The K really IS special

Let me start by saying, and this is mainly for the benefit of those who know me personally, that I am not going to complain about the size of my butt or my weight in this post because I know realistically that I really don't have a problem in that area. No eye rolling or tongue clicking from you, and I don't even want to hear the words "you have nothing to complain about" come out of your mouths! That being said, I ate a lot of chocolate Sweet 16 doughnuts and "rested" a lot after my miscarriage in July, and for someone who is normally quite active, the rest period was not good for me OR my wardrobe. When school started and I had to start thinking about dressing like a normal person again, I spent some time in my closet reacquainting myself with clothes I forgot I owned. I reorganized. I pulled some things for Goodwill that haven't been worn since the Republicans seized control--oops, I mean, took office. Then I started trying things on, and that's when the trouble began.

I invested some** of last year's ABC bonus money* in new clothes for work--nice dress pants, shirts, even some skirts, and I wore those clothes happily all fall, winter and spring. But in August when I pulled those same clothes from their hangers I encountered a horrible truth: the pants no longer fit me. The shirts were fine, the skirts were fine, but the pants were...tighter than I typically wear pants. I could button them, but they were uncomfortable, and I felt as if the fabric in the rear area of the pants was stretched across my ass like a canvas waiting to be painted. I panicked, and here's why: while the size issue bothers me a little, my world wouldn't crumble if I had to go up one size--but my bank account would. I absolutely cannot afford to buy new pants, get pregnant, and then buy even MORE new pants. I had prepared myself for the maternity wardrobe expenditure, but I knew there could be no in between purchases. I was going to have to stop wearing pants completely, or I was going to have to find a way to wear the ones I have.

Enter Special K. You've seen the commercial: replace two meals a day with Special K and you'll lose one jeans size in two weeks. This plan as it is written would not work for me because I can't do milk early in the morning (ew) so that leaves me lunch and dinner, and no way am I eating cereal for dinner every night. Besides, I don't really want to lose a whole size; my problem seems to be around a half of a size. So I put myself on the modified Special K plan: a Zone protein bar for breakfast (which is what I was eating for breakfast in the first place); Special K for lunch; a banana, some yogurt and a V8 spread out in between; and something reasonably healthy for dinner. I started this last Thursday, and as a sidenote let me give a shout out to Special K "Red Berries" and Special K "Fruit and Yogurt" cereals--delicious! Yesterday morning, one week later, I tried on a pair of the tight pants...and they aren't tight anymore! They're not as loose as they once were, but I would wear them in public now and not worry that my ass was going to pull some sort of Incredible Hulk stunt and start ripping open the seams of my pants, frightening small children and sending droves of people screaming, running for their lives.

So let's hear it for the K.

*The state of North Carolina pays bonus money to schools for achievement. There are four or five achievement levels, ranging from "Expected Growth" to "Unnaturally High Steriod Induced Growth," or something like that. I have no idea what "ABC" stands for, but standards and test scores are involved. And money.

**Who am I kidding here? The payoff for "Expected Growth" is, after taxes, a mere sum. I spent it all.

Dati casuali*

I have moved my "second home office" to my bedroom. I have a desktop computer in my "other home office," which is in the great room, and in computer years it is 475 years old. It does not have the most recent version of Internet Explorer. It doesn't have PowerPoint. It has trouble handling more than one open program at a time. I still need it for some things, but the nifty wireless laptop I borrowed indefinitely from work is much more desirable. It is fast and portable, and I can run 15 programs at once if I need to (including PowerPoint AND Publisher, both of which are "required software" in my graduate program). Until this evening I had the laptop set up on my kitchen table, which was fine right after my weekly clean-a-thon when the laptop was the only foreign object on the table, taking up just one place setting. By the end of the week, however, the table was buried beneath notebooks, journal articles, stacks of paper, mugs, and textbooks. Tonight when I was cleaning I decided the laptop needed a new home. I have an antique enamel top table and two chairs in my bedroom, and when I was cleaning the bedroom it occurred to me that I don't really spend a lot of time there, and I never sit in the chairs at the table, and that's a shame, because it's a very pleasant room--soft light, window seats, a rockin' wall mount stereo, funky candles. So I dragged all of my books and papers to the bedroom and stashed them in an under-the-bed storage bin and relocated the laptop, and I must say, I'm quite happy working here. It's like I have a new room.

***

I could take an entire day off from work and do nothing but read magazines--The Progressive, Yoga Journal, The Oxford American, Paddler, and an issue of Self I bought a few weeks ago because the cover story was about Ashley Judd. I'm ready for a snow day.

***

Yesterday my friend Joy sent me an email subscription to a daily email message from the Universe. It's pretty cool--the messages are personalized and full of nice reminders to be patient with yourself, learn from change, look at the big picture, etc. Joy knew I'd like the idea of getting email from the Universe because she knows I believe the Universe intervenes in my life on a daily basis, gently nudging me (unless I need to be drop kicked), keeping me grounded and connected to people who make my life better, and "conspiring to assist me" with the adventure of living. But today the Universe surprised me. I am a member of a book club, the kind that has featured selections and monthly mailings that must be accepted or declined and sells books for pennies. I have NEVER accepted a monthly selection, and my last order was in mid-August. So imagine my surprise when I found a package from the book club in my mailbox this afternoon. Inside was The Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus and Word Myths: Debunking Linguistic Urban Legends. There is no doubt in my mind that I did NOT order these books. They are not featured selections I forgot to decline. The package was addressed to me, so it wasn't a postal error. It wasn't a gift--the package came with an invoice. The funny thing is, these are books I might have ordered had I known they existed. I've been writing every day, and not just here. I've been thinking about stories and characters and impressions, and out of nowhere a writer's thesaurus shows up in my mailbox. Perhaps the Universe is sending me yet another message.



*Italian; random information

Irony

Our local community college just built a satellite campus on the road I travel to and from work every day. It's quite impressive, and I'm hopeful that it will draw people from my nearby school community. While it always bothers me when large areas of forest and foliage are plowed under, I understand that some development necessitates tree removal and earth moving. I thought the contractors on this job were exercising some restraint in this department, because they left a long row of Jack pines and dogwoods and other small scrub trees along the border of the campus. But last Friday on my way home from work, there were the bulldozers, plowing over all those trees and churning up the red-orange clay dirt North Carolina is known for. Today on my to work there was a row of maples, Bradford pear trees, and what looked like boxwoods lined up on the bare orange ground waiting to be planted.

When did it become easier to tear something down and start from scratch than to care for what already exists? I'm glad it's not so easy to do this with people, for I'm certain the bulldozers would have already come for me.

Commander-in-Chief

I don't know about you guys, but I for one find it symbolic that Geena Davis's new show "Commander-in-Chief," on which she plays the Vice President-would-be-President, is premiering tonight, the very same night that my eggs, also known as Geena1, are making their way to Fertilization Central. I have spoken with the coordinator at my bank, Sperm Lady2, and she has assured me of a Thursday delivery; I have spoken with Peggy at the clinic, and she has instructed me about whom to call in the event of a positive OPK in order to guarantee a Saturday or Sunday insem; and I have spoken to my body, which, at this time, seems to be operating on schedule and in a normal fashion. My only dilemma is the sperm itself.

When I called to place the order for a vial of blue-eyed, blond-haired Czech sperm, Sperm Lady exclaimed, "I thought you wanted hazel eyes." I replied that yes, I did, but at the moment I could not explain why I had picked blue-eyed Czech Man because I left my Sperm-o-File at home. She gave me the numbers of two hazel-eyed donors who have, and I quote, "crazy sperm." I asked if that meant they were successful, and she practically shouted YES! I'm pretty sure I have profiles for the Hazel Men at home, and for all I know they are on my top 5 list, so as soon as I get home this afternoon, in the 18 minutes I have between work and grad class, I will consult my file and make a decision. I know it would be simple to stick with Czech Guy, but I just don't think I should ignore "crazy sperm."



1 Geena is now officially a plural noun
2 Her real name. Honest.

Things that make me laugh so hard

Except in this case the laughter is less like "haha, that's hilarious," and more like "haha, could you please step away, you are scaring me."

There was a man in the next aisle at Target last night who was in line behind a woman he obviously knew. They chatted as he put his items for purchase on the counter, and I heard her say, "It looks like you're stocking up tonight." He replied, "Oh, well, the grandkids are coming this week." That response might have made sense had he been purchasing, oh, I don't know, juice boxes or string cheese or goldfish crackers, but this man was buying FOUR cans of Raid insect killer, THREE bottles of Lysol surface cleaner, and a deep fryer.

I ask you, is there something I don't know about modern child care?

Dear Charlie

When I got your voice mail messages this afternoon, dated March 11 and May 19, requesting work for that damn Dior kid who must have spent more time in detention with you than she did with any of her regular teachers, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I wasn't expecting to hear your voice. You startled me. I'm glad I was sitting down, because the bones suddenly left my legs, and I actually felt the blood drain from my face. I smiled, though, smiled without even realizing it at first. I've missed your voice. Right after you left us I heard you all the time, but lately I've just sensed you on the periphery of the whirlwind that is our school. You've invaded my thoughts, kids have mentioned you, a vocabulary word I was teaching described you to a tee. But you hadn't spoken to me in a while. Until today.

I'm sure you wondered why the hell I never sent you that detention work, why I made you walk all the way down to my room just to get a novel and a few worksheets. If you must know, I didn't know how to check my voice mail until today, and when I finally got in I had 18 new messages. I kept hoping there would be a way to delete them all at once without having to listen to them, but there isn't, and now I'm glad. I might have missed you. I know what you must be thinking--fat lot of good it does me now. Maybe so, but it did me a lot of good to hear from you today.

Do you know that I don't really think of you as dead? In my mind you are just elsewhere, and you are dealing out wry jokes and a hard time to anyone whose path you cross. In my mind you are carrying on in some realm where there are teenagers and football and cats and beer and hot wings and plenty of flat screen TVs, and you are happy. Some might call this denial, but it isn't. I'm not expecting you to show up at work or pull up next to me in the grocery store parking lot or anything of the sort, but there are times when the lines of my horizon blur and I can almost see you off in the distance, strolling down some hallway, whistling, waving, smiling with your eyes. Or hear you, like today. I know you left those messages for me months ago, but there's no denying you spoke to me today.

Thinking of you is like--I know you'll love this--visiting Gettysburg Battlefield, or walking the smooth streets of Pompeii. As far as the eye can see--nothing. The only sounds are birds, rain, distant traffic. But in between all of that is a life force so powerful it seems to seep into my skin and flow through my bones like electricity. There, under the thin veil that is time, is every soldier who fell, every citizen who worked and lived and died in the shadow of the volcano. And there is you, Charlie. The spaces you inhabited appear empty, but you're there somewhere; I can feel it in my bones. There is no fuller emptiness.

I know I haven't heard the last of you, Charlie Griffin. I know it, and I'm glad. Until next time, turn up the volume on that Notre Dame game and drink a cold one for me.

Things that make me laugh so hard*

Overheard

Girl on the PA making morning announcements: "Good luck to the cross country team as they take on arch rival Reidsville High school today."

Student in my class: "Is that really the name of the school?"

Another student in my class: "Yeah, Reidsville. Like the town?"

Student in my class: "Oh. I thought they said the name of the school was 'Arch Rival'."

*I'm making this a regular post. Otherwise I'll forget about these gems, and they really need to be shared.

Things that make me laugh so hard

Spoken by Chi McBride on the Ellen Degeneres Show:

"I'm so unfamiliar with the gym I call it James."

What? Wait! Press what?

Today I called my clinic to find out when I would need to order my sperm, what number I would need to call with my OPK surge, etc. The woman with the answers is Peggy, and Peggy and I have talked several times before, but today Peggy was on another line so I got her voicemail. I listened carefully to her rather long message and then waited for the beep. There was no beep. There was a long series of instructions involving pressing this number or that depending on what you wanted to do: "If you'd like to leave a message, press 2. If you'd like to speak to the operator, press 0. If you'd like to audition for American Idol, press 88876897." And so on. By the time all of the options had been recited, I had forgotten which number to press to leave a message. Two sounded vaguely familiar, so I pressed it, but by now too much time had passed and my call was back in the clinic's phone system. Two had become an extension, and thank you very much, but I did not want to speak with Janet. So I pressed zero. The same operator answered, and I explained briefly that I had pushed the wrong button and that I still needed to speak with Peggy. Again, I got Peggy's voicemail, and this time I was ready. I pressed two at the appropriate time and a voice said, "Leave your message after the tone [about time!] and then press pound." I left my message and all my many questions, and as soon as I had finished speaking I pressed END. DAMN! I had forgotten to press pound! So I called the main number again. Thank God another operator answered. I asked for Peggy. I got her voicemail. I left a message. I pressed pound.

Twenty minutes later Peggy called back. She had gotten, not one, but three messages from me. The first contained no words, only static, but it is a safe assumption that it was my static. Peggy is nice and patient and did not even laugh at my technological idiocy and I am very grateful to have a nurse who is nice and patient, so I'm really glad that first message was just static and NOT what was going through my head at the time. She would have understood, though. She's the one who called in my Clomid prescription!

"Don't make me go all Missy Elliot on your ass!"

There's a Cheryl Wheeler song called "Is it peace or is it Prozac?" I find myself asking a similar question this morning: Is it Clomid, or am I a bitch? When I took Clomid before I started having odd dreams, and then I was pregnant and my dreams turned downright bizarre. I started a new round of Clomid yesterday, and last night I dreamed that I paid two kids--big strapping boys from my 4th period class--to beat up a woman that I work with, a really obnoxious woman who annoys me even on Fridays and holidays and days when I am not taking Clomid. It was a really vivid dream, and I remember feeling extremely satisfied when I saw the results of the ass-kicking in the dream. They really gave me my money's worth, let me tell you. I slept like a baby and woke up quite happy. I am slightly alarmed by the dream and my resulting happy feeling, because I am a nonviolent pacifist who cringes at the sight of someone causing pain to another living thing. I would never beat someone up, or pay someone to do it for me. Of course, the last time I took Clomid I wanted to blow up the Black and Decker man because he wouldn't give me a refund.

Yeah...it's definitely the Clomid.

All that is right with the world

Remember my glorious reunion a few weeks ago with the Starbucks decaf 2% latte? While I was waiting for my drink that morning I tasted a sample of a new muffin 'Bucks is selling as part of the "fall coffee lineup." It was a teeny square of what I later discovered to be a pumpkin spice cream cheese muffin, and it was good enough to make me want a whole one. I'd already paid for my latte, so I filed the tasty muffin away in the messy overflowing shoebox that is my brain, but every time I've been to Starbucks since that day they've been out of these particular muffins, and not just at my regular location, but at all Starbucks all over the world. Apparently they were better than I thought, and throngs of people knew something I didn't know.

Indeed, what those people knew was this: the "cream cheese" part of the name "pumpkin spice cream cheese muffin" means that in the center of the muffin, surrounded by cinnamon and pumpkin and walnuts and pure sugar and fat is a big honkin' dollop of the creamiest cream cheese ever produced. And it...is...good. It's the kind of good that causes you to make involuntary pleasure sounds while you are eating, the kind of good that makes you want to share with your friends and loved ones, but then when you see a friend or loved one coming toward you and you realize there is only one small bite of muffin left, with one small smear of cream cheese on its surface, you shove the muffin into your mouth and then pretend you were eating a Zone protein bar, and never you mind that little Starbuck's bag, it's not mine.

Go! Get one today, and make sure you get there early, because lots of us know what you don't, and we may have already beaten you to this morning's supply.

The post I'm not writing

I would really like to blog about the fight that occurred in our gymnasium on Tuesday afternoon involving three 18 year old boys who started throwing punches over who could bench press the highest weight. I'd like to recount how a coach tried (unsuccessfully) to stop the fight by tripping the boys with a power cord, and how he eventually had to call the school resource officer (a county police officer "stationed" at the school). I'd love to tell you about how the SRO could not restore order with his mere presence and had to resort to pepper spray, and I'd love to tell you that in his haste he sprayed himself directly in the face and then just started spraying into the air around him in hopes of hitting one of the fighters. I'd like to describe the scene that ensued--how one of the culprits had to be detained by a fellow student, and how several coaches and students and the principal got pepper spray to the eye, and how two of the three fighters were running in circles punching air because they could not see but were so desperate to hit their marks anyway. And I'd like to tell you that when things finally calmed down, the three macho boys who started a riot over their weightlifting abilities were sobbing like babies in the assistant principal's office because the pepper spray was burning their eyes.

I'd really love to give you a glimpse into the youth of America through the small window that is my school, but it's not a good idea to write about your place of employment on the Internet. Jobs could be lost, heads could roll, and good heavens, let's not lead people to believe that our schools are not perfect. I'd love to give you an earful. But I won't.

The lavender menace

So Saturday was my paternal grandmother's 85th birthday, and my Aunt Mary invited the whole family to her lake house in upstate South Carolina to celebrate. (It's gorgeous there, by the way, and lakefront living rocks, man. I'm now shopping for lakefront property.) I hauled my butt out of bed early Saturday and drove four hours so that I could play with my cousins' babies and toddlers and small loud boys, eat entirely too much barbecue, get dragged and bounced across Lake Hartwell on the inflatable watersport version of an electric bull, and get my ass whipped at Uno Attack. A good time was had by all, and the next day I hauled my butt back into my car and drove the four hours home. All in all, it was pleasantly uneventful.

But moments after I walked into my house Sunday night, ready to crash into my bed and sleep for a week, my Aunt Mary called and asked me if I'd brushed my teeth yet. "Why, that's a strange question, Aunt Mary," I exclaimed. "Why do you ask?" Now, my Aunt Mary is a wonderful woman and she looks out for me in many ways, but asking after my oral hygiene is not one of those ways. Indeed, her question was wrapped in sarcasm, as she knew full well I hadn't yet brushed my teeth because I had left my [fancy-shmancy WaterPik sonic rechargeable] toothbrush in her bathroom. I had also left my toothpaste, and that, friends, is an even greater tragedy.

You see, I discovered a few years ago that I am allergic to whatever makes tartar control toothpaste tartar control. It causes angry red ulcers to spread around my mouth and chin (I'm not a neat brusher) and makes me look like a leper. A few weeks ago I accidentally bought a tube of tartar control (those darn Tom's boxes all look the same!) and only realized the mistake when those telltale sores appeared on my mouth. I purchased a regular tube, and that tube, along with my toothbrush, was left behind when I departed Mary's lake house. She assured me that she'd mail it on Monday, but I had to brush my teeth in the meantime. What to do? Oh, what to do?

I located a spare toothbrush, but the only tube of toothpaste I had was the tartar control mistake, so I went rummaging through some old travel kits until I stumbled across a tiny tube of Burt's Bees Essential Oils Lavender Mint Toothpaste. I love Burt's products for the most part, but there is a reason I do not use Burt's toothpaste: potpourri is not an appropriate dental product. I'm not kidding, people. This toothpaste is purple, and not the purple of Barney/Minnie Mouse/Winnie the Pooh and Piglet kids' toothpaste. It's purple like actual lavender. It tastes just like lavender oil smells, and it leaves an odd oily film on your teeth, and it does not lather at all, and when you spit it looks like grape milk. Thank GOD for Listerine, or I would be scrubbing my teeth with an Altoid.

Pray for me, will you--pray that my toothbrush and, more importantly, my toothpaste are waiting in my mailbox when I get home tomorrow. And I will pray for you--pray that if you are tempted by that lovely Burt's Bees display at the market, and if you are curious about the Essential Oils toothpaste, that you will resist the urge to satisfy your curiosity and will buy some lip balm instead.

Living with the dead: an article by Alice Sebold

Living With the Dead

The bitch is back

According to my Fertility Friend BBT chart, I should begin a new cycle today or tomorrow. That means in about two weeks I'll be inseminating for the first time since July. I am excited and terrified. If life had a fast-forward button I would use it today. Uncertainty is a bitch. So is PMS. And cramps. And fertility charting. But without all of this, no egg, no pregnancy, no baby. It's like riding a raucous roller coaster blindfolded while clutching a big box of Kotex, a vial of sperm, a BBT thermometer, and a calendar to cross off the days, and you never know how long the ride is going to last. Bitchin', huh?

So I'm climbing aboard. I hope it turns out to be a nine month-long ride.

Hooky

It's one in the afternoon on a Monday, and I am sitting at my kitchen table eating Beefaroni and White House apple sauce. Suddenly I'm in third grade again, and I've managed to convince my mom that I really needed to stay home from school. I am eating at my grandparents' table listening to "All My Children" on the TV in the next room, and I can hear my grandfather's paper rustling from the brown recliner as he reads in front of the picture window. I'm thinking if I'm just quiet enough I can dip my spoon into the brown crockery sugar bowl and have a taste without him hearing me. He does hear me, though, and gives me a Little Debbie oatmeal pie instead. Life is good.

I really am eating Beefaroni and apple sauce, and the kitchen table I'm sitting at did belong to my grandparents. The crockery sugar bowl is resting on my sideboard. I'm sure "All My Children" is on, but I'm watching taped "Ellen" shows from last week instead, and my grandfather and his recliner have been gone for more years than I'd like to remember. I wish I really did have a box of oatmeal pies. Nostalgia is a powerful drug, isn't it?

I took a "scheduled sick day" today because a) I am exhausted and needed a mental health day and b) I have a paper due tomorrow night and didn't want to stay up until 2 a.m. finishing it. I have only worried about my students once, and that was much earlier when I was half asleep and had no control over my thoughts. Now I could care less, although what I like to call the Substitute Aftermath will no doubt be waiting for me tomorrow: papers stacked all over my desk, trash on the floor, desks out of order, unfinished assignments. I envy people who can take days off from work without having to make detailed arrangments for someone else to do their work in their absence.

Oh well. At least I will go to bed tonight at a decent hour with my paper written, and I'll get to enjoy all the benefits of a four-day week. Life is good.

Birthdaypalooza, Day 4

Everything I could possibly think of to say here (celebrate, party, yada yada) has been overshadowed by what just happened to me on the nightly sniff n' poo walk with Suzanna. I was standing on the edge of the field waiting for her to do what she does, minding my own business, staring at the funky clouds and the oval-shaped moon, and a...













(I'm taking a cue from my girl Ellen again. In case you aren't obsessed like I am--I tape the show every day--she's doing cliffhanger monologues. It's hysterical.)















...Luna Moth landed ON MY ASS!!!

That's right, it came flitting out of nowhere and landed right on my left butt cheek. On TOP of it. Now I have proof from Mother Nature herself that my ass is as big as I think it is: large flying creatures can perch horizontally atop its looming shelf. Something MUST be done. Stay tuned next week for "As the Ass Shrinks," coming to you live from the student fitness center at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro.

Birthdaypalooza, Day 3[1]

Fun!

Friends!

Beer!

Pub!

Laughter!

French fries!

Happy.

Birthdaypalooza, Day 2

You might have inferred from the end of yesterday's post that today would not be much of a celebratory day given my three hour grad class at the end of an already long work day, and never was a truer inference rendered. I'll be brief:

Class is supposed to end at 8:20. We finally dismissed at 8:40 (although one ballsy girl packed up and left at the normal dismissal time!). I almost bitch slapped another of my classmates, a woman in my online project group who seems to think she is the only person in graduate school who also holds down a full-time job. The extra 20 minutes of class time added an hour to my parking deck fee, so it cost me four bucks to escape. I had three dollar bills and a ten. Now I have seven one dollar coins. Great. And until this moment I have not eaten since noon, unless you count that handful of craisins and nuts I shoved into my trap as I circled campus three times in search of a free space before I finally gave up and parked in the aforementioned deck. I'm now speed-eating the most disgusting Lean Cuisine meal ever packaged, and my cat is practically climbing my leg like a tree because apparently he's hungry as well. Finally, I had to stop at the grocery store on my way home because otherwise I wouldn't be eating lunch or breakfast tomorrow, and as I was thrashing my way into the house with an armful of groceries, books and dog, a friend called to see how my evening was. When I told her she had the nerve to laugh jovially at me, and now she must suffer. (You know who you are. Beware.)

In celebration of day two of my birthweek I think I'll spend the next 30 minutes on my yoga mat. Well, maybe 31. Because tomorrow that's how old I'll be.

Why I love Charity

My sister Charity has been making me laugh at inappropriate times and at inappropriate things since she was five months old. I will never forget sitting in church on a Sunday night with her on my lap. I was 12, and drawing attention of any kind to myself was, at that time in my life, emotional suicide. But right in the middle of a very long Southern Baptist prayer, Charity started blowing raspberries at me, and then giggling at herself. I giggled back. She was encouraged, so she did it again, and this time I stifled a laugh. She continued the game, and I slowly inched my way to hysteria, the kind that only gets worse when you try to control it. I had tears streaming down my face, and I was doing that silent shaking laughter that is actually painful. All of this was encouragement to Charity, who was by now causing people to turn around and smile that "oh, isn't she cute" smile that only babies can score for interrupting a church service. My mom was an innocent bystander, but she, too, got sucked in, and eventually the three of us--my mother and I with Charity in tow--had to get up and retreat to the empty church nursery where we sat in the middle of the floor and laughed like the insane.

This evening at dinner Charity and I had already started eating before we realized that everyone else at the table was staring at us expectantly. Perhaps they thought us barbaric. Perhaps they were waiting for us to choke or keel over from eating unblessed food. We sheepishly withdrew our forks and joined hands like everyone else at the table, and just as Big Dave began the prayer, my mother's cell phone, which Charity had programmed on the way to dinner, began ringing loudly, proudly belting out the theme song to "Sex and the City." I tried to control my laughter, but I was holding Charity's hand, so I could tell she was laughing, too. I thought I was going to have to crawl under the table.

Before the evening was over, my Uncle Mike almost fell out of his chair (I swear he wasn't drunk), and Big Dave had a gigantic marinara stain down the front of his shirt. It could have been embarrassing, but I was happy--I got to laugh with my sister.

Megan, we missed you.

Birthdaypalooza, Day 1

My birthday is Wednesday, but for the past several years I've started celebrating several days in advance. Birthday, birthweek, birthmonth. As far as I'm concerned, it's just an excuse to celebrate life more fully.

I had dinner with my mom and my sister Charity, my grandmother and her husband, whom we all call Big Dave (behind his back, of course), and my aunt and uncle. We went to an Italian restaurant (my favorite). I had a Crown and Diet Coke (must take advantage of my last 2 weeks of conception vacation). Someone ordered a giant piece of chocolate cake on the sly (it was so rich I could literally only swallow two bites of it!).

I left the restaurant and went directly to Rack Room with my birthday spoils. I should add to my "A little more about me" list: I am a shoe whore. Shoe stores are like crack houses for me: I get lured in by some attractive ploy in the window, and then I can't seem to break away. I just keep touching them. Trying them on. Smelling them. New clothes smell like burnt plastic, but new shoes...ahhhh. (Incidentally, new books have the same effect on me, but that's a story for another day.)

The shoe store was having a "Buy 1 Get the Second Pair for 50% off," so of course I had to buy two pairs. I was there for over an hour, and I almost bought five different pairs of shoes before I found THE SHOES near the counter. I tried to get the girl to give me 50% off of pair number three, but she just laughed. I think she thought I was joking. So I put one pair back and left with my top two selections.

By all counts Day 1 was a GREAT success. Stay tuned for Day 2: Adventures of an Almost 31 Year-Old Library School Student. (I know, shoe shopping is WAY more exciting.)

A little more about me

Things have gotten a little serious here in my corner of the universe, and while I haven't forgotten the reason why, it occurs to me that I need to heed Ellen's advice take a break from the weighty sadness.

I thought I'd take this opportunity to share a few things about myself that you might not otherwise know just from reading my blog.

1. I have a size 6 waist and a size 8 ass. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find pants that fit?

2. I am addicted to lip balm. Not just any lip balm, either--Burt's Bees beeswax lip balm. On Saturday I left the house without a tube and almost had to stop and buy some, so obsessed was I with the dry state of my lips.

3. I run into my desk at work at least twice a week, and when I say "run into," I mean, of course, that I propel myself full force into the sharp reinforced industrial grade corner of the desk. The corner hits me right in that spot between thigh and butt. You know the place: there's fat there, but there's also a bone, and when you ram into a sharp corner with that part of your body it hurts. A lot. I don't always injure the same side, but it's always the exact same spot. Consequently, I have a silver dollar sized bruise on each side from August through May.

4. I also run into door frames on a regular basis.

5. I am the kind of person who would go to Starbucks and sit in a cushy chair for an hour, even when I didn't particularly want coffee or tea, just to have an excuse to listen to my new MP3 player. I'm not saying I did. But I would.

6. I am also the kind of person who would rather post to my blog than grade papers. Stacks and stacks of papers, papers, papers, everywhere, oh, why did I assign so many papers?

7. And some days when I'm driving to work, and I see people on massive riding lawn mowers cutting grass for a living, or people holding those STOP/SLOW signs at a roadwork site, or people, you know, not teaching, I envy those people.

Full of sound and fury, signifying everything

I spent last night reading about Ashley Judd and her incredible devotion to Youth Aids. I spent the final moments of my planning period this morning talking with a friend about the importance of doing what we can with what we have. I have spent the last hour brainstorming with my 2nd period about how we as a class can contribute to the Katrina relief effort. I have spent the week pondering the truth of Jen's comment on my last post. My mind and heart are very full, and not in the bad way.

Everywhere I turn there is talk of relief effort for the victims of Katrina. It is easy to feel helpless when there's not much left of the state employee salary at the end of the month, but there is more to relief than writing a check. My students--14 years old and full of energy and genuine concern for the people of New Orleans--embody this conviction. They have no money of their own, and yet they are prepared to organize a fundraising event that rivals every street fair and fall festival I've ever attended. What they have is enthusiasm and desire; they inspire me to do what I can with what I have. I've a feeling we're embarking upon a great journey together, these children and I, and I will keep you posted on our progress. I know they will inspire you as well.

These kids are the reason I feel so strongly about Kanye West's unscripted comments at a relief telethon last week. It's not that I disagree with him; President Bush doesn't care about a lot of things that are important. And Jen is right: it is not wise to ignore the real and obvious divisions that wreak havoc in our country on a daily basis, and the media's depiction of blacks, gays, Hispanics, Muslims (and the list goes on) is deplorable on so many levels. But the real need now is the safety and well being of thousands upon thousands of people, black, white, gay, straight, Christian and Muslim and Jew. Right now those with the ability to reach the masses should be reminding us that we all have a responsibility to care for our brothers and sisters in New Orleans. When my highly impressionable adolescent students hear one of their favorite musicians blaming race for what's happening now in the Gulf states, they themselves become agitated about racial issues. They bicker with their classmates, they get angry and defensive, they lash out in the same way Kanye West did. This to me deepens, not heals, the divide, a divide of which I am painfully aware every time I step into my classroom.

And so we press on. I am ashamed to admit that I continue to avoid large doses of the news for many reasons, but today I read a New York Times article about an abandoned body on Union Street in New Orleans. The article included a photograph of the body, a murder victim that's been left to the elements for several days. "How can this happen in America," people are asking, and I am reminded of a day almost four years ago when people were asking that same question. How can this happen in America?

Consider this: In Zimbabwe, population 12 million, 1.8 million people have AIDS. In Iran women are beaten for wearing nail polish, and citizens cannot read Jane Eyre or Their Eyes Were Watching God without great personal risk. In Afghanistan little girls are bartered like food and clothing in the name of conflict resolution, and women are systematically raped by armed soldiers. Car bombs are a daily occurrence in the Middle East, and in many European airports travelers are scrutinized by machine gun-wielding security guards. We forget that in many other parts of the world, crime, untreated disease, hunger, filth, violence, terrorism, and fear are a way of life. Here, in the land of plenty, the home of the free, we often lose sight of the world, fail to take care of it as best we can, and then we are left reeling when that world seeps into the fabric of our lives.

Today as volunteers continue to clean up after Katrina, as the layers are peeled back and continuing evidence of the devastation is revealed--on Sunday as we look back on another time when our country was shaken to its core--let's take some advice from Ghandi and be the change we wish to see in the world, and some initiative from my 9th graders to do what we can with what we have. Namaste.

Division problems

I started the morning crying my eyes out with Ellen Degeneres, who began her third talk show season today not with a flashy premiere filled with dancing and jokes and uber famous guests, but with a show dedicated to raising awareness, raising money, and raising consciousness. I'm not saying there was no laughter, but in Ellen's own words, "Things have changed now. I can't just pretend to do a normal show." New Orleans is Ellen's hometown and she has family there, and even if that were not true, Ellen is just that kind of person. She cares about humanity and she's in a position to make a significant difference when needs arise--and she does so often. She gives, and she facilitates giving. She also makes us laugh and reminds us to dance, things we should do even in the face of terror and fear.

But then I logged on to the Net and read a few of my regular blogs, and the combination heartsick/hopeful/buoyed feeling I acquired during my hour with Ellen dissolved--no, erupted--into fury. In the fine print of a fellow blogger's most recent post is a link to a story about a conservative Christian group that's blaming Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath on a gay pride festival that was set to occur in New Orleans this past weekend. This is not a new outcry from the fundamentalists. Apparently last December's tsunami was thanks to gays and premarital sex, and Jerry Falwell and his little friend Pat Robertson have been blaming Florida hurricanes on the sinful who reside in Miami and Key West for years. And let's not even talk about all the reasons AIDS is an international crisis.

I have a question? If the Almighty is doling out punishment for sinful behavior--and not just a slap on the wrist, mind you, but life-altering, deadly devastation--why hasn't Los Angeles fallen into the Pacific by now? And why is Washington, DC still on the map? And New York City, and Provincetown, MA, and Las Vegas? Wait, wait. I'm being narrow minded. If God is truly sending down destruction for sinners, not a single damn one of us should be left on the planet.

I believe there is a God. I believe that old hymn we used to sing in church: God is love. That's the extent of my religious certainty at this point in my life; everything else is sort of gray and fuzzy. But I'm certain I don't believe that a God who is the ultimate manifestation of love is in the business of wiping out entire populations and geographic regions as punishment for sin. If that were true we'd have to ask ourselves what those skeletal babies in Africa did to deserve starvation, or what thousands of children in Iraq did to be blown up by any number of military operations, or what kids in our own country do every day to warrant subjugation at the hands of sexual predators and abusive caretakers. And what of the now homeless in Louisiana who couldn't evacuate because they had no car, no money for gas? Their only "crime" was poverty, so tell me Pastor Falwell, were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

The irony of this morning has not escaped me: some so-called Christians blame the gays for what is being called the worst disaster on American soil, and one of America's most recognizable gay women weeps with the rest of us and then rolls up her sleeves and begins what I know will be a multi-million dollar aid campaign to help those who are affected, some of them her own flesh and blood. What Ellen remembers, and what many "Christians" often forget, is that we are all human. We are not Americans, whites, blacks, Christians, sinners or saints. We're people. In spite of our differences we are basically the same: we hurt, we feel, we cry. And some of us need help right now. What we don't need is an outcry of division from the very people who have the power and the voice to draw us all together. Shame on religious groups for attempting to point God's finger. Shame on the likes of Kanye West and others who are making the relief debacle a racial issue. Shame on every single survivor who has said from the comfort of a living room recliner with the power to change the channel and make the ugliness go away, "It's their own fault for not evacuating. They should have left when they had a chance."

I'd say it's time to start adding and multiplying in the shadow of this crisis. I'm not good at math, but I'm pretty sure division eventually leads to nothing, and that, to me, would be the most egregious sin of all.

If you can read this....

I have shelf-top cabinets and vaulted ceilings in my kitchen. On the highest wall the space between the cabinet top and the ceiling's surface seems vast and open, so shortly after I moved in I purchased two obscure members of the philodendron family to grace that lofty margin. They grew, not in viney tendrils like the hanging philodendrons you see in offices with their leaves grazing the floor, but in long graceful stalks with huge heartshaped leaves on the ends. The plants flourished under the morning sun pouring in through the skylight, their long arms reaching up to the light. They grew so heartily that I had to stake them to keep them from toppling, and occasionally long stalks would grow at a downward angle, catching the cabinet doors and getting caught among the mugs and glasses.

Last night, with a skillet full of squash and zucchini on one burner and a skillet full of chicken, onions, garlic and peppers on another, I hurried to put away clean dishes from the dishwasher before dinner. In what I can only describe as a freakish blur of events, I opened the glassware cabinet, stashed a mug, moved aside a rogue leaf from the plant above, and closed the cabinet, and then I was covered in black potting soil and one of my philodendrons lay broken at my now blackened feet.

Dirt was everywhere--in the coffee maker, on my recently showered skin and hair, in the sink, on the freshly mopped linoleum. In the skillet of squash and zucchini. I was immobilized by the scene. I put my hands over my face, screamed "ohmygodohmygod" a number of times, and then cried for several minutes. It was not a pretty sight.

Later, when the plant had been carried to the front porch and the dirt had been swept from the counters and then from the floor, when feet and hands were cleaned and the squash and zucchini rinsed and repositioned in the skillet, it occurred to me that I should have taken a picture to accompany what will likely be an oft-told story. Photography was, of course, the last thing on my mind at the time. I don't handle chaos well. I find it difficult to watch others experience it. I certainly would never think of preserving it. For that reason I have avoided the television news this weekend, all week in fact. But the online news photos of Katrina's destruction are unavoidable, and they haunt me: bodies floating in flood swells, naked children, hollow eyes and sallow starving faces. Who is taking these pictures, and how are they sleeping at night? Perhaps they aren't.

Avoiding the constant news updates of what Gayle calls "our new Gulf War" has not caused me to forget the reality of the situation, and I am struck silent, introspective, and am feeling a little hollow myself. I have wandered around my house all day in silence, reading and drinking tea, absentmindedly stroking the cat when he leaps into my lap, staring for long periods of time out the sliding door and through the screened porch. I try to imagine what 12 or 15 or 20 feet of water would look like, try to calculate the height of my neighbor's house, consider how I would protect myself and my animals should the likes of Noah's flood rush my quiet street. I cannot conceive of any of it. I walk around and study what is mine, all the treasures of my life, the treasure that is my life, and I am grateful, even though I know, though only from observation, that life can be quite tenuous. The whole world can change in a second. For now my seconds are full of grace and peace and a normalcy I will try to remember not to complain about weeks and months from now when I am bored and restless. For now I thank God I know where to find all the people I love, that I can assure myself with a simple phone call that they are safe. For now I am grateful that I need only a rag and a broom and a dustpan to clean up the chaos in my life.

Today I am reminded that I'm one of the fortunate ones. If you're reading this, so are you. I wonder, what will we do with our great fortune?

My regards to Moses and Charlton Heston

You know in those old Bible movies like "The Ten Commandments" when something spectacular happens and the skies open up and light blinds everyone on the ground and angels are singing, not an actual song but more like background music--one long sustained note that could melt butter? It happened to me today. I stopped at Starbucks because I've been thinking about my long lost friend the decaf 2% latte, and I wanted to see if maybe we could patch things up. You see, I used to begin every day with a latte, sometimes from Starbucks but usually one I made myself. Even after I gave up caffeine I still had a latte every morning, because friends, even if you're not addicted to legal addictive stimulants, there's nothing as smooth and creamy as a well made latte. But over the summer the latte and I had a falling out. I blamed the hormones for my inability to swallow the creamy concoction I'd once called breakfast, and after a few days of trying to make it work there was a parting of the ways. I started drinking tea instead, and then eventually plain coffee (decaf, of course), but I still missed my latte.

Today as I neared my neighborhood Starbucks I thought, why not, maybe enough time has passed, maybe the hormones have stabilized, maybe we can work things out. I placed my order, made my purchase, and took my steaming cup to the car. When I took the first sip, that scene from "The Ten Commandments" started playing right there on Wendover Avenue in the middle of morning traffic, and I said to my cup, "Oh, latte, where hast thou been lo these many months?" and all was well with the world. Or something like that.