Number of report cards complete: approximately 21
Number of boxes in my apartment: 7 filled, 35 empty
In the Attic: WAY too much in the attic right now.
You know what was a very bad idea? Moving to a new house in November, during fall report card and conference time. Not that I could have controlled the unfortunate timing, however. My lease is up in 13 more days, so it stands to reason that this is a good time to be packing up to leave. Conferences start in 2 days, so finishing report cards is another good objective.
Any teacher will tell you how busy and stressful report cards and conferences are. Any idiot will tell you how much exhaustion comes from moving households. I am so over-filled right now.
I keep telling myself: "In a week, this will all be over."
Monday, November 13, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
How Crest Both Ruined and Saved the Day
This morning, it seemed like an effective time-saver to brush our teeth at the same time. I starting brushing, hollering at Binta through a mouthful of pasty foam to get her toothbrush and get started. As I did so, a huge gob of toothpaste dropped from my mouth, onto my shirt.
"Aw, crap!" I heard myself yell, disgustedly.
I felt instant remorse for having used a word that I shouldn't be using in front of Binta. I knew that I'd be hearing the same foul word repeated from her mouth, most likely in front of more linguistically responsible parents.
And she didn't let me down. As if on cue, she echoed me.
That's when I realized that when you say "crap" with a mouth filled with toothpaste foam and a Sonicare, to the other person, it sounds more like "crack."
Crest had just redeemed itself and saved the day.
"Aw, crap!" I heard myself yell, disgustedly.
I felt instant remorse for having used a word that I shouldn't be using in front of Binta. I knew that I'd be hearing the same foul word repeated from her mouth, most likely in front of more linguistically responsible parents.
And she didn't let me down. As if on cue, she echoed me.
That's when I realized that when you say "crap" with a mouth filled with toothpaste foam and a Sonicare, to the other person, it sounds more like "crack."
Crest had just redeemed itself and saved the day.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The Very Worst Four-Letter Word
Have you guessed what word I'm referring to? I'll bet you've made some very interesting guesses (hopefully not out loud), but I'd be surprised if you thought of the one I'm thinking of.
move
I'm moving. Moving sucks. I've known I was going to move for about 3 months, now. I've been in denial for the past several weeks about the fact that moving not only means that I've got to pack up all my stuff, but I have to beg and plead with friends to give up some of their relaxing weekend time to help lift very, very heavy things.
Anyone out there interested?
The regular reader will be pleased to learn that I am moving out of this crap-hole apartment, into a nice, new house. It's been no secret that I don't like my current residence, and have been longing for a house. In the past 10 years since I graduated from college, I've moved 9 times. This move makes move number 10. Those readers who are quick at math will figure that's roughly a move each year.
Some people go on vacation once a year. I pack all of my crap into cardboard boxes and haul it off to a new residence.
Each time I move, I tell myself, "The next move will be my last." Or at least, "The next move will last more than 12 months." And so it goes. Rent increases, new relationships, and breakups are some of the unforseen contributors to my eventual transient lifestyle.
I started exploring options into buying a house on my own last fall. However, I quickly noticed that there was no way I would qualify for the type of home I wanted. I guess I just imagined something slightly more grand than a cardboard box behind K-Mart. Something that would at least have electricity. And running water.
Discouraged and definitely depressed, I admitted to myself that misery in my apartment would be my reality for at least 3 more years, until Binta was out of daycare, and I'd possibly be getting more child support.
But that was not ok for my mom and stepdad. They sold their former rental property in order to purchase a new home, with the intentions of renting to me. This was definitely a deal that I could not pass up.
So there's a lot of emotion going on inside me right now. Some sadness and shame that the home we're moving into isn't "mine." Plenty of excitement and elation to move from this ghetto into a new, adorable little "cottage." But overall, so much appreciation and love for my parents, for being able to, and finding it important to, help make this happen for me. I'm a pretty lucky girl.
move
I'm moving. Moving sucks. I've known I was going to move for about 3 months, now. I've been in denial for the past several weeks about the fact that moving not only means that I've got to pack up all my stuff, but I have to beg and plead with friends to give up some of their relaxing weekend time to help lift very, very heavy things.
Anyone out there interested?
The regular reader will be pleased to learn that I am moving out of this crap-hole apartment, into a nice, new house. It's been no secret that I don't like my current residence, and have been longing for a house. In the past 10 years since I graduated from college, I've moved 9 times. This move makes move number 10. Those readers who are quick at math will figure that's roughly a move each year.
Some people go on vacation once a year. I pack all of my crap into cardboard boxes and haul it off to a new residence.
Each time I move, I tell myself, "The next move will be my last." Or at least, "The next move will last more than 12 months." And so it goes. Rent increases, new relationships, and breakups are some of the unforseen contributors to my eventual transient lifestyle.
I started exploring options into buying a house on my own last fall. However, I quickly noticed that there was no way I would qualify for the type of home I wanted. I guess I just imagined something slightly more grand than a cardboard box behind K-Mart. Something that would at least have electricity. And running water.
Discouraged and definitely depressed, I admitted to myself that misery in my apartment would be my reality for at least 3 more years, until Binta was out of daycare, and I'd possibly be getting more child support.
But that was not ok for my mom and stepdad. They sold their former rental property in order to purchase a new home, with the intentions of renting to me. This was definitely a deal that I could not pass up.
So there's a lot of emotion going on inside me right now. Some sadness and shame that the home we're moving into isn't "mine." Plenty of excitement and elation to move from this ghetto into a new, adorable little "cottage." But overall, so much appreciation and love for my parents, for being able to, and finding it important to, help make this happen for me. I'm a pretty lucky girl.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Your Regularly Scheduled Post has been Interrupted to Bring you this Message
My voicemail message this morning reveals a call from Binta's dad. He (his girlfriend, rather) had a baby last night. A boy. His voice sounded excited and proud, just as a dad should after becomming a dad (again).
Frankly, I'm surprised by my emotional reaction. I found myself holding back tears that I didn't know were there. I always guessed that ex-spouses who got upset when the former spouse got married, or had a new child, were demonstrating lingering emotion for the ex-spouse himself.
I'm realizing today that the sadness that I'm feeling does not come from any sort of regret that he and I are no longer in a relationship. (Dear god, no. That we're not together is a really good thing. Believe me.) The sadness is seeing my dream thrown back into my face. The dream of having a "family."
I remember "the plan" that her dad and I had made, in regards to having children. Probably 2 kids, and about 4 years spaced apart. My brother and I were 4 years apart, and it just seems like a pretty good difference in age. Enough time to recuperate from the new baby, diapers, and toddler whining. Just enough distance from the really hard parts of raising little kids to make one think, "Gee, having another baby and going through all that crap again sounds like a good idea."
But that option died the moment her dad and I split. I've felt sadness for some time, realizing that Binta won't get to have that other sibling like I did. But now, her dad has had another child. The boy he always wanted. Binta's half-brother.
I feel sad, because this new baby is the closest she will get to having a sibling like I had. I feel sad, because I don't get to share this significant development in her life. I feel sad, because this new baby will get a lot more time from their father than she gets. And I feel sad, because someday, she's going to have an emotional reaction to this event, herself.
Frankly, I'm surprised by my emotional reaction. I found myself holding back tears that I didn't know were there. I always guessed that ex-spouses who got upset when the former spouse got married, or had a new child, were demonstrating lingering emotion for the ex-spouse himself.
I'm realizing today that the sadness that I'm feeling does not come from any sort of regret that he and I are no longer in a relationship. (Dear god, no. That we're not together is a really good thing. Believe me.) The sadness is seeing my dream thrown back into my face. The dream of having a "family."
I remember "the plan" that her dad and I had made, in regards to having children. Probably 2 kids, and about 4 years spaced apart. My brother and I were 4 years apart, and it just seems like a pretty good difference in age. Enough time to recuperate from the new baby, diapers, and toddler whining. Just enough distance from the really hard parts of raising little kids to make one think, "Gee, having another baby and going through all that crap again sounds like a good idea."
But that option died the moment her dad and I split. I've felt sadness for some time, realizing that Binta won't get to have that other sibling like I did. But now, her dad has had another child. The boy he always wanted. Binta's half-brother.
I feel sad, because this new baby is the closest she will get to having a sibling like I had. I feel sad, because I don't get to share this significant development in her life. I feel sad, because this new baby will get a lot more time from their father than she gets. And I feel sad, because someday, she's going to have an emotional reaction to this event, herself.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
My New Job
Late fees owed to the King County Library: $5.40
Number of My Little Ponies on the living room floor: 5
In the Attic: I started a new job 10 months ago. Guess I should mention it.
I still have my other job, teaching. This job I'm referring to is strictly volunteer, so I'm holding on to that teaching one because the paycheck comes in real handy at the end of the month. No, this job is for The Compassionate Friends.
Never heard of it? Well, aren't you lucky. Twenty-five months ago, I hadn't either. I stumbled across it six months after my brother died, when searching for support groups. There it was, in a book I was reading about grief. I went to the computer, and looked it up. The Compassionate Friends was originally founded to support people who have survived the death of their child, but later was extended to support the siblings and grandparents as well.
I remember thinking how bizarre it was to realize that there had been this entire organization out there, living and growing, without any awareness at all on my part. And that suddenly, when I was in need of such a group, there it was, almost waiting for me. I'm reminded about what a different life I led before surviving the death of my brother.
The Compassionate Friends has a website. Through this website, I began participating in a few online support chats with other siblings who had experienced losing a brother or sister. My mother and I even attended a couple of local support group sessions, held in the chapel of a local hospital one day a month. The support and relief that comes from participating in these groups gave me a lot of strength. I started to look forward to the evenings that I could participate in an online support group. It was nice to know that in only a few hours, I would have an opportunity to really focus on my grief with others who also had experienced much of what I was going through.
So last December, I was approached by one of the moderators, asking me if I'd be interested in becomming a moderator for one of the online support groups. I was honored, yet hesitant to accept. After all, what did I know? I certainly was no expert, nor a professional. How would I know what to do?
When, after some time considering the offer, I realized the beauty in The Compassionate Friends. You become the expert simply by having the devastating experience. The comfort I've received from The Compassionate Friends is not because of working with highly trained, professionals. It's because I've been allowed to cry and exchange stories with other people who miss their brothers and sisters like I do.
So, I gladly accepted. And every Sunday evening, at 6:00 PM, I sit down at my computer to moderate my support group. Sometimes a brand new person will join the group. I always tell the person I'm so glad they found us, but saddened to know that they have a reason to. I am distinctly aware of a mental and emotional shift that I have been experiencing, as I move from being entirely dependent on others' support, to being able to offer my own. The kind of support I get now is a hybrid combination of both elements.
Speaking of that, I need to excuse myself - it's 6:00.
Number of My Little Ponies on the living room floor: 5
In the Attic: I started a new job 10 months ago. Guess I should mention it.
I still have my other job, teaching. This job I'm referring to is strictly volunteer, so I'm holding on to that teaching one because the paycheck comes in real handy at the end of the month. No, this job is for The Compassionate Friends.
Never heard of it? Well, aren't you lucky. Twenty-five months ago, I hadn't either. I stumbled across it six months after my brother died, when searching for support groups. There it was, in a book I was reading about grief. I went to the computer, and looked it up. The Compassionate Friends was originally founded to support people who have survived the death of their child, but later was extended to support the siblings and grandparents as well.
I remember thinking how bizarre it was to realize that there had been this entire organization out there, living and growing, without any awareness at all on my part. And that suddenly, when I was in need of such a group, there it was, almost waiting for me. I'm reminded about what a different life I led before surviving the death of my brother.
The Compassionate Friends has a website. Through this website, I began participating in a few online support chats with other siblings who had experienced losing a brother or sister. My mother and I even attended a couple of local support group sessions, held in the chapel of a local hospital one day a month. The support and relief that comes from participating in these groups gave me a lot of strength. I started to look forward to the evenings that I could participate in an online support group. It was nice to know that in only a few hours, I would have an opportunity to really focus on my grief with others who also had experienced much of what I was going through.
So last December, I was approached by one of the moderators, asking me if I'd be interested in becomming a moderator for one of the online support groups. I was honored, yet hesitant to accept. After all, what did I know? I certainly was no expert, nor a professional. How would I know what to do?
When, after some time considering the offer, I realized the beauty in The Compassionate Friends. You become the expert simply by having the devastating experience. The comfort I've received from The Compassionate Friends is not because of working with highly trained, professionals. It's because I've been allowed to cry and exchange stories with other people who miss their brothers and sisters like I do.
So, I gladly accepted. And every Sunday evening, at 6:00 PM, I sit down at my computer to moderate my support group. Sometimes a brand new person will join the group. I always tell the person I'm so glad they found us, but saddened to know that they have a reason to. I am distinctly aware of a mental and emotional shift that I have been experiencing, as I move from being entirely dependent on others' support, to being able to offer my own. The kind of support I get now is a hybrid combination of both elements.
Speaking of that, I need to excuse myself - it's 6:00.
The Whereabouts of My Missing Muse
First of all, my apologies for not having written sooner. It's certainly not because I don't have anything to write about. Here's a sampling of blog topics I've considered over the past few weeks:
- seeing Dave Matthews Band and the Rolling Stones in concert.
- my upcoming move to a house.
- Halloween update on Binta.
- the fact that my neighbor's front teeth are entirely missing. (that one is really bugging me. One week, she has teeth. Next week, she doesn't. What's up?)
It's that every time I actually had a moment to write, I talked myself out of it, convincing myself that it wouldn't come out as good "on paper" as it was in my head. Not a new struggle for me. I'm hopeful that other writers have a similar inner struggle. I'd also love some advice on how to push through when they occur.
Anyway, Binta is with her dad today, and I have spent a wonderful day to myself. The only problem I've had today is the accelerated rate with which the hours pass by. But I'd really like to get a decent post in before the weekend's end. I'll pick a topic and write a decent post for you this evening. Promise.
Monday, October 09, 2006
When Teaching the Salmon Life Cycle Can Get You in Trouble
In my district, third grade gets the honor of teaching the salmon life cycle. I'm sure to the average reader at home, the salmon cycle may seem somewhat harmless. Today's annecdote illustrates the dangerous potential of this topic.
We started off today's lesson with a description of a female salmon laying her eggs after just having spawned. After some time pondering this, a student raised her hand.
"Why does it take humans so long to mate, when it only takes salmon just a few minutes?"
Misunderstanding her question, I responded by explaining that neither species is fully developed instantly. That with humans, the egg develops inside the female for nine months, and with the salmon, the eggs develop after they've been laid outside the female, and that it takes them several months, too. Next question.
Clearly, that was not what she was asking, because she returned with:
"No, I mean that it only takes salmon a few minutes to mate, and it takes humans like a day."
Hmm... Either she has misunderstood some part of the human reproduction process, or she knows something I don't know. Cause for me, the longest I ever got was like 20, 30 minutes, tops.
God, what I'd give to be a fly on the wall during their dinner conversation tonight when her parents ask her what she learned in school today.
We started off today's lesson with a description of a female salmon laying her eggs after just having spawned. After some time pondering this, a student raised her hand.
"Why does it take humans so long to mate, when it only takes salmon just a few minutes?"
Misunderstanding her question, I responded by explaining that neither species is fully developed instantly. That with humans, the egg develops inside the female for nine months, and with the salmon, the eggs develop after they've been laid outside the female, and that it takes them several months, too. Next question.
Clearly, that was not what she was asking, because she returned with:
"No, I mean that it only takes salmon a few minutes to mate, and it takes humans like a day."
Hmm... Either she has misunderstood some part of the human reproduction process, or she knows something I don't know. Cause for me, the longest I ever got was like 20, 30 minutes, tops.
God, what I'd give to be a fly on the wall during their dinner conversation tonight when her parents ask her what she learned in school today.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Such a Creature of Habit
Found on my porch: 9 rusty nails
Latest movie watched in the theatre: Open Season
In the Attic: An awareness of my routines
A conversation with a friend last night got me thinking about how many routines I have in my life. I am a person who thrives on routine and predictability. I never really think about it, however, unless I'm talking with someone who is different than me in that department. Without my routines, I feel insecure and uncomfortable. Uncertain as to when I would accomplish mundane tasks, worried that I'd leave out critical pieces of my day.
Take a look at my morning routine:
1. I get up each morning 10 minutes after the alarm goes off so that I can hear the weather report and plan my clothing accordingly.
2. I shower in the same order: shampoo hair, wash face, rinse hair and face; condition hair, wash body, rinse hair and body.
3. I towel dry in the same order: face, hair, upper body and arms, lower body and legs. I wrap the towl around me in the same way each morning.
4. I get dressed in the same order: underwear, bra, pants, shirt.
5. I dry my hair, style my hair, and apply makeup. All in that order.
6. I even wrap the cord around the hair dryer in the same way each morning.
7. I eat the same type of breakfast each morning, and pack my lunch afterwards.
8. I brush my teeth and apply deodorant, in that order.
9. I drive the same way to work and park in the same place every day.
I certainly didn't set out to have a nine-step morning routine when I grew up. I really didn't even know it was there, until this morning, when I noticed that the cord to the hair dryer was wrapped up differently - alerting me to the facts that 1) my friend had used it while visiting, and 2) I have a very solid routine guiding me in the morning. (see item #6)
Latest movie watched in the theatre: Open Season
In the Attic: An awareness of my routines
A conversation with a friend last night got me thinking about how many routines I have in my life. I am a person who thrives on routine and predictability. I never really think about it, however, unless I'm talking with someone who is different than me in that department. Without my routines, I feel insecure and uncomfortable. Uncertain as to when I would accomplish mundane tasks, worried that I'd leave out critical pieces of my day.
Take a look at my morning routine:
1. I get up each morning 10 minutes after the alarm goes off so that I can hear the weather report and plan my clothing accordingly.
2. I shower in the same order: shampoo hair, wash face, rinse hair and face; condition hair, wash body, rinse hair and body.
3. I towel dry in the same order: face, hair, upper body and arms, lower body and legs. I wrap the towl around me in the same way each morning.
4. I get dressed in the same order: underwear, bra, pants, shirt.
5. I dry my hair, style my hair, and apply makeup. All in that order.
6. I even wrap the cord around the hair dryer in the same way each morning.
7. I eat the same type of breakfast each morning, and pack my lunch afterwards.
8. I brush my teeth and apply deodorant, in that order.
9. I drive the same way to work and park in the same place every day.
I certainly didn't set out to have a nine-step morning routine when I grew up. I really didn't even know it was there, until this morning, when I noticed that the cord to the hair dryer was wrapped up differently - alerting me to the facts that 1) my friend had used it while visiting, and 2) I have a very solid routine guiding me in the morning. (see item #6)
Sunday, September 17, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, September 04, 2006
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
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
Monday, August 28, 2006
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."
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."
Thursday, August 10, 2006
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!
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!
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
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.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
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.
And that lasts up until he quits his job.
Which he did.
And now, he's working under the table.
Friday, July 28, 2006
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.
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
Saturday, July 22, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
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.
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