cowgirls like me

A contest!

2011-05-07T06:12:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I have been gone for a while. But I'm back, and this time it's personal.

Shoot over to Joshilyn Jackson's page for a chance to win all kinds of cool stuff.

For some reason, my toolbar is not appearing so I cannot hyperlink it, but I will fix it when it allows me to. In the meantime, here is the link

http://www.joshilynjackson.com/ftk/?p=1071&cpage=2#comment-7573

Chickens, Jelly, and Facebook

2010-07-20T13:18:00.000-07:00

I had a plan, when I was in 8th grade that I believed in with all my heart until I graduated from high school. I was going to be a teacher, I was going to live on a ranch and train horses all by myself, because I was never going to be married and certainly never going to have any children. Kids were always … sticky. Men were always trying to boss me around. When I remember that plan, it’s the one time in my life when I think that there might just be a God, because how else, two marriages and four children later, could things have drastically come to a different point?

I thought about change today, while I was making black raspberry jelly from berries picked from my woods, while the chickens clucked and purred under the window and my husband’s chainsaw ran its protesting teeth through the Birch tree we plan to use to warm our house this winter. I thought about how I never would have imagined this life when I was busy making plans.

Facebook has forced me to look back on my life. I really hate that, because, for lack of a better, more cultivated word, I was an asshole. One big bundle of ME hormones all shoved into Chic jeans and Limited shirts. When I look at the faces of the people I went to school with, read their daily stories, I wonder if they look back like I do. I wish I could fly them out to my house, one by one, and show them how different I am now. I would like to have them meet my students, drive over the cavernous ruts in my driveway, talk with me while I rustle up my Cowboy Spaghetti or lasagna or BBQ ribs and the kids do a good job of not breaking their necks on the trampoline, telling me about how they hate or love their bosses or their iPhone, and how school is getting close to starting, the summer goes by so fast! I want to know them like I never did. I guess I wish I had a do-over, like I could stand in the yard and yell “allleeee-allleeee-all-come-free!” and I could really be a friend this time.

Appearances, Books, and Hugs

2010-04-08T17:02:00.000-07:00

I just put down a book. This is a normal thing, I do it probably a hundred times a day without thinking about it, but this time was significant for two reasons. First, I was crying. Well, sobbing a little. The second is that this book was brought to me by a student. I sat on the couch, tears pouring down my face, chest hitching, face contorted as I read the last ten pages, fervently hoping my husband would not walk by, knowing that I was powerless to stop whether he did or not.

My student, a girl in my first period class, announced to me that she had “the best book ever” for me to read. It was her favorite book, she explained, so favored that the binding had broken, separating it into halves. I was amazed when she brought Searching for David’s Heart, by Cherie Bennett, in the next day, not only because she remembered, but because she was willing to trust me with a treasure.

This got me to thinking about when I was in college, getting ready to begin Junior Field Experience, and we had a speaker come in. An elementary school teacher, she came in to explain to us the dangers and pitfalls of showing too much of ourselves to our students. I don’t mean cleavage and leg, but she told us things like not to wear a crucifix necklace if we were Catholic so that we would not be criticized for attempting to sway students to a certain faith or not to show allegiance to one political party. She also told us that under no circumstance should we hug or touch a student at all – even if they were crying – because this could give the appearance of impropriety.

What?

If one of my students is crying, I am not supposed to hug or reach out in any way?

If one of my students just got accepted to a college they never dreamed of being able to get into, no hugs of joy and pride?

“NO,” she said, emphatically and unequivocally. No.

I started to think maybe teaching wasn’t for me.

Now I am so happy that I finished, that I get to teach. Each one of my classes is a microcosm, a community that laughs, learns, sometimes cries, but, most importantly, shares at least part of themselves with the rest of us. I have my critics who say that my non-traditional methods are bunk, that when you walk past my room, kids are either reading, working on laptops, doing group activities, or some combination of the three – you never see me actually teaching anything.

And they’re right. I don’t stand up there and blather on, showing the kids how very much I know about literature and history. Because that’s not the point – the point is for them to discover, unearth for themselves and possibly find a passion or a truth. The point is for them to be given opportunities to figure out how to work with other people, how to find ways and paths and openings, to be creative and to have pride in what they have done. The point is for me to support them, to start them off and help them along the way, not be the center of attention.

I will never forget one student crying as she read the end of a novel, or when a student struggled with making a college choice, fearing alienating her mother, or putting on prom and the senior trip, going to Washington DC … the memories are crowding into this paragraph like kids tumbling through the turnstiles into Disneyland, too many to list here.

But I will go in tomorrow and tell my student how her treasured book made me cry, citing exactly what parts did me, and I will probably tear up, and she will probably hug me. Appearances be damned, I will hug her right back.

For more Spins on appearances, head over to Sprite’s Keeper!

Easter, Jett, and My Dad.

2010-03-28T15:44:00.000-07:00

The Spin this week is supposed to be your favorite post, your best post, of the ones you have already done. The key word there is "supposed." This is a new post, but, in the spirit of Easter and new beginnings, I am choosing this as the best one.

When my father died in October, my life went into a tailspin that I truly never saw coming. I new he was ill, I knew he would die soon, but I was totally unprepared for the impact this would have on my life. It sounds so stupid to say that, because it's my DAD for goodness sake, of course it's going to have a huge impact, but I really was blindsided. This is why I have not blogged - I simply could not.

I grew up riding, showing, and eventually training horses. My dad was such a part of that, always not only supporting me, but working side by side with me, so much so that horses and my dad were interwoven and inseparable. I think it was harder to deal with his death because I didn't have any horses - there wasn't any creature who was part of that connection that I could lean my face against and cry until I couldn't cry anymore.

A few weeks ago, my best friend asked me to stop by her classroom on my prep period, she had something she wanted to show me. I had no idea she was going to show me this:

Jett.

Look at that face. Is your heart melting? Mine did.

She explained that he needed a "retirement home." Plenty healthy enough to ride, he just couldn't be shown anymore, and his fabulous owner, Teri, needed a haven for him. MC thought of me. She was there when I couldn't have my last horse anymore (I hurt my back, herniated my L5 disc). She knew how after the physical therapy I was so terrified I wouldn't be able to ride again, and the absolute joy when I could. Most of all, she knew how much I missed it, how I had an empty space.

Thank you, MC and Teri, for my new beginning.

So I am back, a little wobbly, but the emotional bruises are healing. I am slowly but surely pulling my life back together, and this guy is helping me along wonderfully.

Three Girls, Nine Hundred Children, and Unsatisfactory Macaroni

2010-01-23T16:41:00.000-08:00

Two very close friends of mine and our nine hundred children went to see Alvin and the Chipmunks and then out to dinner - what fun! We had the entire theater to ourselves which was such a blessing, since we didn't have to shush the children or offend anyone by pushing past them for the eighth trip to the bathroom! Although, it turns out that if you use your cell phone for texting during the movie, even if you are the only ones in the theater, a woman who needs to be introduced to conditioner and Xanax will sharply reprimand you. "Ma'am!" she snapped, "there are NO cell phones in the theater!" Thank God she stopped us - we were probably interfering with heart monitors or other sensitive medical equipment.

The restaurant we went to en masse had something interesting on the menu, which I don't remember the exact name, but it was sauteed gnocchi with bruschetta - yum! But then, when it was on the plate in front of me, it just kinda fell flat. I realize I'm about to sound really snotty and self-important, but hey, I gotta be honest. I thought I could do better.

Tonight, while I boiled about half a pound of angel hair pasta (I was going to use gnocchi, but my husband's face fell when I said "gnocchi," so I used macaroni instead), I took a sirloin steak and cut it into thin strips. Then I smashed the heck out of the strips with this:

Then, I cut the strips into bite-sized pieces, and tossed them with a mixture of searing flour, garlic powder, and cayenne.

I coated my cast iron frying pan with a few turns of vegetable oil, and fried my little strips of deliciousness quickly, scooping them out medium to medium-rare and tossing them onto my mound of cooked and drained macaroni waiting in the pot.

When all the strips were done and accounted for, I dashed a little Worchestershire Sauce and some beef broth into the pan, scraping up all the wonderful browned bits stuck to the bottom. Then, I dumped in about two cups of bruschetta. Ohhh my.

I tossed it all together, topped it with some Parmigiano Reggiano, and ended up with this:

Please, Sir, Allow Me Pasta

1 pound sirloin, cut into strips and pounded thin
1/2 c searing flour
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
oil for sauteeing
2 teaspoons worchestershire sauce
1/2 cup beef broth
2 cups bruschetta
parmigiano reggiano to taste

Wordless Wednesday #14

2010-01-06T03:05:00.000-08:00

Outside ...

Inside ...

Propane, septic, and speeding tickets.

2009-12-31T18:24:00.000-08:00

"Alright," I thought, "Game ON, 2010, GAME ON." Gritting my teeth, I planned to write down my weight every morning, get up 20 precious minutes early so that I could Tread on the Mill and Boost My Metabolism, and keep a *faithful* journal about what I ate. I scheduled days to blog. I figured out ways to save money. I was SET I had a PLAN and I had resolved on how to resolve to be a better me.

Then the mail came.

Let me say first that this month has been a tough one. Christmas, for one, the first without my dad. And, even though Christmas is wonderful, it is expensive, but hey, ok. Two weeks before Christmas my husband had to buy a new truck (new to us, but still), since his simply wasn't going to pass the Nazi Regime Inspection. I have passed the edict that none in the household shall say the payment aloud. Saying aloud makes it real. But I still smiled and gritted my teeth and determined to keep track of what I had resolved to do.

Two days before Christmas, well into the evening, my husband looks at me and says "oh SHIT I forgot to call for propane. Hon, can you do that tomorrow?" Two. Days. Four hundred dollars for *some* propane, not coming close to filling the tank. "Look," the children whispered to each other, "she smiles but can't talk while she does. It's creepin' me out, man."

The day after Christmas, all the drains in our house simply go on strike - nothing will drain. Um, what? It turns out the septic tank is full. *blink* That can happen? Why yes, it can. And to have it drained, which is just as disgusting and malodorous as the picture your imagination is painting right now, costs 250 dollars. I now twitch when I smile.

Now, the mail.

In the mail is a speeding ticket. The state of Arizona insists that my husband was speeding "approximately" 14 miles per hour over the limit. I must include here that I told my husband that Arizona brooked no nonsense when it came to speeding, from the mobile speed traps, the 8 million patrol cars, and the (this is the important part) fixed cameras on intersection lights. "It must not be me!" he exclaimed. Then he looked on page two, on which there is are pictures of the car coming and going. There is also a picture of the license plate, and a remarkably clear picture of my husband driving. I am so proud that only ONE of the "I told you to slow down"s jostling at the back of my clenched teeth manages to bolt free, and that the "I told you so" did not have a single "you stupid son-of-a-bitch" attached. Especially when he read the part about having 30 days to pay $254.00.

Ah, sweet Jesus.

My new resolve? Besides trying to make it through January without having to eat the dog or sell one of the children for gas money? I really am resolving to be a healthier me, a better me, but now I have added: when I speak, I will be heard. After all, it seems to be expensive to not listen.

For more resolution, head over to Sprite's Keeper.

Silver Linings. They don't come cheap.

2009-11-23T16:39:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, one of my students piped up in class about hating her mom. From the look on her face, she wasn't kidding, not even a little bit. I said something along the lines of "but it's your mom," but that only increased the vehemence. Her mom wasn't nice, her mom was awful, her mom was wretched. "Whoa down a minute," I said. I had a mom I could not stand, a mom who did not understand me, a mom who disliked me right back. So much so that I moved across the country when the opportunity came. Then she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. My sister told me that several times a day she would go looking for me in the backyard, towards the barns, calling my name, bewildered and worried when I didn't show up. By then it was too late for "I'm sorry" and "I love you," I told my student. "That's so sad," she said, her eyes tearing up. "Then don't let it happen to you," I said. "You have no idea when that rug is going to be pulled out from under you. When she's gone, she is gone."

I am so very grateful that when my father died on Halloween of this year, I had made regular phone calls home, I had sent my dad pictures of the kids and the chickens, and that I ended every conversation, voice, email, or paper, with "I love you."

I am grateful that my book club pooled their money and sent me home just a few months before he died - that week with him and the rest of my family was one of the best in my entire life. I'm getting old, so that's really saying something. Those memories, so sweet and fresh, are like soft pillows to lay my head down on for just a bit.

I am grateful that when I was home for my dad's funeral, I had opportunities to reconnect with friends: Bill and Susan, who made me laugh so hard my sides ached for days; Debbie, who is a slice of home, a connection to what I thought was lost; and Matt, whose family, love, and faith rocked something very deep inside me.

I am grateful for my family: for Laura, who took care of home - and learned that it was no easy task :o) - I was so relieved to be able to know that the Nut was taken care of with love; for my sister and brothers, who shouldered this grief with me; for Dena making me feel loved; and for my husband. I began life with four parents, two birth and two adoptive, and now they are all gone. He has been my rudder; without him, I would be lost.

But most of all, I am grateful to know that I have been truly blessed and still am, to be surrounded by family, co-workers, and fabulous friends who are simply the best people on the planet.

I miss my dad, but I am so grateful I had one as wonderful as him.

For more Spins on gratitude, head over to Sprite's Keeper.

Wordless Wednesday #13

2009-11-10T17:42:00.000-08:00

So Darn Cute

2009-10-22T16:56:00.000-07:00

I just love this picture of the Nut:

And, I just love my immensely wonderful friend, Katie, who happens to be an incredibly talented photographer.

Add the two together and you get this:

Yes. She put my picture on this purse.

Here's a closer look:

Want one of your own? Go visit my friend. Don't be nervous, she's awfully nice.

Wordless Wednesday #12

2009-10-20T17:49:00.001-07:00

Here is a jar of bay leaves I recently bought.
Yes, I realize the picture is a little blurry.

But here is the confusing part, when I opened the lid and saw this:

um, what?

Please excuse my double-jointed, alien thumb.

Sister, Your Butt is Crushing Me.

2009-10-18T14:17:00.000-07:00

Remember in Lilo and Stitch, when Lilo says to Nani: "You rotten sister! Your butt is crushing me." That's how I feel lately, like I am being crushed by the world's butt. I am sure the world means well, but, um, I am still being crushed. By school, by my house, by football season, and, the coup de grace, archery season.

It is my favorite time of year now, and the leaves are everywhere, so gorgeous and whispery and blanketing the yard I should have mowed weeks ago. A total win-win.

Fall is also my favorite time to eat. I love to pull out the cast-iron dutch oven and simmer some chili, slow-cook a roast, stew up some ... stew. This week's Spin Cycle is all about sharing recipes, and even though sharing is an awkward and frustrating concept for me to grasp (despite the intervention of my parents, teachers, and angry bystanders), I am setting the table for more than just me. Tonight I am setting it for Stuffed Pepper Soup.

I love this soup! My kids love it, my husband tolerates it, but I love it.

First, brown up one pound or more of hamburger with a chopped sweet onion and two cloves of garlic, minced.

Then, deglaze the pan with a few rounds of Worcestershire sauce. I had to go pull the bottle out of the refrigerator to see how to spell it.

Here are the last of the garden's jalapenos.

Throw in three or four chopped jalapenos, a healthy shake or two of crushed red peppers, salt, Italian seasoning to taste, two bay leaves, and a pinch of sugar.
The sugar helps it from getting all acidic and bitter.

Add a carton of beef broth, a bottle/large can of tomato juice, and a can of tomato sauce. If you like things chunky, add a can of diced tomatoes. Throw in two large green peppers, chopped. Half of these peppers are from the freezer, so that's why they look a little strange.

While this is simmering, fire up the rice cooker and steam up any kind of rice you prefer (I prefer Jasmine).

Look at how cool this is: There is a removable basin, so when you lift the lid and all the steam runs off the lid, it goes into the basin.

I like to keep my rice and soup separate, since I don't like it when the rice gets all mushy the next day, so when I serve it, I scoop some rice into the bowl and ladle over some steamy, wonderful soup.
Mmmmmmm.

No worries about mushy rice if there's any soup left the next day ...

Wordless Wednesday #11

2009-10-13T18:22:00.000-07:00

Wordless Wednesday #10

2009-09-22T18:49:00.000-07:00

The Peanut with the first egg laid by our chickens.

Well, not this one. He's the rooster.

Claws, fondant, and the Un-Loved Middle Child UPDATED

2009-08-23T08:14:00.000-07:00

I tried something new today and I think I may have pulled at least one muscle in my hand.

Wait. That makes this post sound way more fun than it really is.

I tried covering my daughter's (the ULMC) birthday cake with fondant. I hate saying "fondant," since it's nearly impossible for me to say it without sounding like I am poorly impersonating a British butler. Fohndahnt. Plus it had a kind of nasty feel to it, like if Play-doh and frosting had a baby, it would be fondant.

Here are the results:

It's a birthday carrot cake (the ULMC's favorite) from Tasty Kitchen, an offshoot from the Pioneer Woman. The cake itself was very easy to make and smells heavenly - I can't wait to try it tonight!

It's not nearly as pretty, smooth, and perfect as I imagined it would be, so no quitting my day job. Plus, adding the color to the fondant turned my hands into claws. Seriously, I couldn't pick up a pencil for an hour.

If this ends up on Cake Wrecks I will be crushed.

Updated: We ate it and it actually tasted kind of fabulous! Even the ULMC liked it!

Wordless Wednesday #9

2009-08-19T04:48:00.001-07:00

This is not my picture - and despite all efforts, I cannot find who took it - but this besmirched angel shifts something inside me.

Wordless Wednesday #8

2009-08-12T08:01:00.001-07:00

Chalkboards, wheelchairs, and Christian Slater look-alikes

2009-08-09T11:04:00.000-07:00

This week's Spin Cycle challenge is to dredge up the worst post of all, the one that gives you the all-overs when you think about it. I chose this one because it was one of the most awful moments - a moment that gives me the willies when I think about it, which ends up being really, really often since it happened in my classroom. Plus I use words like 'mite' and 'tad,' like I'm an English nanny.

Chalkboards, wheelchairs, and Christian Slater look-alikes.

My classroom was taken over by the uber-geek squad. Seriously, not only were they a computer -installation team of seven, but they even wore matching wind breaker suits. I shit you not. I hadn't even realized that they still even made that material since 1984. Fortunately, one of them looked remarkably like Christian Slater, so I chalked it up as a win.

They bustled in, like a swat-team from Revenge of the Nerds, to install my Polyvision board (which is an interactive white board that hooks up to my laptop and I can do all these crazy educational things. oh, um, wait - who's the geek in this story?). I remained at my desk after greeting them, looking all very teacher-busy on my laptop. The plan was to hang the Polyvision board between my two chalkboards, which was really going along very nicely until I noticed that they were NOT HANGING IT LEVEL TO THE CHALKBOARDS. Anyone with a touch of OCD will completely understand my instant stress. So I ask, "Um, excuse me, but could you, like, hang it so it's the same height as the chalkboards?" The ALL turn to stare at me, the only sound the faint rubbing of nylon. "I don't mean to be a bother," I stammer on, "but, um, well, it leaves like a gap."

There is a long pause. The Christian Slater's stunt-double takes a breath and slowly, since I am obviously a mite on the slow side, "that's so the handicapped children can reach it."

"Gegh" is all I can manage. They turn back to their task as I ever so gently put my face upon my desk, remaining prone until I hear the last power drill and extension cord packed away, and the soft rustle of nylon as they softly click the door shut behind their exit.

And I wonder why I have yet to win Teacher of the Year.

Spinning the Oldies

2009-08-05T08:47:00.000-07:00

This week's Spin Cycle is to choose an old post - a favorite. This one is actually my first Spin.

Go here to read about why sometimes I guess I should listen to my husband.

*sigh*

TIMMMAY!

2009-07-25T09:02:00.000-07:00

If you watch South Park, you'll know who Timmy is.

Here is our Timmy (the yellow (Buff Polish) hen:

Wordless Wednesday #7

2009-07-22T05:10:00.001-07:00

This was taken on my last trip to the Penn Stater for a conference - I wanted nothing more than to completely ditch my meetings, grab my book and a cup of tea, and spend the afternoon here.

Wordless Wednesday #6

2009-07-15T04:05:00.000-07:00

Spin Cyle: Driving Me Crazy

2009-07-09T19:37:00.000-07:00

When I read the challenge for this week's Spin Cycle, I was immediately laughing, remembering this:

I had not been living in the Almost-Great-White-North for very long, and this winter was a doozy! There was just no 'easier way' to go; all the roads were snow-packed and sketchy, making me very nervous. This made me mad at myself for being such a ninny about driving on snow, for cryin' out loud, people do it all the time. And they survive. So I made myself drive like a normal person even though it scared the bejesus out of me to do it.

The route to school was full of twists and turns, no berm to speak of, and not a Penn DOT truck to be seen (resulting in no clearing, no salt). Scary, but I had to go to school. I had to.

As I am driving (not creeping - just going a little slow because of the packed snow) and I approaching a sharp curve to the right, a rather large truck comes up fast behind me, and without even a pause, PASSES ME. On snow-packed roads, up a hill, on a blind curve. I was pissed - if there was a car coming, none of us would have been able to avoid a collision. What if the kids had been in the car? All this flashed through my mind in a split second.

So I sped up, just enough to catch him, honked my hard - long and loud enough to get his attention - and flipped him off. HA!

Then I noticed something.

Something that would normally not be a big deal, but something that turned out to be rather significant in this moment.

I was wearing mittens.

Wordless Wednesday #5 aka Better Late Than Never. Possibly.

2009-07-08T11:11:00.000-07:00

Painting 101 and a great giveaway link

2009-07-08T09:17:00.001-07:00

First. let me say that I took all kinds of pictures to accompany this post, but my camera just said no to uploading to iPhoto. Just plain no.

*sigh*

I have some interesting, yet little-known facts about painting a bedroom. I have been excited to do this project for the Peanut and the UMC (Unloved Middle Child), picking out colors and scheming ideas. The Nut wanted a "mermaid princess room" but, instead of being sucked into the Disney vortex of doom, I proposed creating a room for a mermaid princess and she loves that idea. The walls are painted a green color named 'mermaid,' and I intend to dot her ceiling with fake diamonds, pepper her tulle curtains with gems and sea paraphernalia, and create a top to her dresser with the undersides of the little glass doo-dads you put in the bottoms of vases - flat side up. UMC's bedroom is going to be a creamy khaki color called 'cottage' with mauve accents and an idea for a series of collages that I will only be able to explain with pictures. Ahem.

As I started painting the ceiling, I though in tweets:

rikkifish Roll three: I chose to this *why* again?

rikkifish Roll six: oh yeah, this is why painters wear hats.

rikkifish Roll 37: I love my children I love my children I will finish this I will finish this

The facts I had no idea existed but seriously appear to be true:

1. If you are low on heating fuel, be it oil, gas, or wood, simply opening a can of paint raises the temperature of the room you are painting by 20 degrees, despite breezes, cloudy cool weather, or oscillating fans.

2. It is grammatically incorrect to use the the phrase "When I paint," either before or after the simple sentence "I will be more careful and not need drop cloths."

3. No matter how many rolls of masking tape you buy, you will always be one short.

Nikes and a Ponytail is having a FABULOUS GIVEAWAY - if you go there from here, please tell her so!

Wordless Wednesday #4

2009-06-30T20:13:00.001-07:00

Wishing for a pony.

turtles, driveways, and super models

2009-06-27T12:59:00.000-07:00

When I was coming back in from feeding the chickens the remains of last night's Italian bread and salad, I found this little guy in the driveway.

We have a pond that is not close to the house, but for some reason all the turtles come and lay their eggs in the kids dug-out which is right by the house and the driveway.

Seems like danger to me. Out of all the places in our yard that I would choose to give birth in, the driveway would be pretty low on the list.

But I'm not a snapping turtle.

See my hands? I'm not that old. Stay out of the sun, kids.

And get off my lawn.

I felt guilty carrying him around, taking his picture, while he looked up me with that judgmental, flat stare that animals and super models have.

That look gives me the willies.

It's not easy being green. Trust me.

2009-06-25T16:35:00.000-07:00

Jealousy is a funny thing. I used to find myself consumed by it - especially when I worked across the hall from a beautiful, young, and extremely popular teacher (who, ironically enough, was one of my closest friends). I hated not being as thin or as pretty as ... well, any girl I saw. Hated it. Fussed and fretted and frazzled myself.

Then I truly realized that it was not only consuming me, this awful bitter feeling, but it was pruning me from the inside out. I was most absolutely wrinkling and shriveling up - someone was going to, in the not too distant future, roll me in salt and stick me in half a lemon.

So I quit.

I realized that no matter what, I was going to be jealous of my husband's ex-wife, that she got to have a son with him, got to have the white wedding, got to have his untarnished first love. I was going to be jealous of gorgeous women with loooong legs and un-frizzy, tangle-free hair, and perfect skin.

So I turned it into motivation instead. I won't have legs nine miles long, but I can have cut calves and firm thighs from hiking through my woods. I find myself looking lovingly, longingly, at the horse farms we drive by. I know that it's out of the question with my salary, but I have been working overtime to save up for a horse.

I refuse to turn into that horrible person we all know - the one who turns every single thing into a complaint, a slight, an issue. Ugh, that person is at every faculty function, at every family picnic, at every damn PTA meeting. Not this chick, no way.

Although I am jealous that my post is not as high up on the list as everyone else's at Sprite's Keeper. I'll bet they're all prettier than me, too.

Wordless Wednesday (again? so quick?)

2009-06-23T18:19:00.001-07:00

pygmy jerboa

2009-06-22T15:49:00.000-07:00

oh ... my ... I hope this thing is real because I seriously want at least 2,000 running around my yard.

They DO exist! Wikipedia says they do, so it must be true!

He kinda looks like my great uncle Claude.

Wordless Wednesday. I'm serious this time.

2009-06-17T11:22:00.001-07:00

Yeah, I've got me some mad photography skills.

Spin Cycle: the race

2009-06-17T07:34:00.000-07:00

The sun flung intermittent searing rays, dodging the thunderheads that moved with odd speed for the Sonoran weather. The short oval dirt track was tucked behind creosote bushes, probably to keep kids like us from finding it and breaking our necks, the danger of the Mesquite trees clogging the center.

My little painted pony danced next to his Thoroughbred monster, her 14 hands looking inadequate and pitiful – a pipe dream, but I was determined to win. His forearms, good lord, I could not stop looking at his forearms, all ropey with shifting muscles as his horse pulled at the reins, eager to go, ready to run.

The weird breeze, so disturbing when all the days are so hot and still, toyed with his dark hair, twisting it so the sun reflected blue then black then blue, his dark eyes squinting against the sun. The longing of this un-named emotion, this twist in my gut, catch in my throat, clutching in my chest that was so new and deliciously awful fueled my want to be close to him, prove myself to him, beat the snot out of him in this race.

Our friends’ horses’ caught the sent in the air, the competition mixed with the possibility of us, and shifted, tossing heads and swishing tails. “Let’s GO already,” shouted Heather, annoyed as she tossed her white blonde hair, used to being the gorgeous center of everyone's attention.

Lined up to the narrow heel-trench in the dirt, a faceless boy shouted “GO” and we bolted off, my knees and thighs and calves molding against the bare sides of my pony, her withers digging into my belly, her black and white mane whipping into my face, my eyes. I looked over, expecting a looming presence, but he wasn’t there. Over my shoulder proved him to be right on our outside haunch, with him pressing as far forward as the saddle would allow, forearms lost in the whip of the mane.

We rounded the turn, stretching for the line, and I saw the bobbing head of his horse come into my periphery, foaming at the bit and nostrils as wide as they would go. But then the line swept beneath us and IwonIwonIwon, sitting up as my pony slowed, her sweat starting to seep into the seat of my jeans, her heaving ribs pushing against me, and smiling so wide it hurt. I turned to see him, over by his friends, their horses shifting, him spitting in disgust into the dust as he squinted at me. I sighed a little as his tanned forearms flexed, his horse pulling at the reins, then turned to pass through the creosote, redolent with rain.

For more memories, go over to Sprite's Keeper.

Wordless Wednesday

2009-06-02T17:03:00.000-07:00

This is really, really hard. I have a nearly irresistible urge to explain that I took this picture on a recent trip to D.C. with my ninth graders, that the detail, the life in this memorial took my breath away.

But, luckily, I have more than enough willpower to refrain from ruining the entire premise of "Wordless Wednesday." Whew.

pound cake, chickens, and toe rings.

2009-05-25T10:00:00.001-07:00

I made this cream cheese pound cake today. I had to borrow a bundt pan from my mother-in-law, since I have every other baking dish known to man but this kind.

I just loved how the cake looked in this obviously well-loved pan.

That guy in the back? That's Owen.

While the cake cooled, I went to take some pictures of chicks:

When I opened the door, this is where they were.

Then I called "hey chick, chick, chick," and they all came a-runnin'.

They are in their eighth-grader stage. Their feet are huge, they still have some baby feathers mixed in with adult feathers, sometimes they peep and sometimes they cluck.

Eighth graders.

I learned something new: if you're going to be in a chicken coop, don't wear flip-flops if you have a toe ring on. While I was trying to take pictures, they attacked my toe ring and the poor toe underneath.

This girl (or guy, who knows for sure) is not like the others (sing along ...). McMurray's hatchery throws in a 'rare breed' if you order so many chicks. Well, hopefully they place them in. She's rather special, and not very bright (that's a red flag - I mean, we're talking about chickens) so we've named her Timmy, from the little guy on South Park. We're going to have to get another 'rare breed' so we can make them fight ...

When I came back in, I finished up the cake. Here's the finished product - right before the twelve-year-old boy inhaled it.

I had no idea what to say.

2009-05-23T18:18:00.001-07:00

Today as we were driving to Target to, God help me, buy the Peanut a Bikini Barbie because all of her friends had them and they played at recess and she was the only one who couldn't play Mermaids of the Haunted Castle, we had this conversation:

The Nut was explaining to me that one of her friends was "going to be the mom but she didn't know how to be a mom but I know how to be a mom."

Me: "oh yeah?"

Nut: "Yep! When you're a mom you get to work all the time. And you get to drive alllll over the place. And you get to cook. You get to cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

She took a breath here.

"And you get to have all the babies."

And just so I don't get sued by my bff, Katie Mihalak took the Nut's picture above.

JackJack's girl troubles

2009-05-21T18:17:00.001-07:00

There are some new kids in town.

Twenty-seven new kids, to be exact.

This is JackJack's face whenever he is near the chicks. Which is often, since he goes running over every time the chicks make any noise. Chicks make A LOT of noise.

He doesn't want to eat them - he likes to herd them.

Which would be cute if he was a Border Collie or a Sheepdog, but he's a Pitbull, so it's hilarious.

This little girl is quite the pisser. She is always up on the roost, surveying new places to poop, no doubt. If JackJack gets too close, she pecks his nose, which makes him sneeze. Again, hilarious to everyone but JackJack.

JackJack pouting after a pecking.

This little one kept jumping up and grabbing ahold of my camera strap as I was trying to take pictures.

Her name is now Little Shit.

The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse's ears. ~Arabian Proverb (pets part 1)

2009-05-18T16:26:00.000-07:00

My mom would tell anyone who would listen that from the time I could form a thought, I thought about horses. Talked about them, drew them, dreamed of them, even my imaginary friends were horses.

I believe her because it's still true.

I was incredibly lucky as a kid - crazy lucky. I grew up on a small Arabian ranch, surrounded by gorgeous horses. These first two are of a brood mare and one of her colts, Shadda. His name ended up being "Shadda the Shit."

My mom also bragged that I was riding a horse before I could even ride a bike. This is probably because I could care less about a bike; it sure wasn't even remotely equine. I rode every chance I could - even in a play. I don't really remember the whole plot, but I was

the prissy character (there was a 'free-spirited girl' in the play who wore all kinds of lace and no shoes) because I could ride side saddle and had the dress.

Kelly was my last show horse and I loved him with all my heart, but my dad sure didn't. Kelly and I had a connection - I begged my daddy to buy him for me the first time I saw him - I walked into the paddock and he promptly bit a tassel off my coat (hey, it was 1984, if your coat didn't have a tassel or two you simply weren't bitchin'). Turns out he was a one-person horse, loving me but hating everyone else, especially if you were in bite or kick range. If you notice in the picture of Misa and Shadda, the horses had pipe corrals behind each stall. Kelly never, ever did this when I was around, but when my dad was out there alone, Kelly would walk along the corral with his teeth on the top of the pipe, making a horrid screeeeeee noise that rattled Daddy's filling right loose and made his nape hairs stand on end. If Kelly was feeling particularly snarly, he'd trot when he did it.

But the love of my life was Calypso. He was my first real, honest-to-God show horse, and the sweetest thing to ever come into my life. Not only was he amazing, but I now had a horse able to compete in the big-boy shows with my best friend, Karen. I know I don't look happy in these pictures, but that's because I was still nervous when I went into the ring.

But Lippy made sure I was safe. I absolutely had the time of my life between those two, Calypso and Karen. I had to give up Lippers to have the flashy Kelly, and I hated to do it. I hmmmmed and hawed and cried like I had never cried before, but my dad held firm - he said Calypso was a 'starter horse' and I had to stop being so dad-gummed selfish and let someone else, someone who could learn a lot from a horse like Lippers, love him. Yes, my dad really said 'dad-gummed.' Usually only when he was really, really irritated.

Look at his face, his eyes.

I miss you Lippers.

For more pet stories, go over to Sprite's Keeper!

And I pity any girl who isn't me tonight!

2009-04-28T18:06:00.000-07:00

I think I may have to change my name to Maria, this award makes me feel so pretty!

I am so flattered – thank you so much Pseudonymous High School Teacher!

Here are the rules:

1) Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award, and his or her blog link.

2) Pass the award to 15 other blogs that you've newly discovered. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award.

Okay (she cracks her knuckles and hunches over the laptop in serious concentration), here we go:

1. The Secret is in the Sauce.

2. Cookie Girl Creations (yum).

3. Uncovering Foods. (hmmmm I'm seeing a trend)

4. Joan of All Trades.

5. Bumps in the Road.

6. Bakerella.

7. A Form of Therapy.

8. Jam Jar Boogie.

9. Apron Goddess.

10. Momversations. I realize this isn't technically speaking a blog BUT I'm a rule breaker, ya know?

11. Two Under Two. Whew! (no kidding)

12. Candid Carrie.

13. detention slip (I'm not letting them know they won this award - they would laugh at me.)

14. The Dark Side of the Chalkboard.

15. Pioneer Woman.

Yay!

ah, crap.

2009-04-28T05:11:00.000-07:00

Remember in Romeo and Juliet, when Juliet realizes that Romeo is a Montague and laments, “my only love sprung from my only hate!”? No? You weren’t paying attention? That happens. A lot. BUT, if you do remember that, my mistake was exactly like that … only the complete opposite.

When I was five months pregnant with the Peanut, I was in my glory. My husband treated me like a queen and I felt like a goddess. Everything was sensual: Cool breezes stopped me in my tracks, my face turning into it so the wind’s fingers could trail through my hair. My husband’s worn cotton shirts caressed my skin, the smell of him lingered and sent me drifting away into delicious daydreams. But all that paled in comparison to food. I loved how cool milk spilled in a silky flow down my throat and swoosh heavily in my stomach. I could taste every cleansing salt crystal as it danced a swinging Mambo on my tongue with chilly lettuce and a medley of spices as I crunched on tacos. The smooth cream of chocolate sent shivers down my spine. Ice cream, oh my, how that velvety coolness enveloped me from the inside out, encasing me in a cool smoothness as rich as the heaviest silk. I loved being pregnant.

The hate part? The mistake part? While the Peanut is not my only love, she is one of my dearest loves, and from my pregnancy with her sprung my only hate: my body. Just because I loved reveled in what I was eating, didn’t mean the calories and fat didn’t dance off at a quick tempo. I got fat. I still struggle, and the Peanut turns 8 this summer. *sigh*

Want to read more lamentations? (it's such a fun word to say) Head on over to Sprite's Keeper!

Politeness is to human nature what warmth is to wax. ~Arthur Schopenhauer

2009-04-23T18:59:00.000-07:00

If, in my fantastical possible future, Hoda Kotb, as she is interviewing me in part three of a four-part series on "Awesome Teachers, Awesome Moms," asks what is the one thing that makes my family successful, I would have to answer "love." the second? Manners.

The third? Hockey.

The irony is thick.

Manners are tough to teach. My 17-year-old daughter and I were watching "Gilmore Girls" when the Peanut brought her entire bucket of Lincoln Logs out to the living room and dumped the whole thing. She needed to start with a specific piece, so she tumbled and rumbled through the clanky logs. With the sigh only a teenaged girl or a saint stuck with arrows could make, the dvr was paused.

I gently asked the peanut to take the logs to another room, since we were watching TV. Because she is seven, she asked "why?" The teenager said "BECAUSE when YOU are watching tv, I DO NOT PLAY WITH NOISY TOYS."

The peanut looks over her glasses at her and says, "I'm not watching tv."

Apparently, sarcasm is not the best teaching tool for children in first grade.

As a teacher, I will admit that there are children who I know, in the depths of my soul, must have been raised by wolves. There is simply no other explanation.

They will interrupt without even blinking, no hesitation, any and all conversations. They will fart in the middle of class discussions. They will blurt out rude comments and come completely unhinged if someone even looks at them sideways. But, quite wonderfully, these children are not the norm. The majority of my students are as polite as ninth graders can be on a steady basis and contrite when they slip. We have had to have class discussions about manners (like how saying "no offense, but..." is NOT an ollie-ollie-all-come-free pass to then say something completely offensive) but what surprises me is how well they can do, how mature they can be, discussing man's inhumanity to man in one breath and calling the kid next to him "gay" in the next.

*sigh*

I guess it's all about the baby steps.

Thank you, Jen at Sprite's Keeper - this was an interesting topic!

In the beginning the universe was created. This has made a lot of people angry and been widely regarded as a bad move. - Douglas Adams

2009-04-10T17:21:00.000-07:00

True story and a perfect synopsis of my week:

Imagine, if you will, a study hall. One of my students (student #2) is working, and so is an upperclassman (student #1), on vocabulary. Student #1 has just learned the meaning of the word "Agnostic."

student #1:

"Is anyone in here Agnostic?"

student #2:

"Not me - I haven't been sick for awhile now!"

I wish I was making this up.

The White Rabbit is my soul sister.

2009-03-31T17:51:00.000-07:00

I do love Shakespeare pissed:

Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood,
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood,
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
And do whate'er thou wilt swift-footed Time
To the wide world and all her fading sweets.
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen,
Him in thy course untainted do allow,
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
My love shall in my verse ever live young.

Yikes.

But Time is such a crazy entity - precious and fleeting and a healer of all wounds and that which I curse on a daily basis, so when Jen over at Sprite's Keeper threw out the idea of time as a writing prompt, I jumped on board.

I actually allowed two of my students, two girls who would fit right in with The Plastics, to ruin a large chunk of my day today. And then I ruined another chunk by being so pissed that I allowed that to happen - that I wasted time on ridiculous people. Excuse me while I go beat on the punching bag for a minute.

Okay, I'm better now.

My kids pay a price for all the hours I work (minimum of 50 hours a week), and I am actually being eaten alive by guilt. Luckily for me I am able to consume enough pasta, chocolate, and cheese to fill in the eaten-away-parts and then some. However, this past weekend I grabbed Time and wrestled it to the ground, commanded it to stay down in my fiercest teacher-voice, so that my daughters and I could create these:

Is this just one of the cutest things ever? It is made from cake and candy coating and an extra helping of cute.

I can't take credit for these. The kudos go to Bakerella, who is just amazing.

But, I can take credit for the cute bakers ...

And, I did make sure to use Red Velvet cake mix. This way, when the darling little chicks are bitten into, the insides look meaty.

Yummmmmm.

And it was worth every single minute.

owls and hair. but not hairy owls.

2009-03-25T17:22:00.000-07:00

This weeks Spinfest is all about quirks (which is a fun word to say, especially because it sounds like quirt, which sends my fantastical mind whirling into giggly areas).

The Peanut hates loose hair. Finds it horrifying and disgusting; it gives her the all-overs to have to take the hairbrush back to the kids' bathroom after I have tortured her with it in the morning - she pinches the handle between the very edges of her thumb and forefinger and holds it at arm length so that there is no danger of a hair coming in contact with any part of her body or clothing.

The other morning Peanut came running into the bathroom, without knocking, all out breath. In a high, screamy voice, she let me know that "there's a SPIDER on the floor by my CLOTHES" and the I "NEED to come and KILL IT NOW."

Calm down, Peanut, I'll be there in a sec - Mama's almost done putting on mascara.

She took a breath, and to my well-hid astonishment, did actually calm down. And left the bathroom.

I finished separating and lengthening my lashes and turned to go kill the spider when the Peanut came back into the bathroom, holding her hand out, her flat palm up. I said "show me where the spider is honey, and Mama will kill it." "No thanks," she piped. "I killed it. See?" Sure as shit, there's a smooshed spider-like blop on her palm.

Huh.

"Wow! That was brave! Great job, Peanut!" (I did take some pride (still do) in being so upbeat and completely not gagging at 6:15 AM). "Now just wash your hands, baby." She walked to the sink and made the strangest noise, something like a squealed "gak!" I looked at her and she said "I CAN'T - there's a HAIR!" A hair? "A HAIR! In the SINK!" Yep, there was a hair. "Wait a minute," I said. "You will KILL a SPIDER with you bare hands, but you won't wash your hands, covered in spider death-goo, because there is a hair in the sink?" Over her glasses she looked me in the eye, so solemn and disdainful, and said "Hair is nasty." And she walked out to go wash her hands in the other bathroom which, apparently, was hair-free.

My middle daughter loves owls in a way that is sometimes uncomfortable but I guess it could be worse and she could love crack pipes or used tires in the same way. So when I saw this darling necklace I bought it immediately to put into an Easter egg and tuck into her basket. (Hopefully she doesn't read my blog. I don't think she does since, until this very moment, it's owl-free and is not connected to her iPod, phone, or Facebook page.)

Then I realized that it is made out of a Scrabble tile and I nearly fainted from the cuteness of it all. These adorable pendants are not limited to owls - oh no! Want one? Simply go here. Then you can nearly faint from cuteness. If you haven't already.

Thank you Mark and Stef for creating such darling owl pendants that my daughter will swoon at the sight of! This should make Easter morning very interesting!

Pens vs Kings

2009-03-22T13:14:00.000-07:00

My favorite sport, aside from riding horses, is hockey. I could not believe when, for my birthday, my husband ~~surprised~~ astonished me with tickets to a Penguins game. Not just tickets - that really doesn't do it justice. Fifth row from the glass, just to the right of the goal where the Pens would be shooting twice. I. Lost. My. Shit.

I have only been to Pittsburgh a few times, and two of the three times were spent driving through, wondering what in the bloody fuck whomever was in charge of mapping out the road system actually had in mind. Seriously, someone had to have had meetings, several options, and then chose ... this?

Luckily, I was not driving. We stayed with my daughter, Gena, in her apartment, which so wonderfully nice - not only was I going to a Pens game (my first ever), I was getting to spend time with her and her roommate, Albert. Albert knows how to drive in Pittsburgh. I wish I knew how to be a graceful, grateful passenger in Pittsburgh. We drive big ol' four-wheel drive trucks down long winding roads that divide fields and timberland, cross gorges, and only have other trucks parked alongside during buck season. In Pittsburgh, there is no such thing as "no place to park." Every street is lined with cars, nose to tail, usually. Sometimes they get a little more innovative. So as Albert scuttled us through this maze at an amazingly fast speed, I felt a tad uncomfortable. I kept thinking of The City Mouse and the Country Mouse. When we arrived (whew!) at Mellon Arena, I thanked Albert, but also mentioned that I felt a little bit like I was in The French Connection.

What a game! Having never been there before, I was trying like hell to not look like a damn tourist (which is why I didn't take any pictures), but I am hoping someone knows what those lines are hanging from the ceiling, the ones with appeared to be testicle-shaped fishing weights at the ends? I just could not figure those out at all.

And just in case you have never been to a game before, if you get up to use the bathroom during the period, you cannot go back to your seat until a whistle is blown. Apparently, they take this rule very seriously. Being completely ignorant of this rule, I started to walk down to my seat, past the lady who was, I now know, guarding the stairs against people just like me. She actually scrabbled at my jacket, simultaneously grabbing me and nearly pushing me down the cement stairs. After I regained my balance and a little bit of my dignity, I stood off to the side where the security guard kept eyeing me up like I was going to make a break for it and run amok through the stands, blocking everyone's view.

And I must give anyone living in an apartment props for, well, living in an apartment. Everyone was very nice, and I should have felt so much safer because the German Shepard on the floor above us was VERY CONCERNED about every single noise or movement on the street. Concerned enough to try to bring everyone else's attention whatever he saw or heard. Who knew that so many people got up during the night to use the bathroom? Or had to leave so early in the morning? In stilettos?

It was an amazing night, an incredible game, and fabulous to spend time with my daughter. My only question is, how is my husband going to top this?

Another little fact I figured out: I was confused because Sydney Crosby looks so pretty in all his interviews but when he plays he has this wicked overbite, so I was wondering about camera angles when I realized, yeah, he's totally got a mouth guard in.

just duh.

A Quiet Joy

2009-03-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

This week's Spin is titled Creative Writing 101:

A Quiet Joy

A woman stands in the doorway of a log house, a steaming mug of tea in her hand. She surveys the scene as she does every morning, through fresh, happy eyes. The rolling meadows, still hung with mist, and their white plank fences are calming. The stout rough-cut barn evokes visions of dark security, the smell of horses, hay, and leather mingled with manure are forever tied with a sense of belonging, of home. As the woman ticks over her mental list of chores to do and horses to work, the gleam of a copper coat over rippling muscles catches her eye. He pretends to graze but, in truth, is tensed and ready for the excuse that will send him streaking across the field. He will boldly thrust his regal head upward, knowing his beauty and that the woman loves him all the more for it. Watching him, the woman feels the pull to be astride him, to be a partner to his freedom as only she can. She can no more deny herself this joy than could air. At this moment she is at total peace, filled with a quiet joy.

Just like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, only we’re pretty and didn’t paint anything.

2009-03-05T13:31:00.000-08:00

You can't stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes. – Winnie the Pooh

I never had a whole gaggle of friends in high school, or any other time for that matter. In elementary school, it was Scout aka Ronnie, then junior high it was Karen (who fucking abandoned me), and I made it through high school thanks to Yvette and Dawn. Kim was there for a while, but ran away at 16 to get married and have a baby. Good call.

Moving around like I did certainly didn’t help to cement any great friendships, either, so when I started teaching at the school am at now, I had my one close friend (who is amazing and wonderful and I can’t watch Steel Magnolias without her!). I felt so awkward and 17 (at the ripe old age of 39) about the whole damn idea of meeting new people, thinking stupid things like “no one is going to like me as long as my ass is THIS BIG” and “maybe I should just eat lunch in my room.” Ridiculous. But I was amazed that, despite my outrageously large ass, people did seem to like me and were even nice to me. No one beat me up and stole my lunch money. I became friends with the girl who taught across the hall, close enough that she invited me to join her book club.

I was so nervous! I love to read and talk about books (too bad I couldn’t incorporate that into a career), but my social skills were questionable. I teach ninth graders, so I knew all about Ugg boots, ceramic straighteners, and Fergie, but adult conversations – GROUP adult conversations – were not a daily occurrence. I almost didn’t go. That would have been the biggest mistake of my life.

Our book club (JUGS: Just Us Girls) welcomed me in with all the love and warmth of Christmas dinner on a Hallmark or Lifetime show. It wasn’t at all like I had imagined. There was no individual expounding on themes within the text, no shushing, no heated arguments over semantics – we hardly talked about the book at all. There were enough snacks to feed the Russian Army. As the conversations whirled, I learned who was related to who and who was married to, divorced from, living with, or going to jail over whom. This was not limited to the book club members; I’m talking about the whole damn town. It was a bit overwhelming.

We have had some, *ahem,* interesting book club meetings. Like when the book was Sleeping Beauty by Anne Rice and all the snacks were penis-shaped (even the ice cubes). Or when we almost brawled over the elementary school’s abolishment of spelling test – they were horrified and I was thrilled. Things got heated. Then there was the time I made fruit skewers soaked in rum and honey, but we had to postpone for two days, which left my fruit soaking for four days. None of us could drive home and we giggled uncontrollably at the thought of being pulled over and asked, “how much have you had to drink?” and our truthful answer would be “NONE!” I guess you had to be there. And be eating fruit skewers.

As time has passed, I have found myself so intricately connected with all of these women, they have become a part of my life in such an intimate way that I never would have dreamed possible – something I didn’t even know was missing from my life. Each one of these incredible women has a story to tell, a story so rich, that I itch to do it, to do an exposé on my fellow JUGGers! (Right now, as they read this, some of them are shitting kittens at the idea.) We have a connection that has supported some of us through the most difficult of times, like when one of us went to jail, and now when one of us is fighting for her life.

I have yearned to go home to Arizona from the day I left over 18 years ago. Every February I fall into a funk, feeling claustrophobic and extremely homesick sorry for myself and driving everyone around me completely batshit, but if I was given the opportunity to go home tomorrow, I just don't think I could leave these girls.

Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.

2009-02-19T17:18:00.000-08:00

This week’s Spin is all about laughing – something I do all the time. If I didn't, I be in a corner, drooling into my Ensure.

We cannot really love anybody with whom we never laugh.
~Agnes Repplier

Like everything else in my classroom, even the way we do Shakespeare is nontraditional. Each period breaks into five groups, and each group takes an act of Romeo and Juliet, creating a way to teach their section to the rest of the class. They can read their act any way they wish – take parts, popcorn, or silently read. Most groups take parts, since they are required to re-enact at least one scene in their presentation (ohhhh how I wish I could show you these – talk about hilarious!). The group nearest my desk was acting out the parts when one girl started singing. My head popped up, all quizzical. I asked her why she was singing. She replied, with all the snip and snide only a freshman girl can manage, “Uuuuuuhhhhmmm, my part?!?” “There’s no singing in Romeo and Juliet!” I blurted. Again she drew from the well of incredulousness, “Uuuuuuuuhhhhhmmmm, it totally says ‘Chorus.’”

You can't deny laughter; when it comes, it plops down in your favorite chair and stays as long as it wants. ~Stephen King, Hearts in Atlantis

When my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, my dad had the bright idea to take her on a trip to Texas. He ended up in the hospital. Since he couldn’t exactly watch Mom while he was in the hospital (the IV drip REALLY got in the way), she came home and Dad asked me to come home, stay with Mom, and help my sister and brother to find an assisted care living facility. The only catch was I had to find this place completely on the sly – Mom was to have NO IDEA she was about to be institutionalized. Right. No stress here.

But, I did my best, lying through my teeth about where I was going every day. I thought Mom might suspect something because she remarked that she certainly didn’t know that I had SO many friends, but she never seemed upset and she never cornered me, firing accusations and questions that I was NOT about to answer. Oh, wait, that was 11th grade. Apparently, Mom was calling Dad (who she thought was still in the hospital), and giving him a very hard time. This prompted a secret 4-way phone call between my dad, one of my brothers, my sister, and myself. I’m pretty sure the Treaty of Versailles took less finagling to work out than getting us all on the phone without Mom knowing. Dad began by telling us all about Mom’s rough phone calls, and came out and asked us if any of had said anything, since she was specifically accusing him of having a secret plan to put her in an assisted living facility. I know, creepy, since it was true. But I must say the stress, the exhaustion of caring for someone with Alzheimer’s caught up with me and I blurted out, “No Dad, anytime I talk to Mom about it, I always say ‘nuthouse’ or loony bin.’”

There was a pregnant pause. Like a Jon & Kate plus 8 pause.

Then they all started laughing at the same time and my heart started beating again and everything was a little bit okay.

This story sounds awful and funny at the same time. Kinda like it really was.

But now, it isn't, and here's a little proof.

Thanks Katie!

not in a box and not with a fox UPDATED

2009-02-05T17:53:00.000-08:00

Save the ~~cheerleader~~ money, save the world. It’s quite the pressure cooker to feed a family the size of mine on my income and my hours – I am sometimes surprised I don’t poop diamonds. Of course, if I did, it would certainly solve many of my problems, but no doubt at some point some jackass would slit me open. Also take into account the environmental concerns and health concerns, and I start to lose track of how many balls I have in the air.

Jen over at Sprite's Keeper asked to Spin out some frugal advice. So how do I save money? The biggest thing for me is to not buy anything in a box or jar that I can make myself. Like mashed potatoes or spaghetti sauce – I know how to do it and do it well, so why would I buy these things? But I found myself feeling justified in opening a jar of sauce when I’m walking in the door at 6:15 pm and had left at the same time that morning, so I had to make the time to do the prep work the night before and I had to INSIST that my husband do the dishes each and every night. The only exception has been brownies – I just cannot make good brownies! Pasta Fagioli al Forno? No problem! Amaretto Cheesecake? Snap! But my brownies are nasty. Anyone have a good recipe?

I also religiously follow Mir over at Want Not. She has converted me to an Amazon Addict. I have her feeding my RSS habit on my Google homepage - not only does she find me fabulous internet deals, she also has great give-aways and always tells me how pretty I am.

Another big chunk of my shopping philosophy (you know, 20 years ago, if you would have told me the words "shopping philosophy" were going to come out of my mouth, I would have snorted hard enough to make my shot of Yukon blow right out my nose. Seriously.) is that I follow the same doctrine as Pseudonymous High School Teacher – I refuse to shop at Walmart. I will only buy meat from my local butcher (MacDonald’s Meats) and shop locally whenever possible, like buying my spices and such from Grammy’s in Girard, but I am forced to do the majority of my shopping at Giant Eagle. Just last week, my rare stop at the deli counter made me feel so isolated: I asked the girl if they carried pancetta and, as she looked at me with total distain, she said “Ummmm, you have to go to the meat department for, like, internal organs.” *sigh*

Another great way I could save money would be to not buy so many books. But I can’t. Crack ain’t got nothin’ on the crackly sound a brand new book makes when you crease the spine for the first time. To lose myself in the newest murder in Duluth, Minnesota, or the latest house of horrors in Bangor, Maine, or travel through time and know that Clare always waits, or … I could go on and on (take a look at my Shelfari (which only shows a fraction of the books I own) to the left and you'll see what I mean), but to immerse myself in these other stories is something I simply love to do. I ain't givin it up.

Update: While this really isn't a money-saving technique per se, it could be. Giveaways! For example, The Secret is in the Sauce Bedroom Bliss Giveaway. Apparently, the majority of the free world is aware of the fabulous girls, but I just found them (thank you, PHST). Any girl with a leopard blog is a girl I want to know!

I also found ANOTHER giveaway on The Sweet Jelly Bean! But hurry - the contest ends 10 February.

There is also a Shona stone give away on Mozi Esme.

Why the hell it means so much to me.

2009-01-28T16:42:00.000-08:00

My life is not measured by coffee spoons, but if I were to create a timeline, each increment of time would have a song. It's funny how a song can take you right back in time, without even a slight sucking sound. I hear Johnny "Cash Ring of Fire" and I am in the shower singing as a nine-year-old. Three bars of Bananarama and I can FEEL the 9,000 bangles on my left wrist and my eyes water from the cloud of White Rain that followed me like a totally bitchin' version of Pig Pen. "The Star Spangled Banner" took on new meanings that creased so deeply that I still can see the smoke from the Twin Towers when it plays before a game and tear up every single time. So when Jen over at Sprite's Keeper asked about songs in this week's Spin Cycle, I had a hard time narrowing it down. A very hard time.

When I went back to college, I felt like I was meeting an old friend I hadn't seen in ages. I realized that I had stopped being me, I had put aside what I thought I had to in order to be a good mom and wife. Turns out this is exactly the opposite of what is supposed to happen and that made everything all sucky. Apparently. I felt like I was emerging from the cocoon I had allowed myself to be swaddled in and I could finally BREATHE. Suddenly, I could see.

I think about the female teachers I had in school who made a difference in my life. My high school teachers (thank you again, Mrs. Federoff!), my professors like Deb DuBartell, Dr. Snodgrass, and Jerra Jenrette, who amazed me with their intellect and personality and imperfections (before them, I didn't know that it was ok to be imperfect - that simply was not allowed by my mother), but also gave me that paragon to look to when I was becoming the person I wanted to be.

I also hope to be that person for my daughters and for my students - to fill every corner like I was born in black and white; I want the power to see and the power to give and I want to pass that on to every student I have. I want them to find that person they want to be within themselves and have the power and confidence to make that happen.

UPDATE: I heard this song while I was plowing my way to work this morning on a mixed cd I forgot was even in the player, and I love it so much because I wish that I could FORCE every 9th grade girl to listen to it and love themselves for who they are - not loathe themselves for what they fail to see in the mirror.

Friends, Grammar, and Waxing

2009-01-22T16:19:00.000-08:00

This week's Spin Cycle challenge was to rhyme. As an English teacher, I jumped up to do a little happy dance all around the bedroom when I read that, but then my husband started throwing dollar bills at me so I stopped.

I had a hard time deciding exactly which poetry to put in here: something I loved? something I wrote? recent? old? ack! But what made up my fantastical mind was a friend from 8th grade finding me - I'm definitely posting about the past and waxing nostalgic.

My favorite poet is Robert Frost - his imagery casts a spell and I hear his New England accent
tell these stories in that lulling nasal canter.

This one makes me feel at home, now - stopping to wonder and think, and to know that the road before me is long but full of moments of splendor and grace.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

When I was in college, I struggled with grammar. Struggle might be an understatement, since I believed in my heart, to my very core, that every rule and law was a gauntlet whacking me in the face, mocking me to go ahead and break me - you won't. So I wrote poetry to release some of my tensions:

Ode to a Grammatical Urn

With a shape so supple
flowing like a stream
filled with the ashes
of my self esteem.

With hands of great talent
Strunk & White have created
this wondrous vessel
which holds me cremated.

Like the Phoenix from the ashes
their teaching rejuvenates my parts
showing me the path
to grammatical smarts.

Still here? Want another?

Cry grammar, grammar!
Will correctness prevail?
Or are we doomed
to flounder and flail?

Cry grammar, grammar!
Wash us clean
of dangling participles
which I ain't never seen!

Cry grammar, grammar!
Colloquialisms run amok
improper conjunctions and tense
cry what the ... (well, maybe not).
Allusion is to illusion
as allude is to elude
so easily switched
in all the confusion.

Cry grammar, grammar!
My spontaneity, so breezy and light,
can be confused with genius.
I do it all the time - you might!

Ok, I'm sure publishers will be rushing to email me with job offers, begging me for more!

*snort*

Could you tell that while I was taking Grammar I was also talking Classics of the Greek and Roman Empire?

But my favorite is one that I wrote with my older daughters, when they were little, with refrigerator magnets:

I laugh wonderfully loud

I dance when I sing

I dream while I play outside

I fly instead of fall.

Now, back to my day job!

2009-01-20T14:51:00.000-08:00

Ok, I think maybe I'm too busy. Or maybe someone is slipping me drugs but I don't have any fun side affects; they just make me stupid.

Imagine this: My children are playing together - nicely - on the PS2 and they are playing Madden which is perplexing on many levels but still nice. There I am, shredding the beef into the home made salsa that is simmering in the cast iron skillet, wafting through the house, dancing in whorls of airborne flotsam and jetsam from the woodstove. A tab of bacon fat into a smaller cast iron pan, melting to marry the frijoles refritos with the cumin and salsa. mmmmmm.

I walk into my room to pick up a book. Not to sign a treaty or hammer out the cure for cancer, but just to pick up a book. And forget. I open my laptop (?) and start reading about Jenny and Oatmeal and Obama and the Peanut comes hurtling into my room and says all breathy that the house is on fire 'cause there's smoke.

Luckily, no fire, but Lord, do I have a house FULL of smoke, because bacon renderings apparently smoke like the dickens when left unattended. Apparently.

There's no such thing as TMI.

2009-01-10T12:27:00.000-08:00

Sprite's Keeper came up with these fun interview questions:

1. If you could invent an easy fix (just one) for anything in your life, what would it be and how would it change things?

I would invent a Step-Mom’s Magic Eight Ball that would tell me exactly how to handle every step-mothering issue I face. Then, I would not have to worry about overstepping that crazy mom/step mom line that I swear has the contortion of a rattlesnake (and sometimes the venom of one) and I would be able to rest easy, knowing that I have not somehow innocently pissed off my husband’s ex-wife in a glorious fashion that is about to send her into screaming fits of rage. More importantly, I would be able to do exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, so that my stepson would still feel loved after his opportunity for self-improvement. 'OSI' we like to call those.

2. You have been given a large sum of money, $500,000.00. Here's the catch: you can't keep it and you can't donate it. You must buy something with it, but for someone else in your family. Who would you buy for and what would you buy?

I would buy my husband and children land to hunt on and build a barn on, and a whole mess of horses, four-wheelers, and dirt bikes for everyone to ride.

3. You have the opportunity to erase one embarrassing moment from your memory. What would you erase? (Why is optional.)

My freshman year of high school. All of it. I was such an idiot. No, wait, that should be capitalized and bold: IDIOT. If you went to high school with me: I am sorry. If you were my teacher, you deserve merit pay. My parents? They have already extracted their pound of flesh. My only defense is that I did it all without thought – there was no malice. Cyndi Lauper was my HERO and all I wanted to do was have fun. And, um, WOW did I ever!

4. Imagine that you had your dream job. What are you doing? What hours are you working? How much do you think your salary SHOULD be?

I am already – I absolutely love what I do. However, ahem, I do think I should be making about double what I do. I know, taxpayers and all that, but there seems to be a LOT of misconceptions about teachers and the time we spend. Summers off? “BAH!” I say to thee. Let’s not even consider the master’s courses I am required by law to take. Let’s instead focus on the 10-hour days I work, time I work on the weekends, and call it a Break to Bring the House Back from Disgusting and Possibly Dangerous. In the business world, a person spending that kind of time with my credentials would be making a great deal more money. This is me now stepping down from the soapbox...

5. What is the one luxury you can absolutely not live without and why not?

Getting my hair cut, highlighted, and purchasing the products that support the system of vanity. I have a mass of waves and curls in various shades of brown – from red to almost blonde (this was truly my color before 30 and – ugh – gray hairs popping up like wiry flags of age, announcing “HEY! Hot flashes and wicked mood swings are just around the corner!) and I am ashamedly vain about it. Ashamed but recalcitrant. That seems to be a theme that runs through my life in general, come to think of it.

Guilting the Lily

2009-01-04T17:41:00.000-08:00

This week's Spin Cycle is all about guilt. And boy, is it a tough one ...

I am a divorced mom, a stepmom, a working mom. I am a daughter who lives three thousand miles away from my aging father and sick sister. Guilt is as much as a part of my daily life, my daily thought process, as is remembering to take my vitamins and deciding which black pumps to wear with my tweed skirt. It simply is.

My friend has cancer. Four words, mostly single syllable, devastatingly simple, and, while summative, are woefully inadequate. She is more than a friend, she is my daughter's Sensi and friend, my older daughter babysits constantly for her, she is an alter ego - another self - one who knows me as well as I do and someone who is not afraid to tell me when I am being an ass. Which seems to happen way more than I think it should. hmmmmm. She reads like I do, with her mind and heart, and we have had so many interesting discussions about what we have read. Yes, we are even weird enough to read the same books so we can talk about them. I am so lucky to have her in my life.

She was diagnosed a breath away from stage four.

My guilt, the guilt that washes over everything beautiful and leaves a thin translucent coating, is that I know I cannot do enough. I have cooked for her, listened to her. I was there when she had her gorgeous curls cut off (the doctor said this would make the loss of it to chemo easier) and our bookclub made a quilt for her (each of us created a square). But I keep thinking of what I am not doing - even though what I should be doing is a hazy idea I cannot quite pull into focus. I really don't know what else to do, but I should definitely be doing it. Right now. Because if she ... the word is too difficult to write. It makes it to real to write that tiny, terrible word. But if it happens, then I know I will berate myself for not having done that elusive 'more.' I knew a girl who was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago, and it honestly never entered my mind that she would die - for cryin' out loud, we live in America in a time of astounding medical advancements and drive-through Starbucks! Who actually DIES these days?

She did. And I have never forgiven myself for not doing more.

Merrrrrrry 'rishtmash.

2008-12-30T11:25:00.000-08:00

As I walked through the grocery store, shopping for the Christmas Eve dinner at my home, surrounded by my husband's family, I thought about Tradition. Yes, I know it's not a proper noun, but that's how it sounds, how it feels in my head, all capitalized and stoic.

I thought about how families I know have Christmas Traditions, like watching movies together on Christmas Eve, or volunteering as a family at the soup kitchen, or gathering all the aunts and cousins to bake and decorate Christmas cookies. Beautiful things that draw them closer as families and create warm memories.

Our family? Every Christmas Eve, when we gather for dinner and to open presents, I am to, without fail, serve Bloody Marys. So while the shoppers that bustle around me with sprinkles and cranberries, tinsel and bows, I am on my way to buy The Christmas Vodka.

Tradition.

Good Thing I Didn't Have a Dyson When My Mom Died

2008-12-18T17:36:00.000-08:00

Sprite's Keeper has asked for her readers to tell the story behind their blogs, something I never thought I'd be asked to do.

I come from a place where people and events did not move at a hectic pace. The cowboys I knew, my father included, thought before they spoke, working the words around in their mouths like a cool marble or a copper penny, tasting them, testing them, before taking a breath and speaking a small piece of their mind or heart. This slow cadence, with long comfortable pauses between utterances or laughter or a soft swear, was simply how people communicated - I never knew there was any other way.

I met and married a man from 'back east,' who was, at times, annoyed when I told a story or we argued we had because I did not immediately reply if he barked something at me and I breathed between sentences. When I met his family, I felt like I they were speaking Portuguese - I could catch snippets of familiar words but it was such a blur that I felt mildly retarded. When we moved back east, my then-husband actually told me not to tell stories. The way I talked was too irritating to everyone else.

Needless to say, this was hard to take. I felt stupid, angry, and defensive, but I complied.

When I went back to college, I slowly found my voice again, first through writing and then through class discussions, amazed at every turn that y'all even gave me the time of day. The real change came when I had been teaching for a couple of years when it really hit me: I am a story teller at heart. I was missing a part of who I was by not talking. Let me give you an example:

On Halloween two years ago, one of my students asked a question about my mom and I said it was such a coincidence that she asked me that, since my mom died on Halloween. I then said "Funny story about when my mom died..." Right at this moment my teacher's assistant, Megan, walked into the room. She pulled up at the back of the room as I said this, turned to me, and said "YOU are a HORRIBLE person. HORRIBLE. There is NOTHING FUNNY about your mom DYING."

But you were wrong, Megan. WAY wrong. My mom was cremated, and each of us kids got a tiny brass urn with some of her ashes to keep. (As we went to check our luggage for the flight home, security was pretty convinced my urn was a grenade. Fun times.) We had been home for a few days and the urn still sat on the kitchen counter, waiting for me to find it a home in our rented house. The kitchen was carpeted with that flat, non-napped horrible carpet that gave you rug burns if you walked on it without socks, and it was this wretched burnt-orange color. The counter tops matched, making me think, "oh, I have always wondered what the inside of a grilled-cheese sandwich looks like!" I wondered out loud to my husband as to where I should put my urn - it had to be the exact right place. He said "Whatever. Just don't open it - it's really full." And he walked away.

I eyed my urn. How did he know it was full? Really full? Was it full to the top? Overflowing full or just to the brim full? How could he know it was full? Did it have some kind of seal? A cotton ball? Or was it just sloppin' around? So I slid the urn closer to me and gently pried the lid off. It turns out that it was overflowing full, and some of my mom foofed out onto the countertop, my sweatpants, and landed on the carpet. Shit.

I had to vacuum up my mom.

The next year we moved to our own home, where we are now, and as my husband was carrying in a box, he was sure that I had, for whatever reason, obviously filled one side of the box with bricks. He dropped it and immediately opened it to find out what the hell was so ridiculously heavy. I won't repeat the swear words he used (he was a Marine, so they were good!) but it boiled down to him wanting to exactly why I had packed a full vacuum cleaner bag.

"Um," I said. I couldn't throw it away, I explained.

Why the fuck not?

Because some of my mom is in there.

You opened the urn.

Well, you told me NOT to.

This is where he walked away.

One of the best parts of being a teacher is getting to know my students - having them tell me their stories, no matter what medium they use. We become part of each other's lives, and so much of that hinges on the stories we tell each other. When I first started reading blogs, I felt like I was at a hockey game - I could see all the action through the glass, but I wanted to be part of it, part of the relationships and fun and discussion and connection. This is why I write. To listen and tell and be part of something this amazing.

How mittens may have saved my life. seriously.

2008-11-30T16:59:00.000-08:00

In the past few days I have wallowed in my time off. I have lazed around, gluttonously reading blogs, snatching up endless Amazon deals tossed my way like candy at a parade by Mir, and watching episode after episode of CSI on Spike. Every so often my conscious will nag at me, remind me that I DO have to go back to school on Tuesday and I DO need to have that short story lesson plan done, but I push it firmly away and down. Shhhhhh.

Then, in the midst of my lolling about, I read one of Joshlyn Jackson's blogs about being thankful and it really got me to thinking. No small feat in the middle of this me-fest, but still. What am I truly thankful for? (Besides reading Jenny the blogess who makes me laugh so hard I that I can't read it during school. The kids stare when I snort.) I am of course so happy to have a wonderful husband and four healthy and moderately happy children (I can only let them be so happy, after all) and grateful that I am alive and ... but this is happiness. What am I truly thankful for? What in my life makes me a better person? This is the question posed by Joshlyn, the one that sniggled around in my head while I was trying so hard to pay attention to the miniature killer and had she really changed? Finally I have given in to this thinking while I am on vacation, and have decided to write about being thankful.

I am thankful for the awful people or even the normal people who do awful things. Yes, I know that this sounds strange, but it is also true. I don't like it when people are nasty, but I always try to give them the benefit of the doubt (maybe they are having a horrible day, a parent in hospice, trying to deal with infected hemorrhoids). At the very least, I always walk away with a story:

I did not grow up in this snowy, icy, slippery climate, so driving is a bit ... tense ... for me in the winter, but I stiffen my upper lip and just do it. So it bothers me A LOT when I am going the speed limit on a snow-packed road that is all twisty-turny and the person behind me is annoyed that I am ONLY going the speed limit and is completely disregarding how scary it is for me to be doing that. My white knuckles mean NOTHING to him. Or her. So when this person, who maybe was in a hurry because his wife was in labor or maybe had infected hemorrhoids (I'm kinda pulling for the second) passes me as we are on a swoopy downhill turn to the left with NO WAY to see if any cars are coming in the opposite direction, I did get a little angry. Angry enough that I forgot to worry about his anus or his imminent fatherhood. I was so immediately angry that I honked my horn and flipped him off.

I was wearing mittens.

I laughed so hard on the way to school at my ridiculousness that I forgot to be angry and mulling. I am grateful firstly that another car was not in the other lane and we all lived and secondly because I need to let that shit go. People will be thoughtless and rude and downright mean, and when they are I remind myself that I am not. I do not believe in an eye for an eye, an insult for an insult. This has been particularly difficult for me to stick to with only one person. This person is inadvertently part of my life on a daily basis and she. is. horrible. To me. Just me. It is a long and sad story as to why, but it wasn't my fault (really) but she obviously feels differently. And lets me know it every chance she gets. It can be depressing how often she has these opportunities. However, I do not reciprocate. Sometimes I imagine the things I could say to her, how I would slice her with my rapier wit, scathe her with caustic sarcasm, silence her with my Socratic logic. But I don't because it would be mean. And, in a twisted way, as I think about Joshlyn's question, I am thankful that I have her in my life because it is a constant reaffirmation of my commitment to be a nice person. I agree with Tom Hank's character in You've Got Mail: when you say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time, you end up feeling remorse. I can't believe I just admitted to watching that movie and that I quoted it. gah.

I should be more grateful for towels.

2008-11-21T17:11:00.000-08:00

This past weekend I was at a conference - my first time away from home in a LONG time. A friend of mine and I had planned to drive together, so I left work with her so she could pack and I could tuck my little Blazer snug away in her garage. While she was packing, I laid on her couch and watched an entire episode of CSI without talking to anyone, folding anything, or getting up AT ALL. An entire show. I'm still reeling.

We arrive and at check in, I am casually informed that there is no. internet. service. None. It would have been less distressing if they would have said "Sorry for the inconvenience, but we don't have any towels. None at all. You'll have to dry yourself with the shower curtain." That I could handle with grace and dignity, even though I probably would have broken something from the knees down because, as I discovered, even with that adorable little towelbathmattything, the floor is wicked slippery.

AND it gets BETTER. The brochure reads "For cell phone reception, we suggest standing in the middle of the parking lot." I couldn't make that shit up. So imagine me, standing all hunched and shivery, in the sleeting rain, trying to talk to the Peanut who refused to even speak to me because I left in the first place.

At least I know for CERTAIN now that I will never become addicted to heroin - this place had a rehab feel to it and I don't want anymore. Please.

So, even though we did have a wonderful time (we really did), I am glad to be home. And this morning, after I slept in so blissfully late after our Superintendent (who I always KNEW was a genius) canceled school, I awoke to an Ansel Adams landscape right out my back door:

And a deck that looked like it was made of marshmallow.

So we stoked the fire, brewed some tea, and snugged right in with a good book (I read The Book Thief while Taylor chose to reread Droughts and Earthquakes).

Droughts, Drums, and Laura Ingalls

2008-11-10T17:11:00.000-08:00

I love to read. I have from the time I was ... well, truly as long as I can remember, I have always had a book at hand. And in the car. And in the bathroom. From Stephen King to Faulkner, Picoult to Bradbury, Sanford to Steinbeck, I love it all.

At one of our recent book club meetings, instead of choosing a book for all to read (like we normally do), my friend Shannon asked everyone to bring her favorite childhood book. In trying to decide on which book to read, my husband commented that I had an easier time choosing names for the children than I did in picking out my favorite childhood book. But there's Laura Ingalls, I said. So choose that, he said, perplexed. I laughed at his simplicity. But then what about Walter Farley? Anna Sewell and the amazing Black Beauty? The Shark in Charlie's Window?

Please, I chuckled, you cannot be serious in thinking I really must choose only one. Did it have to be MY favorite or could it be a favorite that I read to my girls, like Too Much Noise, or Ming Lo Moves the Mountain, or Leo the Late Bloomer?

I did finally choose to bring The Secret in Miranda's Closet, because it had a huge impact on my life, as big as the others. And I knew Shelly would bring the Little House series.

So I was baffled by the Peanut's library choices this past week. Probably 'baffled' isn't even strong enough. I know that my Peanut does not fit snugly into any stereotype - she marches to her own drummer that sometimes I am pretty sure toured with Pink Floyd or the Refreshments - but even this was unexpected:

Yep, Droughts. A uplifting tale with twists and turns and a sweet heroine. But, just in case this is a tad on the serious side and she needed to lighten it up, she also checked out:

Perhaps she is just a John McPhee in the making. Or perhaps she is ... weird. Either way, I am so happy it makes me wiggle that she loves to read as much as I do. I have to tell her to put the book down when it is time for bed, to leave, to eat, to bathe. It causes me physical pain to have to tell her this.

I am putting out my first question ever, since it appears that people actually read this (w00t!):

What did you love to read? Do love to read?

girls, taffy, and time

2008-11-02T14:17:00.000-08:00

I was reading Is There Any Mommy Out There and she was talking about her surprise at being through the Halloween ritual three times - time had done to her what it does to all of us: lulled and rocked and moved right on. What brought me up short was when I thought, "she's been through this three times and I only have three more left."

My stepson, 11, wanted a costume. Not to trick-or-treat in (he declared he'd rather just hand out candy, which since we have ZERO neighbors, amounts to "I'd rather just play computer games or watch Bear Grills) but to go to a party. With GIRLS. "Gak," I replied, stunning him with my parenting skills. This is a terrifying turn. Not because it isn't expected (I have two older daughters; I KNOW what is coming), but because ... well, let me tell a story to explain.

I had to take him to get a filling done. My first child with a cavity - I reeled when the dentist told me. It was awful - they had to get a paper bag and everything. So we took the afternoon off, just him and I, and went. On the way home, being Mother of the Year, I bought him a big ol' watermelon Laffy Taffy. He couldn't eat it yet, since he still had to keep checking that he even HAD a tongue, so he was turning it over in his hands and noticed the jokes on the back. Being the loving child he is, he read it aloud:

"Hey Rikki, why are football players never cold?"

I ponder this, and give up (see? Mom of the Year, I'm telling you).

"I don't understand the answer."

Me: "What do you mean, buddy? Tell me and we'll figure it out."

"Under flap."

Me: "huh?"

Him: "It says 'under flap.'"

That I have to explain to this wonderful boy that the answer to the joke is under the flap and he is at the stage where he's starting to notice girls, ah, makes me worry a tad.

So I'm going to enjoy the now, the third-from-the-last trick-or-treating.

The best 2/3 day of my life

2008-10-26T18:10:00.000-07:00

As a teacher, I had hopes - high ones - that I would impact the lives of a few of my students. I know that few kids like to read. Ok, this might just win Understatement of the Year, since the majority of my students would rather rake their eyes out with a rusty Garden Claw rather than read Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, so I knew that few of my students would even like me, let alone look to me as a mentor.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

As with so many things in my life, I was wrong. I was wholly unprepared to have them impact my life. It was Christmas time during my first year of teaching, when I was irritable and a little weepy that I could not afford to buy each of my 168 students a gift, that I realized, with a little start, that I loved my students. Even the ones that made it really, really, I mean really difficult to love them, I still did.

This was not supposed to happen.

I was supposed to be the cool, consummate professional, whirling through my day, encouraging learning in many, a love of literature in some. Of course, since I teach English (if I am to follow the example provided my English professors), I would have to whirl dressed as a shepherd with dangling earrings, funky glasses and truly ugly shoes, but still ... I would be whirling. But my students had other ideas. They smiled at me, talked to me, were nice to me even when they were getting bad grades. Good Lord, what else was I going to do?

Four years ago I took on the job of being an adviser for the class who just graduated. We ran a booth at the fair, held fund raisers, decorated and rode floats in parades and threw red and black drink cups to the bystanders (I had to apologize to the one bystander who really wasn't expecting nor even wanting a cup, but one glanced off her head anyways), put on dances, cried together when we lost a student with the face and heart of an angel to cancer, and laughed so hard at least one girl peed her pants at least 900 times. This litany doesn't even come close to telling our story, but when they graduated it was one of the hardest things I have ever done: saying goodbye to all of them. It was different from when my oldest daughter graduated; I knew she'd come home at some point, even if it was just for homemade stuffing and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving (I put sour cream in them). I have no blood ties, no holds to make them come back so I can make them mashed potatoes.

But once again, wrong, thanks for playing.

They have come back. Some by emails, some by stopping by, some by seeing me in odd places, like the fair or the grocery. So when my Teacher's Assistant for three years, the one who babysat the Peanut and was her Kindergarten aid, walked back into my classroom, I died a little. Right there, in front of my third period, I died a little bit from happiness. Then, at our BIG football game against our rival, she comes to the game bringing part two of the TA Trio, which made me so happy I wiggled. Embarrassing, but, sadly true. Since the third member of this reunion of joy was too busy (yeah, babysitting, whatever) to be there, making it only the 2/3 best day of my life, I will post a ridiculous picture of him here:

Mess with the bull's happiness, you'll get the horns. And on this one, I am correct.

kachinas and blogs

2008-10-09T17:19:00.000-07:00

I realized that I had not posted to my blog in over two weeks.

Yikes.

I really enjoy doing this, but it sure doesn't look like it if you count how many entries I have made since I started doing this. I thought about this and how much homework I had due for my online masters' course, and how it looked like some kind of Stephen King monster had crept into our home while I was away at work and tried to eat every toy, marker, bill, and sock that had been neatly tucked away in its proper place but, when this proved to be too much, the monster then vomited all of these items all over my beautiful home. So I took the day off work. So that I could do my homework, clean, and then - only of there was time left - blog my heart out.

It was this idea that led me to cement my belief in God. I have always been on the fence when it comes to organized religion (I loved being a Catholic but going through a divorce kinda cured me of that. When I realized that I could have killed my then-husband and all I would have had to do to be absolved and allowed back into the fold was to state "forgive me Father," but to rectify a divorce takes a year and hundreds of dollars, I had second thoughts.) and have always had a faith that could be stronger when it comes to Supreme Beings, but yesterday, well, much of that vanished.

I started my morning off by dropping the Peanut at school and finishing up my last batches of salsa and applesauce (my oldest daughter remarked that I seemed to be canning a little more than usual, to which I replied "Well, this way when John McCain is elected and six months later we are in the throes of a nuclear winter from the crisis his 'energy plan' has plunged us into, I'll be ready!). I cleaned and did laundry and ate a wonderful lunch while watching the latest episode of Life that I DVR'ed. What a great day! Then I figured I would start on the homework that I took the day off to do. Hmmmmm, the internet is down. So I waited a little bit (well, I waited by taking a nap), and then when my husband came home, he took a look at the airport, but things were still down. So we had dinner, and when he tried to get online, it was still down. After 45 minutes on hold with Windstream, it turned out that the entire server for the state of Pennsylvania was down. Please try again in at least four hours.

So an image of a god like Loki, or one of the trickster Kachinas, came into my mind, one sticking out a tongue in a big fat raspberry, taunting "haHAhaHAhaHAAAAA! NO homeowrk for you! Good thing you took a WHOLE day off! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

And even worse, no blog. The whole reason I stayed home.

Peanuts and Grapes

2008-09-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

Last weekend was such a gorgeous step into Fall - even with the rain. I am finishing up the canning, making Cortland apples into sauce and the house smells all crisp with tendrils of cloves and cinnamon curling into the cool breeze that politely eases through the kitchen window, ruffling the curtains only slightly.

My little peanut wanders into this cornucopia of autumn, searching for red grapes. More grapes, actually, since this would be her second helping.

"Wow," she chirps. "I'm starving."

I am one of those moms. The mom who won't let her kids say "I'm starving." It's just a thing with me and the Nut has always accepted it without question. Until today. So when she says "I'm starving," I respond with the usual:

"Oh, honey, we say 'I'm very hungry,' and not 'I'm starving.'"

"Why?"

"Because they're really children who are starving."

"Like me?"

"No, honey, children who don't have enough food to eat, so they are dying from not having enough food."

"I'M DYING?!?!"

"No, NO, you are NOT DYING. We have plenty of food to eat. You are just very hungry."

"I'm really not dying?"

"No."

"Whew! 'Cause that would be unnecessary!"

I dropped to my knees and gathered her up in a big hug, telling her "I love you, my little peanut," shaking with giggles.

I then buried my head back in the sauce pot and wondered if all seven-year-olds were like this or is it just mine?

fireworks and ice cream

2008-09-24T18:12:00.000-07:00

I am more than a little amazed. In my line of work, kudos are rare; I mean, really, the teacher usually only gets a call when someone is pissed or worried. So when someone says, "hey, you're alright after all" it's the same as fireworks and a cheesecake flurry on a sweet summer night. With no bugs.

And I would like to apologize for taking so long to pay it forward. I have that icky cold with the nasal drip, papers due for my masters' course, and, yeah, the rest. But here they are:

http://ckbykm.blogspot.com/ this is my most awesome friend whose blog I seriously check several times a day. She is a talented photographer whose pictures just capture the essence and joy in every person. I love them.

http://www.strayraisins.com/ Is it creepy to want to be her friend? She has a hilarious, sharp, and real way of writing - the kind of writing I try to get from my students. Well, except for the part about her husband's boobs. Funny from her, but parents would complain.

http://thebloggess.com/ I have laughed so hard reading her stories that I had to change my sweatpants. Who else would have an army of angry Transvestite Lego people that bear a crazy resemblance to Tony Orlando?

http://knaphrodesiac.blogspot.com/ I love reading what is going on in her life because she is like me - I feel like when I leave comments I'm just taking up my end of the conversation.

http://www.joshilynjackson.com/mt/ It's all her fault I started this blogmadness. She was the first I read - I stumbled upon it while I was researching her for my bookclub (yep, English teacher nerd flag, right there). She is an amazing artist and I love that I get a little more of her writing nearly every day. Plus she keeps dangling a "mailing list" and "fabulous prizes" to keep us coming back.

http://betheboy.com/ uh, he has Mystery Science Theater as his banner, which makes me love him without question. I like it that he asks questions of his readers and responds to the answers! He is such a fun, awesome read!

http://theredneckmommy.com/ Her story has touched me, intrigued me, and her humor has kept me coming back. Plus, who knew Canadians could be rednecks?

Those are my favorites, the ones I faithfully read every day. Their stories have inspired me to tell my own and I thank you all for that.

2008-09-16T16:47:00.000-07:00

My classroom was taken over by the uber-geek squad. Seriously, not only were they a computer -installation team of seven, but they even wore matching wind breaker suits. I shit you not. I hadn't even realized that they still even made that material since 1984. Fortunately, one of them looked remarkably like Christian Slater, so I chalked it up as a win.

They bustled in, like a swat-team from Revenge of the Nerds, to install my Polyvision board (which is an interactive white board that hooks up to my laptop and I can do all these crazy educational things. oh, um, wait - who's the geek in this story?). I remained at my desk after greeting them, looking all very teacher-busy on my laptop. The plan was to hang the Polyvision board between my two chalkboards, which was really going along very nicely until I noticed that they were NOT HANGING IT LEVEL TO THE CHALKBOARDS. Anyone with a touch of OCD will completely understand my instant stress. So I ask, "Um, excuse me, but could you, like, hang it so it's the same height as the chalkboards?" The ALL turn to stare at me, the only sound the faint rubbing of nylon. "I don't mean to be a bother," I stammer on, "but, um, well, it leaves like a gap."

There is a long pause. The Christian Slater's stunt-double takes a breath and slowly, since I am obviously a mite on the slow side, "that's so the handicapped children can reach it."

"gegh" is all I can manage. They turn back to their task as I ever so gently put my face upon my desk, remaining prone until I hear the last power drill and extension cord packed away, and the soft rustle of nylon as they softly click the door shut behind their exit.

And I wonder why I have yet to win Teacher of the Year.

It's NOT ok to swear at Christmas?

2008-09-03T18:41:00.000-07:00

Today in class I was lecturing/giving notes - something I rarely do - about Joseph Campbell's
The Hero's Journey. Rather than have them read that book and The Golden Bough, I condense it all into notes and we use those notes for all the novels we read, and in one step the Hero usually has to run away, but I have it written "get the heck out of Dodge."

This reminded me of one Christmas a few years ago when the nut was only three or four. We were at Aunt Sharon's, like we are every Christmas evening, with my husbands ENTIRE family. I was sitting by the Christmas tree, snuggled up with the nut in one of those chair-and-a-halfs, when the now 11-year-old, then 7, decided to join in on the cuddle-fest. The nut hates to share, but tolerated him, it being Christmas and all. Then the older girls, 14 and 16, decided to clamber on. The nut was now pissed. She wormed her way out of the mix, yanked blanky out from under one of her sister's butts, and gave all of us the most silent, darkest glare that I have ever been on the receiving end of. I would have never even thought one so tiny and innocent had such ferocity, such righteous indignation within. Oh, but she dug deep and found it. And then stalked off, her tiny spine ramrod straight.

I laughed and said "she certainly knew when to get the hell out of Dodge."

The middle daughter poked me hard - it hurt - in the ribs and said "MOM DON'T SWEAR IT'S CHRISTMAS! And you're being a terrible role model (yes, this is actually how she talks) - the CHILDREN (looking pointedly at my stepson) will think it's ok to SWEAR TOO!" As I laughed, saying oh no, he wouldn't, don't be silly, the boy of the family slowly stood, turned to face us, and said, "oh yeah?"

He leaned in, our attention riveted, and whispered:

"Dodge."

Bones and magical friends

2008-08-30T17:33:00.000-07:00

The nut and I have the best conversations. The first morning of school, my husband was off work. As we are driving down the driveway, the nut asked,

"Where is Daddy going today?"

"ummm, I think to go buy socks."

"For who?'

"For him."

"Who is Tim?"

I remind her that it's 6:38 in the morning and Momma needs a few minutes to clear out the cobwebs. Especially since I am driving.

I have been fashing over this school year with the nut, worrying about her, especially socially. I staunchly decided to NOT worry about her friends or lack of them - if she is happy alone playing with who she calls her "magical friends,' then I will let it go. I will open my hands and just let it go. I will NOT worry about her feeling all alone, a single leaf adrift on a creek.

But then she threw me a bone. A test bone. I am beginning to think it may have even been a Let's Fuck with Momma Bone.

Driving home on day 2 of 1st grade she nonchalantly throws out:

"I made new friends today."

"You did?" My heart pounds a bit harder but I keep my voice normal.

"Yep. And they're real."

I am not convinced. "What are their names?"

"Megan. I don't remember the others."

There are others. My palms slip a little on the steering wheel.

"They sat with me at lunch and we talked."

"Honey, that sounds awfully nice! What did you play at recess?"

"Chase."

"Did you guys have fun?"

"Oh, I played chase by myself."

Definitely a Let's Fuck with Momma Bone.

2008-08-28T15:19:00.000-07:00

Here we are on our first day back to school. We made it. Taylor is a bit blurry because she was giggling and so excited to go and smashing my face with her noggin!

These are my fabulous shoes that I started my school year off with. I realized as I fashed about over which shoes to wear that God more than likely has not allowed me to win Power Ball simply because sometime not too long after winning, my husband would be heard in three counties demanding "who the FUCK is Jimmy Choo and WHY do YOU keep giving him ALL OUR MONEY?"

THIS is why I teach.

2008-08-26T18:21:00.000-07:00

I am asked, often and with a slightly puzzled expression, "um, and why do you teach?" This picture is why. Yeah, I supposed I touch children's lives and make an impact on the culture
and very future of this glorious country, although I really don't see myself as being that big of a cog in the wheel. But this ... this ... well, let me explain.

A few years ago I looked across my classroom and noticed something askance on one of my posters, the poster for "assonance." Not having my glasses on, I walked over to take a closer look. I saw this:
I started shaking so hard, with my back to the class, staring at this poster, that the boy who did this, the child of one of my very closest and most amazing friends, was a bit worried. Then he realized I was laughing. Laughing so hard I had to sit down and they had to bring me the Kleenex. Without saying a word, I stood up, went and fetched my camera, and took this picture. I also immediately emailed it to his mom.

Some people might see this as disrespectful. A defilement. Rude. I see it as a slice of genius. We hadn't even discussed these poetry terms yet in this kid's class and here he is not only reading it but seeing it differently than anyone else in the room, including me.

This is why I teach. I live for the moments when the light bulb goes on and a student really SEES something, FEELS something, and - most importantly - finds his or her OWN meaning in something, even if I don't agree with it. Hell, especially if I don't agree with it. Learning to think for yourself is WAY more important than knowing how to define assonance.

There's a first time for everything

2008-08-21T10:55:00.000-07:00

Ok, I'm a little nervous since this is my first blog. Well, not my FIRST first, since we blog all the time in my classroom, but that's SO different since they are writing about what they think and feel and all I have to do is respond and encourage.

So.

But when I am thinking about school starting next week, I'm thinking about my daughter who is going into first grade for the second time. It's the best decision for her, but still it haunts me that the kids will make fun of her and then I will be arrested for fist-fighting an eight-year-old. She is a strong, sweet, funny little peanut and I loathe the idea of someone taking that away simply by being unthinkingly cruel. They are, after all, seven and eight years old. So we are being upbeat and positive and arming her will ALL kinds of self-esteem without making her unbearably big-headed (tough to do!). I would LOVE to believe my husband who says she'll be fine and would I just GO TO SLEEP already, but I know just how wonderful or awful kids can be.