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. 

 

the paradox of perspective

Sometimes when students asked how old I was
(after I gave them a silent raised eyebrow to remind them that not everyone loves this question since guesses about age usually skew to elderly, and no one wants to be associated with that too soon)
I presented historical math problems by way of answer:

I was born the year before Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.
I was born a few months after Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy were assassinated.
I was almost a year old when Woodstock happened. (No, I did not go)

Some searched their brains for these facts, eyes squeezed shut for maximum thinking power.
Many grabbed their smartphones to plug in keywords and triumphantly shout the year
then consult their calculators for the final answer.
Others blinked slowly or looked away, uninterested in history & math,
knowing my age was not worth effort since
obviously I was born a long time ago, probably before their parents who were old and boring.

Whenever I went through this exercise I was reminded
of how many things that the whole world knows
sees
feels
will happen at the same exact time
as tiny personal miracles and/or tragedies.

Other people were born when men were walking the moon -
those mothers' labors overshadowed by the constant coverage
of guys kicking around space dust.

Other people died on days great men were murdered -
those families doubly gutted, having to divide their grief
and weigh the value of different lives.

Thousands left Woodstock early, cold & muddy, hungry & tired,
bleary-eyed back at desk jobs or slumped in classrooms,
while Hendrix solemnly unwound the anthem onstage.

Perspective.

****
I remember being home from school on March 30, 1981, foggily watching TV on the couch when breaking news announced President Reagan had been shot.
I sat up, feeling hollow, the hair on my arms shivering,
thought of my mom recalling when the president of her adolescence was shot.
But then, I remember my increasing aggravation
that the coverage was going to interrupt General Hospital,
a bright spot on sick days.
7th grade Me dismissing the possible death of a world leader
in favor of catching my favorite soap opera.
****
For a few days at the end of September 1998, the entire planet disappeared from my periphery.
My son had been born
early
quickening labor
fetal distress
please sign this release with your right hand because we put the pen on your wrong side
emergency Cesarean
too small
jaundiced
transferring
miles away.
On that day there were discoveries and catastrophes, victories and defeats elsewhere
significant to hundredsthousandsmillions
but I
only knew
one thing one thing one thing

Perspective.
****

It is a strange thing
astonishing comfort
deliciously peculiar
to understand
the world is so vast and full
yet still fits
right in your hands.

maelstrom

shouting at all hours

arguers plague my being

steam bursting from ears

hormoaning

Let us sing for you, Mrs. S

My dear friend Shana (clearly gunning for bff status; we'll talk) posted this pic on my Facebook page today. It was, by far, the best part of my Monday.

Being a teacher, especially one of teens prone to hardship [real & manufactured], I often espouse such uplifting mantras as "It's not the end of the world" and "Things will get better." However, every 28 days now & again I want to tell my own self to f*ck off when these words flit through my consciousness. Because sometimes things FEEL LIKE the end of the world, and that they WILL NOT get better. For example:

• Brand new darling $acrazyamountevenwitha20%offcoupon shoes that make my former bunion weep for a few hours before it just goes numb
• Not getting tea because the limping throws off my errand-running
• The throbbing headache that starts one minute into my first class
• Forgetting to manage a number of key tasks for students, 3 days before the end of the quarter
• Can't get hold of the yearbook guy to download our software [again] before things are even more overdue
• Canker sores
• Getting a chocolate cupcake instead of the chocolate chip coffee cake I asked for
• Eating the damned cupcake rather than telling the barista he got it wrong
• No time or energy to stalk see Blockbuster guy
• Online class I need to finish before March that I haven't yet started
• Children forgetting to do chores when they get home
• Children rolling eyes and groaning when reminded to do chores
• Being too tired & cold to check the mail
• Being too tired & cold to make dinner
• Cluttered countertops
• Box of ornaments still without a home
• Son not fitting into 2/3 of his underwear & jeans
• My stupid healing foot still too swollen for the fluffy cute slippers Stu got me for Christmas
• Needing friend time but feeling too weary & scattered to schedule

Intellectually I know I'm spinning (and things will get better; it's not the end of the world). Emotionally, however, I desperately want those Glee men to bust through my door and...do something. Anything. Sing a song, clean my counters, check the mail. All of the above, realistically & metaphorically.

Here's to hard days.

haikuckoo

I open my home to my good friend Jimmie and what does he do? Not just once (first on my birthday, which was really the ultimate insult) but TWICE - he beats me at the Audience Haiku Challenge at the Live Wire! Radio show.

Me trying to be a gracious loser

We both wrote to the theme "Mothers."
Jimmie's entry:
I love my mother
But she didn't breastfeed me.
That is why I'm gay.

I was tipped off that including something about boobs might get me a winner, so I went with this:
The nice moms smile sweet;
But bad ones show some cleavage.
Join the P.T.A.!

Sigh. Then my secret Live Wire! boyfriend ignored me (though my favorite writing workshop teacher Greg Robillard who does not think I'm a stalker used his back for signing my poster) and my cleavage.

But I had a delectable dinner before the show at Berlin Inn, and my delovely friend Holly & her family saved front row seats, and everything else about the evening was enjoyable.

The young handsome young talented band
The Lonely Forest from near my hometown
made up for my disappointment

I might invite Jimmie back for the December show; I'll have crutches then to beat him with if he wins again.

a dangerous place

Last week a student joked that I "hated" someone in the class and I, always the one to leap on a potential lesson, remarked that hating people takes a lot of energy - almost as much as loving someone, really - and I am essentially a lazy person who would rather not expend energy on negative feelings. So my relational experiences boil down to I like/love you or I don't think about you enough to care.

Cut to the end of last week when my best friend's husband, who has been afflicted with something like demonic possession dumb-ass syndrome a mid-life crisis, made more specific moves toward divorce (talking about splitting assets & dividing property). Yet the day after these announcements of finality, while a few friends & I (including bff) lounged in the yard in the late afternoon, he arrived to pick up one of his sons, jumping out of the car making little jokes about having to help a neighbor with her computer, acting all fun-loving about dropping off wine and a magazine. Insert uncomfortable silence and polite half-smiles because hello, asshole, you are leaving your wife without explanation; we could, perhaps, someday be cordial grown-ups sitting in the same vicinity but right now? We are not in jokey moods.

I did not look at him. I wasn't sure if I might weep, and it occurred to me that I refuse (now - I have previously written loving, pleading, hopeful e-mails and spoken kindly on the phone in vain attempts to show I will welcome him back; they went unnoticed, as far as I know) I refuse to exhibit any softness toward him now - because he has not acknowledged my questions & thoughts; because he is unnecessarily cold & cruel to my best friend; because he denies any of his actions might affect his sons; because he refuses to slow down and talk with a counselor; because he has said out loud that he is ready & willing to lose his closest friends. And all of this makes me think, considering my definition of hate, that I am there.

I think about this man constantly, my best friend's husband, my former good friend - we often joked that he & I were so alike, in crazy ways like spending money and having just one more cocktail and staying out another hour while Stu & Jen were the frugal, judicious, practical ones. I think about what's going on in his mind, how we can help (kidnapping?), what will we do without him in our lives. Because I loved him, and maybe because I'm starting to hate him.

lazy sunday

Because this man failed me today:



I'm seeking solace in this one tonight:



Cheers.

nice try

They gave it a go. I broke my voice trying to cheer them on. But in the end, the Cardinals just couldn't win the game. My Cowboys feel their pain; Pittsburgh has been a thorn in their side for decades. Sigh.

Still just wild about Larry

Maybe you can come be my back-up grocery boy?

Kurt Warner photo from this guy's photostream. Thanks!

starring bad mom as the mouse king

A production of The Nutcracker has descended on my school building once again - we have a pretty cool auditorium that is frequently used by the community, and my classroom was once upon a time the Green Room. So whenever performing groups come in, they greedily eye my space. Usually, I shudder at the requests stamp my feet & shake my head take a deep breath and grudgingly share. Usually, people are reasonable and respectful of my volumes of clutter crap Very Important Stuff. Usually.

Last year, the feathered & sequined ballerinas molted in my space for two weeks; I'm still finding bobby pins & glitter in strange places. Besides leaving pieces of their costumes behind, a few times I returned to my room to find books knocked over, colored pencils broken, and erasures run through my lesson plans on the whiteboard. Individually, maybe spread over a bunch of visits, those things are not a big deal. Cumulatively though, and in my OCD world, they add up to A Big Deal. I had words with some people last year and was assured that only responsible individuals would be allowed in my room, and I would be informed beforehand; this allows me to bring the crazy down a notch.

This week, however, I was not informed about Nutcrackers using my room yet came in Friday morning to find both doors unlocked, books askew, a hanger left behind, and an open bottle of water on my desk [visions of ruined papers danced in my head]. I doublechecked with our secretary because sometimes I can be wrong mistaken about things, but no one was scheduled to be in my classroom. So I designed some colorful instructional signs (colorful as in Sharpie markers, not language) and taped them to my doors; for good measure, I posted on the whiteboard "Please Keep Out" notices our secretary later printed for me.

On my way out yesterday afternoon, the ballet director stopped me in the hall - mere feet from my doors & the colorful signs - and hoped I wasn't locking everything up. I answered that I was indeed, since no one was supposed to be using my classroom. A generally cordial but circular argument ensued wherein he said his contract allowed his people in my room and I replied that the operations person did not contact me or my administrators about it; we finally got to me hoping he could make do with the other [adequately sized, right next to mine, not nearly as full of things people can't resist messing with] room available, and him hoping I didn't return to "a surprise on Monday." I'm not quite sure if that was a threat or an apology in advance; either way, it leaves me itching for a fight.

I think my army could take their ballerinas.

die hard

Dedicated to my wretched abominable beloved Dallas Cowboys

I just wanna...

did i say i would race something?

What I really meant was kick some irresponsible teenage ass.

Nothing about this day screamed "crazy" when I got to school this morning - no full moon, no impending holiday, not the end of the week, no hormonal imbalances. Yet I had students all day behaving as if they'd never set foot in a classroom before - strolling in late with food, throwing pens, talking only precisely when I started to speak, brushing hair, making phone calls. SERIOUSLY?

Then, at the staff meeting, my principal shared a letter from neighbors of the school who essentially concluded that our students ought to be housed somewhere far away from general society. Granted, some of our kids have foul reprehensible personalities issues and yes, they have been known to act like jackasses. Certainly those individuals will occasionally escape our eagle eyes and/or jurisdiction (we have an open campus at lunchtime because our building has no cafeteria facility). And really, some people will choose to be cretins no matter what the circumstance; as desperately as we try to teach them sense, we are destined to fail. Nature/nurture. Most significantly, however, there are other idiots not associated with our school who hang out and do stupid things in the area throughout the day.

But we sincerely want to be decent neighbors - a crew of kids goes up to the nearby burger joint each Friday to clean up around the place; a group from one of my classes collected garbage & recycling at the park last spring - and will bring this letter to our kids tomorrow. We will remind them that civilized human beings pick up after themselves and do not shout obscenities in public (which I personally will follow up by muttering "DUH"), and we will strongly point out that if our reputation becomes overwhelmingly negative, the building we hope for will not happen.

My mantra for tomorrow:
Be the change that you want to see in the world.

Thank you, Gandhi. Wondering if he said it through clenched teeth sometimes?

If you kick their asses, you will only hurt your foot.

national directive

I've decided to proclaim this:
The day preceding & day of a full moon are to be void of any major decision-making tasks and/or relatively meaningful work.

I have been incapable today (the day preceding a full moon) of coming up with a grand refiguring of my Technology class (who, again, determined I would be the right person for this job?? Oh right, it was me. Must have been a full moon...), nor did I do a reasonable job of finishing grading blogs, watching the entire Seahawks game, directing my husband to the right restaurant where I ordered pizza, washing all piles of laundry in the hallway, or working out on my new Wii Fit.

Stupid [mystical, beautiful] full moon.

I live in fear of tomorrow at school, frankly.

bugged

Normally I don't get too wound up about bugs, even if they find their way into my space. Unless I can actually hear them skittering across the floor or they happen to be large enough for a saddle, I try to gingerly scoop them outside or just firmly shoo them away.

However. We have had a fly problem that I tried to pass off as a product of leaving doors & windows open for the fresh summer air, but even after Stu put up some very classy traps, the fiends remain. And let me tell you, that oft-perpetuated "fact" about flies only living 24 hours is completely erroneous; these monsters can survive at least two weeks (and up to 30 days! Noooooo), during which time they will reproduce like the Osmonds. My house resembles that scene in The Amityville Horror when the flies swarmed menacingly & relentlessly around the priest. I simultaneously want to scream, swat my own head to a pulp, and whack maniacally at their nasty little winged bodies. I am terribly sorry if one of them happens to be a mad but kind-hearted scientist; I will crush him.

Sooo, BBQ at our house this weekend?

the comforts of our homes away from home

Visit my Flickr page to read the hilarious comments on these photos.

The first row are images from London, specifically the Berjaya Eden Park Hotel at the top of Hyde Park, near Notting Hill.

Second row is Hotel Sully Saint Germain in Paris, on Rue des Ecoles in the Latin Quarter (Left Bank! I felt so expatriated).

Bottom row is the Eden Hotel in Amsterdam, on Amstel. (I totally did not plan that two of our hotels would be named after Paradise; nor did the owners seem to make the connection, either). Though to be fair, our last hotel was quite modern - going so far as to include free Internet in the rooms, a TV with remote & a screen bigger than my hand, plus a generous-sized tub.

I think it's important when traveling to get hotels not too luxurious, otherwise it becomes tremendously depressing to come home. By booking ourselves into places with tiny showers where the curtain is continuously sticking to one's body or where closets cannot fully open because the gigantic [unnecessary] desk chair is blocking the way, we 1) get out of the room and into the city faster and 2) better appreciate our roomy, practical house upon returning.

But I will forever miss someone else making my bed & washing my linens each day. And having fresh warm baguettes with cheese every morning. Sigh.

do as i say

I say:

• Eat lots of vegetables
• Get some exercise
• Drink more water
• Reach out
• Speak up

Yet I:

• Rarely remember to prepare vegetables at meals, much less consume them
• Call it "the E word" and avoid it regularly
• Find myself with a throbbing headache and sore, dry throat, taking a few grumbling minutes to realize I am thirsty
• Think of many great, admirable ways to connect with neighbors, old friends, homeless people but rarely follow through. And it's not because I'm that frigging busy; I start to imagine the time involved after I make a connection - and will I feel obligated then to do other things? Am I responsible for maintaining a relationship I've begun or reestablished? Why do I think so much? There is something wrong with me.
• Clam up. I suppose I use my voice now more than when I was a kid, but that's not saying a whole lot. As a teacher I encourage my students to ask for what they need, go for what they want, yet I often shrink from the hard stuff. When I get to a point of Speak Now, my heart races; I get sweaty & can't catch my breath. And usually I just stay still, shut down.

Take the BlogHer conference, for example. I have been trying to wrap my brain around why I was so disappointed last week. I was so excited when I registered nearly six months ago (and not just about leaving town & staying in a luxurious hotel for the weekend. Not just...). It sounded like a fun way to meet people who read my stuff, and whose stuff I read; I looked forward to learning things about blogging that I haven't figured out yet - some technical layout stuff, some networking stuff.

My best friend Jen decided to come with me even though she doesn't blog (and barely has time to keep up with mine); it was a decision made of love & support, plus a little curiosity about another blogger who planned to share our room, who Jen believes is really a bald man living in his mother's basement. This element of the trip - sharing space & time with a real life girlfriend and a cybergirlfriend who I was certain would be fantastic fun [if she didn't turn out to be a bald man] - made everything crisper, brighter, failsafe.

Issue #1 came up when the blogger friend cancelled Friday morning. I was sad for her circumstances and sad for me not getting to meet her, but I was also embarrassed (PROOF THAT SHE REALLY IS THE BALD MAN WITH AN OEDIPAL COMPLEX!) and because I don't make a habit of speaking up about my feelings, the embarrassment was transferred to the entire conference and suddenly it needed to be The Best Thing Ever.

But then, Issue #2: I know I am smart and [usually] funny; I have confidence in sunshine in rain that spring will come again in me, but I am not a walk-up-to-read-your-microscopic-nametag-and-say-HOWDY kind of gal. I'm really more of a walk-in-sit-down-glance-around-and-wait-for-you-to-approach kind of gal. (And on that note - thank you JCK, Restless Housewife & friend Wifey, Foggy City Mommy & fellow San Franciscan Rachel for being adventurous ones). So aside from those delightful ladies who took time to seek me out, I wandered through hallways and rooms like a slightly disdainful specter; I'm lucky anyone came near me. Strike two for the unsuspecting BlogHer.

The first session I attended was about networking & syndication. What I did not realize was that "panel" meant "not an organized format," meaning it was a Q & A. That can be fine, sure, but really I was looking for a serious onslaught of definitions and directions and try-this and avoid-that. In the end, I got a few useful tips and called it mediocre.

Lunch was tasty, freebies from sponsors was fun, still didn't break into any of the fabulous smiling circles of Others.

Then I attended the Writing Workshop. I have a couple of English degrees, teach various writing classes, um, I write - so I was mainly looking for reinforcement of things I do well (and alright, a gentle suggestion to stop doing things that stink would have been okay) and possibly some new & interesting techniques, brilliant resources, maybe a few time-saving tips. What I wasn't looking for? The speaker announcing, in response to a "How do I deal with people who want me to post everyday?" query [this was another disjointed Q & A], that the posting everyday thing is "Bullshit." Yes, she did. In quotes, with emphasis, met with a round of cheers and applause.

Now, truly I am accustomed to being told by students and my own children that various assignments/chores/recommendations I give are stupid/boring/unnecessary (maybe even bullshit, from the mouths of the more petulant [not of my loins] ones); that is a product of my teaching that it is important to SPEAK UP. I have no problem with someone having opinions about what I say or do. However, I find it irresponsible to make a blanket statement like that without qualification. Some people who post everyday are indeed stinking up the place and thinking themselves fresh flowers; some people don't take the posting everyday challenge as an opportunity to practice their craft, improve their skills. But isn't it possible that some people are becoming better writers by attempting something everyday? Some people might be flexing creative muscles or exploring new ideas or promoting other blogs or sharing interesting discoveries or how about building a sense of community by posting. every. day.

But I didn't say any of those things out loud. Instead I let myself feel insulted, then a little embarrassed and ashamed - what if I really am a bullshit writer who only thinks she's not? Then I got angry, because I not only know who I am and like who I am, I trust the people who read me, and by saying my technique is bullshit, bottom line, that woman was calling into question your intelligence and integrity.

Essentially, it was downhill from there for poor BlogHer. I got lucky with the session led expertly by Elise Bauer but other than that, I was checked out. I turned to shopping, eating, movie-watching, drinking, and wandering aimlessly with my camera.

Really, my analogy about the smart guy vs. the hottie was backward - BlogHer ended up being the flashy one disguised as a nerd, but I was hoping for just the nerd, whether he dressed up or not.

Next time, I'm reaching out & speaking up. And maybe eating more vegetables.

who needs food with all this pretty architecture?

In the guise of Adventure Girl, I set out on my own in San Francisco last Sunday. Again, I did have a map, but [again] it did not actually reflect distance. For example, the areas identified in this map as Union Square/Chinatown/Nob Hill/North Beach don't SEEM to be, oh,

600 miles apart. They SEEM close, like just-around-the-corner neighborhoods. My calves, gluteus maximi, and laptop-toting shoulder beg to differ. (So you don't think I'm a complete moron, the map I used did have streets listed but still woefully lacked mileage info). The good news though - those Ed Hardy sneaks left not a single blister or bunion-burn.

My goals on this journey were to a) check out parts of SF that I hadn't seen before, b) get some exercise (HA!), and c) find a cute local diner/coffee shop/bakery/bistro/anything for lunch.

Here are the results; please enjoy, but also feel the burn a little, would ya?

Little did I know I should have taken the hot air balloon.

Buildings playing hide & seek at Union Square.

But wait! You should eat now, over there!

Pretty pretty Chanel boutique

Scary scary Ed Hardy boutique (but skulls can be fun!)

Another omen about flying instead of walking...

Entering Chinatown

Love the mix of old designs with tacky modern.

Off toward Nob Hill; not yet starving.

The noise from this Irish pub was impressive. At 11 a.m.

Mon dieu, I had no idea this would be my last chance at a sandwich before 3 p.m.

Perhaps another TURN BACK warning from the ghost of Dashiell Hammett?

I pray with the woman on the steps that we both find food soon.

Taking pictures of buildings distracts me from rising hunger.

I scale this hill on the power of one Mojo bar and a chai latte from two hours before.

Why am I the only one suffering a heart attack at this point?

I continued to walk and walk and walk in a fugue state. I kid you not, there were no fun little cafe-type stops along Washington OR Van Ness; maybe because it was Sunday or maybe they were invisible to my Muggle eye like Number 12 Grimmauld Place, but I could not find a single place to sit & eat that wasn't grimy and/or doubling as a gas station. Until...

How 1950s adorable will this be?!

Neverfuckingmind.

Going my way? NO.

In my calorie-deprived, exertion-induced stupor, I stopped at a terrace and looked up to realize the view. They have food at Alcatraz still?? But frick, I don't swim.

Unbelievably, I didn't feel like eating chocolate at that point. Clearly I was ill from the trek.


Yeah, yeah, love the bridge.


Bliss, at last.

All photos by me, the disgruntled tourist about the city, 2008

oh and also

[Alternate post title: Why I've Been Awake Since 5 a.m. Instead of Sleeping In My Heavenly Bed Like A Normal Person]

Things I didn't mention about yesterday:

1. Jen said I have to talk about "Our Gentle Mugging" at the BART station, which I prefer to call "My Generous Nature Toward Womankind." A friendly though rather toothless young lady helped us through the admittedly wacky process of buying tickets from Oakland to San Francisco, then professed how pregnant and hungry she was after all that helping. I scooped the $3 worth of change out of the machine and handed it to her while Jen looked at me with horror, surely thinking my dumb ass was getting us marked for the rest of the journey to Union Square. She made sure I didn't make eye contact with anyone else between there and our hotel.
2. I also forgot to tell (and take pictures of) how I resembled Jen's cute little lesbian lover in my Bad Mom tee [get yours on sale now at my Cafe Press store!], black cargo roll-up capris, and Ed Hardy sneakers to her gingham button-down, white cotton skirt, and sweet red flats. This may better explain the incessant attention from our teenage boys since to them, Lesbian Lover equals PortiaDeRossiNakedPleaseGodThankYouAmen.
3. I met the lovely and so calm & gracious JCK of Motherscribe at The People's Party, too. She was not in the bathroom saying naughty words, nor was she drunk. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
4. I also met two Rachels - one of Fog City Notes and the other Foggy City Mommy. Both were delightful, one hugged me because she lurks on my blog (Hi! Thanks again for the compliments and your son really is adorable!). Neither of them were naughty and/or drunk either, as far as I could tell.
5. We scored some pretty cool swag at The People's Party, too - Land's End gift cards, a flash drive, yummy-smelling soap, magazines.
6. Back to the lesbian thing - an older hotel troll hanging out by the elevators gentleman (who was indeed quite drunk and possibly hoping to be naughty) asked Jen what her favorite part of the evening was. She said "Getting to hang out with my girlfriend" to which he remarked, "Well since you're in the city, you should make it more official than just being girlfriends." Then I went and ruined the fun by saying "I don't think my husband would be very happy with that." Although he always says he wouldn't care as long as I videotape it.

Okay, you are pretty much caught up. I have to shower. Then maybe nap before breakfast.

washed up

Today I'm feeling crabby (HA, get it??) and so I'm sending out a general apology to anyone in the world I might encounter.

Everything I have to do is actually easy (sorting Pampered Chef orders, clearing a desk of stale school projects, attending an Indiana Jones library event, dropping off stuff at Goodwill) but it all seems hard because of this attitude that I cannot shake.

My Achilles tendon aches, I can't find the perfect shoe (and I feel a panic building inside - what if my feet hurt when I'm in Europe? That would be BAD!), my hair is too long, it's hot outside, I should be doing laundry, I have a pile of magazines to sort, there are too many bananas still in my freezer...whine whine whine, ad infinitum.

Yeah, I have problems. I need to adjust my perspective.


crabby photo by me, Whidbey Island, 2008

spam spam spam spam

I recently added another Yahoo e-mail address to my account, because it sounded cooler in connection with my blog name on the cards I made. OCD much? I know. Anyway.

Now I'm faced with an onslaught of fantastic offers for Hoodia(*A Revolution in Weight Management!) or COSTA RICA TRIP as well as very sincere queries from Asbestos Lawyers (at least six in the last two days - is there something I should know about my home??) and Mr.Philip Clive (addressed to Dear Friend; that's sweet). As more & more of this nonsense showed up in my Inbox yet no comments on my blog posts appeared [sob], I became suspicious.

I hopped over to the cesspool that is the Spam folder and, after wading through the dregs that had been automatically sent there (exactly what about my e-mail address invites stuff from Singles4You and OneHourPaydayCash and !!!!JOBS!!!! ? Curious), I did indeed find some friendly names with nice things to say. It felt like picking precious dollar bills out of a toilet.

So here's the deal - if you happen to e-mail me at my Yahoo account and I don't respond, it's either because a) your message was vulgar and appalling and I'm ignoring you or b) your message was vulgar but amusing and got trapped in my Spam folder. Leave me a note in comments where I will check frequently (like that's a new procedure for me) and get back to you accordingly.

In the meantime, can I interest you in CHURCH DATING or OldJewelryCash?

out of sorts, off my game

Today was blech. I don't know how else to say it, and I certainly couldn't figure out what to do about it.

How did I hate it? Let me count the ways:

1. Jabba the Hutt-like pile of sheets & towels lurking in our bedroom corner
2. Left students' work to be entered for progress reports at home this morning
3. Dumb DJ talk & ads on the radio all the way to work
4. None of my car CDs made my heart sing
5. Forgot to bring lunch
6. Horrible burning/dead creature smell in the downstairs hallway at school
7. Most of the students with missing work spent entire class periods continuing to do nothing
8. Grocery store hottie still completely bad at delightful small talk
9. Forgot to bring receipts for reimbursement to PTA meeting
10. No time to talk with my good friend after PTA meeting
11. No interesting or engaging lesson plans are leaping from my brain

Good stuff (or, me being a Ray of F*cking Sunshine):

1. Stu washed all of those sheets & towels for me this weekend
2. I don't have to actually enter grades until Wednesday (really not until Thursday, but I'm tricking my mind so I'm not up until 3 am again; shhhhh)
3. Kept my finger busy trying to find a suitable station
4. I forgot about the Juno soundtrack; am smiling now thinking about it
5. Chicken stew still in teacher's lounge fridge, and edible
6. Stench was gone before I got a debilitating headache
7. Repeated my Love & Logic mantra [Not my problem, Not my problem] and proceeded to not strangle any students
8. He's still nice to look at; I'll just stop torturing myself and go through someone else's line from now on
9. Tomorrow is another day to track down the Treasurer
10. Will corral Lisa later this week for tea & chatting
11. God is good; I'll pray harder

Hey, Happy Monday!