the relationship between Amir and Hassan. I'm learning a few Farsi words, some Afghan traditions, and a little bit about the history of Afghanistan. But that's not why I keep reading.

The author builds in the foreboding tone right from the start, that holds me terrorized, as I anticipate the pending misfortune with every page turn. And when tragic events unfold, I'm driven forward still, because there are shocking decisions and outcomes throughout the book.

I'd love to say the book is so real, but that sounds phony, coming from someone who has not lived in oppression, poverty, or has survived conditions of war. I guess the reality that even I can relate to are the themes that are so beautifully and tragically played out:

• hungering for acceptance from others, especially family
• experiencing painful decisions
• holding yourself captive with regret

I finished the book in a pile of tears and snot. This book, the characters, and the affliction, have made a tremendous impression on me. I will not likely be able to forget this book. Yes, I'm an avid reader, and have read many books that I've loved, but it's not often that I have this dramatic of a reaction to a book. Like my friend, I want to ask people - even perfect strangers -

Have you read The Kite Runner?

I Should Have Been Voted "Most Likely to Succeed" Back in High School

Well, wasn't I surprised to find an award in my inbox this afternoon. An award! It turns out it is from ebay, for having received 10 positive feedback points. Here's how the message reads:

"As a Buyer, your star tells Sellers you're serious in your bidding activity and that sellers can count on you to follow through on your transactions in a professional and timely manner. As a Seller, your star indicates you have a track record and makes Buyers feel more at ease in purchasing items from you."

But the implied message:

"You're out of control. You're just the kind of impulsive, nostalgia-seeking client that we to have on hand here at ebay. Someone who roams the site for hours, just looking for a tempting piece of junk to bid on. It's people like you who keep ebay afloat! So, from us to you, congratulations and thank you, for providing many a dinner out for ebay sellers across the globe!"

Enjoy your drinks. I'll just sit here and finger the record that I'll never be able to hear.

Anyone else proud of the successful status I've reached?

Perhaps Now, I Can Conquer the World...

Number of sips I took from my hot chai before dumping it down the back of my leg and all over the floor of the car: 3 (and yes, it was hot)
In the CD player: Bedtime Stories for Pirates, by Captain Bogg and Salty
In the Attic: Learning some new blogging tricks

I've discovered I'm pretty good at reading directions. But I suck at discovering the obvious. And that's too bad, because that's pretty much all that is required to figure out how to work this blog I've created. Lately, I have added a few new tricks to my blogging resume. Perhaps you've noticed some of them on the way.

1. Links. In reading through other blogs, I've long admired the ability to highlight a word or phrase, which when clicked on, would magically cast your reader off to another internet location, specifically about that content. The "Blogger Help" portion here was greatly informative. I learned about the HTML characters that I needed to insert before and after my phrase of choice. Unfortunately, it took me several frustrating attempts of writing the code down, copying and pasting it into HTML mode before I discovered the handly little button atop of the window that with just one click, does all of the hard part for you. All you need to do is insert your word or phrase. Clever.

2. Pictures. I've wondered about pictures for an even longer amount of time than links. Imagine the red on my face when I discovered that just down the same row from the link button, there exists an "add image" button.

3. Site Meter. Since my first post, I have wondered about who is reading my blog. I experimented with a first site meter, that I had a little trouble with. Finally, I have made a new attempt with another site meter (see the icon at the bottom of the page that looks like a rubix cube). When clicked on, it will tell how many people are dropping in at The Attic. And I fixed it so that I won't be counted. Now I won't be my biggest fan any longer, skewing viewing data.

Watch out world, here I come!
But if there are any shortcut buttons above the text window of my life, don't count on anything radical from me for a few years.
(That sounded funnier in my head than it does now that I see it in print.)

Rooting for the Right Team

In the Attic: Watching England v. Portugal with Binta this morning.


Me: Binta, which team do you like, the red, or the white?

Binta: I like the yellow team.

Me: There is no yellow team. There's red or white.

Binta: Yes, there is. Look.

Me: No, that guy's the referee. His job is to make sure that everyone plays fair.
Me: So which team do you like best?

Binta: I love the yellow guy.

Man, I've Got to Get Out of this Ghetto

Number of tents in my living room: 0
Number of days that Binta has slept in her own bed: 1
Number of days she had spent sleeping in a tent on the floor in my living room: 129
In the Attic: I hate the apartment I live in

I already hated the place due to the excessive pounding footsteps from above, and the thick, rattling bass from a neighbor's surround sound system on high.

But now that the weather's warm, the windows are open and we're spending more time outdoors, I hate it more than I thought possible.

Our bottom-floor apartment has a back porch area, which opens up to the playground area. On selecting this unit, I noticed how ideal that would be. I could sit on the "porch," reading a book, while Binta climbed on the climbing aparatus.

I didn't know that parents basically let their kids run amok throughout the complex. As a matter of fact, I've only ever seen two other adults in the playground area supervising their kids, other than myself. I didn't anticipate being in the position of refereeing playground disputes. This is supposed to be my summer vacation away from that kind of thing!

Yesterday, I got to play the role of cranky old curmudgeon-lady, as a group of 10- to 12-year-olds was "wrestling" outside my living room window on the grass. As I stood in my kitchen, slicing a cantelope, I could see two girls with their arms and legs flailing and grabbing, open palms bitch-slapping, fists full of the other's hair, while the onlookers cheered and laughed.

I gave them a serious, "Hey, you guys are going to need to stop that!"
And their return look, that said, "God, the mean old lady has just ruined our fun."

I doubt that they stopped the "game," but at least I didn't have to look at it any more.

But maybe neglecting your kids is better than what our neighbors do. There is a family just 18 feet away from us who yells, screams, humiliates, and belittles their kids on an hourly basis. At about 10:00 AM, I can hear the first cries of some kid. It'll go like this: a high pitched wail / shriek, followed by loud crying, with an adult's voice yelling one of these selected comments:

• NO!
• You get your butt in here!
• Do you want the belt?

Followed by more crying.

All throughout the day, we get to witness the kids disobeying the adults or fighting with each other, getting reamed by the adults, shreiking and crying, and then returning to play. Rinse and repeat until about 9:00PM.

And Binta gets to see and hear all of this. The only way she wouldn't would be if I kept her indoors for the entire day. But even then, all of the sounds still seep through the open windows.

Is it any wonder, then, that last night as we packed to go to the park for a picnic and bike ride, that she threw a little fit about not wanting to ride in the car, then wanting to hold the fruit bowl on her lap, with a final throwing of my car keys on the ground?

I am now looking forward to September like never before.

So Close, Yet So Far Away

So does anyone out there even own a record player?

Do you have any suggestions for me for getting the contents from a record onto a tape or CD?

Ten years ago, this would have been a non-issue. Boy, times change quickly.

Oh, the Pandora's Box I've Opened Now

Binta: still sleeping at 9:02 AM!
Health status: Bronchitis (started on the first day of summer vacation)
In the Attic: Becoming an ebay member

For at least the past 5 years, I have been fascinated with ebay. Partly due to the ridiculous items that some people attempt to sell, and partly due to the wonderful finds available!

After first searching the site, and seeing the plethora of items that I really really didn't need, but could so easily convince myself otherwise, I made a conscious decision to refrain from getting an account of my own. This served as an effective safety catch for me, keeping me from any impulsive purchases. When Derek and I tracked down a favorite game from childhood, it was his account that we used. He also bought me an old favorite Wizard of Oz pop up book that I had as a kid. Larry, my stepdad, has since helped me purchase Braingames, which is a DVD of an HBO show from the 80's, another lost book, called Bruce's Loose Tooth, and a musical toy train that Derek used to have.

Are you noticing the pattern yet?

I find ebay to be the perfect site for me because of my need to re-connect with items from my childhood. I'm just a really nostalgic person. I'll have a vague memory pop in my head, and I'll head to ebay to see if I can find the item I remembered. I'll pine over the various pictures and item descriptions, while wishing that I had said item to caress in my hands. From time to time, I'll click the "Bid Now" button for fun, only to have the "Set up your account" page open. But, that's where it usually ends.

But one day, just a few weeks ago, it didn't end there. I completed the shockingly simple application, and now I have free reign to bid on whatever pleases me. Why did I do it? I don't know. I felt somewhat like an addict getting his fix as I officially bid on my first item: the item that opened this can of worms. What was this item that I desired to own so deeply?



Trivia Adventure.
The Fun and Fascinating Quiz Game for Kids.


Obviously, this is another item from my past. Just look at the jeans on that girl! This game has a special memory for me - I can recall one Christmas when Derek and I woke at about 6:00AM. The rule was to leave Mom and Dad alone until 9:00, so we killed about 3 hours by playing this game. I'm sure we played it on other occasions, but that's my only memory of it.

Well, I won the game and proceeded to bid on (and win) many other items, including a set of audio books for Binta (my one non-nostalgic purchase), the entire set of Houghton Mifflin readers used by my elementary school (major geek confession), and a Sesame Street record (I don't even OWN a record player, for the love of god!).

As I write this post, I'm dangerously close to winning an item that I don't even remember bidding on!

This was a bad idea. A very bad idea...

The "End of the School Year" Party

What I need to do today: pay my bills for the month
What I'll probably do instead: go get my hair cut
In the Attic: Thoughts and reflections the morning after The Party

If you're not a teacher, you're probably guessing that I'm referring to the kind of end of school party that teachers throw for their classes. Perhaps there would be some games, yearbook signing, and ice cream...

What about if I told you there was tequila, vociferous music, risque lap dances?

That's right. I'm not talking about my class party. I'm talking about the school staff variety. All across the country, during the month of June, teachers all over our nation are assembling at central locations to pour obscene amounts of alcohol down their throats, to dance wildly with each other, and to use mild amounts of profanity.

It was a great night! I had nice conversations with people that didn't involve school. I got to have an evening out without having to be a mommy. And I got to see the people I work with engage in some very deviant behaviors!

Staff parties coincide with a time of the year when the classroom is sprinkled with all sorts of bizarre student behaviors. Understandably, a teacher needs a little time out right now. For example, I had one student poke another student in the neck with a pencil. Yeah, good plan. Another student thought to come to school wearing a viking helmet and oversize sunglasses. Ri-i-i-ight. And I even had one student stare me down and completely refuse to return to his seat during a science lesson, just before he took his Fiskars to his assignment, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash.

This is the time of year, that simply making a trip to the bathroom to pee is not a good use of my time. Instead, using every available minute to keep my head above the quickly-rising water level. Firing off one email after the next to detail the recalcitrant behaviors that the little holy terrors are inflicting on the classroom. Returning phone calls to parents to explain why their child, well-below grade level, might stand to benefit from summer school classes. And of course, finding a date to have guinea pigs (yes, guinea pigs) visit the classroom somewhere between field day, assemblies, library visits, spirit days, and *gasp!* end of the year assessments.

Teachers deserve hazard pay for the entire month of June.

Instead, we schedule an end-of-the-year party, gathering around coolers loaded with beer, hooting and cheering on the dance floor, counting down to June 16.

Because after the buses pull away, and the smell of diesel is just beginning to fade, we breathe one collective sigh of relief. And as we walk back through the empty halls, suddenly Alice Cooper's eloquent anthem begins playing over the PA system.

And you thought the kids were excited for the last day of school!

Why My Doctor Will be able to Retire Early*

Friday night indulgence: calling up to have a pizza delivered
Annecdotal classroom humor: being told by a student that "sequence" is the shiny things on her jean jacket
In the Attic: The chunk of change and time that I've spent on medical issues

In the span of about one month, Binta and I have had way too many doctor visits and prescriptions to fulfill. Each time either of us sees a doctor, I have to pay a $20.00 co-pay. And with nearly each visit, they send me home with some presciption recommendations. (At the patient's cost, of course!) Today, for your reading pleasure: a blow-by-blow of our recent doctor visits.

1. On April 9, Binta's cold symptoms had spread into her eyes. She woke up with the goopy, crusty substance gluing her eyes shut. Being that it was a Sunday, we visited Urgent Care.
Co-pay: $20.00
Brotapp Liquid: $6.99
Vigamox: $30.00

2. By April 12, my prescription for my Wellbutrin had run out. And there were no more refills, unless I made a doctor visit. The visit consisted of: weighing me, asking me a few questions, and providing plenty of time to sit around and look through ESPN magazine. Instead of catching up with the world of sports, I couldn't help but wonder if it was really necessary for me (and the limited attention span of my 3-year-old daughter) to take the time (and the $20.00) to be there. Couldn't I have answered the questions over the phone? I promise I wouldn't have lied about my weight.
Well, I'd probably be within 10 pounds, anyway.
Co-pay: $20.00
Wellbutrin: $30.00

3. April 22. Now I'm sick. I am absolutely certain that I have Strep Throat. It's Saturday, so we're off to Urgent Care, again. I even see the same doctor that Binta saw 2 weeks ago. Remember how I mentioned in a previous post how hard it is to be sick when you're the single parent? (reason #4) Today was a classic illustration of that. While we waited the 55 long and painful minutes for my prescription to fill, and Binta asked when we were going to go for the 73rd time, I heard myself say, "Binta, I swear to god, if you ask me again, I am going to seriously freak out." Upon arriving home, I sat Binta in front of the TV while I unsuccessfully attempted to nap in 30 minute increments.
Co-pay: $20.00
Penicillin: $4.88
Magic Mouthwash: $9.04
Misery: immeasurable

4. By April 27, I have gone from feeling nearly 100% better, to returning to feeling completely run down again. I make an appointment to be seen, and the doctor thinks that I have a virus now, and I'll just have to "ride it out."
Co-pay: $20.00

5. Binta had an allergic reaction to a peanut M&M. She was treated with her Epipen, and told to follow up with a doctor visit. This is one appointment that I have no problem with. I arrange to take a half day off of work on May 3.
Co-pay: $20.00
Epipen Jr.: $15.00

6. Since I've already got the afternoon off, I decide to visit the doctor again myself, as my full course of antibiotics has run out, yet I still feel Strep Throaty and feverish. Every time I cough, people look at me like I just told them I think Bush is doing a really great job. This time at the doctor, I get some action. Perhaps it helped that I told her I'd either need some stronger medicine, or a recommendation of a good bridge to jump off of.
Co-pay: $20.00
Azithromycin: $10.00
Cheratussin: $2.58
Albuterol inhaler: $10.00

So, in the span of about 30 days, I have spent a whopping $238.49.Now I realize that things could be much worse, as it is for people who have long-term health issues. Believe me, I'm grateful that we only have the occasional visit to the doctor, and that each situation clears up within days of the visit. But that's just it. We usually have occasional visits. Maybe one visit every couple of months or so. When I get a year's worth all in one month, it inspires me to write a cantankerous post.

By the way. I am still coughing...

*footnote: Now I realize that each of these expenses do not benefit one single doctor. The title of this post was created to illustrate my concern of all my costs this month. So back off.

My Bad

Dear DSHS,
Sorry about that nasty remark in yesterday's post. It was uncalled for.
Sincerely,
Tiffany

P.S. Got your check in the mail today. If I were a cartoon, there'd be dollar signs in place of my pupils! Yeah, baby!

The Super Full-Time Employed Single Mommy of a Three Year Old: Exposed!

My bed: made!
Binta's bed: made!
Laundry: scattered all over the house. Oh, well...
In the Attic: What it's really like to be a single mom

What kind of post does one write when she should be at work the first day back from Spring Break, but isn't, due to the fact that her child's daycare is closed? You write The Truth About the Hard Life as a Single Parent!

Beginning, of course, with:
1. When your child's daycare is suddenly closed due to Easter Monday (or any other reason for daycare closure), you have to call in sick to stay home with your child.
2. Any time your child is sick, you must stay at home with your child.
3. Any time you yourself are sick, you hope that it is on a week day, so that you may take your child to daycare so you can take lots of drowsiness-causing medication and bury yourself under a thick pile of blankets until 4:30 PM, at which time you must go pick your child up from daycare.
4. If however, you wind up sick on a weekend (or a day your daycare is closed, like Easter Monday) you still have to feed, dress, and change diapers (or clean up potty accidents, thank god we're out of diapers now!), even though you feel like sticking your head in the disposal and turning it on.

So, as you can see, sickness of any kind causes all kinds of challenges for the single parent. Keep in mind, I have the same number of sick days as employees who are married, and employees who have no children at all. Fortunately, Binta and I have had a remarkably healthy year so far!

It's hard to get time with other adults:
5. When a guest visits you, you get about 25% of the guest's time, as your child seizes upon the new target of her attention.
6. When you go to visit a friend, you must pack a bag of activities to occupy your child while away from home. Keep in mind, however, that your child will want nothing to do with anything you packed. She will, of course, find fascination with every possible non-child proofed item in your friend's house. (Especially dangerous are your childless friends. Visits with them are an exercise in anxiety, as you pull one breakable knick-knack after another out of her hand and chase her from one uncovered outlet to the next).

Spending all of your time with a child has its challenges:
7. You crave adult conversation like warm, salted, buttery popcorn.
8. Thus, you eat a lot of popcorn.
9. You are held "captive" in your own home every night after 8:30. That's right, no going out for a latte or a pint of ice cream. After you put your kid in bed, there's no going out again until morning.
10. Sometimes you discover you need something really important, like milk for the next morning, or heartburn medication for all the popcorn you've been eating. Nope. Must wait until AM.

You find out that you're not the parent you thought you'd be, and you cease from judging other parents on their parenting decisions:
11. You use the TV as a babysitter way more than you ever thought you would.
12. You come to love Barney even more than your child, because he will guarantee you a minimum of 26 uninterrupted minutes of peace.
13. Your house is always trashed, and there never seems to be a good enough reason to clean.
14. You hear yourself snap at your child with impatience when she continues to whine or cry.
15. When you are able to stop yourself from snapping at her, it's due to the fact that you have barricaded yourself into your room, holding on to the doorknob so she can't enter. If you're in the car, you continue to talk to yourself: "I will remain calm. I am at peace." Repeat as necessary.
16. On occasion, you give in to the bribe strategy, to avoid that one last issue that you know will send you right over the edge if she decides to fight.

It's really hard to not have a second person to call in: like an understudy, a relief pitcher, or just the next runner in the relay. It's all you. All day. Every day.

You learn new things about government organizations that address child support enforcement:
17. DSHS is CRAP!

But, of course, this post would not be complete, without the biggest item on the list describing life as a single parent:

18. You get to take ALL of the credit for how cool your kid is! Every time someone comments about how cute, polite, well-spoken, clever, entertaining, and intelligent your child is, you get to smile and respond, "Thank you. I think she's pretty __________, too!" Knowing that you, all by yourself, are solely responsible for all of the wonderful things your child is learning and the close, loving relationship that you share.

And I do!

March 26

So, I haven't been around for a while. It's not that I didn't want to post. For some time now, I've been putting off posting because I wasn't convinced that I would be able to succinctly write the post(s) that've been rattling around in my head for the past several weeks. (Plus, I'm not entirely sure that anyone is even reading this other than Mom!)

I wanted to post near in mid-March, as I noticed the first signs of spring. The timing is about the same every year, but the seasonal changes always seem to come as a surprise to me. All of a sudden, discovering sunbreaks in mid-afternoon. Carrying my jacket home, rather than wearing it. Yesterday, naked tree limbs poked the sky; now, they're bursting with pink blossoms. The clean, crisp-yet-not-too-cold smell in the morning air. The sounds of birds- sweet-sounding birds, not nasty crows- on our way to school.

I had wanted to post my discovery that spring has an entirely new meaning for me now. I had formerly enjoyed the signs of life as the earth renewed itself after each winter. But now, with each sign of spring, I am assaulted with memories of what it was like the wet morning that I went to work as usual, listening to the birds, inhaling the clean air, and carrying my jacket home after just finding out that my brother was dead.

I had next intended to post The Day, imagining a post that would detail the events and emotions from start to end. Beginning with the way I woke up, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on my chest. A morning call to Dad, looking through pictures, listening to "Derek music." When Binta came into my room to find me crying, I explained that I was missing Derek. She offered such sweetly innocent words of comfort, which only intensified my pain. She told me, "If you're good, Uncle Derek might bring you a present." When I told her that he couldn't do that, because he isn't alive any more, she suggested we wake him up.

Later on in the day, she and I visited the site of his accident. I drove along the highway in the rain, searching for visual landmarks that I could remember. After finally settling on a "close enough" location, we got out and left some orange tulips that Binta had selected from the store. She asked, "Is Uncle Derek here?" And I told her that he's not, but I know she still does not understand.

Dinner was at Bahama Breeze, with Mom, Larry, and five of Derek's close friends. I love being with the guys, because they remind me so much of him. The words and phrases they use, mannerisms, and the ways they interact with one another. It's all just so "Derek." Conversation comes easy with everyone, until it inevitably shifts to the topic of cars, in which Mom and I sit back and observe. I look around the table at these fine people, enjoying the evening together, and can't help but find myself thinking about the one person who is missing from dinner. I look at how the boys are growing and changing. John has a new job, Sean has moved, and Jeremy has a new hairstyle. I imagine the time that they will have grown so much that Derek wouldn't recognize them if he saw them, and it leaves me heartbroken.

I went to sleep feeling full and empty at the same time. I reflected on the fact that in the passing of this second anniversary of my brother's death, only one person acknowledged that the anniversary was approaching. But I received no call or card on Sunday. Initially, I had feelings of disappointment and sadness, that no one thought to reach out during this time. But then, it dawned on me. It's not that no one wanted to reach out. It's that they didn't know. The rest of the world has forgotten the significance of March 26th. For everyone else, other than the little party that met around that table for dinner, March 26th was just another Sunday. But for me, March 26 (or any 26th, for that matter) brings sadness. I will never again have the luxury of enjoying the start of spring in the same way.

So, in the weeks following that evening, up until today, I have been thinking (with much guilt) about the little blog that I had been neglecting. It feels good to have given some closure to these past few weeks. I look forward to moving on from here.