Instant Gratification: Only a Few Years Away!

Number of volcanoes at last night's school science fair: 7
Reading: The Last Juror
In the Attic: How addicted are Americans to being instantly gratified?

It was time to get Binta a new bed. A "big girl" bed. After all, she had just turned three, and was still sleeping in the crib-converted-to-a-toddler bed. I figured that getting the new "big girl" bed would be a good motivator to get her out of sleeping in my bed. I searched online, and found the ideal bed at IKEA. It was the bed that I would have chosen, had I been a kid again. The bed is assembled at a mid-loft height, with ample space underneath to fill with storage needs, or leave open for additional play space. It featured a blue tent-like canopy covered with twinkling stars, that arched over the head end of the bed. The bed was perfect in every way.

So I packed Binta up and headed to IKEA, luring her to the car with the "We're going to buy you a Big Girl Bed!" She excitedly came along. Once at the store, we followed the IKEA maze to locate the Kid's department. And there it was. Just as beautiful and perfect as I had imagined it.

Although I didn't imagine it having a tag attached saying, "Temporarily Oversold."

What exactly does that mean, anyway?

Well, according to the IKEA associate, it means that we're not taking the bed home today. I quizzed the young woman on exactly how long it would take to get the bed.
"Four weeks," she said.

I was baffled as to how something like this could happen in America.

Instantly, I began reflecting on the numerous examples in our lives of being instantly gratified with whatever one needs in our country.

• Fast food providers on every block.
• Instant credit, no money down, and all of the other sales lures that allow you to take home merchandise that you cannot afford.
• Cash advance shops that will give you money so you don't have to wait until your next payday.
• DVDs have replaced VHS tapes, so now we don't even have to wait the several moments for the tape to rewind.
• Cars come equipped with TVs, so we don't have to wait to get home to drug ourselves with our favorite programs.
• Digital cameras - why wait for developing? You don't even have to wait and fret about if your eyes were closed or not.
• We don't have to wait until we're home to take a phone call. Cell phones allow us the luxury of answering in the middle of a meeting or a movie.

I came here to get a bed. And you're telling me I have to wait? So, I did what anyone else would have done. I searched around the store for a different bed. One that was not temporarily oversold. Unfortunately, after trying out all of the other beds in my mind, I came to the conclusion that I could not substitute the perfect bed with one that was in stock. I ordered the loft bed, left my contact information, and turned to leave.

The worst part of the experience was yet to come. Now, I had to explain to my child that we were not going to be getting the Big Girl bed today that I had promised. I told her that this store didn't have any Big Girl beds. Only Little Girl beds.

I think our culture is in bad shape, friends, if waiting is the biggest thing we have to fret over.

A Letter to My Neighbor

Schoolwork I need to do today: parent newsletter (god, how I hate writing those!)
Last haircut: yesterday (after 6 months!)
In the Attic: The damn car alarm that continues to wake me up...

Dearest Neighbor,

I hope this letter finds you well and fully rested, although I fear that it won't. I imagine that you are suffering from lack of sleep due the stress of having such a valuable car parked outside at night.

I haven't checked my Kelly Blue Book to determine what must be the actual value of a beautiful car like yours, but I can only imagine they must run in the tens of thousands, with the extreme precautions you must take to keep your car from the masses of thieves that run amok in our neighborhood. What a terrible burden for a person like yourself to have to carry.

But it can't be just the stress alone keeping you from getting your beauty sleep. I'm sure that every time that alarm goes off, and you have to jump out of bed to scare away the potential car thief, it's probably tough to relax yourself and get back to sleep. Heart pounding; adrenaline racing; your breathing quick and shallow. I could understand if it happened once in a while, but several times every night is just an unbelievably high number of potential thefts.

Oh, pardon me! I didn't mean to suggest that each close call was unbelievable. No, certainly not! I saw the look in that elderly lady's eye as she passed by your car. A little too close, if you catch my drift. No, she'll have the law enforcement believing that she was "just innocently passing by your car," but you and I know her true intent. And if a little old lady is capable of such crime, imagine all of the others. I'm fully aware that your alarm is just sensitive enough to determine the motive behind the passerby. I've literally witnessed a triggering of the alarm simply because a person breathed inappropriately near your car. No physical contact was made at all! Now, that's an impressively effective car alarm!

I, too, have the alarm routine memorized. From the initial whirling sounds, to the pulsing siren, to the final high-low tones, each of them cry out for your rescue. And your subtle technique of defending your car is so fantastic, that I frequently don't even see a hint of you when I'm peering out between my blinds.

Well, my friend, my only wish for you is that you could one day enjoy a lifestyle that would allow for a full night's sleep, uninterrupted by the alarm of your car reminding you that everyone here in our neighborhood (with exception of yours truly!) is just waiting for you to take down your guard long enough to get their hands on your precious vehicle.

Sincerely,
your neighbor

A Brief History of My Name

Number of social activities ruined by a Binta-meltdown this week: 1
Plans for Sunday: I'll actually be watching the Seahawks football game
In the Attic: What is it like having Tiffany for a name?

When I was growing up in small-town Great Falls, Montana, there was a little shop on Central Ave. called "Tiffany's Attic." I believe they sold little trinkets, knick-knacks, and other small ornamental objects. But I really can't remember for sure. Which is strange, because one would think that a store bearing my name in the mid 1980's would be high on my list of favorite places to go.

You see, the name Tiffany was not all that common back when I was younger. In fact, my parents deliberately chose the unusual name of Tiffany, because of our common surname: Smith. They wanted something very unique that would contrast the blandness. I can appreciate that effort - I feel that they were quite successful. I never had to be Tiffany S. in my elementary classes, I frequently have the freedom of simply signing my name as "Tiffany," without adding my last name. Evidently, at one point, Mom and Dad had considered the name Celeste as one of their candidates. Eew! I am more than thankful that they opted for the other one. Plus, "Celeste's Attic" has no where near the same fluidity as "Tiffany's Attic." (Which is something that downtown store owner in Great Falls was acutely aware of!)

While I can currently appreciate the thoughtfulness that went in to the selection of my name, I was not so understanding when I was a child. Back in the 1980's, It was common for retailers to provide pins, T- shirts, key chains, and other merchandise bearing male and female names. Obviously, they did some marketing research beforehand, and in an attempt to be efficient in their expense costs, marketed to the widest population possible by printing the most common names.

When I was 8, however, it just felt like "The Man" was singling me out.

I remember spinning the display racks in vain, gazing through all of the Jennifers, Amys, and Kims. Wishing so badly that I had been named Lisa, so I could have a miniature Montana license plate with my name spelled across it. I would have taken the name Jessica, so I could buy the package of rainbow pencils with letters in gold. Nothing ever had the name Tiffany. The closest I could get was Tracy, and only on occasion.

Until one fateful day, when I happened upon a display of one-inch white heart pins with a rainbow arching across it. Printed clearly, in all capital letters, you guessed it: TIFFANY.

I wore that pin proudly until junior high school, when that kind of jewelery no longer remained cool.

One would guess that one benefit of having a name like Tiffany would be that it is a difficult name to make fun of. Sadly, you'd be wrong. Throughout elementary school, highly creative boys were still able to develop names like "Tiff-a-nanny-goat" and "Tiff-my-fanny." But the most offensive nickname came from... well, me. You need to understand, the name Tiffany is a mouthful for a 2-year-old, so saying my name came out sounding like "Tit-ninny." Now when my friends from college found out that tasty secret, they grabbed hold of it like a 1983 mom getting her hands on a Cabbage Patch doll. They abbreviated the name, however, and in that social circle, I am simply known as "Tit."

Those friends from college had an interesting first impression of my name, however. My freshman roommate shared with me that upon reading the letter from the housing department telling her that her new roommate would be a girl named Tiffany, they conjured up an image of a snotty, well-dressed princess. Imagine their surprise when a shy punk rock girl with a shaved head and combat boots showed up.

For a while, my dad tried calling me "TJ." But that just didn't fit me, so it didn't stick. I am frequently called "Tiff" by others, but the person who did it the best was my brother. I don't remember him ever calling me Tiffany. When he was little, his speech problems made my name sometimes sound like "Chiff." I was asked once if he was from Boston. I figured that it was a little ridiculous to ask, since I obviously had lived in Great Falls since birth.

That little shop in Great Falls is no longer there. But it certainly provided me with some satisfaction of seeing my name printed somewhere other than the top of a spelling test. And, of course, it was the inspiration behind the name of the blog you have just read.

Blog Apologies and Confessions

Number of papers graded yesterday: 216
Number of papers still needing grading: 240
In the Attic: Sorry 'bout that last post...

If you have been a regular reader, I'd like to assure you that my mood has severely changed for the better since last posting. Most likely cause: the tiny white pills that my doctor prescribed for me a couple of weeks ago. I've been highly reluctant with trying an anti-depressant for a couple of reasons. The first reason is that I have 42 real, tangible reasons for my depression. A pill will not be able to make Binta have less meltdowns (although I am certainly on the lookout for that pill!) , or make my money problems disappear, or bring my brother back. The other reason is, I'm skeptical about a pill actually being able to alter my emotional state. When taking anti-depressants before, I have noticed an improvement, but always wondered in the back of my mind if I'm feeling better due to the meds, or because I know I'm taking a pill that's supposed to make me feel better, and therefore, (surprise!) feeling better. And paying $30 a month for the placebo effect is not in my budget right now. But on the suggestion of others, I did return to the doctor, and I am once again giving the anti-depressant a go.

And this time, I'm more confident that it is working.

First indication was being able to get out and wash the car. On any other day, an overwhelming task that I was not willing to consider. But last week, I took a large box out to the car, and told Binta to put every toy that she still wants into the box. That took an incredible amount of time, as each time she unearthed a forgotten toy, she'd want to play with it for a while. So while she was excavating, I was working my way around the inside of the car with a rag and cleaner, wiping away chocolate fingerprints, muddy footprints, and sticky apple juice. We finished up at the same time, and drove over to the car wash to vacuum out the inside. And, even though it was totally raining, we drove through the car wash to finish it off. Anyone who had seen my car prior to the search and rescue mission knows how difficult of a task that had been for me.

Other indications include:

1. Having more fun and more energy my first week back in the classroom.
2. Getting started on that massive stack of grading that had built up.
3. Realizing that there are not really 42 stressors in my life, but more like 4 0r 5.
4. Wanting to post to my blog more often.

Which leads me to my confession:

A nasty part of my mind has convinced me that I shall not blog unless I have a really significant topic, that will result in a lengthy piece of writing. Although, looking back, I realize that my past posts do not all fit that description, the pressure remains. Blogging has developed into this pressure, rather than a pasttime. So I am vowing to return to the regular blogging that I initially intended. Whether the reader finds it interesting or ho-hum, and whether it is lengthy or short.

As for now, however, I have some grading to get to...

"So, How Was Your Winter Break?"

On my nightstand: Let's Go, Froggy, by Jonathan London and Funshine in the Sunshine, by Jay Johnson
For dinner: microwaved enchilada (from Friday night) and Chicken flavored Rice-a-Roni
In the Attic: Returning to work after Winter Break

It's such a loaded question, really. People want to hear you tell tales of great family time, fabulous Christmas gifts, and lots of relaxation and overall merriment. I rehearsed my response this morning while in the shower:

"Fine. How was yours?"
This tactic would get the attention away from me and onto the questioner. That seemed like a good strategy, until I realized that I really didn't want to hear my colleagues tell me about the unexpected generous gifts from their husbands, or the time they spent in the Bahamas, or the Christmas dinner for 23 that they had to prepare. So I quickly revised my response to this:
"Fine." (forced smile, with attempts not to appear fakey)

And that seemed to work, well, just fine.

What I would have liked to tell them is that I had a pretty crappy break. Beginning with my boyfriend breaking it off just days before Christmas. Around that time, I also received notification from a collection agency who wanted me to settle an old debt of my ex-husband's. They were going to be helping themselves to the money by garnishing my paycheck. Of course, Christmas shopping was a miserable experience. Something about standing at the checkout counter holding your breath hoping that your account will be accepted tends to take the zip right out of the holiday jubilee. And finally, spending 10 days alone with a 3-year-old who had several meltdowns pretty much eliminated any relaxing that I would have enjoyed.

Oh, and holidays in general have lost a lot of the fun ever since I lost my brother.

But people don't want to hear that when they ask the question. They want to exchange stories of festivities and indulgence. It's a formality, a way to re-connect after a week and a half apart. So I knew well enough to keep a polite smile on my face, and to respond with just enough of a dream-like tone, so I sounded sincere.

Happy New Year

Number of empty champagne bottles abandoned on the side of the road: 4
Number of days left of vacation: 2
In the Attic: Am I hating the holidays too much?

Last night was New Year's Eve. We spent it at Kerry Park in Seattle. On a normal day, one would have a pretty good view of the Space Needle from this park. But when there are hundreds of other people there for the same reason you are, the view gets trimmed down quite a bit. I spent the festivities with Binta up on my shoulders, while I watched the fireworks display through some guy's camera phone, being held in the air, directly in front of my view.

At about 15 minutes to midnight, I suddenly remembered why I don't care so much for New Year's Eve. The horns, the loud boisterous talk, and the stumbling of happy drunk people can be very irritating when you yourself have not been drinking. At one point, a quickly-moving, excited drunk tripped over the front tire of Binta's jogging stroller, causing it to pop out of place. Working on repairing it in the dark with other unstable people surrounding me was precarious work. And it pissed me off.

I feel like I'm nothing but a holiday curmudgeon lately. Looking back at my other posts, I see I'm finding something to gripe about with nearly every holiday tradition this year. The only thing that kept me observing any holiday traditions this year was knowing that Binta deserved to have nice holidays. But my heart was not in any of them. I would have been more than fine with pulling the covers up over my head and hibernating until January 9. (Skipping, of course, birthdays for me and Derek).

I found myself thinking of Derek last night. Specifically, last time I viewed the fireworks from Kerry Park. Derek had just arrived in Seattle after watching his best friend die on Christmas Day, only hours before they were to climb on a plane and spend several days here in Seattle. They had big plans for being in downtown Seattle on New Year's Eve. "It's The Millenium, Tiff," Derek kept telling me, like it was impossible for him to understand why I would choose to do anything less than wild and radical on this significant date. I remember being so worried about the boys' agenda for New Year's, as I was anticipating mass panic and chaos due to the Y2K hype. (Remember how the media built that up?) I didn't think it was a good idea for Derek and Brad to be down in Seattle, caught up in all of the excitement and action. And danger.

I didn't know I needed to worry instead about them enjoying some jumps in Brad's jeep up behind Dad's house. That when Derek was through taking pictures of Marty and Brad racing around in the jeep, Derek would wave his arm to signal the boys to return to pick him up, as they had that plane to catch. I didn't know that Brad would turn the wheel too sharply, sending the jeep over in a roll, and he would be thrown from the vehicle, directly underneath the roll bars. Derek would later tell me about images that were permanently imprinted in his memory of seeing Brad pinned there, and how it felt to stand by and watch him die.

So six days later, it was New Year's Eve. Or "The Millenium," as Derek had referred to it. I was going to a small party with some friends who lived on Queen Anne hill. I knew it would be pretty quiet and in control, far enough removed from "the action" of the city. Derek was sitting on the couch when my friends arrived, and I pleaded for him to come with us. I couldn't bear the thought of my little brother sitting there, staring at the TV, all alone on New Year's Eve while the rest of the world was out drinking, blowing horns, and welcoming the turn of the century.

But what I didn't realize, is that Derek couldn't bear the thought of celebrating a new year without Brad. He couldn't bear the thought of celebrating anything, for that matter. Sitting on the couch staring blankly at the TV, going outside for an occasional cigarette, and falling asleep well before midnight was the only way he could cope with the holiday.

But now I understand all too well. And if I had had the choice, that's probably what I would have chosen last night. It felt wrong last year to cheer in 2005, knowing I was leaving Derek behind in 2004. And I felt the same emotions surging last night as I watched 2006 approach. Realizing that an entire year, all of 2005, had come and gone, and Derek had not seen one day of it.

A Visit with Santa and a Cup of Humbug

For breakfast: Homemade French Toast (Binta insisted on an Eggo waffle instead)
Next book I'm planning to read: Treasure Island
In the Attic: What the hell has happened to the Santa tradition in our country?

Today we went to visit Santa. Here's what I thought it would be like:
Binta would sit on Santa's lap and he'd engage her in a conversation including what her name is, whether she has been good or bad this year, and what she'd like for Christmas. I'd snap a few photos, and he'd give her a candy cane.

Or rather, that's what it was like 20 years ago when I was a kid and visited Santa each Christmas. I projected those memories onto what today might be like. Turns out, I was way off. Our culture has made quite a diversion from that picture in the course of the past few decades. Here's how things have changed:

First of all, some photography studio has evidently stepped in and decided to claim all the rights to take the Santa/child photos. I don't know when that happened, but everyone around me was acting like it was perfectly normal! Packages ranged from $25 to $50, and these people were paying it! I was not even allowed to pull my camera out of my purse, when it came to our turn. In order to use their Santa, I had to hand over the joy of snapping my child's picture to some kid in an elf suit. And in order to take one 5 X 7 home with me, I had to fork over $14.13.

Kids were not the only ones using Santa's Photoshop. Grown up children, adults, even entire families were having their pictures taken with Santa. The last time I had my picture taken with Santa was when I was about 10. And go figure: around that same time, I stopped believing in Santa. When I was 11, he became just some strange old man dressing up in a Santa suit. And it became inappropriate for me to spend time posing for pictures with him. When I look back at the pictures of me and my brother sitting with Santa, I can tell that we really think we are in the presence of a magical being who will bring us toys based on reports of our good behavior. Derek looking up at him with wide, awestruck eyes. Those pictures are magical. But why would a 17-year-old with a thong hanging out of her pants want to sit on Santa's lap? That's just plain creepy. And the family pictures. Sure, I'm totally for people having family pictures taken for the holidays. It just so happens that there are plenty of photography studios in the area who will do just that. And there won't be a strange old guy dressing up like a fictional character in the picture with you. And anyway, you're holding up the line for the kids who do believe in Santa!

Which brings me to the wait. We stood in line for 1.75 hours for the total event (including waiting to have our picture printed for us). Don't get me wrong, I knew there would be some amount of a wait. But during this extended period, I got to witness all kinds of miserable parenting strategies and ill-behaved children. What is the matter with a child who will misbehave right in the vicinity of Santa Claus? When I was a kid, all it took was the mention of Santa, and the fact that "Santa's watching" to keep me in line. Now, parents are bribing their kids to behave during the wait to see Santa! How backwards is that?

Finally, there was Santa himself. This guy was the most lifeless, boring Santa I've ever seen. Our Santa sat on his bench and passed off the kids, smiling simply for the pictures, and barely even speaking to them. Come on, Santa's supposed to be lively and jolly! We should hear his "Ho, ho, ho!" echoing through the whole mall! I know the guy's tired; has had a million people visiting him. Perhaps we should restrict Santa visits for small children who still believe, if the old man is going to get that tuckered out. Put out a lifesize cardboard image of him for people who just want his pretty face.

Christmas still comes only once a year. Glad that's the same.

Saturday Night at Starbucks

Number of days of school cancelled due to snow: 1 (so far)
Month showing on my calendar: November
Number of days since Binta saw her dad: 94
In the Attic: Remembering the freedom of pre-single-parenthood

Actually, Binta's dad showed up on Thursday at 6:00 PM. So I have been kid-less for about 2 days and 3 hours. He hasn't been here since the end of August. I cannot even begin to describe the joy and freedom I am experiencing right now. I'm not sure how much more time I get before he has to leave again. I don't dare call to find out how things are going. As far as I'm concerned, I think perhaps they've forgotten about me, and I certainly don't want to got stirring up any attention to myself. My strategy: Lay low.

I love my daughter, don't get me wrong here. She is without a doubt the coolest kid I've ever known. (Cliche alert) She is the best thing in my life and I love her more than anything in the world.

But.

Being a single mother for 94 days in a row has worn me down to complete and total exhaustion. So bad, so that when faced with the reality that I was actually kid-less, I didn't know what to do. I knew I did NOT want to do anything that feels like an obligation. Like clean house, or get some school work done. Nope. I can do those things with her playing in the background. What I was faced with was complete freedom from being a responsible parent. I needed to fill my time with things that I could not get away with as a mommy. So, I spent the entire day yesterday with my boyfriend, and this morning, when I woke up, I was still at his house. I didn't need to hurry anywhere to relieve a babysitter from duty. Instead, I went to Walmart, and spent 2 whole hours walking up and down every aisle. I even walked through the sporting/hunting aisle, just because I could. Normally, if I were shopping with Binta, I would have a list planned out ahead of time, and a strategy in place that would incorporate the shortest walking distance in combination with avoiding any hazzards, such as toy aisles. We would get in and out as quickly as possible, before she expired and I had to haul her out throwing a fit.

Next, I went home and spent hours getting myself addicted to a new computer game. I dressed myself in comfy clothes and put on my slippers. I didn't have to cook anyone any dinner, I didn't have to put up with the sounds of Barney in the background, and I didn't have to feel guilty for not playing with her.

Around 7:30, I realized that I had another freedom that I had overlooked. I could leave the house if I wanted. I could actually walk out my front door and leave my house! There was no little girl sleeping in her bedroom. (Actually, lately, she spends more time sleeping in my bedroom). I knew I had to go out, just because I could. So I got dressed again, bundled up into my scarf and gloves, and scraped ice off my car, just because I had to exercise my freedom to do so. With the latest David Sedaris book in hand, I drove to the corner Starbucks, ordered a warm drink, and spent the next hour and a half sitting by myself in a soft, oversized purple chair.

I started reading my book, but became fascinated with the others that surrounded me. I fantasized coming home and describing the other customers in a very Sedaris-ish manner. But knowing damn well that it wouldn't even be close.

There were the 2 guys who looked like they were about my brother's age, and appeared to be working on some sort of homework assignment. (Homework? On a Saturday night? What was with these guys?) They were working out some sort of problems, defining characters from their reading, when one suggested that this particular character was the "tragic hero." They both thought that was hilarious. Then, the conversation shifted to another classmate, described as "...actually very smart. He won the Bill Gates Scholarship. He's great at math."

The Starbucks barista came around at this time, gently telling the patrons that they'd be closing in about 10 minutes. My drink was long gone by this time. The guys looked so disappointed. "Where are we going to go now?" they asked. The barista gave them directions to another Starbucks, which evidently stayed open later. They gathered up their things and left, and as I was doing the same, I overheard a mother say to her child:

"I told you, Mommy doesn't like you to call her that name. Mommy's going to have to tell Santa if you call her that name again."

Yes, I was tempted to ask her what he called her. But instead, I drove off thinking what a perfect ending that was to my child-free day.

Trick-or-Treat

Surviving Halloween tradition: Watching The Wizard of Oz
Favorite Halloween memory: Sorting my trick-or-treat booty on the living room floor
In the Attic: Observing my first Halloween with my own daughter

So I've been off trick-or-treating for many years now. I'm 31, after all. I was explaining to my uncle yesterday that trick-or-treating is one of those things you need to voluntarily decide to give up because you accept the fact that you're too old. It's not cut and dry like that "You must be this tall to ride" indicator outside the gate to the roller coaster. Somewhere around 12, 13, or 14, you realize that it is an activity for little kids. More friends are dropping off each year. Except you don't really want to give it up! You fight it! Hence, you will still see 16- and 17-year-olds at your door asking for candy. Sure, they either don't dress up at all, or else will dig up an old mask from some year before. It's their way of saying, "I know I'm too old for this little kid game, but I can't let go of it."

I have memories of trooping around the neighborhood with a handful of friends and no parent chaperone. It was completely normal to be unsupervised. We would hurry ourselves through a painful dinner, with the doorbell ringing every 5 minutes, worrying that all the candy would be gone if we didn't get ourselves out there in the game soon. Excitedly, we finally got dressed up, and took off carrying a plastic jack-o-lantern with which to hold our loot. I can remember learning about centrifugal force when a seventh-grader snatched it away from me and whirled his arm around like a windmill on speed and I didn't lose one piece of candy. We'd go up and down the streets until we were supposed to report home. We could have gone all night.

I've taken full advantage of Binta being too young to understand Halloween traditions. She's 3, and has never experienced trick-or-treating. She's worn a costume each year, but only because they were given to me for free. She's seen references to trick-or-treating on TV, in books, and most importantly, from other kids. She's on to it.

Here are Binta's past costumes (in order):

1. leopard costume (2 months old): A hand me down thing that zipped up the front and had a hood with tiny ears and a little tail coming from the rear. Adorable.
2. Husky cheerleader(1 year old): Borrowed from a friend. We even taught Binta how to pose.
3. Tigger(2 years old): Another hand me down. Similar to the leopard, but more Tiggerish.

This year, I asked her what she wanted to be. I was fully prepared to purchase this costume. Her response was: Queen.

I checked online, and found a nice queen costume for $30.00. I was hoping I wouldn't be spending that much, so I kept searching. I found a very nice princess costume, for only $20.00. That seemed more reasonable. They're both royalty, so I figured she wouldn't see any difference. I called her to the computer and said, "How do you like this queen costume?" Her response: "I don't want to be a princess. I want to be a queen."

Costume #4. Queen (3 years old): Red crushed velvet (fake) with a gold collar and gold crown. Her posture immediately changes when she puts it on and she walks around slowly, saying, "Yes, Your Majesty," and "Thank you, Your Majesty."

So I guess tomorrow we'll be off, walking the neighborhood, knocking on strangers' doors and accepting food items from people we don't know. When I was the kid, it seemed like so much fun. I guess that's nature's way of insuring that people eventually give up the tradition. I'll be looking forward to my annual trek to Oz when we return home.

Spiderweb Woman

Strangest thing found today: little caterpillar curled up in the bottom of my laundry basket
Number of days since my last haircut: 134
In the Attic: What is it like to discover you're a superhero?

Every morning, I drive 30 minutes to get to school. Yesterday, during my drive, I counted 73 spiderwebs! I'm certain I actually saw more, because I had seen quite a few by the time I said to myself, "Wow, I'd better keep count of the massive number of spider webs I'm seeing." I guess what makes that number so impressive is than on a normal day, I never see any spiderwebs! But yesterday, I saw spiderwebs absolutely everywhere. Most of them were suspended high up above the road, between the black power lines. Others were stretched between a tree limb and a road sign, and I found some neatly clinging between the slats of wooden fences. It was like I couldn't not see them everywhere I looked!

I know that there is probably a reasonable, scientific explanation as to why I saw so many spiderwebs this particular morning. It probably had something to do with a formula including the morning dew that had settled with the bright early morning sunshine. But I preferred to think of it as some sort of spiderweb sensing x-ray vision that allowed me (and only me) to see all of these spiderwebs as I sped past. "Pow! There's one in a tree! Pow! There's one by the mailbox!" I would think to myself.

I am Spiderweb Woman, the Great Seer of Spider Silk.

Surely, I can use this super power, this gift, to save and improve the suffering of mankind in some way. But alas, today, while I drove to school, I was saddened to notice than my powers were gone. Either the spiders have all packed up and moved on or my gift has expired. I guess it's better this way, because I never did work out how this super power was going to save the world.

And besides, what would I wear?

Field Trip to the Local Jail

Time that Binta woke up: 5:36 AM
Time she woke up after I rubbed her back and coaxed her back to sleep: 7:11 AM
Number of times I played hooky this week: one
In the Attic: Are we all just one bad decision away from messing up our lives?

I'm not sure if it was playing hooky in the true sense, as my motivation was partly physical and partly mental. The cold from last week (my "partly physical" excuse) is holding on, but making me miserable only upon first waking. Then it's gone until the next morning. So in that sense, I really didn't need to miss school. The other half of my excuse, the "partly mental" break was needed without question.

Calling in sick is so easy. Actually, it's done online, so there is no need to fake a raspy-sounding explanation to someone at the other end of the phone. It's done very quickly - just plug in the day, hit "Submit Absence," and you're set! At any time of the day, I'm just a few clicks away from reporting an absence for the next working day. Yes, that's very dangerous.

I got up as usual, took Binta to daycare, and returned home to start working on the "search and rescue" mission in my living room. I found a total of seven drier sheets in the piles of clean laundry. (Hmmm... I did 3 loads last week, and three loads the week before. That means some of the clean laundry has been crumpled on my living room floor for at least 3 weeks.) I vacuumed, spot-treated the carpet, piled Binta's toys into her bedroom, and looked back with great satisfaction at the house of structure and order that I was once again proud to live in.

It turned out to have been a good day to stay home. Last Sunday, a friend of mine and I made plans to meet for lunch. After waiting a half an hour for her, I called her cell phone, only to hear an unknown man's voice say, "She's not available right now." I explained that we had plans to meet, and asked where I could reach her, and he repeated, definitely holding something back, "She's just not available right now."

I was so stunned to have such a weird conversation, that I didn't think to press him, or even ask who he was. I just hung up feeling a little confused and stood-up. In previous conversations, she had mentioned that things were "really messed up right now" so I waited anxiously to hear from her, as this missed date had to be a result of the really bad things that were going on with her.

During my "sick day", I discovered an email from her. It said she was sorry that she hadn't been able to get in touch with me, but she had been in jail.

What?

How does someone I know, another teacher with a Masters Degree, living in a beautiful suburban neighborhood with houses the color of slate and cream, with a daughter the same age as mine, wind up spending the weekend in the Pierce County jail?

We arranged to meet for lunch that day. (Aren't I glad that I'm not at work?) We sat down in a booth at Red Robin while cheerful waiters and servers wove in between tables and each other and a nearby table packed with jocund conversation bounced around the dining room intermixed with the clatter of dishes and laughter. I looked at my friend, hair and makeup beautifully done, and stylishly dressed, as if she was headed to a job interview, as she confessed to me that she had had an affair with a guy from work. (bad decision #1) She told her husband, who wasn't happy. (probably the right thing to do, but added to the mess) He proceeded to "share" this information with the family and every friend of theirs that he could get in touch with. In addition, he cut her off financially, so that she is now living in an Extended America with no money in sight until the end of the month. In anger, late Thursday night, (bad decision #2) she went to the home to pick up her daughter, only to be told by her husband that she could not take her. She attacked her husband (bad decision #3) and used a pie cutter (yes, a pie cutter, we laughed for a moment) to cut her wrists. (bad decision #4).

The police wound up getting involved, and even though her husband had no injuries that needed medical attention, she was taken into custody and placed on suicide watch.

The story is dramatic and exciting, and has all the ingredients for a good Lifetime movie. What was even more fascinating was watching my friend move from shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders, acknowledging her guilt, to sniggering about her ridiculous behavior and shameful loss of self control. Each time that she mentioned her daughter, with the thought of not being allowed to see her girl, however, her eyes darkened, her lips began to quiver, and her eyes brimmed with tears, sometimes spilling down her face creating a stripe of mascara on her cheek.

She tells me what it was like sitting in jail, believing that she had lost absolutely everything, wanting to die. She tells me of every suicidal strategy she explored while she was left alone in her cell, from trying to suffocate herself with the garment she was forced to wear, to using the restraining order that she was served to cut into her wrists again. My friend then describes the woman who checked on her, talked to her, and helped her find a tiny bit of strength. The woman offered her a book to read, which she ended up reading 5 times. My friend credits this woman and that book, together, for saving her life. Somewhere, in the mess of the Pierce County Jail cell that she was in, she began to feel a force, like a spirituality. A sense of clarity entered, allowing her to refocus. Her defeated energy was transformed into a positive push of energy she used to do crunches and running.

Our lunch date would only last one hour, for she had an appointment with her school district to see if she still had a job. After that, she would be pawning her wedding ring for additional cash to get her through the month. I drove back to my house, replaying the events through my mind, remembering the last time I had seen her, one month ago, when I had been admiring her life. It seemed that through a series of bad decisions, she had severly diverged from the direction she had been headed. And it terrified me to think about how easily one could dart off the road, dipping onto a path headed for disaster.

Pornograpy, Quilting, and Wedding Rings

Piles of laundry: 3 dirty, 2 clean, and 1 unknown (will just treat it as dirty)
Most recently watched movie: Finding Nemo
In the Attic: So who the hell is going to read this, anyway?

I've checked my blog around 11 times since posting the first one yesterday. (That's a low estimate. I have not actually kept a count of the number of times I've checked it. I'm certain it's higher, but don't really want to confess it.) I'm finding I'm thinking about my blog several times an hour. I wonder about who's reading it and I plan out the content of future postings. The emotional response to becomming a new "blogger" is just like getting your first boyfriend, when all of your thoughts revolve around what he may be doing and when you'll next see each other. Wanting to call him all the time. (But knowing you shouldn't.) So I guess I've realized a little love affair with my new blog medium. I'm sure it's simply puppy love, and that, just like any relationship, the newness will wear off over time, and posting will become a chore, as my blog and I become more comfortable with each other. Soon we'll be telling each other, "I feel like I don't even know you any more. What happened to the blog I once fell in love with?"

First thoughts immediately after posting Blog #1: Is it really out there in cyberspace? Is it really out there, available for anyone to read? Or is it just something that registers only on my computer from home? UPDATE: I now have verification from an outside source that it has registered on a number of other computers. It is, in fact, out there.

Next thoughts: If it really is accessible to anyone, than who in the world would want to read it? Sure, I've notified a circle of family and friends to be on the watch, (and even they are questionable!) but other than them, who would want to read this blog, and what's more, how would they come across it? Google searches from a 15-year-old boy looking for free pornography? A 50-year-old woman searching for quilting patterns? A newly engaged couple hunting for platinum wedding rings? I suppose there's a chance, now that I've placed those key words on my site. But unlikely, I know.

Current thoughts: What if I want to vent about a person, and that same individual reads my blog and identifies him or herself in my post? Guess I should have thought of that before notifying "the circle" that I'd be here... But I can't imagine not sharing my new hobby with them. Hmmm.... How do other bloggers handle this?

This morning, when I checked my blog, and it was still here, I found my first comment! What delight! What elation! Unfortunately, it turned out to be a spammy comment, however, advertising a gas card. So I deleted it. Not because the content had absolutely nothing to do with my post, but because of the principle that if someone wants to post a comment, he should at least have the decency to read my posting first. I felt slightly deflated at the thought that the only one to come across my blog was a computer. A computer, who didn't even bother to read my post.

I guess the moral of the story is that, whether or not a human being is actually reading my writing, it's the chance that someone might read it that is fueling me to continue. And for now, that is providing just enough difference from journaling in a regular old Word Document to keep me going with the blog.

The First Blog

Hours of unrestful sleep: 8.5
Number of loads of dishes it will take to clean the kitchen: currently 2 (but could be more)
In the Attic: What does one write on a first blog?

I'm experiencing the beginnings of a cold. All night, I slept/woke with my mouth wide open, because air passage through my nostrils was blocked. So when my daughter finally woke me up at 7:30 AM, my lips and throat were parched. I needed a good drink of water before I could even form my first sentence. In one piece of my dream, I remember I was apologizing to someone for my snoring.

Binta's typical Saturday begins with Disney Playhouse. She's a big fan of the Wiggles, and I have to confess, so am I. On occasion, I've been known to put a Wiggles CD on even if she were not around. I know, it's sick.

My Saturday began with Step Up to Writing, by Maureen E. Auman. (I know, that's REALLY sick!) Our school district has newly adopted this writing program, and we spent yesterday with no students, receiving training on the program. It is district inservices like these that bring to my attention how hard it is to sit and listen for 8 consecutive hours. Although we did receive an hour (yes, that's 60 whole minutes!) for our lunch. Such a luxury when you live in a world where your 30 minute lunch ends at exactly 1:05, whether or not you've finished eating or made it to the bathroom. Anyway, I picked up the "Classroom Reproducibles" manual, returned to my cozy bed, and thumbed my way through it. However, one thought kept reoccuring to me as I looked through all of the clever, cutesy diagrams and images.

This summer, I joined a single parent website, in which I met one individual in Australia who wrote particularly well. We developed a summer relationship through email correspondence, sharing bits and pieces of our personal histories with each other. My writing took on a fervor that I hadn't identified since my poetry writing back in high school. For the past 10 years or so, I've desperately wanted to sit down and write about the little and big things that go on in my life. But the thought of turning on the computer and opening up a Word Document only to write a little piece that only I would see seemed pointless. I'd rather clip my toenails. (Which I frequently did). When I think about the energy my writing had this summer, I realized that having an authentic audience allowed me to write so well. I knew that every piece I wrote would be read by someone, and was working to put a little more of myself out there with each message that I wrote. I noted to myself that when I returned to the classroom, in the fall, I would need to find ways to make my students feel like they were really writing to someone.

Which brings me to how I put down "Step Up to Writing" and ended up going straight to my computer to research how to create a Blog. My hypothesis is that I will be better able to tap into what is going on with the writing process (and therefore become a better teacher of the writing process) if I myself experience writing on a regular basis. I went to my friend's blog (thanks, Amy) and proceeded to "Create Your Own Blog."

Periodically, I will continue with this little "educational experiment" of mine, unloading some more bits and pieces from the Attic. As for now, the diswasher has quieted. It's time to unload, only to load once again.