Privacy

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

"I just do. Close it!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can find fake eggs for less than $69.99.

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

Hideous, isn't it?

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

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

Another pickle. Now what?

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

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

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

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

Recovery

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

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

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

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

I am so stupid.

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

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

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

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

It was that kind of rain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

System Overload

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

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

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

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

How Crest Both Ruined and Saved the Day

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

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

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

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

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

Crest had just redeemed itself and saved the day.

The Very Worst Four-Letter Word

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

move

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

Anyone out there interested?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My New Job

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Whereabouts of My Missing Muse

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

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

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

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

When Teaching the Salmon Life Cycle Can Get You in Trouble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such a Creature of Habit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Professional Goal for this Year

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

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

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

But I was serious.

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

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

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

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

As Summer Comes to a Close...

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


Best stadium concert: American Idols Live

Best free concert: Captain Bogg and Salty

Most shocking news: Binta's dad having a baby

Best book: The Kite Runner

Worst book: Raggedy Ann and Andy and the Paper Dragon

Proudest achievement: filing the stacks of papers on my desk

Sheepish confession: addiction to vintage Sesame Street clips on YouTube

Best puppet show: The Adventures of Sinbad

Most disturbing find: maggots

Coolest library: Seattle Central Library

Best outdoor fun: swimming

New skill learned: how to make pickles

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

Best movie: Hoodwinked

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

Binta Hits the Big 04!

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

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

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

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

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

How do you follow an act like that?

With a pinata!

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

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

My response:

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

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

You scour your house - top to bottom. Twice.
















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

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

The Post I Hope My Mom Doesn't Ever Read

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was something moving inside the bag.

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

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

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

Heaven: 1000 4th Ave, Seattle WA

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

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

And Then There Was None

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

And that lasts up until he quits his job.

Which he did.

And now, he's working under the table.

Teacher's Corner: A Lesson on "Oxymoron"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Payday is Monday.

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

summer + school = x

Windex

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