A Professional Goal for this Year

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

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

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

But I was serious.

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

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

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

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

As Summer Comes to a Close...

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


Best stadium concert: American Idols Live

Best free concert: Captain Bogg and Salty

Most shocking news: Binta's dad having a baby

Best book: The Kite Runner

Worst book: Raggedy Ann and Andy and the Paper Dragon

Proudest achievement: filing the stacks of papers on my desk

Sheepish confession: addiction to vintage Sesame Street clips on YouTube

Best puppet show: The Adventures of Sinbad

Most disturbing find: maggots

Coolest library: Seattle Central Library

Best outdoor fun: swimming

New skill learned: how to make pickles

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

Best movie: Hoodwinked

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

Binta Hits the Big 04!

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

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

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

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

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

How do you follow an act like that?

With a pinata!

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

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

My response:

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

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

You scour your house - top to bottom. Twice.
















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

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

The Post I Hope My Mom Doesn't Ever Read

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something moving inside the bag.

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

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

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

Heaven: 1000 4th Ave, Seattle WA

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

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

And Then There Was None

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

And that lasts up until he quits his job.

Which he did.

And now, he's working under the table.

Teacher's Corner: A Lesson on "Oxymoron"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Payday is Monday.

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

summer + school = x

Windex

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Bachelorette Party from the Back of the School Bus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time there's cheering and laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Stay Fit While Saving Money on a Gym Membership

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

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

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

Preparations for "International Talk Like a Pirate Day"

Your Pirate Name Is...

Bloody Jenny of the High Seas

What's" Your Pirate Name?

Give it a try yourself, you little bilge rat!

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

Book Report: The Kite Runner

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

"Have you read The Kite Runner?"

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

Anyway, I was ready for my next book.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you read The Kite Runner?

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

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

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

But the implied message:

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

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

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

Perhaps Now, I Can Conquer the World...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rooting for the Right Team

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


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

Binta: I like the yellow team.

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

Binta: Yes, there is. Look.

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

Binta: I love the yellow guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Followed by more crying.

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

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

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

I am now looking forward to September like never before.

So Close, Yet So Far Away

So does anyone out there even own a record player?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you noticing the pattern yet?

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

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



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


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

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

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

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