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.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
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!
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!
Monday, April 17, 2006
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!
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!
Thursday, April 13, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The Epidemic that Stumbled into my Classroom
Tonight's activity: "Sleepy Storytime" at the public library
In my fishtank: glass fish (they can't die)
In the Attic: I am bordering on the edge of insanity in my classroom.
Several weeks ago, a student of mine showed up on crutches. It seemed that she had somehow injured her knee, and now needed to keep her weight off the knee. This caused a lot of excitement among the third graders in my class, as it's not every day you see someone using crutches. Much less someone in your own class.
Just about a week or so after that, another girl showed up on crutches. This received high marks of interest among students, as having 2 girls on crutches from the same classroom was unheard of!
I'll confide to you, dear reader, that this diagnosis of the second girl struck me as suspicious Just days before, her mother had shared with me that the girl had been exaggerating injuries around the house. For attention, the mother guessed. "I don't know why she'd be doing this, because our lives literally revolve around her schedule and activities!"
Hmmm... That strike anyone else as unhealthy and possibly problematic?
Perhaps you can understand my cynicism when the mom brings this girl to the classroom right smack in the middle of a writing lesson (that was going quite well, I might add). As the girl entered the room, simply beaming, as if she had been crowned "Crutch Girl Queen," the class went ballistic with excitement. (The writing lesson: down the toilet).
For those of you at home keeping score:
Students on crutches: 2
Students not on crutches: 22
Things really get exciting when the first girl has to trade in the crutches for a wheelchair. It seems that all of the hobbling around on crutches has put much strain on her "good" leg.
I have to admit, it was a little bit fun here to see the strange looks on other teachers' faces when we'd pass them in the hall. I'd play into it by shrugging my shoulders, shaking my head, saying, "You know, I think it's perfectly reasonable to snap a leg when a student doesn't know the correct answer in class. Look. That girl's already up to two incorrect answers. Next, I'm going to have to start breaking arms."
But things take a dive from there.
Guess what happens just a day or two after that.
No. Really. Guess.
Yep. Another one on crutches.
Students in wheelchairs: 1
Students on crutches: 2
Students who are somehow still able to move about on their own 2 legs: 21
A few weeks pass. Girl number one has surgery, returns on crutches for a little while, but is now able to get around without assistance. Thank god! Girl number two has had her foot/leg put in a big sandal that allows her to walk without crutches. (but she still needs a second chair to prop her leg on during class, poor thing.) Girl number three showed up Monday crutchless. Just out of the blue. Healed. Miracle. An act of god? Quite possible.
It seemed that things could finally get back to normal in our third grade rehabilitation center. I could once again teach a lesson without hearing the sound of crutches being knocked to the floor. I would be able to move about the room without tripping over a stray crutch. But what I craved the most was no longer hearing the "chik, chik, chik" of the crutches as the student(s) hobbled around the room. The seemingly quiet noise that would go unnoticed by most. The steady little beat that eventually became the equivalent of my own personal hellish Chinese water torture.
So was I surprised when a girl showed up today on crutches?
Yes. I was. Despite everything I've learned about the unfortunate girls from my class, I still had hope. I had faith in a world without girls on crutches. Now, it is way beyond ridiculous. It's flat out embarrassing.
Am I suggesting that any of these girls are exaggerating or (gasp!) lying about the supposed injuries? You bet I am. I simply cannot believe that it is mathematically possible for such a thing to occur to the same group of 8 and 9-year-olds. One-sixth of my class has had to use crutches this year. That's inconceivable! I would imagine that the odds would be comparable to the odds of winning the lottery.
Wishing now that I had purchased a damn ticket instead...
In my fishtank: glass fish (they can't die)
In the Attic: I am bordering on the edge of insanity in my classroom.
Several weeks ago, a student of mine showed up on crutches. It seemed that she had somehow injured her knee, and now needed to keep her weight off the knee. This caused a lot of excitement among the third graders in my class, as it's not every day you see someone using crutches. Much less someone in your own class.
Just about a week or so after that, another girl showed up on crutches. This received high marks of interest among students, as having 2 girls on crutches from the same classroom was unheard of!
I'll confide to you, dear reader, that this diagnosis of the second girl struck me as suspicious Just days before, her mother had shared with me that the girl had been exaggerating injuries around the house. For attention, the mother guessed. "I don't know why she'd be doing this, because our lives literally revolve around her schedule and activities!"
Hmmm... That strike anyone else as unhealthy and possibly problematic?
Perhaps you can understand my cynicism when the mom brings this girl to the classroom right smack in the middle of a writing lesson (that was going quite well, I might add). As the girl entered the room, simply beaming, as if she had been crowned "Crutch Girl Queen," the class went ballistic with excitement. (The writing lesson: down the toilet).
For those of you at home keeping score:
Students on crutches: 2
Students not on crutches: 22
Things really get exciting when the first girl has to trade in the crutches for a wheelchair. It seems that all of the hobbling around on crutches has put much strain on her "good" leg.
I have to admit, it was a little bit fun here to see the strange looks on other teachers' faces when we'd pass them in the hall. I'd play into it by shrugging my shoulders, shaking my head, saying, "You know, I think it's perfectly reasonable to snap a leg when a student doesn't know the correct answer in class. Look. That girl's already up to two incorrect answers. Next, I'm going to have to start breaking arms."
But things take a dive from there.
Guess what happens just a day or two after that.
No. Really. Guess.
Yep. Another one on crutches.
Students in wheelchairs: 1
Students on crutches: 2
Students who are somehow still able to move about on their own 2 legs: 21
A few weeks pass. Girl number one has surgery, returns on crutches for a little while, but is now able to get around without assistance. Thank god! Girl number two has had her foot/leg put in a big sandal that allows her to walk without crutches. (but she still needs a second chair to prop her leg on during class, poor thing.) Girl number three showed up Monday crutchless. Just out of the blue. Healed. Miracle. An act of god? Quite possible.
It seemed that things could finally get back to normal in our third grade rehabilitation center. I could once again teach a lesson without hearing the sound of crutches being knocked to the floor. I would be able to move about the room without tripping over a stray crutch. But what I craved the most was no longer hearing the "chik, chik, chik" of the crutches as the student(s) hobbled around the room. The seemingly quiet noise that would go unnoticed by most. The steady little beat that eventually became the equivalent of my own personal hellish Chinese water torture.
So was I surprised when a girl showed up today on crutches?
Yes. I was. Despite everything I've learned about the unfortunate girls from my class, I still had hope. I had faith in a world without girls on crutches. Now, it is way beyond ridiculous. It's flat out embarrassing.
Am I suggesting that any of these girls are exaggerating or (gasp!) lying about the supposed injuries? You bet I am. I simply cannot believe that it is mathematically possible for such a thing to occur to the same group of 8 and 9-year-olds. One-sixth of my class has had to use crutches this year. That's inconceivable! I would imagine that the odds would be comparable to the odds of winning the lottery.
Wishing now that I had purchased a damn ticket instead...
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Rodney Raccoon and Marimba Ensemble
Last time I took a nap: 25 minutes ago
Last nap before that: unknown
In the Attic: Enjoying the week with Binta
On my school calendar, this week is considered Mid-Winter Break. I hope it's not only the middle of winter. It seems like it's been here way past its welcome. I'm looking forward to hosting the company of spring very soon.
With Mid-Winter Break, however, comes a week off from school. So I'll take that. Today is my 6th day away from teaching, and I still have 3 more remaining. Some months ago, the thought of 9 days on my own to keep Binta occupied would have left me feeling spent and discouraged. This week, however, I've been feeling really positive about our time off together. This new recipe consists of one part me-being-less-depressed, and one part Binta-being-a-little-older, thus, a little easier to handle. I've been using www.gocitykids.com to keep me informed as to what activities are going on in my area. It is a fantastic site, and if they hadn't already thought of it, it might have been my idea. Instead of collecting fliers from all of the libraries, community centers, theatres, and parks, to see what's going on in the area, all a parent needs to do now is click in to the website, and she will find an exhaustive listing of all of the activities that are ideal for kids. That's a seriously good idea!
At the beginning of the week off (last Friday night) I began planning our week-o-fun. I will admit here, trusting that this information will not be used to make fun of me, that I designed a calendar that listed, day by day, events that I'd like us to participate in. I realize how dorky that appears, and well, it can't be helped. Not only was it helpful in organizing our time over the week, but it was a lot of fun to draw up. We caught a couple of puppet shows, some African storytelling, spent time at indoor play gyms, visited the Children's Museum, and the tail end of a festival.
The Sundiata Festival gets its name from a Malian legend, and now focuses on African American art, dance, music, and traditions. I guess it is held each year during the President's Day weekend, however, I have never before attended. All I knew was it was free, and should be good for getting us out of the house.
And it was. Binta and I had a great time. On our way home, we each compiled our list of favorites. My top 3 were:
Last nap before that: unknown
In the Attic: Enjoying the week with Binta
On my school calendar, this week is considered Mid-Winter Break. I hope it's not only the middle of winter. It seems like it's been here way past its welcome. I'm looking forward to hosting the company of spring very soon.
With Mid-Winter Break, however, comes a week off from school. So I'll take that. Today is my 6th day away from teaching, and I still have 3 more remaining. Some months ago, the thought of 9 days on my own to keep Binta occupied would have left me feeling spent and discouraged. This week, however, I've been feeling really positive about our time off together. This new recipe consists of one part me-being-less-depressed, and one part Binta-being-a-little-older, thus, a little easier to handle. I've been using www.gocitykids.com to keep me informed as to what activities are going on in my area. It is a fantastic site, and if they hadn't already thought of it, it might have been my idea. Instead of collecting fliers from all of the libraries, community centers, theatres, and parks, to see what's going on in the area, all a parent needs to do now is click in to the website, and she will find an exhaustive listing of all of the activities that are ideal for kids. That's a seriously good idea!
At the beginning of the week off (last Friday night) I began planning our week-o-fun. I will admit here, trusting that this information will not be used to make fun of me, that I designed a calendar that listed, day by day, events that I'd like us to participate in. I realize how dorky that appears, and well, it can't be helped. Not only was it helpful in organizing our time over the week, but it was a lot of fun to draw up. We caught a couple of puppet shows, some African storytelling, spent time at indoor play gyms, visited the Children's Museum, and the tail end of a festival.
The Sundiata Festival gets its name from a Malian legend, and now focuses on African American art, dance, music, and traditions. I guess it is held each year during the President's Day weekend, however, I have never before attended. All I knew was it was free, and should be good for getting us out of the house.
And it was. Binta and I had a great time. On our way home, we each compiled our list of favorites. My top 3 were:
- Gaping at the marimba band, comprised of children, aged 9 - 16. They were unbelievable!
- Watching the hip-hop dance group: Kutt 'N Up, with their synchronized movements and impressive acrobatics.
- Looking at the pieces of art on display, ranging from colorful quilts, to confusing sculptures, to powerful photographs from New Orleans post Katrina.
Binta's top 3:
- Riding on the Merry-Go-Round.
- Getting a hug (and a bookmark) from Rodney Raccoon.
- Hearing a street musician play "Sunny Days," the theme from Sesame Street, on the saxophone, and dropping money into his case.
One would have a hard time determining that we were even at the same festival! The one thing that we agreed on was enjoying time watching the fountain, and spending time together. It really was a great day, and we only spent a total of $3.00. (Two for the Merry-Go-Round, and one for the musician).
Yeah, we'll be there next year.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
My Girl, Leah, at Blockbuster Video!
Kitchen sink: heaping
Diswasher: loaded
Emotional state: fabulous
In the Attic: A new addiction: Lost
Binta's dad showed up yesterday (after a mere 77 days since his last visit). So I was once again faced with the challenge of "What to do With My Time When I do Not Have to be a Responsible Parent." I'm sure I've mentioned it somewhere here before, that this situation does present itself as a challenge for me. It seems that spending so many days as a full time parent of a three-year-old interferes with what I can remember that I used to enjoy doing back before I became a mommy.
What I decided I was craving was some serious time relaxing in front of my TV, watching hours and hours of a television program on DVD. Specifically, the program: Lost. It's one that I know I would not be able to watch in Binta's presence. I've heard fantastic reviews from good friends with great taste, and have been planning for some time now to jump on the bandwagon and try on the show. So, sometime back in September 2005, I placed Season One on hold at the King County Library. Yesterday, I remained number 32 of the 408 holds. The library system shows 29 copies, however, 3 copies are marked as "lost." (If I weren't so damned anxious to watch the show, I might enjoy the irony there.) Although I am very close, I decided last night that I couldn't wait any longer, and would just get a start on the first few discs. After all, there are 6 in the set, and I'll only have 1 week with the library copy.
Plus, I got some child support money yesterday. Blockbuster, here I come!
The disappointing news upon arrival was that Blockbuster had only discs 1, 3, 4, and 6 on the shelf. I knew that I had enough time to complete about 2 discs, since I would have Monday evening and all day today without Binta. Skipping disc 2 was unthinkable, so I picked up the first disc from 24, another program that I've been thinking I need to see, based on recomendations. That seemed like a good plan: sample a little of each. A potpourri of drama based TV.
If anyone reading has seen the first 4 episodes of Lost, he will see the flaw in my plan. I placed disc one into my DVD player, and was not able to turn it off until I had watched all 4 episodes, followed by the first two again, this time with the audio commentary turned on. I was so wound up and agitated from the show, that by the time I climbed in bed well after midnight, I couldn't get myself to sleep for at least another hour.
This series is incredible. From the first minute to the last, the writers did not let me down for a second. The plot is filled with mystery and twists that are so sharp and sudden, causing me to gasp and cry out. The characters are at the same time likeable and horrible, and amazingly complex. Each episode teasingly provides just enough background information about the characters, to keep you guessing about their motives and revising your opinions of them. At the end of the 4th episode, all I could come up with was a mournful: "Nooooooooo!"
Waking this morning with a Lost-hangover, I looked at the DVD of the television show 24, sitting sadly on my table, unopened, with the Blockbuster receipt sticking out from the case. I knew I could not take on a new program, filled with new characters and plot lines. Not with the questions and mystery already in my head. No offense is meant here to either Kiefer Sutherland or any fans of 24. I simply knew that I could not give 24 what it needed from me as a viewer, as I would be too distracted with what I had experienced the night before.
I wondered if Blockbuster would be willing to trade that disc for the second disc of Lost. After all, I hadn't watched it. I just explain my mistaken logic in getting both discs, the effect that Lost had on me, and the fact that I had never even unsnapped 24 from its little case. It made sense to me.
And I guess it made sense to Leah, the store manager at Blockbuster Video. I hadn't even quite finished my story when she smiled and said, "I can trade that out for you, no problem." And when we discovered that disc 2 had still not been returned, she even called another store for me. She traded 24 for disc 3, and I went off to get disc 2 from the Fairwood location.
I have just come down off of 8.51 hours of Lost TV. Twelve episodes in all. One-half of the entire first season. My head is spinning, I am jumping at every little sound I hear, and I am hopelessly content.
Sometimes, it's the little things.
Thank you, Leah. You made my day.
Diswasher: loaded
Emotional state: fabulous
In the Attic: A new addiction: Lost
Binta's dad showed up yesterday (after a mere 77 days since his last visit). So I was once again faced with the challenge of "What to do With My Time When I do Not Have to be a Responsible Parent." I'm sure I've mentioned it somewhere here before, that this situation does present itself as a challenge for me. It seems that spending so many days as a full time parent of a three-year-old interferes with what I can remember that I used to enjoy doing back before I became a mommy.
What I decided I was craving was some serious time relaxing in front of my TV, watching hours and hours of a television program on DVD. Specifically, the program: Lost. It's one that I know I would not be able to watch in Binta's presence. I've heard fantastic reviews from good friends with great taste, and have been planning for some time now to jump on the bandwagon and try on the show. So, sometime back in September 2005, I placed Season One on hold at the King County Library. Yesterday, I remained number 32 of the 408 holds. The library system shows 29 copies, however, 3 copies are marked as "lost." (If I weren't so damned anxious to watch the show, I might enjoy the irony there.) Although I am very close, I decided last night that I couldn't wait any longer, and would just get a start on the first few discs. After all, there are 6 in the set, and I'll only have 1 week with the library copy.
Plus, I got some child support money yesterday. Blockbuster, here I come!
The disappointing news upon arrival was that Blockbuster had only discs 1, 3, 4, and 6 on the shelf. I knew that I had enough time to complete about 2 discs, since I would have Monday evening and all day today without Binta. Skipping disc 2 was unthinkable, so I picked up the first disc from 24, another program that I've been thinking I need to see, based on recomendations. That seemed like a good plan: sample a little of each. A potpourri of drama based TV.
If anyone reading has seen the first 4 episodes of Lost, he will see the flaw in my plan. I placed disc one into my DVD player, and was not able to turn it off until I had watched all 4 episodes, followed by the first two again, this time with the audio commentary turned on. I was so wound up and agitated from the show, that by the time I climbed in bed well after midnight, I couldn't get myself to sleep for at least another hour.
This series is incredible. From the first minute to the last, the writers did not let me down for a second. The plot is filled with mystery and twists that are so sharp and sudden, causing me to gasp and cry out. The characters are at the same time likeable and horrible, and amazingly complex. Each episode teasingly provides just enough background information about the characters, to keep you guessing about their motives and revising your opinions of them. At the end of the 4th episode, all I could come up with was a mournful: "Nooooooooo!"
Waking this morning with a Lost-hangover, I looked at the DVD of the television show 24, sitting sadly on my table, unopened, with the Blockbuster receipt sticking out from the case. I knew I could not take on a new program, filled with new characters and plot lines. Not with the questions and mystery already in my head. No offense is meant here to either Kiefer Sutherland or any fans of 24. I simply knew that I could not give 24 what it needed from me as a viewer, as I would be too distracted with what I had experienced the night before.
I wondered if Blockbuster would be willing to trade that disc for the second disc of Lost. After all, I hadn't watched it. I just explain my mistaken logic in getting both discs, the effect that Lost had on me, and the fact that I had never even unsnapped 24 from its little case. It made sense to me.
And I guess it made sense to Leah, the store manager at Blockbuster Video. I hadn't even quite finished my story when she smiled and said, "I can trade that out for you, no problem." And when we discovered that disc 2 had still not been returned, she even called another store for me. She traded 24 for disc 3, and I went off to get disc 2 from the Fairwood location.
I have just come down off of 8.51 hours of Lost TV. Twelve episodes in all. One-half of the entire first season. My head is spinning, I am jumping at every little sound I hear, and I am hopelessly content.
Sometimes, it's the little things.
Thank you, Leah. You made my day.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Sports Fan Charlatan
Major accomplishment from yesterday: 3 loads of laundry cleaned, dried, and folded
Today's task: put the folded laundry away before it gets tromped on by Binta
In the Attic: Pending excitement for today's game...
I am not a sports fan. I want that stated clearly here for the record. I know the basic rules of some sports. I mean the basics. I know the objective of baseball is to hit the ball hard enough to occupy the other team with chasing after the ball, while you yourself sprint around the bases. I know the objective of hockey and soccer is similar, in that you're trying to place the sport's accessory (puck or ball) into the designated scoring space more times than your opponent.
I know slightly more about basketball, as I joined up with the school team in seventh grade. I could impress you with a few rules I know, regarding travelling, double-dribbling, and "three in the key."
I could go on to amaze you with little known details about the history of basketball, thanks to the report I had to write sometime in junior high school. For example, basketball was invented by James Naismith, who wanted to create a good indoor game for the winter time. He nailed a peach basket to the wall and there the game started. (using a soccer ball!)
Lacking even more than my sketchy knowledge are my pitiful skills. That seventh grade team that I joined? My dad was the coach. One would think that I'd get plenty of play time, but he would be sadly mistaken. Even nepotism was no help to my pathetic abilities. In fact, my most exciting moment on the court occurred when a scorer's elbow came down on the bridge of my nose, and was forced to leave the practice (yes, it wasn't even a game!) covered in blood.
I ended up joining the high school swim team. There were much less rules to memorize. And I can only recall one bloody nose.
Now, you may see me watching the occasional sports game, but my motivation comes much more from the desire to consume beer and nachos and socialize than to really watch the game.
Today is the SuperBowl. And although I have been known to watch a SuperBowl game from time to time, it is either for the clever commercials or the half time entertainment. Rarely do I even know which teams are playing before the game begins, and I can name a few times that I was still unaware after the game had ended. I know even less about football than I do about any other sport.
But today, I will be watching the game itself. The addictive energy and team enthusiasm here in Seattle has converted me to a temporary Seahawks fan. Nearly everyone in Seattle is into it! Today, Binta and I will each be proudly sporting Seahawks T-shirts, and watching the progress of the game with great interest. Thankfully, I'll be with others who can help interpret the progress of the game when I appear lost.
Go Hawks!
Today's task: put the folded laundry away before it gets tromped on by Binta
In the Attic: Pending excitement for today's game...
I am not a sports fan. I want that stated clearly here for the record. I know the basic rules of some sports. I mean the basics. I know the objective of baseball is to hit the ball hard enough to occupy the other team with chasing after the ball, while you yourself sprint around the bases. I know the objective of hockey and soccer is similar, in that you're trying to place the sport's accessory (puck or ball) into the designated scoring space more times than your opponent.
I know slightly more about basketball, as I joined up with the school team in seventh grade. I could impress you with a few rules I know, regarding travelling, double-dribbling, and "three in the key."
I could go on to amaze you with little known details about the history of basketball, thanks to the report I had to write sometime in junior high school. For example, basketball was invented by James Naismith, who wanted to create a good indoor game for the winter time. He nailed a peach basket to the wall and there the game started. (using a soccer ball!)
Lacking even more than my sketchy knowledge are my pitiful skills. That seventh grade team that I joined? My dad was the coach. One would think that I'd get plenty of play time, but he would be sadly mistaken. Even nepotism was no help to my pathetic abilities. In fact, my most exciting moment on the court occurred when a scorer's elbow came down on the bridge of my nose, and was forced to leave the practice (yes, it wasn't even a game!) covered in blood.
I ended up joining the high school swim team. There were much less rules to memorize. And I can only recall one bloody nose.
Now, you may see me watching the occasional sports game, but my motivation comes much more from the desire to consume beer and nachos and socialize than to really watch the game.
Today is the SuperBowl. And although I have been known to watch a SuperBowl game from time to time, it is either for the clever commercials or the half time entertainment. Rarely do I even know which teams are playing before the game begins, and I can name a few times that I was still unaware after the game had ended. I know even less about football than I do about any other sport.
But today, I will be watching the game itself. The addictive energy and team enthusiasm here in Seattle has converted me to a temporary Seahawks fan. Nearly everyone in Seattle is into it! Today, Binta and I will each be proudly sporting Seahawks T-shirts, and watching the progress of the game with great interest. Thankfully, I'll be with others who can help interpret the progress of the game when I appear lost.
Go Hawks!
Saturday, January 28, 2006
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
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
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
Saturday, January 21, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, January 16, 2006
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:
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:
- Having more fun and more energy my first week back in the classroom.
- Getting started on that massive stack of grading that had built up.
- Realizing that there are not really 42 stressors in my life, but more like 4 0r 5.
- 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...
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
"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.
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.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
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.
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, December 03, 2005
Saturday Night at Starbucks
Number of days of school cancelled due to snow: 1 (so far)
Month showing on my calendar: November
Number of days since Binta saw her dad: 94
In the Attic: Remembering the freedom of pre-single-parenthood
Actually, Binta's dad showed up on Thursday at 6:00 PM. So I have been kid-less for about 2 days and 3 hours. He hasn't been here since the end of August. I cannot even begin to describe the joy and freedom I am experiencing right now. I'm not sure how much more time I get before he has to leave again. I don't dare call to find out how things are going. As far as I'm concerned, I think perhaps they've forgotten about me, and I certainly don't want to got stirring up any attention to myself. My strategy: Lay low.
I love my daughter, don't get me wrong here. She is without a doubt the coolest kid I've ever known. (Cliche alert) She is the best thing in my life and I love her more than anything in the world.
But.
Being a single mother for 94 days in a row has worn me down to complete and total exhaustion. So bad, so that when faced with the reality that I was actually kid-less, I didn't know what to do. I knew I did NOT want to do anything that feels like an obligation. Like clean house, or get some school work done. Nope. I can do those things with her playing in the background. What I was faced with was complete freedom from being a responsible parent. I needed to fill my time with things that I could not get away with as a mommy. So, I spent the entire day yesterday with my boyfriend, and this morning, when I woke up, I was still at his house. I didn't need to hurry anywhere to relieve a babysitter from duty. Instead, I went to Walmart, and spent 2 whole hours walking up and down every aisle. I even walked through the sporting/hunting aisle, just because I could. Normally, if I were shopping with Binta, I would have a list planned out ahead of time, and a strategy in place that would incorporate the shortest walking distance in combination with avoiding any hazzards, such as toy aisles. We would get in and out as quickly as possible, before she expired and I had to haul her out throwing a fit.
Next, I went home and spent hours getting myself addicted to a new computer game. I dressed myself in comfy clothes and put on my slippers. I didn't have to cook anyone any dinner, I didn't have to put up with the sounds of Barney in the background, and I didn't have to feel guilty for not playing with her.
Around 7:30, I realized that I had another freedom that I had overlooked. I could leave the house if I wanted. I could actually walk out my front door and leave my house! There was no little girl sleeping in her bedroom. (Actually, lately, she spends more time sleeping in my bedroom). I knew I had to go out, just because I could. So I got dressed again, bundled up into my scarf and gloves, and scraped ice off my car, just because I had to exercise my freedom to do so. With the latest David Sedaris book in hand, I drove to the corner Starbucks, ordered a warm drink, and spent the next hour and a half sitting by myself in a soft, oversized purple chair.
I started reading my book, but became fascinated with the others that surrounded me. I fantasized coming home and describing the other customers in a very Sedaris-ish manner. But knowing damn well that it wouldn't even be close.
There were the 2 guys who looked like they were about my brother's age, and appeared to be working on some sort of homework assignment. (Homework? On a Saturday night? What was with these guys?) They were working out some sort of problems, defining characters from their reading, when one suggested that this particular character was the "tragic hero." They both thought that was hilarious. Then, the conversation shifted to another classmate, described as "...actually very smart. He won the Bill Gates Scholarship. He's great at math."
The Starbucks barista came around at this time, gently telling the patrons that they'd be closing in about 10 minutes. My drink was long gone by this time. The guys looked so disappointed. "Where are we going to go now?" they asked. The barista gave them directions to another Starbucks, which evidently stayed open later. They gathered up their things and left, and as I was doing the same, I overheard a mother say to her child:
"I told you, Mommy doesn't like you to call her that name. Mommy's going to have to tell Santa if you call her that name again."
Yes, I was tempted to ask her what he called her. But instead, I drove off thinking what a perfect ending that was to my child-free day.
Month showing on my calendar: November
Number of days since Binta saw her dad: 94
In the Attic: Remembering the freedom of pre-single-parenthood
Actually, Binta's dad showed up on Thursday at 6:00 PM. So I have been kid-less for about 2 days and 3 hours. He hasn't been here since the end of August. I cannot even begin to describe the joy and freedom I am experiencing right now. I'm not sure how much more time I get before he has to leave again. I don't dare call to find out how things are going. As far as I'm concerned, I think perhaps they've forgotten about me, and I certainly don't want to got stirring up any attention to myself. My strategy: Lay low.
I love my daughter, don't get me wrong here. She is without a doubt the coolest kid I've ever known. (Cliche alert) She is the best thing in my life and I love her more than anything in the world.
But.
Being a single mother for 94 days in a row has worn me down to complete and total exhaustion. So bad, so that when faced with the reality that I was actually kid-less, I didn't know what to do. I knew I did NOT want to do anything that feels like an obligation. Like clean house, or get some school work done. Nope. I can do those things with her playing in the background. What I was faced with was complete freedom from being a responsible parent. I needed to fill my time with things that I could not get away with as a mommy. So, I spent the entire day yesterday with my boyfriend, and this morning, when I woke up, I was still at his house. I didn't need to hurry anywhere to relieve a babysitter from duty. Instead, I went to Walmart, and spent 2 whole hours walking up and down every aisle. I even walked through the sporting/hunting aisle, just because I could. Normally, if I were shopping with Binta, I would have a list planned out ahead of time, and a strategy in place that would incorporate the shortest walking distance in combination with avoiding any hazzards, such as toy aisles. We would get in and out as quickly as possible, before she expired and I had to haul her out throwing a fit.
Next, I went home and spent hours getting myself addicted to a new computer game. I dressed myself in comfy clothes and put on my slippers. I didn't have to cook anyone any dinner, I didn't have to put up with the sounds of Barney in the background, and I didn't have to feel guilty for not playing with her.
Around 7:30, I realized that I had another freedom that I had overlooked. I could leave the house if I wanted. I could actually walk out my front door and leave my house! There was no little girl sleeping in her bedroom. (Actually, lately, she spends more time sleeping in my bedroom). I knew I had to go out, just because I could. So I got dressed again, bundled up into my scarf and gloves, and scraped ice off my car, just because I had to exercise my freedom to do so. With the latest David Sedaris book in hand, I drove to the corner Starbucks, ordered a warm drink, and spent the next hour and a half sitting by myself in a soft, oversized purple chair.
I started reading my book, but became fascinated with the others that surrounded me. I fantasized coming home and describing the other customers in a very Sedaris-ish manner. But knowing damn well that it wouldn't even be close.
There were the 2 guys who looked like they were about my brother's age, and appeared to be working on some sort of homework assignment. (Homework? On a Saturday night? What was with these guys?) They were working out some sort of problems, defining characters from their reading, when one suggested that this particular character was the "tragic hero." They both thought that was hilarious. Then, the conversation shifted to another classmate, described as "...actually very smart. He won the Bill Gates Scholarship. He's great at math."
The Starbucks barista came around at this time, gently telling the patrons that they'd be closing in about 10 minutes. My drink was long gone by this time. The guys looked so disappointed. "Where are we going to go now?" they asked. The barista gave them directions to another Starbucks, which evidently stayed open later. They gathered up their things and left, and as I was doing the same, I overheard a mother say to her child:
"I told you, Mommy doesn't like you to call her that name. Mommy's going to have to tell Santa if you call her that name again."
Yes, I was tempted to ask her what he called her. But instead, I drove off thinking what a perfect ending that was to my child-free day.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Trick-or-Treat
Surviving Halloween tradition: Watching The Wizard of Oz
Favorite Halloween memory: Sorting my trick-or-treat booty on the living room floor
In the Attic: Observing my first Halloween with my own daughter
So I've been off trick-or-treating for many years now. I'm 31, after all. I was explaining to my uncle yesterday that trick-or-treating is one of those things you need to voluntarily decide to give up because you accept the fact that you're too old. It's not cut and dry like that "You must be this tall to ride" indicator outside the gate to the roller coaster. Somewhere around 12, 13, or 14, you realize that it is an activity for little kids. More friends are dropping off each year. Except you don't really want to give it up! You fight it! Hence, you will still see 16- and 17-year-olds at your door asking for candy. Sure, they either don't dress up at all, or else will dig up an old mask from some year before. It's their way of saying, "I know I'm too old for this little kid game, but I can't let go of it."
I have memories of trooping around the neighborhood with a handful of friends and no parent chaperone. It was completely normal to be unsupervised. We would hurry ourselves through a painful dinner, with the doorbell ringing every 5 minutes, worrying that all the candy would be gone if we didn't get ourselves out there in the game soon. Excitedly, we finally got dressed up, and took off carrying a plastic jack-o-lantern with which to hold our loot. I can remember learning about centrifugal force when a seventh-grader snatched it away from me and whirled his arm around like a windmill on speed and I didn't lose one piece of candy. We'd go up and down the streets until we were supposed to report home. We could have gone all night.
I've taken full advantage of Binta being too young to understand Halloween traditions. She's 3, and has never experienced trick-or-treating. She's worn a costume each year, but only because they were given to me for free. She's seen references to trick-or-treating on TV, in books, and most importantly, from other kids. She's on to it.
Here are Binta's past costumes (in order):
Favorite Halloween memory: Sorting my trick-or-treat booty on the living room floor
In the Attic: Observing my first Halloween with my own daughter
So I've been off trick-or-treating for many years now. I'm 31, after all. I was explaining to my uncle yesterday that trick-or-treating is one of those things you need to voluntarily decide to give up because you accept the fact that you're too old. It's not cut and dry like that "You must be this tall to ride" indicator outside the gate to the roller coaster. Somewhere around 12, 13, or 14, you realize that it is an activity for little kids. More friends are dropping off each year. Except you don't really want to give it up! You fight it! Hence, you will still see 16- and 17-year-olds at your door asking for candy. Sure, they either don't dress up at all, or else will dig up an old mask from some year before. It's their way of saying, "I know I'm too old for this little kid game, but I can't let go of it."
I have memories of trooping around the neighborhood with a handful of friends and no parent chaperone. It was completely normal to be unsupervised. We would hurry ourselves through a painful dinner, with the doorbell ringing every 5 minutes, worrying that all the candy would be gone if we didn't get ourselves out there in the game soon. Excitedly, we finally got dressed up, and took off carrying a plastic jack-o-lantern with which to hold our loot. I can remember learning about centrifugal force when a seventh-grader snatched it away from me and whirled his arm around like a windmill on speed and I didn't lose one piece of candy. We'd go up and down the streets until we were supposed to report home. We could have gone all night.
I've taken full advantage of Binta being too young to understand Halloween traditions. She's 3, and has never experienced trick-or-treating. She's worn a costume each year, but only because they were given to me for free. She's seen references to trick-or-treating on TV, in books, and most importantly, from other kids. She's on to it.
Here are Binta's past costumes (in order):
- leopard costume (2 months old): A hand me down thing that zipped up the front and had a hood with tiny ears and a little tail coming from the rear. Adorable.
- Husky cheerleader(1 year old): Borrowed from a friend. We even taught Binta how to pose.
- Tigger(2 years old): Another hand me down. Similar to the leopard, but more Tiggerish.
This year, I asked her what she wanted to be. I was fully prepared to purchase this costume. Her response was: Queen.
I checked online, and found a nice queen costume for $30.00. I was hoping I wouldn't be spending that much, so I kept searching. I found a very nice princess costume, for only $20.00. That seemed more reasonable. They're both royalty, so I figured she wouldn't see any difference. I called her to the computer and said, "How do you like this queen costume?" Her response: "I don't want to be a princess. I want to be a queen."
Costume #4. Queen (3 years old): Red crushed velvet (fake) with a gold collar and gold crown. Her posture immediately changes when she puts it on and she walks around slowly, saying, "Yes, Your Majesty," and "Thank you, Your Majesty."So I guess tomorrow we'll be off, walking the neighborhood, knocking on strangers' doors and accepting food items from people we don't know. When I was the kid, it seemed like so much fun. I guess that's nature's way of insuring that people eventually give up the tradition. I'll be looking forward to my annual trek to Oz when we return home.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Spiderweb Woman
Strangest thing found today: little caterpillar curled up in the bottom of my laundry basket
Number of days since my last haircut: 134
In the Attic: What is it like to discover you're a superhero?
Every morning, I drive 30 minutes to get to school. Yesterday, during my drive, I counted 73 spiderwebs! I'm certain I actually saw more, because I had seen quite a few by the time I said to myself, "Wow, I'd better keep count of the massive number of spider webs I'm seeing." I guess what makes that number so impressive is than on a normal day, I never see any spiderwebs! But yesterday, I saw spiderwebs absolutely everywhere. Most of them were suspended high up above the road, between the black power lines. Others were stretched between a tree limb and a road sign, and I found some neatly clinging between the slats of wooden fences. It was like I couldn't not see them everywhere I looked!
I know that there is probably a reasonable, scientific explanation as to why I saw so many spiderwebs this particular morning. It probably had something to do with a formula including the morning dew that had settled with the bright early morning sunshine. But I preferred to think of it as some sort of spiderweb sensing x-ray vision that allowed me (and only me) to see all of these spiderwebs as I sped past. "Pow! There's one in a tree! Pow! There's one by the mailbox!" I would think to myself.
I am Spiderweb Woman, the Great Seer of Spider Silk.
Surely, I can use this super power, this gift, to save and improve the suffering of mankind in some way. But alas, today, while I drove to school, I was saddened to notice than my powers were gone. Either the spiders have all packed up and moved on or my gift has expired. I guess it's better this way, because I never did work out how this super power was going to save the world.
And besides, what would I wear?
Number of days since my last haircut: 134
In the Attic: What is it like to discover you're a superhero?
Every morning, I drive 30 minutes to get to school. Yesterday, during my drive, I counted 73 spiderwebs! I'm certain I actually saw more, because I had seen quite a few by the time I said to myself, "Wow, I'd better keep count of the massive number of spider webs I'm seeing." I guess what makes that number so impressive is than on a normal day, I never see any spiderwebs! But yesterday, I saw spiderwebs absolutely everywhere. Most of them were suspended high up above the road, between the black power lines. Others were stretched between a tree limb and a road sign, and I found some neatly clinging between the slats of wooden fences. It was like I couldn't not see them everywhere I looked!
I know that there is probably a reasonable, scientific explanation as to why I saw so many spiderwebs this particular morning. It probably had something to do with a formula including the morning dew that had settled with the bright early morning sunshine. But I preferred to think of it as some sort of spiderweb sensing x-ray vision that allowed me (and only me) to see all of these spiderwebs as I sped past. "Pow! There's one in a tree! Pow! There's one by the mailbox!" I would think to myself.
I am Spiderweb Woman, the Great Seer of Spider Silk.
Surely, I can use this super power, this gift, to save and improve the suffering of mankind in some way. But alas, today, while I drove to school, I was saddened to notice than my powers were gone. Either the spiders have all packed up and moved on or my gift has expired. I guess it's better this way, because I never did work out how this super power was going to save the world.
And besides, what would I wear?
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Field Trip to the Local Jail
Time that Binta woke up: 5:36 AM
Time she woke up after I rubbed her back and coaxed her back to sleep: 7:11 AM
Number of times I played hooky this week: one
In the Attic: Are we all just one bad decision away from messing up our lives?
I'm not sure if it was playing hooky in the true sense, as my motivation was partly physical and partly mental. The cold from last week (my "partly physical" excuse) is holding on, but making me miserable only upon first waking. Then it's gone until the next morning. So in that sense, I really didn't need to miss school. The other half of my excuse, the "partly mental" break was needed without question.
Calling in sick is so easy. Actually, it's done online, so there is no need to fake a raspy-sounding explanation to someone at the other end of the phone. It's done very quickly - just plug in the day, hit "Submit Absence," and you're set! At any time of the day, I'm just a few clicks away from reporting an absence for the next working day. Yes, that's very dangerous.
I got up as usual, took Binta to daycare, and returned home to start working on the "search and rescue" mission in my living room. I found a total of seven drier sheets in the piles of clean laundry. (Hmmm... I did 3 loads last week, and three loads the week before. That means some of the clean laundry has been crumpled on my living room floor for at least 3 weeks.) I vacuumed, spot-treated the carpet, piled Binta's toys into her bedroom, and looked back with great satisfaction at the house of structure and order that I was once again proud to live in.
It turned out to have been a good day to stay home. Last Sunday, a friend of mine and I made plans to meet for lunch. After waiting a half an hour for her, I called her cell phone, only to hear an unknown man's voice say, "She's not available right now." I explained that we had plans to meet, and asked where I could reach her, and he repeated, definitely holding something back, "She's just not available right now."
I was so stunned to have such a weird conversation, that I didn't think to press him, or even ask who he was. I just hung up feeling a little confused and stood-up. In previous conversations, she had mentioned that things were "really messed up right now" so I waited anxiously to hear from her, as this missed date had to be a result of the really bad things that were going on with her.
During my "sick day", I discovered an email from her. It said she was sorry that she hadn't been able to get in touch with me, but she had been in jail.
What?
How does someone I know, another teacher with a Masters Degree, living in a beautiful suburban neighborhood with houses the color of slate and cream, with a daughter the same age as mine, wind up spending the weekend in the Pierce County jail?
We arranged to meet for lunch that day. (Aren't I glad that I'm not at work?) We sat down in a booth at Red Robin while cheerful waiters and servers wove in between tables and each other and a nearby table packed with jocund conversation bounced around the dining room intermixed with the clatter of dishes and laughter. I looked at my friend, hair and makeup beautifully done, and stylishly dressed, as if she was headed to a job interview, as she confessed to me that she had had an affair with a guy from work. (bad decision #1) She told her husband, who wasn't happy. (probably the right thing to do, but added to the mess) He proceeded to "share" this information with the family and every friend of theirs that he could get in touch with. In addition, he cut her off financially, so that she is now living in an Extended America with no money in sight until the end of the month. In anger, late Thursday night, (bad decision #2) she went to the home to pick up her daughter, only to be told by her husband that she could not take her. She attacked her husband (bad decision #3) and used a pie cutter (yes, a pie cutter, we laughed for a moment) to cut her wrists. (bad decision #4).
The police wound up getting involved, and even though her husband had no injuries that needed medical attention, she was taken into custody and placed on suicide watch.
The story is dramatic and exciting, and has all the ingredients for a good Lifetime movie. What was even more fascinating was watching my friend move from shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders, acknowledging her guilt, to sniggering about her ridiculous behavior and shameful loss of self control. Each time that she mentioned her daughter, with the thought of not being allowed to see her girl, however, her eyes darkened, her lips began to quiver, and her eyes brimmed with tears, sometimes spilling down her face creating a stripe of mascara on her cheek.
She tells me what it was like sitting in jail, believing that she had lost absolutely everything, wanting to die. She tells me of every suicidal strategy she explored while she was left alone in her cell, from trying to suffocate herself with the garment she was forced to wear, to using the restraining order that she was served to cut into her wrists again. My friend then describes the woman who checked on her, talked to her, and helped her find a tiny bit of strength. The woman offered her a book to read, which she ended up reading 5 times. My friend credits this woman and that book, together, for saving her life. Somewhere, in the mess of the Pierce County Jail cell that she was in, she began to feel a force, like a spirituality. A sense of clarity entered, allowing her to refocus. Her defeated energy was transformed into a positive push of energy she used to do crunches and running.
Our lunch date would only last one hour, for she had an appointment with her school district to see if she still had a job. After that, she would be pawning her wedding ring for additional cash to get her through the month. I drove back to my house, replaying the events through my mind, remembering the last time I had seen her, one month ago, when I had been admiring her life. It seemed that through a series of bad decisions, she had severly diverged from the direction she had been headed. And it terrified me to think about how easily one could dart off the road, dipping onto a path headed for disaster.
Time she woke up after I rubbed her back and coaxed her back to sleep: 7:11 AM
Number of times I played hooky this week: one
In the Attic: Are we all just one bad decision away from messing up our lives?
I'm not sure if it was playing hooky in the true sense, as my motivation was partly physical and partly mental. The cold from last week (my "partly physical" excuse) is holding on, but making me miserable only upon first waking. Then it's gone until the next morning. So in that sense, I really didn't need to miss school. The other half of my excuse, the "partly mental" break was needed without question.
Calling in sick is so easy. Actually, it's done online, so there is no need to fake a raspy-sounding explanation to someone at the other end of the phone. It's done very quickly - just plug in the day, hit "Submit Absence," and you're set! At any time of the day, I'm just a few clicks away from reporting an absence for the next working day. Yes, that's very dangerous.
I got up as usual, took Binta to daycare, and returned home to start working on the "search and rescue" mission in my living room. I found a total of seven drier sheets in the piles of clean laundry. (Hmmm... I did 3 loads last week, and three loads the week before. That means some of the clean laundry has been crumpled on my living room floor for at least 3 weeks.) I vacuumed, spot-treated the carpet, piled Binta's toys into her bedroom, and looked back with great satisfaction at the house of structure and order that I was once again proud to live in.
It turned out to have been a good day to stay home. Last Sunday, a friend of mine and I made plans to meet for lunch. After waiting a half an hour for her, I called her cell phone, only to hear an unknown man's voice say, "She's not available right now." I explained that we had plans to meet, and asked where I could reach her, and he repeated, definitely holding something back, "She's just not available right now."
I was so stunned to have such a weird conversation, that I didn't think to press him, or even ask who he was. I just hung up feeling a little confused and stood-up. In previous conversations, she had mentioned that things were "really messed up right now" so I waited anxiously to hear from her, as this missed date had to be a result of the really bad things that were going on with her.
During my "sick day", I discovered an email from her. It said she was sorry that she hadn't been able to get in touch with me, but she had been in jail.
What?
How does someone I know, another teacher with a Masters Degree, living in a beautiful suburban neighborhood with houses the color of slate and cream, with a daughter the same age as mine, wind up spending the weekend in the Pierce County jail?
We arranged to meet for lunch that day. (Aren't I glad that I'm not at work?) We sat down in a booth at Red Robin while cheerful waiters and servers wove in between tables and each other and a nearby table packed with jocund conversation bounced around the dining room intermixed with the clatter of dishes and laughter. I looked at my friend, hair and makeup beautifully done, and stylishly dressed, as if she was headed to a job interview, as she confessed to me that she had had an affair with a guy from work. (bad decision #1) She told her husband, who wasn't happy. (probably the right thing to do, but added to the mess) He proceeded to "share" this information with the family and every friend of theirs that he could get in touch with. In addition, he cut her off financially, so that she is now living in an Extended America with no money in sight until the end of the month. In anger, late Thursday night, (bad decision #2) she went to the home to pick up her daughter, only to be told by her husband that she could not take her. She attacked her husband (bad decision #3) and used a pie cutter (yes, a pie cutter, we laughed for a moment) to cut her wrists. (bad decision #4).
The police wound up getting involved, and even though her husband had no injuries that needed medical attention, she was taken into custody and placed on suicide watch.
The story is dramatic and exciting, and has all the ingredients for a good Lifetime movie. What was even more fascinating was watching my friend move from shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders, acknowledging her guilt, to sniggering about her ridiculous behavior and shameful loss of self control. Each time that she mentioned her daughter, with the thought of not being allowed to see her girl, however, her eyes darkened, her lips began to quiver, and her eyes brimmed with tears, sometimes spilling down her face creating a stripe of mascara on her cheek.
She tells me what it was like sitting in jail, believing that she had lost absolutely everything, wanting to die. She tells me of every suicidal strategy she explored while she was left alone in her cell, from trying to suffocate herself with the garment she was forced to wear, to using the restraining order that she was served to cut into her wrists again. My friend then describes the woman who checked on her, talked to her, and helped her find a tiny bit of strength. The woman offered her a book to read, which she ended up reading 5 times. My friend credits this woman and that book, together, for saving her life. Somewhere, in the mess of the Pierce County Jail cell that she was in, she began to feel a force, like a spirituality. A sense of clarity entered, allowing her to refocus. Her defeated energy was transformed into a positive push of energy she used to do crunches and running.
Our lunch date would only last one hour, for she had an appointment with her school district to see if she still had a job. After that, she would be pawning her wedding ring for additional cash to get her through the month. I drove back to my house, replaying the events through my mind, remembering the last time I had seen her, one month ago, when I had been admiring her life. It seemed that through a series of bad decisions, she had severly diverged from the direction she had been headed. And it terrified me to think about how easily one could dart off the road, dipping onto a path headed for disaster.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Pornograpy, Quilting, and Wedding Rings
Piles of laundry: 3 dirty, 2 clean, and 1 unknown (will just treat it as dirty)
Most recently watched movie: Finding Nemo
In the Attic: So who the hell is going to read this, anyway?
I've checked my blog around 11 times since posting the first one yesterday. (That's a low estimate. I have not actually kept a count of the number of times I've checked it. I'm certain it's higher, but don't really want to confess it.) I'm finding I'm thinking about my blog several times an hour. I wonder about who's reading it and I plan out the content of future postings. The emotional response to becomming a new "blogger" is just like getting your first boyfriend, when all of your thoughts revolve around what he may be doing and when you'll next see each other. Wanting to call him all the time. (But knowing you shouldn't.) So I guess I've realized a little love affair with my new blog medium. I'm sure it's simply puppy love, and that, just like any relationship, the newness will wear off over time, and posting will become a chore, as my blog and I become more comfortable with each other. Soon we'll be telling each other, "I feel like I don't even know you any more. What happened to the blog I once fell in love with?"
First thoughts immediately after posting Blog #1: Is it really out there in cyberspace? Is it really out there, available for anyone to read? Or is it just something that registers only on my computer from home? UPDATE: I now have verification from an outside source that it has registered on a number of other computers. It is, in fact, out there.
Next thoughts: If it really is accessible to anyone, than who in the world would want to read it? Sure, I've notified a circle of family and friends to be on the watch, (and even they are questionable!) but other than them, who would want to read this blog, and what's more, how would they come across it? Google searches from a 15-year-old boy looking for free pornography? A 50-year-old woman searching for quilting patterns? A newly engaged couple hunting for platinum wedding rings? I suppose there's a chance, now that I've placed those key words on my site. But unlikely, I know.
Current thoughts: What if I want to vent about a person, and that same individual reads my blog and identifies him or herself in my post? Guess I should have thought of that before notifying "the circle" that I'd be here... But I can't imagine not sharing my new hobby with them. Hmmm.... How do other bloggers handle this?
This morning, when I checked my blog, and it was still here, I found my first comment! What delight! What elation! Unfortunately, it turned out to be a spammy comment, however, advertising a gas card. So I deleted it. Not because the content had absolutely nothing to do with my post, but because of the principle that if someone wants to post a comment, he should at least have the decency to read my posting first. I felt slightly deflated at the thought that the only one to come across my blog was a computer. A computer, who didn't even bother to read my post.
I guess the moral of the story is that, whether or not a human being is actually reading my writing, it's the chance that someone might read it that is fueling me to continue. And for now, that is providing just enough difference from journaling in a regular old Word Document to keep me going with the blog.
Most recently watched movie: Finding Nemo
In the Attic: So who the hell is going to read this, anyway?
I've checked my blog around 11 times since posting the first one yesterday. (That's a low estimate. I have not actually kept a count of the number of times I've checked it. I'm certain it's higher, but don't really want to confess it.) I'm finding I'm thinking about my blog several times an hour. I wonder about who's reading it and I plan out the content of future postings. The emotional response to becomming a new "blogger" is just like getting your first boyfriend, when all of your thoughts revolve around what he may be doing and when you'll next see each other. Wanting to call him all the time. (But knowing you shouldn't.) So I guess I've realized a little love affair with my new blog medium. I'm sure it's simply puppy love, and that, just like any relationship, the newness will wear off over time, and posting will become a chore, as my blog and I become more comfortable with each other. Soon we'll be telling each other, "I feel like I don't even know you any more. What happened to the blog I once fell in love with?"
First thoughts immediately after posting Blog #1: Is it really out there in cyberspace? Is it really out there, available for anyone to read? Or is it just something that registers only on my computer from home? UPDATE: I now have verification from an outside source that it has registered on a number of other computers. It is, in fact, out there.
Next thoughts: If it really is accessible to anyone, than who in the world would want to read it? Sure, I've notified a circle of family and friends to be on the watch, (and even they are questionable!) but other than them, who would want to read this blog, and what's more, how would they come across it? Google searches from a 15-year-old boy looking for free pornography? A 50-year-old woman searching for quilting patterns? A newly engaged couple hunting for platinum wedding rings? I suppose there's a chance, now that I've placed those key words on my site. But unlikely, I know.
Current thoughts: What if I want to vent about a person, and that same individual reads my blog and identifies him or herself in my post? Guess I should have thought of that before notifying "the circle" that I'd be here... But I can't imagine not sharing my new hobby with them. Hmmm.... How do other bloggers handle this?
This morning, when I checked my blog, and it was still here, I found my first comment! What delight! What elation! Unfortunately, it turned out to be a spammy comment, however, advertising a gas card. So I deleted it. Not because the content had absolutely nothing to do with my post, but because of the principle that if someone wants to post a comment, he should at least have the decency to read my posting first. I felt slightly deflated at the thought that the only one to come across my blog was a computer. A computer, who didn't even bother to read my post.
I guess the moral of the story is that, whether or not a human being is actually reading my writing, it's the chance that someone might read it that is fueling me to continue. And for now, that is providing just enough difference from journaling in a regular old Word Document to keep me going with the blog.
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