Miz S

Home.

So. Here we are. We moved home.

You know what? Let's do this in the contrived form of an imaginary interviewer asking me questions, because it's all so hard to explain, and, God, I'm exhausted at the very thought of writing a blog post.

 

Q. You moved home? Where have you been living if you weren't at home?

A. We moved to my father-in-law's house in Washington DC  in October of 2011, shortly after my mother-in-law passed away from lung cancer.  (Which sucked, fyi.)  My father-in-law is in his nineties and needs a little help.

 

Q. Did you like living in DC?

A. Meh. It was okay. It was only 15 minutes from our house in Maryland, so it's not like it was culture shock or anything.  It was inconvenient that we had to hide our cars all the time because the police gave us tickets for not getting DC plates. It's hard to find a good hiding place for three tons of metal.  On the flip side, we liked being right across from Rock Creek Park.

 

Q. What was it like living with a 90-something-year-old Jewish man?

A. Equal parts hilarious, depressing, and really fucking annoying. We missed our own house so much. And we missed our life. You feel me?

 

Q. So why did you move there in the first place? You must have known it would be hard. Are you and Josh the kind of people who don't think things through?

A. Possibly. And we were reeling from the death of Josh's mother, who was the heart of the family.  My father-in-law's doctor spoke to us and said, "He can't be alone. He'll die. He won't eat. He can't be alone." So we were all, "WAAAAAH! WE'LL MOVE IN! WAAAAH!" 

Is that what you meant by not thinking things through? 

 

Q. Yes, that's what I meant. Hang on a sec. I am perusing your archives.  I just read this entry.

And in that entry, you said, "We are here for the duration. A year? 6 months? 5 years? It doesn't matter."   

But here you are moving out after a measly 20 months! ARE YOU QUITTERS?

A.  Evidently.  Here's the thing: We had no idea it would be so hard. We underestimated the toll it would take on us. We fought a lot. I cried a lot. We both gained weight. I went to work early and stayed late. (Which is nothing new but I think I took it to the next level.)  In short, we were miserable about 50% of the time.

 

Q. Yeah, but don't you feel kind of like an asshole, anyway? 

A. Definitely. Because we thought we could do it.  We wanted to do it. We wanted to be unselfish, good people who take care of their elders.  As it turns out, we are very ordinary people and slightly self-centered. Just like everyone else. It was HAAAAARD. Oh, and did I mention that during this same time period my father died and one of my kids got married? And I changed schools? Hmmm?

 

Q. Oh, I see. You're a big whiner, too.

A.  Shut it.

 

Q. What will your father-in-law do now? 

A. Continue being a stubborn old man. He has known for 3 months that we were moving out on July 1st. Josh and his sister have taken him to visit assisted living communities and had many conversations (high-decibel) about what should happen next. He won't (or can't) make a decision and rejects all sensible alternatives. It's frustrating, as many of you know. We (Josh, his sister, me) will continue to make sure that he eats by having him over for dinner. Josh's sister takes him to doctor appointments. We'll help him as much as we can. But at the end of the day we will be able to go home to our own house.  

This elder care business is hard, y'all.

Okay. That's all I have for right now. But if you need me, I'll be here in my little yellow house, artfully arranging my coffee cups in any damn cabinet I want.   

Solve for x? I got your x for you right here.

Please notice that I always write my answer in pink.

I signed up to take a math class for teachers this summer. It was billed as a class for elementary teachers to review algebra concepts and learn new teaching strategies to take back into the classroom in August. NOT TRUE. LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE. It is a full-on algebra class where we are covering 2 semesters of algebra content in 8 days.

Thank goodness I'm a genius otherwise it might be hard learning a YEAR'S worth of algebra in EIGHT FREAKING DAYS.

I'm kidding. I'm not a genius. Honestly, I'm not even that smart. But I'm SUPAH SEX-AY!

Ha. No.

Let x stand for the number of instructional days in a school year. Let 8 stand for the eight days I have to live through this class. X/8 = 22.  When I solve for x I find that we are covering 22 days of instruction per day of the stupid class.

When do you suppose I last laid eyes on an algebra book? Let x stand for how old I was in 8th grade. Let y stand for my age now. Let's see, y-x = many, many years.

I'm exaggerating just a little. After all, I did take math in college when I was getting my teaching degree and that was only about 15 years ago. But you get my point.

I don't have a math phobia or anything. Math is alright. I'm just not very fast at it. I painstakingly copy down the equation, carefully subtract and divide to isolate some goddamned variable or another, make sure I don't forget to flip that inequality symbol when I divide by a negative number (ha, just learned that yesterday), and always, ALWAYS check my work.

I am the slowest person in the class.  I haaaaaaate being the slowest person in the class.

Dudes, I have to present a lesson on polynomials next week. Polynomials. From the Greek, "poly," meaning "many" and "nomials" meaning "pains in my ass."

Why, God? Why did they lie to me? I thought I would be playing with math manipulatives all week and creating math games for my little first graders. Instead I'm finding the slope and the y-intercept and the absolute value and God only knows what else. And I'm doing it all at a snail's pace. 

Adding insult to injury, when I was looking at my school district's website for lesson plans and such, I found a flipchart created by a teacher and generously uploaded to the website so that we can all use it to review counting and at the same time expose our English language learners to an idiom about counting SHEEPS. AUUUUGHH!!

For the love of God. How will the children learn to speak English properly if the teachers are unclear on the concept?

I feel super defensive when I hear people say that teachers are "dumb," but JESUS, teachers are dumb.  Oh, and check it out. I just found another mistake when I was glaring at the picture. See if you can find it.

I weep for our youth.

Wouldn't it be funny if there were some glaring spelling or grammar error in this post that would cause my myriad* fans to mock me in the comments section?

*SAT vocabulary word, fyi.

Last Saturday.

I had fun with Josh last Saturday.

Side note: We don't get nearly enough time together these days. We just don't.  Basically, on most days we communicate with grunts and text messages. Or we like each other's status on Facebook.

Kidding. We're not Facebook friends.

Wait, maybe we are.

Last Saturday I made a date to go visit the Holly Bible Boy, the small brother of one of my all-time favorite kids.  His family has moved twice in the last couple of years and I lost track of them after the 2nd move, which happened to coincide with the period of time when my father was in and out of the hospital. I just didn't have any energy left over to be looking out for my little buddy, much as I love him and his many siblings. I let it all slide.

A few weeks ago a former co-worker of mine ran into the mom and a couple of the siblings at a school way far away in a different part of my school district. She recognized them, got the mom's cell number, and emailed me with the information.

So, last Saturday Josh and I went out to visit them. Josh didn't really want to go with me--he's scared of little kids, maybe because I have told him too many war stories from work. I don't know. In the end he did come though. We hung out in a park with 3 of the 6 kids. My Holly Bible Boy is 12 now, wears his hair long, and tried very hard to convince us to let him drive our minivan. His older brother is 14 and didn't come because on Saturdays he works as a helper with his uncle in a automotive repair shop. The little sister and one of the little brothers came, though.

The three of them walked a mile or more on a warm, humid morning to meet us at the park.

Christ, I would have picked them up if they had told me.

We sat in the grass and talked and then watched them play for awhile. The little one mentioned a couple of times that he was thirsty and maybe we should drive to the Safeway, casting significant looks at Josh and me and was firmly shushed by his older brother and sister.

These kids kill me.

We took them up to the store to get drinks and then drove them to their home. They are living with their mom in the basement of their grandparents' house. They have bikes, and a safe place to ride them. There are kids to play with up and down the street.

You guys, it's out in the country. Or at least, in a semi-rural-ish part of suburban Montgomery County. There is a tiny farm at the end of the street they live in, and the owner lets them pat the horses. It smells good outside.

It is such a huge improvement in their living situation. From nasty, gang-ridden Langley Park, which eats kids like them up and spits them out, to a modest rambler on a quiet street in Cloverly, Maryland.

I went inside to say hello to the mom who asked me if I could help her find a job. Pretty sure I can't, but I said I would keep my eyes open. Then we watched the kids ride their bikes up and down the street for a few minutes.

When we drove away Josh said, "You know, those kids aren't too bad."

I hope this is the beginning of easier times for my little friends, but we all know that a family living on the edge like that can go under in a heartbeat.

Josh and I spent the rest of the day together. We drove up to Sugarloaf Mountain, ate lunch at a restaurant, hiked half-heartedly (maybe shouldn't have had that wine with lunch), and then went to see The Avengers.

It was a good day.

I Went To Portugal.

So much has happened in the 6 weeks since I last updated.

I went to Portugal on my spring break, for one thing. I feel all apologetic about it for some reason, like I have to explain how it all came about or how it didn't cost that much money (which would be an outright fabrication) or how I'm not one of these people who jets off to Europe all the time.

I AM A COMMONER, LIKE YOU.

A commoner who just happened to spend 8 days in Portugal recently.

Portugal rocks, y'all. Cancel that trip to Disneyland. Go to Portugal. I got a bed and breakfast for you in Lisbon that you will never want to leave. You will fall a little bit in love with tall, beautiful Pilar, the young receptionista. Her boss, Francisco, will sit with you in the morning for coffee and ask you about your family and tell you about his, and how he grew up in an apartment building that contained all his aunts, uncles, and cousins along with his own parents and siblings. And you will want to talk to him all day.

My sister Sarah and I thought we would die from the cuteness of laundry hanging from every window in Portugal. NO ONE in Portugal has their own washer and dryer, y'all.

(Please pause and feel spoiled. I did.)

We saw a lot of...stuff. True confession: I don't give a shit about castles, museums, or statues.

Here is what I liked:

The old men at the cafe tables, each one leaning in to hear the other, nodding and laughing. 

The young waiters and waitresses, fluent in 2 or 3 languages.

The huge and immaculately tended community gardens on the outskirts of Lisbon and in all the small towns.

The couple on the subway with the toddler, cooing and singing songs to her in Portugese.

The tiny little grocery stores tucked into every block, where you could buy absolutely anything you needed.

Sitting at a table on a narrow winding street, drinking sangria.

Good Friday in Évora, where the entire town gathered at the church at around 10pm and lit candles for a somber parade. 

And so much more. I would go back there in a heartbeat.

My sister and her husband. You guys wouldn't even believe how much we walked in Lisbon. The proportion of walking time to sitting around at a cafe table drinking sangria time was totally skewed in the wrong direction. My brother-in-law is a stern taskmaster when it comes to exploring a city.

In the small town of Comporta I was overcome with delight by the storks that were nesting everywhere.

Storks! STORKS!

Josh at the Moorish castle ruins in Sintra. He's the assistant manager of the worrrrrld!

A rather glum-looking lad, playing his accordion. Awfully young to be doing this, in my opinion. His father or grandfather was doing the same thing just down the street so I guess it's a family business?  I gave him some euros and asked politely if I could take his picture, but he just didn't seem too happy about the whole arrangement. There were many people like this in Lisbon, doing some kind of entertainment for tourists.

Ah. Disaffected youth. Gotta love 'em.

We arrived home on Easter Sunday and work started for me on Tuesday. Since then I have been up, down, sideways, and occasionally in a fetal position. But I can say, cautiously, that I think I am feeling a little better, a little less bruised by the events of the past 9 months. A little less fearful of what lies ahead.

Thanks, as always, for your kind comments, emails, and prayers. There are days where they have made all the difference to me.

I Got Some 'Splainin To Do.

I lifted this meme dealio from Facebook. The rules are that you are ONLY allowed to answer Yes or No, and your are NOT ALLOWED to explain ANYTHING unless someone messages you or comments.

But, I'M A REBEL, MAN! Don't try and fence me in! I'll 'splain if I wants to!

Meme rules crack me up, anyway. I mean, come on, y'all.

Alright, here goes.

Kissed any one of your Facebook friends? Yes. My husband and my kids.

Been arrested? Yes.

Kissed someone you didn't like? Yes. His name was Joe Hinton. And my sister made up a rhyme about him: Joe Hinton, always hintin' for nookie nookie, when he should be reading a bookie bookie.

Slept in until 5 PM? No. But I've gone to bed for the evening at 6pm. You remember that I'm delicate?

Fallen asleep at work/school? No.

Held a snake? Yes! I love snakes!

Ran a red light? God, I hope not.

Been suspended from school? No.

Experienced love at first sight? No. But I've experienced being highly interested at first sight.

Totaled your car in an accident? No! Man, I hope this meme doesn't jinx me.

Been fired from a job? Nope.

Fired somebody? Yes. At Enterprise Answering Service. It took 3 of us to do it. We were a'skeered of her.

Sang karaoke? No.

Pointed a gun at someone? No! God!

Done something you told yourself you wouldn't? Yes. Usually involving a second piece of cake. Or third.

Laughed until something you were drinking came out your nose? Yes.

Caught a snowflake on your tongue? Yes.

Kissed in the rain? Probably. Maybe. I mean, I've done my share of kissing. But a specific instance of rainy kissing does not spring to mind.

Had a close brush with death (your own)? Nope.

Seen someone die? Christ! This meme is a downer! No, I have not seen anyone die, unless you count dogs/cats.

Sang in the shower? Yes. Happily. Loudly. Badly.

Smoked a cigarette? Yes. Whole packs, even. But not for many years.

Sat on a rooftop? Yes. And kicked off the moss. And a few of the verses, they got me quite cross.

Taken pictures of yourself naked? Oh come on. Who hasn't?

Smuggled something into another country? Yes. Cuban cigars. Over the Canadian-U.S. border. Josh encouraged me.

Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes? No. That would piss me off.

Broken a bone? Yes. Collarbone in 3rd grade, wrist in 5th grade.

Sleepwalked? No.

Walked a moonlit beach? Yes. You gotta watch out for all those little ghost crabs. I'm petrified of stepping on them.

Rode a motorcycle? Yes. Scary!

Dumped someone? Yes.

Forgotten your anniversary? Never! I get to go out for sushi on my anniversary!

Lied to avoid a ticket? No.

Ridden on a helicopter? No. Helicopters are dangerous!

Shaved your head? No.

Blacked out from drinking? No.

Played a prank on someone? Yes.

Hit a home run? Hahahahahahaha. Excuse me while I wipe tears of mirth from my eyes. No.

Felt like killing someone? Only in a hyperbolic sense. Not in a "filled with murderous rage" sense.

Cross-dressed? No.

Been falling-down drunk? Yes. I don't recommend it.

Made your girlfriend/boyfriend cry? Yes. Aw. I still feel bad.

Eaten snake?  Ew. No.

Marched/Protested? Yes.

Had Mexican jumping beans for pets? What kind of a lame-ass question is that?

Puked on amusement ride? No, because I don't GO on amusement park rides because I might PUKE on amusement park rides.

Seriously & intentionally boycotted something? Yes, for maybe a week until I got distracted. So I guess that doesn't fall into the "seriously" category.

Been in a band? Negatori.

Knitted? Yes, but only easy stuff like scarves.

Been on TV? Nope.

Shot a gun? Yes. Target practice. But not for a long time.

Skinny-dipped? That's a big 10-4.

Gave someone stitches? No, but I am an avid fan of the Discovery Health channel and I am certain that I could stitch a wound, deliver a baby, and possibly do an emergency tracheotomy.(I just googled that last one to review the procedure and make sure that I am still "qualified.")

Had stitches yourself (not from surgery)? Yes. Nothing serious.

Eaten a whole habanero pepper? Nah.

Ridden a surfboard? No.

Drank straight from a liquor bottle? I think so. Back in the day.

Had surgery? Yes. Y'all remember the summer of 2007, don'tcha?

Streaked? ZOMG yes, on the grounds of the National Cathedral when I was 16 or 17.

Taken by ambulance to hospital? Nay.

Tripped on mushrooms? Alright, enough with the prying into my carefree youth.

Passed out when not drinking? Yes, from heat, on more than one occasion. How often do I have to explain that I am delicate and need to be pampered?

Peed on a bush? No, because my anatomy is not conducive to that sort of activity.

Donated Blood? Yup.

Grabbed electric fence? No. Do people DO that?

Eaten alligator meat? Ew. No.

Eaten cheesecake? Yeah, but I don't really like it that much.

Eaten your kids' Halloween candy? Hell, yes. Why else do we have kids?

Killed an animal when not hunting? Yes. Just this morning I ran over a chipmunk, the poor little thing.

Peed your pants in public? Yes. First grade. Sister Ronald Mary's class.

Snuck into a movie without paying? No. I am rather strait-laced in that regard.

Written graffiti? Yes.

Still love someone you shouldn't? What, you mean like a married man or something? Oh hell no.

Sleep on a certain side of the bed? Yes, but as far as a last question goes, this one seems sort of anti-climactic.

A Challenge! Pistols At Dawn!

Wow. I really couldn't ever make a living as a model, could I? I wanted so much to have a gorgeous picture of me in my new coat but I just look, I don't know, stiff and uncomfortable. The coat is purty, though, isn't it? It's from Ann Taylor. I love it so much I want to marry it.

So, my beautiful birthday weekend is almost over. I was feted from one end of town to the other. Now it's back to life as a regular person instead of as a birthday celebrity. I'll miss all the wine and the attention and the excuse to buy new clothes. Hold me, please.

I think I forgot to tell you guys that I poured a glass of wine onto my beloved laptop the other night and it made little squealing noises and now it doesn't work anymore. Josh says it is just the keyboard and that it is totally fixable, but in the meantime I have to use Evangeline's behemoth laptop. It's on my lap right now and I think it's breaking my legs.

Hey, guess what? I have a new way to waste time on the Internet. Do you guys know that game Scramble on Facebook?  I HATE IT.

HATE. IT.

Yet, I can't stop playing. It reminds me of the great Snood debacle way back in the summer of '07. Remember? Josh and I almost got divorced? Oh, I exaggerate a little.

Anyway, Scramble. You have a little 4 x 4 box of letters and 3 minutes to make as many words as you can. The letters have to be touching each other, and they can go in any direction.

I suck so bad at this game. I make little whimpering noises while I play. I NEED MORE TIME. WHY DO THEY ONLY GIVE ME 3 MINUTES?

Anyway, I hereby challenge all of you to play me on Facebook. You will enjoy it because you will always win.

Cards and Emails and Phone Calls are Pouring In From ALL OVER THE WORLD!!

God is so nice! He gave me an ice storm for my birthday! The kind of ice storm where it's enough to cancel school but not so much that I will have to stay home all day. So, I slept in late and lounged around all morning with the cats and dogs, and now I am going to shower and dress and go out shopping to buy myself a birthday present.

Josh has been suffering agonies because I wouldn't commit to a special gift. In the end, I have decided to pass on the tooth whitening for right now and instead buy myself a really nice spring trench coat. And maybe some knee-high boots. That's all I need.  Well, I don't know. Perhaps I might throw in a couple of new tops and some pants. And a sweater or two. But that's it, definitely. Unless I see some great stuff on sale.

I thought that  I would do some sort of introspective post today about my thoughts on turning 50, some sort of evaluation of myself, a little goal-setting, etc. But, meh.  I don't have anything particularly interesting to say. I'm 50, and honestly it's nothing to have a cow about.

Plus, I got all this shopping to do.   

Okay. Carry on. I'm off to spray my money hose all over the mall. 

The Usual Suspects.

On Wednesday evening, shortly after I took a mess of Advil and checked my temperature many many times in a row and procured a sub for Thursday, I came to my senses and realized that yes, the fate of the free world does in fact rest upon my shoulders. So I canceled the sub and showed up at work with a red Mylar balloon, juice boxes, and valentines for the kiddies. My classroom aide brought cupcakes, so a Valentine's Day party of sorts was organized despite the fact that I hadn't really been at work all week. (We don't need no stinkin' room parents here at Some School.)

Ordinarily I would have bemoaned the fact that there weren't cute heart-shaped plates and matching napkins. But you know what? The kids didn't give a shit that we were using paper towels from the dispenser by the sink. They milled around passing out Valentines and laughing and eating Hershey's Kisses while I cursed myself for not bringing the camera. Good God, first-graders are cute when they are not driving you batshit crazy.

And it was good to be back at work and see my friends whom I adore.

Oh, except for this: 

You know how I have that hair-trigger guilt complex, right?  Everything is my fault because I have an inflated sense of responsibility and grandiose notions of my place in the big scheme of things? Elderly relatives are lonely--totally my fault for not visiting. Children at school have crappy parents--I need to work harder to make it up to them. Situation in Darfur--somehow my fault but I haven't connected the dots yet.

Anyway, a colleague of mine--no, not just a colleague A TEAM-MATE--turned 50 today and no one noticed or said Happy Birthday to her. And she came into my classroom while I was being productive after school and dragged me up to her computer to show me the Ecard that her sister had sent her, which was when I realized it was her 50th birthday. She's a single mom and she's always depressed or having a crisis or saying things that make me want to bang my head against the wall. MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON MY SOUL FOR BEING SO INTOLERANT but Jesus, she's annoying as all get-out.

And yet, I feel terrible that I forgot her birthday.  I mean, everyone forgot her birthday, not just me, but I feel like I bear extra responsibility.  I should have protected her from this trigger for depression!

I should go to my therapist and get my damn money back.

Lazy Trumps Tipsy.

Sasha came home for Grandma's birthday. All the animals were ecstatic because Sasha is their girl, but I only caught this one picture of Rosie kissing her.

Thank you all for defending me so fiercely in my comments. You made me laugh a lot and feel like a princess. Hoo-boy! The reading specialist better watch herself. Apparently there's a big can of whup-ass with her name on it, and little blackbird (among others) is just itching to open it up. You guys are sweet.

So, I believe I mentioned the other day that I am having a milestone birthday soon. (I will be 600 months old. I will be 40-10. I will celebrate the 10th anniversary of my 40th birthday. Ha! So many euphemisms! So funny! Not.) Josh is having a lot of anxiety about it because he doesn't want to be accused of being a slacker-husband by his friends. He keeps asking me what I want and what we should do to mark the occasion. He knows better than to pull one of those surprise party moves on me. I don't "surprise" well.

I've been hemming and hawing and saying, "I don't know, a party is an awful lot of work. Let's just go out for dinner with friends. And I'll buy myself some new clothes."

So we were drinking a little sake the night he got back from NYC and I was NOT DRUNK but I was definitely silly and tipsy. Josh said, "You know, it wouldn't be a big deal, we could do a party here. Let's just make some phone calls and make it happen." 

And I said, "Wooo! Yes! A party! I love parties!" Then I twittered about it.

But after attending my mother-in-law's 80th birthday last night, hosted by my incomparable sister-in-law and her husband, I'm thinking that it looks like way, way too much work. The interior of our house needs painting desperately, the front yard has the winter blahs, and the bathrooms are about to be remodeled any day now and no doubt would be all torn up just in time for the party. I realize that we could have a party without painting the house first, but, I don't know. We would definitely have to do some major cleaning.

So. Meh. I don't feel like it.

As for what I want for my birthday? I'm a little embarrassed to tell you guys this because I worry that it's shallow and vain, but I would really like to get my teeth professionally whitened. I figure I've got another 30 years, easy, of red wine and coffee ahead of me.

Have any of you ever had it done? Got any info that I need? Does it really work? I want me some WHITE-ASS teeth.

I Miss You, Baby. Really, I Do.

Josh is out of town for 3 days and 3 nights. It's rough, but I'm hanging in there as best I can. Eating soup for dinner. Leaving the dishes until the morning. Watching whatever I want on TV. Sleeping with all the cats and dogs on the bed with me. It's brutal.

Meanwhile, he's in New York City with his boss/best friend eating at the finest restaurants in town so I'm sure he's suffering too.

Hey, guess what? Tomorrow's Ash Wednesday and I'm going to go to Mass and get me some of them ashes smeared on my face.  If I'm lucky there will be incense and organ music.  POMP. I  want PAPIST POMP, people.

Yup, I'm still dabbling with my Catholic roots. Do not tell my mother because it would make her so happy and I refuse to give her that kind of satisfaction because I am immature as all get-out.

I wonder what Sasha and Evangeline will refuse to tell me because it will give me too much satisfaction. These mother-daughter rituals are heart-warming, aren't they?

Speaking of Evangeline, it looks like we will not be going to Russia to visit her. Our plan was to go over there during my spring break in March, but she emailed us and said that she thinks she will be too involved in her classes to be able to spend a lot of time with us, plus she will be on a trip to St Petersburg during the latter part of that week. It kind of sounds like she's blowing us off, doesn't it? But she swears she isn't.

To be perfectly honest this is not a crushing blow for a variety of reasons such as expense, weather, and language barrier. We're thinking of having us a little sunshine-y vacation in the good old USA instead, for a hell of a lot less money. Evangeline is very independent and likes to immerse herself totally in whatever it is that she is pursuing. If she is comfortable being that far from home for 4 months, I say RAWK ON, HONEY. Except she would disapprove of the blatant use of age-inappropriate slang.

Okay. I'm going to go dirty a few more dishes and leave them strewn about the kitchen, then it's off to bed to sleep in a diagonal position with furry creatures fore and aft.

Midnight

Sunrise on the way to work the other morning.

I would normally be getting my beauty rest at this hour but I came home from work today with a sore throat and a headache, so I lay down for a delicious two hour nap. I am now paying the price. I did try to go to bed at 10:30 and lie there squinching my eyes shut but that never really works, does it? I tried to get conversational with Josh in bed but he suggested that I should rest my voice. I have relocated to the living room couch for a little quality time with the cats and my laptop to see if I can get sleepy.

Our Christmas tree is up and decorated, but it looks a little odd. Sasha had to remove all the ornaments from the bottom third of the tree because Nash keeps batting them off and then playing soccer with them.  He's a cute bad kitty.

I am feeling rather friendly and holiday-ish, despite the pending viral infection. I wrapped a few presents tonight and wrote out a bunch of Christmas cards for friends at work. I hate the whole gift exchange concept at work. I never know who I should get stuff for and it's all very awkward. So I usually just don't get anything for anyone. I am hoping that heartfelt holiday messages will be enough.

Maybe tomorrow I will have time to clean up here at the house. One of my complaints about Christmas is the disruption of routine and order. As I survey my living room, I feel a little hemmed in by the flotsam and jetsam. There are boxes of Christmas ornaments that haven't been put away yet, stacks of extra strings of lights that were purchased but are just sitting on the counter, rolls of wrapping paper, extra extension cords, tape, yardsticks, giftboxes, etc. Everything is all discombobulated.

So, yeah, tomorrow is the cleaning up day.

I'm not doing all that baking and crafty stuff that some of you seem to enjoy. I mean, it looks fun and all, and I used to do stuff like that when my kids were little and I didn't have a stupid full-time job, but now it's all I can manage to make dinner and do a load of laundry. So, no loaves of cranberry bread for the neighbors. No little felt animals or strings of popcorn or gingerbread cookies.

Tomorrow at work I will finish up my reading assessments. I will have lunch with the small brother and some other boys from my class last year. I will go see Amanda after work to bring her a present. I will clean up my living room. On Friday I might make gingerbread houses with my class. I said I might. Only if they do not get on my nerves tomorrow. And the chance that they will not get on my delicate nerves tomorrow is slim to non-existent, based on the way that they behaved yesterday and today. They are just a tad over-excited about Christmas.

Me? I'm surprisingly calm, cool, and collected.

It's A Christmas MIRACLE!!!

Us love Jebus. Us want to go to church. There are foodz there?

I went to church this morning at 7:30am. Some of you are rolling your eyes and saying "What the fuck?" and some of you are nodding your heads and saying, "She's finally seen the light! Praise the Lord!"

I can't help it. I'm a born-and-bred Catholic and I yearn for churchly goodness at this time of year despite my preference for lazing around on Sunday morning. When I go to church, I find it half embarrassing and weird and half fulfilling. Don't ask me to explain. I got nothing for you.

Anyway, I told Josh last night that I was going to 7:30am Mass and he said, "Do you want me to go with you?"

And I said, "GOD. NO."

Josh likes Mass way too much, in my opinion. I mean, you know, for a Jewish boy. He sings the songs so heartily that it almost seems like he's being sarcastic, but he's not. He just LIKES to sing hymns.  He also says all the responses and kneels and stands and sticks his fingers in the holy water and, and, IT'S JUST WRONG.

Anyway, I set my alarm for the crack of dawn and somehow found the strength to follow through and get up. I drove to the church in Georgetown that I used to go to with my kids sometimes. I like it because it's a Jesuit church and the Jesuits are all radical and shit. I fumbled my way through Mass because it's been, oh, about a year or so since I last went. And I embarrassed myself during the Handshake of Peace because I think I shook too many people's hands. It was awkward.

But THIS was my favorite part: there was a man there with an amiable-looking yellow lab that was wearing a blue service dog vest. Dude. Once I saw that lab sleeping peacefully on the floor by the pew I just couldn't focus on godly matters.  And when the man went up for communion the dog went up, too! It was so cute!!

Now, this man did not appear in any way to be handicapped, but I totally understand that he may have a condition that is not obvious. That's not my point. My point is, I want to put service dog vests on my dogs so I can take them everywhere. If I could take my dogs to church I would totally go every week, I swear. The only problem is that my dogs are just not that well-trained and everybody would know that they weren't really service dogs. Rosie would be jumping up on random people's laps to get attention and April would be freaked out by the organ or something.

Anyways.

Church was fun. I might even do it again next week.

Now go forth and sin no more, you damn heathens.

You Can Call Me MISS Miz S From Now On.

I have wanted to visit Angie's farm for over 2 years, ever since I first read her blog. Here is a short list of things that Angie knows how to do: design blog templates, sew clothes, refinish wood, repair furniture, paint rooms, garden, can her own vegetables, cook anything, wire a barn for electricity, raise chickens, and God only knows what else.

The woman made her own wedding cake. Who the hell makes their own wedding cake??

I am fascinated by people with such a wealth of practical skills.

So, I ventured into Ol' Virginny on Friday, so I could visit Miss Angie on her farm. Normally I like to boycott Virginia because it pisses me off.  It is a measure of my affection for Angie that I made the journey.

I had so much fun. I got to meet the whole family, even Steve, who took the week off from work to get ready for the goats. Angie charmed me by referring to me as "Miss Mary" in front of the children.  Colby (age 20) is sweet and polite and kissed her momma goodbye and said "I love you" when she left for work. Gracie (age 9) is as sassy as could be and revealed family secrets to me, including that after the family eats Mexican food, the children close their doors at night because Daddy emits noxious -- oh never mind I won't finish that anecdote. J. (Steve's daughter from his first marriage) is 12, and looks exactly like her dad, right down to the shy, quiet smile. Little Steven is 17 months old, and might be the cutest little boy on God's green earth.

Angie spent the entire morning cooking me a home-grown meal. Almost everything on the table came from their garden. Vegetarian lasagna (with zucchini), garden salad, red and yellow tomatoes with mozzarella cheese and fresh basil, and homemade tapenade as a starter.

And it was all gooooooood. I ate myself silly.

After lunch, we toured the barns and the meadows to see the goats, chickens, and ducks. You should see that damn chicken barn. It smells better than most people's houses. Those chickens are living the life of Riley, I'll tell you what. The best chicken feed, augmented with expensive sunflower seeds and kitchen scraps, pristine water dispensers, a radio playing music, and an electric fan in the afternoon when it gets hot. That's a sweet life for chickens.

The goats, which were delivered by my brother on Thursday, seem to be adjusting to their new home just fine. (When I asked my brother if it seemed like the goats would be happy on Angie's farm, he said, "If they can't be happy there, they can't be happy anywhere.")

All too soon, it was time for me to face traffic on I-95 again. Which sucked, if you must know.

Anyway, it was a lot of fun to meet the person behind the blog. Angie is really nice and funny and easy to talk to. The only thing I can't figure out is how she ever has a minute to sit down and write a post because DAMN, running a farm, even a little one, requires a lot of work.

Angie's Secrets

Angie had two secrets, really. The first one was that my brother and my niece drove from Pennsylvania to Virginia yesterday hauling an open trailer with 6 goats, so as to deliver said goats to their new goat momma, Angie.  The thought of some horrible goat/car accident had me fretting all day yesterday, but the pictures up at Angie's place prove that they arrived safely.

Angie's other secret is that we planned our own little Blogher convention for today. Just the two of us. Oh, and her daughters and her son and the goats, chickens, and other assorted animals. Yep. I am driving to her farm in a couple of hours. Angie will be chairing the What Do Farm Wimmins Serve For Lunch breakout session. I will be leading a panel discussion on Does Angie Take Special Vitamin Pills?  (For those of you who don't read Angie's blog, she is famous for having an inordinate amount of energy and doing stuff like wiring the barn for electricity before lunchtime, then making a quilt before dinnertime. I exaggerate only slightly.)

Anyway, I am excited about meeting her. Angie was one of the first people outside my family to read my blog.  (Leah was the very first one. Do you know Leah? She is so awesome. Back then I referred to her as The Mysterious L from Chicago.) Angie and I wanted to get together last summer, but somehow the time got away from us. Angie is this funny, paradoxical combination of old-fashioned, conservative, Southern farm girl and modern, tech-savvy, I-met-my-husband-on-the-internet woman. I am dying to see her little farm and meet her kids and hear her Georgia drawl.

If I am going to arrive on time, I had better get started with dog-walking and other little chores. Shit, Angie has probably canned 40 quarts of beans while I sat here typing this.

I don't have any other special plans for the weekend, other than bonding with Josh while doing yard work or perhaps cleaning out the basement. We know how to have fun around here. What about you? Are you hanging out this weekend or going away or what?

What's Really Scary Is The Way I Look In The Motorcycle Helmet.

I think of myself as being a big ol' mess of neuroses and a gigantic scaredy-cat, but when I take the time to ponder it I'm not really that bad. (Yes, I have time to sit around and muse about this. I'm all about self-awareness, people. Do not mock me.)

Here is a short list of things that I am not at all scared of:

• driving on highways, even unfamiliar ones, in any weather or traffic conditions. Have minivan, will travel. Stay the fuck out of my way.
• animals, including snakes and spiders. I am respectful, but not scared.
• vomit, animal crap, blood, or bodily fluids in general. I deal with these on a regular basis and they provoke little reaction in me besides "Oh for Christ's sake".
• shots, blood draws, most medical/dental procedures. Let's just hurry up and get it over with, OK?
• flying in airplanes. I make nervous jokes sometimes, but I'm not scared. Really, I'm not.
• a bunch of other stuff, including driving with Josh, who likes to take his hands off the steering wheel so that he can gesture while talking.

I'm scared of big things like something bad happening to my kids, but I recognize what I have control over and what I don't.

What I am mostly scared of is getting hurt through my own klutziness. I have always been scared to play sports like volleyball or soccer because OW, THAT HURTS, DON'T KICK ME, OH NO THE BALL IS COMING MY WAY. I ride a bike but I am really afraid of falling and getting hurt. I brake on the way down hills. If I am hiking and have to deal with big rocks or steep slopes or slippery logs, I make little whimpery noises and clutch at Josh and just generally feel like a timid person.

Oh, and power tools scare me. And gas grills when they make those POOF noises. And heights, but duh you could fall.

I am scared of Josh's scooter. It combines all of the danger elements: going fast, balancing, machinery, possibility of falling, and possibility of being an idiot and accidentally accelerating  when I meant to brake. But, I also love the scooter because of the obvious cool sexiness and freedom. I picture myself as one of the women I saw in Italy, wearing high heels and a skirt and an artfully arranged silk scarf, scooting around town.

Despite all of this OBVIOUS DANGER, not to mention the reality of the way I look in a motorcycle helmet, I learned how to ride the scooter yesterday. I rode on the back of the scooter up to a parking lot near our house. I kept saying to Josh, "DON'T GO SO FAST."  When we got there, he showed me a couple of things, and then gave me a lot of gentle encouragement. I was absolutely terrified. It took me a really long time to be able to accelerate enough to put my feet up on the little foot-thingies. I was sure that as soon as I lifted my feet off the ground I would just tip over. Little by little, I managed to master the most basic straight-line scooter driving. Then we went to a long, straight, quiet street in our neighborhood with a gentle curve at the end that puts you on to another long, straight, quiet street. I practiced there for awhile, and managed to break the 18mph mark.

And then? It all just clicked. I started scooting all over the neighborhood. Josh walked back to the house, and I scooted even farther afield. I went out on a biggish road with traffic. (That was by accident. I got on a street that went down to the main street, and I couldn't figure out how to turn around, so I just had to go on the big road. I actually shrugged my shoulders and yelled, "COWABUNGA" as I made the left turn.) I gave that cool little finger wave to a guy on a motorcycle. (He ignored me.) I went over speed bumps. I accelerated to 32 mph. I tried to remember to sit up straight and not be all hunched over looking petrified.

And you know what? It was really fun. I feel proud of myself, and sort of liberated, for learning how to do something that I was so scared of.

I urge you to do the same.

It's All Muscle.

I feel that I have given too much of a lead up to this new haircut which may engender disappointment when you actually see it. Anyway, here it is. My kids said it looked good, and Josh said I AM MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN EVER. So, there you go.  It's got a lot of layers, and it's shorter in the back. Also, I think my upper arm looks abnormally large there but I assure you, it's all muscle, and I could kick someone's ass if I wanted to but I'm not saying whose. Ass, that is.

Don't worry, my mood is once again beatific. My brain, she is mercurial. Go ahead, bang on the shower door. I will only smile enigmatically and warble something noncommittal. 

Hey, guess what? I went swimming in the ocean yesterday. This is news, because I generally demand that conditions be absolutely perfect before I venture in the roiling surf.  Conditions were decidedly imperfect yesterday--chilly wind and freezing ocean. 65 degree water, y'all. Too damn cold. But I went in anyway, just galloped in like it was nothing at all. It was quite pleasant and invigorating, what with the frozen extremities and all. After awhile I felt sleepy and was hallucinating so I decided to get out and go take a nice, long, warm shower and use up all the hot water.

See you in a day or two, unless I drown.

Full of Beachly Goodness.

Oh the agony of being at the beach with only dial-up internet and no way to post AN ADORABLE picture of Rosie and ME with my new cute haircut. I'm all about the self-esteem this week.

I miss you, my internet lovelies, but I am having fun with Josh, Sasha, Evangeline, Sasha's boyfriend Paul, and my in-laws, niece, nephew, etc.

Rosie and April stayed home with my friend Cindy.

I am able to check my email now and then, so if you care about me AT ALL, you will leave a comment or just send me an email.

If I can find a damn wireless cafe around here, I will do a real post.

okayloveyoubye.

Mother's Little Helper.

When I was in Italy I never smelled Betadine.

The cystoscopy was unpleasant but blessedly brief. Afterwards the doctor was all "Blah blah blah prolapse blah blah blah complications blah blah blah surgery blah blah damn, girl, your thing is all fucked up blah blah blah."

Then I got dressed and went to work. Oh, I looked quite gorgeous.  I dressed up for the doctor. A skirt, and high-ish heels, and a pretty blouse. Then, the rest of the day at work, when the breeze was just right, I would catch a little whiff of Betadine. Nice, huh?

Speaking of work, I am having a little bit of a nervous breakdown. There are only 23 days left, and there's a lot to do, but that's not the part that's bothering me. What's bothering me is much more complicated to explain, and honestly I think you have to be a teacher to understand. It's a great big package of regrets and frustrations and small disappointments. I am not yet the teacher that I want to be. Part of what gets in my way just comes with the territory--too many directives from above, too much testing, never enough time.  And part of it is just me and my tendency to lay down and play dead when I get overwhelmed.

Moving on.

I am in a little bubble of peaceful time right now. In about an hour I have to go to my parents' house because I had a bright idea that for Mother's Day my siblings and I should all get together and clean out her screen porch. This came about because a couple of weeks ago I went over to visit my parents, and my mother said brightly, "Let's sit out on the porch!". She shuffled out there, brushed a cloud of cat hair off the sad, faded wicker rocker, and I gingerly perched on the edge of a filthy seat cushion, my feet dangerously close to a small puddle of CAT PISS on the ancient straw floor covering that she bought 30 years ago at Pier 1, while my  dearly befuddled mother chattered on about how she really needed to get out here and give it a good sweeping. So, my sisters, my brother, and I (and Josh, and Sasha) are converging on the porch today to scrub, paint, etc.  This is the kind of project  that Evangeline would be very unenthusiastic about, so it's a good thing that she is still at her small pretentious college in the Midwest.

Now, my parents could easily afford to pay someone to do this. But they never would. Not because they are cheap, just because, I don't know, it doesn't seem that bad to them, I guess.  Anyway, my mother and father will enjoy all the busy activity and the sibling banter.

Tonight, it's a 21st birthday party for Paul (Sasha's boyfriend) at his parents' house. Tomorrow: more Mother's Day stuff, including a cookout over here.  Somewhere in there we have to find time for lawn mowing, grocery shopping, and house cleaning. Oh, and I have to do some teacher work. I'll probably get fussy.