rituals for the new now

Every morning, my one-eyed cat Zelda climbs onto the bed purring fiercely and nudges her face against mine. For an hour we play a combative game: I pull her squishy body against me & try to sleep a bit more and she pretends to nuzzle while really seeking my bare skin to bite. I've thought this was about her hunger but no matter who feeds her, she only comes for me and my shoulder (or hand or arm, sometimes chin or eyebrow). I've decided Zelda, whom I named after the writer Fitzgerald, is my muse. A feisty, aggravating, literally biting muse but one that will get me out of bed and into daylight.

I like to think, especially when faced with this isolating crisis, that routines will bring me what I need - consistency, stability, predictability. But they can only do that if properly recognized and named for their intentions. For most of my almost-52 years I've tried to establish routines that will make me somehow Better; I've always been on the verge of being someone More Stylish, More Confident, More Fit, Cuter - An Artist, A Writer, Someone Who Can Follow A Basic Schedule. It has worked occasionally - I did graduate from high school and college and got married. I've also finally developed a sort-of system of trying to plan daily meals, though this is loosely defined and it always includes at least one night for takeout. But what was the real point of all that organized angst? 

I've been thinking that my approach to routines in daily life has been mostly seeing them as necessary but punitive tasks, and no one likes to constantly face punishment (conversations about BDSM aside). It might be more a matter of semantics but I'm starting to feel like if I call what I want to do with & for myself "rituals," I'll be more likely to embrace the changes. Already I light a candle at my desk when I'm serious about getting work done; I make sure my kettle is programmed before I go to bed because then I envision my morning reading & writing time without waiting for tea to brew; I ride my stationary bike less for the exercise and more for the joy of listening to podcasts + recording the distances in a weekly journal.

My August ritual used to be celebrating my birthday with something indulgent each day while also refocusing attention on school prep; for decades I have loved both things in a way that filled my being with joy & gratitude & a sense of purpose. That tilted a bit last year when I thought I was done with teaching, though I found a similar feeling in becoming a docent. I'm realizing that the New Now and absence of my former teacher/docent ritual has depleted me; it's become harder to embrace joy; I feel thankful for life only in a more general way, and my purpose seems nebulous. I've moved some things into the classroom I won't be able to use for at least a couple of months due to pandemic concerns and I have precarious stacks of history books around my house to read & use for lessons, yet everything still feels unmoored. I've been trying to establish routines for organizing but the world is in such a state that organization seems futile. 

I can't allow that feeling to linger though, because that would mean surrendering and a Leo/Virgo is nothing if not tenacious (see also: stubborn, obsessive, bossy, and/or controlling). 

So, I'll take Zelda's morning ritual with me as a call to rise and get back into this odd new world. 

Excuse the bite marks. 

 

a few truths and a lie

I am not a resolution-maker. If I ever feel like changing something, I do it regardless of whether it's January 1st or the first day of school or my birthday or a Sunday night. I understand the desire to make a big production of starting New Habits and I did participate in the theatrics for most of my life, usually by buying a pretty new journal and writing lists of changes with a pretty new pen on the fresh pretty blank pages. After two weeks (maybe), that journal would be prettily collecting dust and anxiety on my nightstand; after a month I would stash it shamefully in a drawer and go on with my presumably failed life.

I finally realized, after years of suffering the little daily defeats of marriage and parenthood and teaching, that pressuring myself to Be Better on a particular date doesn't work for me. It's manufactured and bolstered by hype, and I avoid hype on principle - I wouldn't watch the first season of Survivor (but have watched all twentysomething seasons since), and though I love & live the idea of Carpe Diem, I refused it as a tattoo after finding 7000 versions of it during a Google search. Also, I'm pretty terrible with deadlines. Of course, I could resolve to be better with deadlines but that just makes my head hurt. I can do deadlines that are meaningful to other people - contributing to an IEP before a meeting, submitting grades, attending a party on the day it's happening - but trying to tell myself something needs to get done by a certain time? I am a totally insensitive jerk.

I've decided, partly because of those little daily defeats in life, piling on specific tasks so clearly unpleasant that I've ignored them most of the year is cruel, even for an insensitive jerk. After some reflection, anxiousness, depression, and counseling, I decided I'd check in with myself a few times each day to find out what I needed to feel, well, better. Better = calmer, content, connected, productive. Sometimes I need to do a specific thing (usually for other people/effing deadlines), sometimes I eat a little chocolate stashed in my desk, sometimes I play John Mayer loud, sometimes I take a nap, sometimes I startle my children by hugging them in the hallway.

I no longer make random resolutions at the end of a year. Instead, I make about 95 mini-resolutions every day, with immediate deadlines, and - I'm happier.

Carpe every damn diem.

vision check

I guess I am lamely late to this controversial party and I anticipate some backlash against my perspective yet here I go...

This article about the Robin Thicke song/video "Blurred Lines" has a few valid points : it is absolutely not ever okay to assume consent from anyone for anything, Mr. Thicke could cool it on some language & imagery and do a better job of obviously mocking misogynistic attitudes, and no one would be paying all that much attention if YouTube hadn't banned the video [for a minute].

However - here is where I might go sideways with some very sensitive, intelligent, well-respected women I know and I hope they will still like me - I think this song & video are essentially supposed to be about how sex should be fun for everyone, and naked lady bodies are a joy to behold. Clearly it has an embarrassingly hetero-centric viewpoint, which I think makes it an easier target for those (rightfully) concerned about the objectification of woman. And I certainly do not condone treating a woman (or any partner) as a thing or property, without rights, incapable of thinking, or disallowed choices. 

But in this song & video? It seems to me Robin, T.I., and Pharrell are being silly boys getting all jazzy about pretty girls. That happens, it's natural (with variations for different orientations), and frankly, it's a compliment [ALTHOUGH I do not want to be called a 'bitch' EVER; that is indeed a grave lyrical error on their part]. But if we're looking to engage in conversation & change perspectives in any way, we have to address the reality of physical attraction and base sexual desires.

I don't think I can say anymore at this point that could smartly compare to these women's creatively astute responses:

A strongly-homosexual take that is brilliant though quite naughty in some places so NSFW or around children who haven't yet seen some South Park, Arrested Development, or any Kevin Smith movies: "Ask First" by J. Mary Burnet & Kaleigh Trace.

And the Mod Carousel gender-swap version helps make even more clear the point of sex=yummy & saucy & empowering. Some of the half-naked boys are wearing makeup, and ALL of them are freaking adorable + having fun. Also NSFW but less terrifying for your pre-teens in terms of references to activities that make 40something high school teachers blush [see above].
 

Overall, what I talk about with my teenage boy & girl when examining popular music/movies/books/TV/websites, is that no one looks menacing or acts demeaning at a partner or, conversely, no one seems scared or dominated (without delighting in the domination, which is possible amongst consenting partners). While the song played on the radio seems more catchy & teasing than awful, the video is admittedly obnoxious and potentially confusing. The lyrics and the behaviors displayed definitely need discussion with young folk who are trying to figure out how this whole relationship stuff works - when we like + trust each other, we say sassy things and think we're cute (or we tell each other when we're uncomfortable and respect each other's lines, which should not be blurred because we're being honest). If we don't know each other, we are not allowed to make any such comments without fear that - as the straightforward ladies say in "Ask First" - someone will "break your f*cking knees."

Hey hey hey?

 

things i'm actually bad at

Before we begin in earnest, I must address the preposition upon which I ended this post title. I am typically a stickler for proper grammar - a Grammar Nazi if you will, though I would never murder people for misusing language; subject them to long, boring explanations, yes, but not murder. However, I also believe strongly in poetic license and the concept of breaking rules as long as you know what they are. Moving on.

I don't really think I'm a *bad* mom (see explanation of blog name); I think I make a shit ton of mistakes but that doesn't make me bad, it makes me human. And I think I'm pretty good at admitting my mistakes [by the way - important distinction - mistake does not equal wrong, I'mtalkingtoyou,1sthusband] then learning from them.

I am, however, bad at a bunch of things and because I profoundly hope no one gets the idea that I excel at everything, I will list them here. But in no particular order other than numerically off the top of my head because really, I'm bad at prioritizing.

1. Meeting deadlines : I visualize calendar boxes in my head with appointments & meetings written in different fonts & colors and happy balloons hovering in birthdates; deadlines just look like bear traps.
2. Making meal plans : I have tried a thousand great ideas from Family Circle and Woman's Day and Real Simple and countless painfully cheerful websites, to no lasting avail. I have three apps on my phone for pulling together balanced meals; I have carried recipe cards and vague weekly schedules in my purse. The only thing I'm good at in this arena is planning to plan.
3. Pulling off "Fashionable" : This is not a call for compliments nor a sad self-image issue; I am perfectly pleased with my basic/boring wardrobe of jeans, t-shirts, camisoles, and cardigans. I have tried trends but I just feel weird in my own body. I don't get how to do belts, or jewelry combinations, or scarves, or lipstick, or anything called an 'ensemble.' I happily live Coco Chanel's directive, "It is always better to be slightly underdressed."
4. Sewing : The fact is, I just don't do it. Except popped buttons, and then only if wearers of the garments are embarrassed by safety pins.
5. Housekeeping : I like to tell myself it's my way of just enjoying the important things and ignoring the little stuff for awhile. But I really really hate cleaning toilets.
6. Returning phone calls : Especially since the advent of texting, I avoid actually speaking to people on the phone. I think I don't like the lack of a visual but I'm also a notorious multi-tasker so if I'm just supposed to be listening but can't see the speaker, I'll do other things [except clean the toilet] and miss half of what they're saying. Pointless, and I get a sore neck trying to hold the phone with no hands. Plus texts are a time-stamped record of what was actually said in a conversation, which is handy in preparing for a job with the NSA.

There are plenty more but I need to go validate myself for awhile. I think I'll correct some grammar errors on people's Facebook posts.

sunday night insight

I don't want to hate Sundays. They start with such grace, a 'day of rest' full of nothing but lovely relaxing air (except during football season when I have a tension headache until the Cowboys are done playing but that's not Sunday's fault, really).

But toward dusk they begin to change, like terrifying harpies, into mean-spirited soul-destroying entities. After having seduced me with a languorously carefree pace, they begin to devour my minutes with a depraved glee until I weep with anguish, having accomplished nothing of so-called merit. I start drinking large glasses of wine at 4 p.m. then retire to bed early, certain that Monday will bring only darkness & despair.

Perhaps I exaggerate a touch.

I would like to a) stop hating the last hours of the weekend and b) return to writing on my blog and subsequently de-stressing about ultimately unimportant or nonexistent issues. So I'm trying Sunday Night Insight, wherein I consider what I've done/eaten/thought/seen over the weekend that feels meaningful in my life so that I can begin the week looking forward instead of down at my feet, pitifully.

***
Yesterday, I remembered in the nick of time that I was a Board member (oh, and Secretary) of a local theatre group, and we had a 10 a.m. meeting. Got there on time, gave reasonably intelligent input, put together some kickass passable notes, drank lots of coffee to keep up with young thespians, had lunch & some deep conversations.

Then I napped.

But THEN I got into my boots and hit the town to become best friends with see and talk awkwardly with Carrie Brownstein & Ari Shapiro at the Live Wire! Radio taping. It was deliciously fun listening to them during interviews plus OMG Ari sang while Thomas Lauderdale played piano. There could have been sobbing but I had stopped drinking just in time to keep my cool.

Today, the dreaded Sunday, I watched my Cowboys play awfully/play better/almost lose/WIN while my family wandered in & out of the living room, commiserating & cheering as appropriate. Afterward we all ate leftover Chinese leftovers and watched the DVRed Survivor from last week. Now we're reading & writing & editing videos & doing laundry & performing home improvements as Christmas music plays on the radio.

Next, I'm taking myself for a leisurely wander through Trader Joe's to get everything I need for Thanksgiving without having to fight rushed & crabby shoppers.

The insight here [FINALLY; thank you for sticking with me/no hate mail] is that I did wonderfully fun things as well as accomplished some things, and that is good enough for a couple of days.

 

I can sleep in peace tonight.

 

Tomorrow I'll start working on hating Mondays less.

frivolity

In case anyone thinks I am only blogging serious topics these days, here is a nonsequential list of Ridiculous Things I've Done in the past week that will disabuse even the most casual reader of such a notion.

1. Awoke at 6 a.m. on a weekend morning to watch [on my 3" iPhone screen] potential 2nd husband swim in Berlin
2. Spent multiple minutes in a row plucking wild silver hairs from my head
3. Composed pretend conversations with a certain World Cup swimmer/potential 2nd husband that always ended with us going out dancing
4. Had actual [mostly one-sided] Twitter conversations with the same World Cup swimmer/potential 2nd husband in which I am at my most witty & brilliant, but no one gets to go dancing
5. Shamelessly wore yoga pants & Fountains of Wayne tank, slippers, and fancy houndstooth coat to drive daughter to 7 a.m. stage band practice
6. Planned imaginary vacations to Disneyland, Hawaii, and Singapore
7. Planned imaginary move to London
8. Checked Twitter Interactions for a response from World Cup swimmer/youknow every few hours, every day
9. Sang along to Beyonce, with emotion; thought I sounded pretty ... irreplaceable
10. Forgot to drink water and/or eat for 5+ hours at school
11. Fed my family pizza at least 3 times
12. Watched no football games in their entirety
13. Experienced actual concern about who might be voted off Survivor
14. Considered an e-mail rumble with my son's English teacher for telling my kid he wasn't 'ready' to read Catcher in the Rye
15. Bought a bagful of Chanterelles but have not yet eaten them while watching The Walking Dead

Now, feel free to indulge in a superiority complex and question my role in shaping the future of our world.

This is just to say, however, I think we should all experience a little more ridiculousness every now & then.

Though I really am counting on dancing with youknowwho in real life sometime in 2014. Without bribery, drugs, or blackmail. Okay maybe some bribery.

job description

Today I wrapped up teaching One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest to a few dozen high school seniors for the second time. And it occurs to me, with only a touch of guilt, that the most satisfying part of this unit is getting the majority of my students to hate the movie.

Here is what I tell them at the beginning of the book, and again each time I show a short clip [there are at least 3 periods during the quarter when mutiny is imminent because I only let them see 10-15 minutes of the movie at a time, to begin with]: "I am not saying the movie is bad. Standing alone, it is entertaining. Jack Nicholson is indeed a BRILLIANT ACTOR. But the movie should have been given a different title."

I read most of the novel aloud (please revisit it sometime to marvel at what kind of language I use in my classroom, then imagine the impact that has on teenage people; next, understand fully why I have at least one glass of wine every evening). After the first 20 pages or so, I show the opening of the film and, following a mini Jack Nicholson-lovefest, they do appreciate that the movie is going to be vastly different simply because it lacks Chief's narrative perspective. We continue reading, getting to know the characters and talking about why the story is an important one to hear. We talk about whether McMurphy is a troublemaker or a renegade [and what is the difference, anyway?]. Note: Our school mascot is a Renegade; we generate a lot of interesting discussion at this point about how some people in our tiny town tend to see us and - hey - are some of us like McMurphy? Weird.

By the time I've read through the beautiful, magical fishing trip in the book and then show that skimpy, brash, pointless scene, most of my students are disgusted with the change in focus & tone. They miss Chief's metaphorical hallucinations; they don't like that the movie McMurphy calls the men 'loonies' and 'nuts' and 'crazies;' they're offended by the absence of key characters & storylines; they aren't feeling terrified by Nurse Ratched, just annoyed.

We are all emotionally spent when we finish the novel - from following and worrying over Mack's transformation, from deciphering Chief's 'truths' even if they never happened, from growing unexpectedly closer to these damaged fictional people. Then we finish the movie. I listen to the gasps and groans from my students as they watch the film wrap up without addressing the points that our class decided were necessary for a story about courage and strength and redemption.

When the lights come up, it is silent for a beat. Then the comments & questions explode: "I can't believe they had McMurphy come back at night, and no one saw him." "Did they really skip the ENTIRE PART about the men checking out?" "It doesn't make any sense that Nurse Ratched could talk." "That. Was totally sh*tty." "Why did they make it a completely different story?"

Like they actually read, and paid attention, and learned stuff, and cared.

Brings a tear to my Renegade teacher eye.

68/365 "refreshment"

She knows it's Thursday,
But wine is in order now.
The queen has spoken.

mrs manners

Yesterday I took my best friend's son to his sophomore orientation at the gigantic neighborhood high school. I knew it was going to be crowded but I thought, naively, that there would be a smooth organization to guide us through. Because THAT'S HOW I WOULD DO IT. I forget others are not as anal uptight efficient & prepared as I am.

I intuitively got in line to pay for his ASB card & yearbook figuring those things would be most useful in completing the other mysterious tasks ahead. After about 20 minutes of waiting, I was nearly to the front when I noticed a young man skirting the side of the now much longer line. He headed his cute blond Hollister self right up to where I was standing and smiled; I smiled back and stepped closer to the Wait Here sign. He wavered as he realized I was clearly not allowing him to cut in front of me, and it was then I noticed his mom behind him. When I met her eyes she murmured in a laughably unconvincing way, "Honey, we can't just cut in front of all these people..." And here is where I failed. I failed the three sweet boys who were behind me during the 20 minute wait, I failed High School Musical hopeful & his fool mother, and I failed any young people within earshot because all I could allow myself to do was give a slight nod and tight smile before moving a step forward to save my own spot. What I really wanted to do was what I ended up doing 90 minutes later, after another longer wait.

The last thing for my friend's son to do was pick up his textbooks. I didn't quite understand the logic in giving teenagers big expensive books to take home (and lose in their summer-fevered bedrooms) two weeks before they actually need them but apparently it makes sense to the school, and the boy had found a darling young woman to stand in line with so we stayed. And stayed. After 20 minutes, we were standing in the same linoleum squares we'd started in. When I looked toward the head of the line, it was amoeba-like by the one open window to the book room; people seemed to be moving in & out of that area with no regard for the rest of us. I was still stinging from the earlier incident and growing weary of so many teen bodies OMGing around me so I took a position at the front, memorizing the faces of those legitimately waiting there.

All was fine [though excrutiatingly slow]  for nearly a half an hour during which there was some measurable movement; calculating about 3 minutes per student, I was 15 minutes from freedom. Suddenly, two giggling girls popped in front of my guy & his friends. As fast as a mom-dressed ninja, I slid forward and announced, "Oh no, this is not going to work out. We've been waiting 45 minutes in this line. Please go to the end." The group of kids nearest these two froze but one of the line-cutters looked right at me with fierce sass: "I have to leave, like, right now." I told her so did I along with the rest of the people in line - please head on back to the end. Big sigh, bigger eye roll, a bit of a stomp. But away she (and her chagrined friend) went. Everyone exhaled around the empty space they left and a few looked sideways at me with - admiration? Fear? Mortification for whomever I was escorting? I tried smiling as if to say "All good now, carry on!" but I imagine I looked a bit more hysterical suburbanite than beneficent citizen.

And then we went to the mall where I did not scold anyone, surprisingly.

fortitude

In a departure from my recent melancholic posts about the end of the school year and letting go of beloved students, I offer this Sensational Haiku:

teaching is hard work

but doing it without booze

is the real challenge

the good things

I am in a spinning crazy place, as is typical for the end of the school year. There are always Seniors panicking about graduating (or not) and Freshmen slowing down to a comatose pre-summer state while I attempt to design even more engaging lessons & activities to keep interest inside the classroom on these waning [usually sunny] days of June. Then there is the completion & sale of our yearbook, planning a talent show, preparing for the Senior banquet and the all-school picnic. Plus I am helping to organize my 25th high school reunion in August, getting everything ready for our London trip in July, and arranging for my girl's 11th birthday party at the end of June. Oh, and trying to keep track of my family: band + orchestra + drama + appointments + laundry + dinners + sweeping + miscellaneous Very Important Activities. This all takes a toll on my psyche, my feet, and my hair & makeup; I end up forgetting to eat all day, having headaches every afternoon, crabbing at my kids for doing kid-appropriate things, and falling asleep before completing one intelligent sentence with my man. Or even watching a single episode of True Blood.

I need to stand still, eat something, take a deep breath, and remember the simple good stuff that survives this outbreak of insanity. Such as:

1. Hugs from my kids when I come in the door after school
2. The sun being out even through downpours the past two days
3. My fabulous-looking High Maintenance red toenails
4. My man who never fails to pamper me with fancy food, drink, underwear & shoes when I most need them
5. LiveWire! tomorrow night and writing workshop with Lizz Winstead on Sunday
6. Students (teenagers!) who ask how I am every day. And bump knuckles with me.
7. Being invited to stop at an old classmate's house for lunch & conversation
8. Supercute & practical $9.99-at-Goodwill green Wilson Leather purse
9. My new chic carry-on bag for the London trip
10. Girlfriends who come for tea & talk and pretend not to notice my grimy floors
11. Online crossword puzzles I can always finish

I've noticed these little blessings are so much sweeter when I recall them at the end of a crampy, cranky, headachy, angst-filled week. I suppose tomorrow night's cocktails are going to move me to tears. And June 22nd promises to be a riot of relief.

Bring it.

mayday

All of the minor crises in my life are converging at this point to drive me to drinking four three four? glasses of Riesling at Sunday evening dinner. Too dramatic?

Things are feeling a tad overwhelming on this day, six Fridays from the end of the school year. Better?

I started this day feeling pretty good - after falling into bed around midnight following a successful and relatively fun prom at my school, I slept for nearly nine weird-dreamless hours and awoke to sunshine and a Facebook Friend Request Accepted by [supposedly] Garrett Hedlund (who cannot be on my Potential Second Husbands list because I could be his mother and that feels creepy but putting him on my Flings list seems even creepier so I don't know what to do other than revel in his cuteness and fine acting until I figure out a new category for him). Got to church basically on time, found a few delightful items at the antique store and spent nearly 3 hours grocery [and other kinds of ] shopping. I was called "bonita" by a gentleman asking for help identifying hairspray in one store and told my hair was "really great" by another guy at Borders.

Then, I came home. I looked forward to seeing my girl who had been away at Horse Camp for 24 hours but she was overstimulated & overtired and not at all excited to talk about her fun times. I hoped to witness progress made on my boy's mousetrap car but he had spent 3 hours arguing with his dad about the best way to approach that project and was banished from civilization. My man was spent from angsty engineering tutoring plus developing a sore throat while getting ready to grill burgers for dinner.

Because everything is supposed to be about Me, I felt a little let down. I started putting away groceries, thinking of how awesome lunches and dinners are going to be this week, but then got sidetracked by ideas for better organization in our household, which led to internal lamentations about lack of money for said ideas. Which then led to trying to decide if I should write down all of the great ideas and try to find ways of making them happen or just let them fade into the OCD ether.

Even after banishment the boy maintained his typical preteen attitude, leading me to shriek propose NO COMPUTER UNTIL SCHOOL IS OUT FOR SUMMER unless he can respond to all queries and requests from now on without sighing, sneering, groaning, or eye rolling. The sad & surly girl was sent to her room until she could respond to queries and requests without whining, screeching, mumbling, or crying. The man was allowed to continue making dinner with his sore throat but I did feel compelled to clear the counter and not micromanage how he should be cooking.

In the end, I did get reasonably compliant & respectful children along with a tasty burger and a bottle of wine though I have not yet made a list of Must Haves for the More Organized Household. Still, I think I can manage these last [37] days of the school year without a breakdown.

Maybe.

magical thinking

I imagine by telling myself something often enough and with forceful enough thought-energy, I can make it so. By this reckoning, I am fit [without ever exercising; in fact I mock exercise] and healthy [without eating properly or drinking water unless there is tea or booze in it]; my house is reasonably clean [though I cringe at the clouds of cat hair swirling about me as I walk upstairs]; we will always have plenty of money [regardless of how often I splurge on manicures, cocktails, dinners out, and shoes].

I think my children are learning to do most things smarter than I do them.

I feel certain all of the Seniors who have passed through my classroom this year are going to ace the final board presentations they have continually put off organizing and I will weep with joy as I announce their names at graduation in less than 40 school days. Wait, I hate crying in front of people. I won't be gritting my teeth?

I like to believe in the best outcome but be secretly prepared for the worst - this makes me, what, a cautious optimist? Or a hopeful pessimist? Maybe just delusional.

I can live with that.

begin again

I tend to follow patterns in my life.

Sometimes they are useful, sensible patterns like eat, drink, then be merry or lather, rinse, repeat.  (Actually, I rarely repeat. Only when forced to camp and not shower for two days, then it takes numerous shampoos to recover).

Other times (more often), they are less sensible but still useful: Do housework diligently for weeks, grossly neglect housework for weeks, drive family away with mental breakdown and binge clean for 24 hours.

Regarding writing, I can identify at least 30 topics that would amuse or at least interest (sometimes horrify) readers every day. Often I mentally craft paragraphs during my lunch break or on the drive home; occasionally I remember to write things down. Then I promptly forget everything, collapse on the couch, and [insert mindless TV or laptop activity] until I am too tired to even be mindless anymore. Go to sleep, wake up, lather rinse repeat.

I know there are certain things I am supposed to do to help myself out of this rut. I have tried the Get Up Early, Force Myself to Write Something/Anything for 15 Minutes, Get Ready for the Day Feeling Accomplished pattern (it lasted about 17 minutes); the Write the Last Thoughts of My Day in a Journal, Go to Sleep Feeling Somewhat Accomplished pattern (lasted a few nights, with fitful sleep afterward); the Write Only in A Specific Space at A Specific Time Without Interruption, Crab at My Family for Invading My Space & Time, Get Massive Headaches and Hate Everyone pattern (overall unpleasant). I've had reasonable luck off & on with the Write Every Day According to NaBloPoMo or Something Like It, Enjoy the Diversion from Stresses of School & Family, Look Forward to People Looking Forward to My Writing pattern but it unfortunately ends more often with Getting Smug and Slacking Off than Getting Inspired and Keeping It Up.

I think I will mix & match, throw together a little plaid with polka dots, and see what happens. Check back often. (Please)

fun facts about humanity

There are all kinds of people in the world. Let's look at how some people choose to behave.

• Some people invent new realities and are surprised when others become confused.
• Some people seem to be one thing but are really another far less pleasant thing.
• Some people make mistakes but don't realize they are mistakes and then burn bridges they wish they hadn't.
• Some people take their aggressions out on others and refuse to acknowledge this activity.
• Some people are offended by others' opinions and think it's okay to threaten those they disagree with. [Some people hate ending sentences with a preposition; surprisingly, I am not one of them]
• Some people need to remember that making threats is often against the law.
• Some people think everything is about them.

There are other people in the world who behave in very different ways. Let's look at their tendencies.

• Some people try to hope for the best in a horrible situation.
• Some people prefer not to dismiss friends just because of a disagreement, or even a horrible situation.
• Some people attempt to help others (maybe the kind of people mentioned above) even when it is difficult and those others continue to act like jerks.
• Some people eventually let jerks go their own way, and move on with their lives.
• Some people are stronger and more feisty than others (for example, above) apparently give them credit for [Another errant preposition; sorry]
• Some people respectfully* decline to give in to the demands of other (above) people. Particularly when the demands are essentially censorship.

I hope you live with and around more people from the second group because they are generally more enlightening & enjoyable and overall less tiresome. Peace be with you.


*Some people will, however, respond to profanity with a bit of their own. Oops.

fallout

While I've never exactly entertained the idea of divorce as a reality in my world, I have of course given it a passing thought - usually along the lines of what I would and would not do should I or a friend have to deal with it. For example, I like to think I could be Jennifer Aniston reasonable & classy and not Anne Heche batshit crazy. It seems to me that because I once obviously loved this man I married, I could find it relatively easy ['relatively' meaning compared to choosing which child to save from Nazis] to be at least cordial to him. I even thought, during my fleeting very-special-Lifetime-production moments of 'what if,' maybe we could just be friends (who once upon a time happened to create children together via very naughty sex).

Now that I have had to live through the nightmare of my best friend's divorce, my beliefs are shifting. In the beginning, when we thought her now-ex was not completely insane, we tried hearing both sides; I employed my Teacher Attitude, the one where I listen intently, nod, and attempt a nonjudgmental face while someone weaves a story smelling strongly of bullshit explains a situation. But the bullshit was overwhelming and while I believe myself to be relatively tactful ['relatively' meaning I probably won't throw bricks through windows], I cannot abide nonsense. And in the past twelve months, the nonsense has grown to epic proportions. This is where it has dawned on me that I would probably be more in line with the embittered, vindictive, nearly hysterical women. I frequently want to scream, hurl objects, even set stuff on fire because of my friend's ex's behavior. Stu shudders to think what I might do if ever, God in all His glory forbid, he were to divorce me.

But the catch is if I draw attention to the ex's stupidity flawed actions - even in a tactful way - the man punishes my best friend through various unpleasant interactions (mostly yelling or making her life miserable by whimsical change of schedule, sometimes throwing or slamming things,). On the one hand, it is exciting that he feels so threatened by me that he won't approach me or even send an e-mail with his complaints (this love of instilling fear in people must be the Leo part of my birthdate). But certainly in the end, I do not want my friend to suffer and so I bite my tongue and try not rolling my eyes or flipping him off whenever I see him. I do, however, have dreams wherein I pummel him mercilessly.

Besides having lost what I thought was a good friend, there are other issues with this guy turning into a jackass. Things we did together as a group and things we mutually enjoyed are now tainted. I don't want to listen to Billy Joel anymore because Jackass often sang his songs (luckily my will is strong for sticking with John Mayer since I actually went to his concert with my best friend & Jackass). When my kids ask about going back to Lincoln City, I think of Jackass and his relentless badgering of my best friend there last summer, before he moved out of their house. I won't even look in the direction of a particular couple of restaurants in our town because we went to them (and seemingly had fun) with Jackass once upon a time.

Tonight I am hosting a Divorce Debauchery Party for my best friend. We're getting massages, meeting friends for Happy Hour dinner, having a For Your Pleasure party in our hotel room, going to a drag show. All good, relatively clean ['relatively' meaning I will carry hand sanitizer in my purse next to the roll of singles] fun in the name of A New Life. Without jackasses. Or, for what it's worth, Billy Joel.

camptacular

I did, indeed, go camping yet again despite my vehement assertion that

I just read this brilliantly descriptive post at Practice of Madness about her recent venture into the wilderness. Interestingly, she experienced many things I have during a camping trip - getting lost, driving where most vehicles shouldn't be driving, being cold, feeling fury at the love of one's life - yet she was remarkably positive in her retelling. Generally, I take the martyr route when recounting my tales of being in Hell the woods. There is just so much this princess cannot take about such an outing.

Right after school was out this summer, Stu & I packed the kids plus a friend for each (to keep them company if/when we had to send them away from camp for bickering) into my Multi-Activity Vehicle [notminivan], which was equipped with a storage box on top and a trailer behind. If I am to give up precious summer vacation time to getting dirty and stinky and missing True Blood, I will have pillows and chairs and books and decent dishes and lots of good food & drinks.

We drove 3 1/2 hours southeast to a place that I was under the impression gets warm in the middle of June as it is called "High Desert." Well. I left 60 degree overcast weather so I guess 70 degrees was an improvement but I was glad I brought layers. Of course that didn't mean I refrained from complaining about the chilly evening, followed by complaining about the campfire smoke burning my eyes when I tried to sit five inches from the flames. Pretty starry skies what?

My joys in camping mainly come from watching people I love enjoying camping - the kids relish the freedom of riding their bikes around the campground with walkie-talkies; Stu feels all manly and capable collecting wood, starting & maintaining the fire, and cooking meals. (He once felt all manly and capable setting up the tent but I long ago squashed that quaint tradition by requesting a cabin or yurt at the campsite).

What do I do on this 'vacation'? I do my best to not bitch incessantly about the situation, I keep our supplies tidy & organized, I read a lot [I try to appreciate the Being in Nature thing by reading outside], and I take pictures. And if I'm allowed to be a truly bad mom, I will write blog entries or post updates & photos on Facebook.

We have one more excursion planned for this summer (because I so love my family! And hope this earns me points toward more momcentric trips to places where I don't have to sleep near dirt and get to shower daily), and I will try to look harder at the bright side like the author at Practice of Madness.

Stay tuned for notes from Cape Disappointment.

of vegas and bunions

In the past ten days, I have lived two wildly different lives. 

Jetsetter

Stu & I stayed here, in a junior suite (our first regular-people room smelled strongly of smoke, and because I did not do a Lindsay-style rant when I brought it to their attention we were rewarded). I took this picture from ghostbar, where supposedly fabulous people hang out inside for $400 per table. We hung out outside for free, standing.

Before heading up to this hot spot, we joined friends for dinner at N9ne downstairs. With our cocktails, onion ring appetizer, and Mediterranean salad & Oscar filet mignon entrees, the bill was something along the lines of a portion of our children's college savings so far. But that is how we gamble - on food, which turned out sublime; I find that far more satisfying than dropping cash into slot machines or onto card tables where I am only guaranteed a watered-down drink and visions of life in a cramped apartment with Nicolas Cage.

Later we went to Rain where, as you can see, NO DRUGS OR NUDITY were allowed. Just in case we forgot. Our common sense.

I stood in line while Stu ran up to our room to drop off souvenirs from our evening at Crazy Horse Paris (which I have been wanting to see for years - we tried to get tickets in Singapore and when we were actually in Paris but no go. We shared our tiny stageside table with the darling groom-to-be Dirk and his friend Dustin from Boise, who I believe were impressed that people as old and married as we could be funny and even kind of interesting). During my brief-but-felt-like-eternal wait on the Rain line, I met the implausibly named [and coiffed] Demarius. He began our interaction with "That is a very unique tattoo" breathed on my neck in his Antonio Banderas accent. I managed to maintain a respectable conversation despite such diversions as "I am sure your students have crushes on you" and "You are a very hot mom" and the capper, "So...You do not so much party as you just have a cocktail or some wine?" After five hours of my dodging innuendo, Stu reappeared and jokingly asked Demarius if I was bothering him. Then we escaped into the mania of the nightclub. It was 2 a.m.

Bubbles were the most innocuous part of the entertainment. There were flames above our heads, bungee acrobats and a suspended ribbon dancer, go-go waifs gyrating on platforms, and performance artists sending sparks over the dance floor by grinding on each other's metal outfits. Like with an actual grinding tool.

Couchsitter

Last week, I had my second bunion removed and have been spending most of my hot mom life sleeping or perusing trashy magazines. Like the first time, surgery went fine despite my high anxiety, and recovery is going alright despite my OCD. Luckily I have a husband & friends who understand my insane way of asking for help, which is to not ask, and just do stuff for me. Even the crazy stuff, like helping me into regular clothes though it doesn't make sense at 7 p.m., or setting up my vast reading station though I'm just going to fall asleep within five minutes of sitting down.

To shake things up Vegas-style, I did have some exciting drama Thursday when I passed out in the morning and threw up twice, prompting a 6-hour ER stay to determine the cause. But alas, the SW Washington ER is not nearly as thrilling as the George Clooney TV version; no one there looked remotely like precious Carter, nobody rushed in bleeding or cursing or shooting up the place, not a bit of dramatic music played during any of my myriad tests. However, on the positive side, I was not diagnosed with a rare & mysterious illness - just plain old low blood sugar/low blood pressure + stupidity on my part. 

Though I am not [yet] back to drinking raspberry lemon drops by the gallon or dancing under fire until 3 a.m., I have brazenly worn my tight Merlotte's t-shirt to Blockbuster and chatted extensively with my secret boyfriend. WILD.

I know.

maybe you missed...

I got a little behind the other day and I'm a little uninspired today and now I'm totally fulfilling the Writing Expert's prophecy of daily posting = Bullshit but whatever.

Please feel free to read Tuesday's post and remark as inspired.

Thank you for your support.

male call

Since everyone's clear on how much I love my actual husband, and we're all aware of my obsessive-compulsive behavior about collecting Potential Second Husbands and/or Fantasy Flings, I offer an addendum to my previous lists.

New darlings on my radar, for your pleasure:



The precious Sharlto Copley -
Newbie actor who blew me away with District 9,
now taking on the freaktastic role of Murdock in the new A-Team movie.

Beyond precious Matthew Goode -
Has somehow escaped my attention until Leap Year,
which was shamelessly predictable & manipulative yet irresistible. So...good(e).



Not much satisfies like a sexy funny guy,
a la Seth Meyers of SNL. Make me laugh...Or, something.

 

 

And my latest ridiculous crush, local musician Robin Jackson -
Not only talented but a hottie sweetheart in person and so far completely unfazed by my stalking.

 

Please, do share your latest finds in the male box...