One Small Corner of the Universe

New frontiers

2007-02-25T13:10:00.000-05:00

This is my last post on Blogger, and my first post on my all new blog at Wordpress. Call me a follower, a copycat, a bandwagon-jumper--whatever you call me, please keep visiting, and if you link to my site, please adjust your site accordingly.

The truth about the change is that I don't like being forced into things. I have a hard enough time with change as it is, but when someone says, "You must! You have no choice!" I tend to resist. So that's why I'm moving. It's not just because lots of other cool people have moved. Well, not entirely. I do tend to like that bandwagon.

~~~

And speaking of moving, I may be buying another house. I say another house because I haven't sold the house I'm living in now. But I've stumbled upon a house that may be too good to pass up, and since it's unlikely that my house will sell in, like, a day, I may have two houses for a while. I'll send you my address at the institution, where I will no doubt end up if all of this comes to pass.

~~~

But now for the biggest news of all: I have a new principal. Yes, that's right. New. As in, Principal is on "extended medical leave" through the end of the year. If you believe that, please contact me as soon as possible so I can share with you the meaning of life and introduce you to my best friends, Tom Cruise and Oprah Winfrey.

No, the truth is, some higher-ups found out about this, plus all kinds of other unethical and borderline illegal things Principal has been up to, and since bad publicity is not allowed in my school system, they made up something to tell the public and then pretty much sent her packing. Honestly, though, knowing Principal, having someone find out she is not perfect is probably enough to send her to the looney bin--that's even worse than having your school burn down--so she may well be on actual medical leave. Who knows? What I know is that going back to work in two weeks will be just slightly more bearable because there is nowhere for my school to go but up at this point. Of course, that's not the case for my students, they who are running amuck in my tiny classroom, making huge messes, slacking on their assignments, and scanning their faces into my password protected computer (seriously, every teenager should be considered a dangerous hacker). No, my students are going down.

60 is the new 92.5

2007-02-13T21:55:00.000-05:00

When I was a senior in high school I had a kick-ass English teacher who, to me, was an icon, a goddess among people. She was sharp-tongued and quick witted, and she worked our know-it-all asses off. Most of my classmates hated her. I wanted to be just like her.

One of her best-known quirks was her adamant refusal to "give" points. If you earned a B, you got a B, never mind that your B was the highest possible B, a mere half point from an A. You didn't earn an A, end of story. I never had a problem with this rule; I always made As in her class, as did my best friend Meredith (who is now reading this blog--hey Mer) and our friend Susan. We were the top three graduates in our class (I was 3) and we didn't need free half-points. Hell, our classmates probably hated us, too, but that is so not my point.

My point is points. Grade points, to be specific. I always admired teachers who gave the grades their students earned. I became one of those teachers. I used to begin the school year by giving my students a cut-out paper A. I explained that it was the only grade I'd ever give them--they would have to earn everything else, good and bad. When students ask me about extra credit I have to work hard to keep the sneer off my face, and I reply, "Let's try earning the regular credit first. If you don't turn in what I assign you in the first place, what makes you think you have time for 'extra'?" Don't get me wrong, I give kids chances to succeed. Lots and lots of chances. If it's clear to me that they don't understand something, we approach it another way. If the majority of a class bombs a test, we retest (with a different test, of course). I work with my kids to make sure they are learning. That's what teachers do. But I don't give grades.

At least I didn't until the fall of 2004. Can anyone guess what happened in the fall of 2004? Why yes, you there in the front, that's when Principal came to my school and we fell headfirst into the flaming pit of hell. Quite literally. Heh. (Ahem. Sorry. We joke about the fire now. What else can you do?) When Principal came to my school, she started changing grades. Occasionally a 92 became a 93, an A, but mostly lots of 68s and 69s became Ds*. I hated it, and after I ended up looking like a fool who told students one thing and then had to explain why the grade on their report card was higher, I upped their chances at success. I--gulp--even gave the occasional extra credit.

All of that is a preface to this story: On January 31 a teacher workday marked the end of the first semester and the beginning of the second. We are on the block schedule, which means new students and new classes for the rest of the year. Thank God. Because I am a nice person (read: because I didn't want the hassle of redoing what someone else would have done wrong) I spent a few hours at work that day finalizing first semester grades. It was much easier than I had anticipated, as my third sub in 4 weeks (did you catch that? THREE people could not handle my job! THREE!) did not record any of the grades she took in my gradebook, which I left for her, nor did she leave HER gradebook for me. I could have made up grades, but I've never been good at writing fiction, so my students got the grades they'd earned as of my last day (the day Christmas break started) plus their exam grade.

I should tell you that in the three weeks before break, I gave my students so many chances to pass that I should be sainted. I didn't give them grades, mind you, but I did throw my beloved deadline rule out the window on their behalf, and many of them rose to the occasion. Many, sadly, did not. I should also tell you that I taught honors freshman English for 10 years, only to be handed three low level reading classes at the start of year 11. The curriculum for the reading course is canned and so, so easy, especially considering that in a class of 25, only 8-10 students really had reading problems. Thus, everyone should have aced this class, especially given the numerous opportunities I allowed them back in December. But because they are freshmen, which is Latin for "humanoids whose skulls are filled with donkey excrement," several of them failed. Eleven, to be exact. I know this so certainly because the day after the grades were submitted to the office, I received this email at home:

"We have 11 kids fail out of your Strategic Reading classes. Is this right? We had 4 that were in the 60s. I just want to be fair to them. Thanks."

Bet you can guess who it was from. I almost ignored it, but I couldn't help myself, I just had to know what she meant by "60s." So I asked her to send me the names of the students in question and their questionable grades. One of them had a 67, and she probably passed him. But the other three--they actually had 60s! Six-zero. That was their final grade. Please, somebody explain to me why it is not fair to a kid to give him a 60 when he earned a 60! It's not like they were a half, or even a tenth of a point from passing. We are talking 10 points. TEN! And she wants to know if that's fair. Damn right that's fair.

I did reply to that email. I could have authorized the grade changes and seemed "fair," but instead I told her I recorded the grades the students earned. I never got a response, but I know what happened. I know she changed those grades. I've seen her do it time and time again. I complain about my job, but in my teacher's heart, this is what's driving me away. What lesson does a child learn when he fails two quarters and the final exam and ends up with a D? It isn't that I'm a grade fanatic and care more about the number than I do the kid. Far from it. I care enough about the kid to have high expectations, and let's face it, no matter how many inspirational teacher movies tell you otherwise, there are some kids who will not meet those expectations. Not even when they get lots of chances. And not even when we lower our expectations.

Perhaps the worst thing about Principal is that in her mind, should Lifetime ever make a movie of her life starring Meredith Baxter Birney, she would be portrayed as a positive force who helped her students rise from the ashes (again with the fire jokes) and inspired them all to get good grades and go to college. And some kid who graduated under her rule would see it and say, "Hey, I know that lady, yo. She was so nice, and she helped me pass, and then I got to college and those professors were trippin', man, they won't give a brother a break. Talkin' 'bout how I can't write and shit, and how I was on academic probation. That's why I said 'Screw that, yo,' and I got me a job at Bojangles, 'cause I don't need nobody tellin' me what to do. Man, don't they know I was number 6 in my class?"

*We're on the 7 point grading scale.

Shout out to the Dixie Chicks

2007-02-12T21:49:00.000-05:00

Actual words tomorrow. I swear.

Unsinkable

2007-01-31T22:12:00.000-05:00

So long, Molly.

Friday Photo: Unique Body Parts

2007-01-27T13:49:00.000-05:00

My most unique body parts are my ridiculously long toes. As I am currently in desperate need of a manicure and don't want to gross you out with photos of my feet, I'm posting Mia's feet. They are miniatures of my feet. I always hated my feet and toes, but now that I see them reproduced detail for detail on my daughter, I will never complain about them again. I'll start referring to them as "unique."

A la mia cara Mia: Month 1

2007-01-26T16:11:00.000-05:00

I know this sounds prosaic, but I can hardly believe you are already a month old--that an entire month has passed since I first saw your face, just inches from mine, looking into my eyes for the first time. You've given me the once over many more times since then, and as best I can tell you're happy to be here with me. I'm certainly glad to have you.

It's been an eventful first month for you, relatively speaking. You have visited the library, the hospital where Nonna works, Ma Gayle's house, Jay's Deli, Moe's, Starbucks, the grocery store, and, on several occasions, Target. You slept through most of these trips. If I could figure out how to get you to sleep that way in the house, say, during the wee small hours of the morning, I wouldn't have this dazed expression on my face all the time. Lots of people have visited you as well--Cheryl, Caroline, Nancy, Janet, Erika, Joy. You slept through most of those, too. Again, if I could only get you to sleep that well for me....

Actually, I'm not giving you enough credit on the sleeping thing. Lately you've slept like a champ at night, drifting off between 10 and 11, waking to eat at 1 or 2 and again at 6, and then sleeping until 9 or 10. Napping during the day for longer than 20 minutes is another story entirely, but your new night hours more than make up for the short naps, as well as those nights two weeks ago when you didn't go to sleep until 1 or 2--or 6. I am still recovering from that night, and I can't promise you I won't remind you of it when you are older and wanting a favor from me.

I certainly can't complain about the times when you're awake. You're starting to smile a little now, and make sweet little sounds that seem to surprise you when they escape your mouth, and you would win a staring contest hands down--when your eyes settle on something interesting you stare at it for a long time, like you're memorizing it, making a copy of it in your mind for later, because at the moment it's the most fantastic thing you've ever seen and you don't ever want to forget it. I hope someday you'll stare at the ocean that way, and the flowers in our yard, and the sunset, and the mountains on the way to Papa Mo's, and colors, and the faces of all the people you love most.

You've already got a head start on the colors. One of your favorite places to be right now is on the changing table, because right above the changing table are nine small blue, red, and yellow-colored canvasses that to me are an unfinished art project, but to you are some kind of baby LSD. You become positively transfixed when you realize you are within sight of those things, like you are communicating with the colors on some other plane that only babies and people who snort cocaine can reach. It's amusing to watch, but also kind of freaky, because I can't even focus on something for that long, and I have been practicing for 32 years.

You may be my ticket to transcendence, though, because I could gaze at your sweet face for eternity. You are so, so beautiful, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your mother. It's true, and here's how I know: in my experience, when someone sees a baby he or she will look at it and then say to its mother, "Oh, she's just beautiful," or "He is so adorable." It is, after all, the polite thing to do. That doesn't happen when you meet new people. When people see you for the first time, they do go on about how beautiful you are, but not to me, not for my benefit. They tell you, and they tell each other, and they email or call other people, who then email or call me and say things like, "So-and-so said you had the most beautiful child she's ever seen," and I have to think they are not just being polite. I believe they are seriously mesmerized by you--your big eyes and your long lashes and your hair.

Your hair. When the ultrasound tech told me back at Thanksgiving that you had a head full of hair, I imagined typical fuzzy baby hair that sticks straight up and falls out after a month. I was not prepared for your hair--dark and thick and fine, like mine, and full, not like a baby's hair, but like a person's hair. And the curls--just a little water and you look like one of the Jackson 5, and then it dries in soft waves and peaks all over your head. People keep telling me it will probably fall out, but I don't believe them. I am more inclined to think that soon I will have to take you to the salon and have my stylist shape up your sideburns and trim your mullet, lest I wake up in the middle of the night to find you partying it up with a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and that Billy Ray Cyrus CD I can't seem to sell at the used record store.

You do love your music. You love mine, too--Emmylou and Joan Baez, Josh Ritter and The Weepies--but already you recognize the music from your mobile and the Baby Einstein CDs we bought you, and you don't know how happy it makes me that you are so soothed by music. You fit right in here, and how much easier will it be to take you places in the car knowing I can pop in a CD and you will listen right along with me. I've read that babies who like music are smart babies who turn into bright children who turn into intelligent adults. This does not surprise me at all--just look around you: everyone in your life loves music, and we are all brilliant, brilliant people. Just yesterday I tried to open the garage door with my phone. See what you have to look forward to?

You are already smart--I can see it in the way you study your surroundings--and also very talented. You can both spit and fling the pacifier great distances for someone so small. You can lift your head for long periods of time. You can hold your bowels and bladder until I have put a perfectly clean diaper on you, and then fill it up before a full minute has passed. You can even tell when the diaper is off and your tiny butt is resting on a clean surface--my hand, for instance, holding you against me because you've just made a puddle on the changing table--and then poop prolifically on that surface. You're also the best farter in the house, better than the dog, even, because you are loud and proud about your farting, and the dog always tries to pretend she has no idea what just happened, jumping and looking curiously behind her to see where that sound came from.

But I was completely unprepared to deal with your greatest talents: your ability to make me rethink everything I've ever believed to be true about the world, about life, about myself, the way you can change my entire state of being with a look or a sound, how you can take years off of my life in a matter of seconds. When you were two days old and I was dressing you for the first time, preparing to take you home from the hospital, the pediatrician on duty stopped by to visit, and he told me to brace myself, that the first 6 weeks of your life would be the worst 6 weeks of mine. He called you a "neurologically incomplete organism" and assured me that after 6 weeks, when you started acting like a little human with a personality, I would not be able to imagine my life without you. I have thought about his words many times during your brief fits of inconsolable screaming. But then last week Nonna and I were bathing you, pouring water over your head and in your face like always, because you seem to enjoy it, and just as the water ran over your nose you inhaled. Your eyes flew open and your face froze and you wouldn't inhale or exhale or cough or cry, and you started to turn red. I grabbed you up out of the water and held you in the air and shook you a little--and then I handed you to Nonna, because in that moment I glimpsed my life without you, and the mere thought of that life reduced me to helplessness. In a split second you cried out--apparently you'd just been holding your breath--and I took you in my arms and held you close and felt my world right itself, and I remembered what the pediatrician had told me, how it would be three more weeks before I could no longer imagine life without you, and I want you to know how wrong he was, Baby, how very, very wrong. I want you to know that in that first moment when you strained to lift your head and look into my eyes a month ago, you became my life.

Ti amo,
Mommy

And consumer whores all across the South rejoiced

2007-01-25T16:45:00.000-05:00

Swedish retailer plans move to North Carolina

Breaking the epidural silence, and other random thoughts [*EDITED]

2007-01-25T16:24:00.000-05:00

With all the thanks I've received for writing an epidural birth story, I'm starting to feel like I've broken some heavy silence we've all been afraid to crack. Seriously, are there people out there who are afraid to admit they want drugs during childbirth? Afraid of being criticized or ridiculed? Afraid we might think badly of them for not having a natural birth? Huh. Because now that I'm an authority on the matter (laugh all you want), I'm here to tell you that giving birth needs to be all about you (after all, nothing will ever be about you again). There are those who would chastise me for making this statement, who would remind me that it should be about the baby and the baby's safety*. To them I say that birth is traumatic for the baby no matter what, whether it's being squeezed through a passage the size of a roof gutter or being pulled suddenly through a sizeable incision. Being born is risky business, and the kid's biggest ally in the process is her mother. Mommy should be as physically and psychologically content as she can be in order to be the best ally she can be, and if that means drugs, or no drugs, or a pool of water, or a necessary C-section, then so be it.

And as for the phrase "natural childbirth," what, I ask you, is more natural than bringing forth life? Yeah, I know it's just terminology, but what is the flip side? Unnatural childbirth? Was what I did was "unnatural" because I couldn't feel pain? Hell. No.

[*Edited to Add: I want to make sure everyone understands that I understand that sometimes it's ALL about the baby's safety, and our preferences don't matter. I didn't want my doctor to use the vacuum, but he felt he had to because Mia was in distress. There are other situations even more serious than that. I'm not talking about those situations here; I'm just addressing those times when things are normal and we as mothers can choose the birth we want.]

***

I mentioned my "labor shirt" in the birth story, and after someone asked what exactly a labor shirt is, I thought I should elaborate.

In every single video and photo essay of birth I've ever seen, the laboring woman is always half (or completely) naked with her breasts bared for all to see. I decided after my childbirth class that I could handle my hair being messy, my composure going to hell, and my ladyparts all wide open for everyone to see, but I drew the line at bare boobies. So I bought a maternity cami/tank top just for the event so I could at least salvage a sliver of decorum. It wasn't to be, though--they made me strip down even before they admitted me. Thankfully, they gave me something else to wear, but there's just something about your own stuff. I made up for the shirt deficit in pillows--three of my own from home. It was a reasonable trade.

***

Those of you who have been reading about my pregnancy attempts from the very beginning might recall that I assigned names to my eggs and the sperm donors I used, as many of us do. You might remember the early days of Joey and Geena, which ended badly. There was a second donor after Joey; I never named him, and maybe that was the problem--he just never felt welcome. And then I sent Geena packing, because Donor #3, who was super-extra-crazy fertile, resembled George Clooney (so said the sperm bank) and was dubbed Dr. Ross (think "ER"), and the most logical next step was to name the girls Rachel. It took Ross and Rachel one try, so all that talk of signs and good omens worked for me, but I feel the need to clarify one tiny detail, lest you think I'm a complete and total lunatic.

My daughter's middle name is Ross. Had she been born a boy, her first name would have been Ross. This was decided long before I made up names for my reproductive matter and assigned real live faces to the sperm donors. That the real live face I assigned to the donor who would help me conceive Mia was actually Ross is a coincidence. You see, my grandfather's middle name was Ross, and even before the attempts at conception began in earnest, I knew I wanted my child to have that name. I wanted him to be a part of my child, not just in spirit and in my mind, but in my child's mind as well. Someday I will tell Mia about my Papa, her namesake, and she will know him through me, and this will make me happy. Only having him here in person, a real living presence in her life, would make me happier.

But then, a part of me believes this has already happened. That in some cosmic way, Mia was with him before she was with me. That the curl in her hair and the iron in her young will came from him. That now, when she cannot really communicate her experiences, she remembers him, and later, when she can communicate, she will have forgotten their meeting. And I will be there to fill in the gaps.

If I Had Known Then What I Know Now: The Story of my Daughter's Birth, Part 2

2007-01-23T17:52:00.000-05:00

It was just before 2:30 a.m. on December 26th when we arrived at The Women*s Hospit@l of Greensboro, a place I had heard many wonderful things about from friends who have delivered babies there. I had been to the facility for one Sunday morning insemination, an ultrasound, and an HSG, all good experiences which took place a)during normal waking hours, and b)WHEN I WAS NOT IN LABOR. I immediately rethought all the good things I'd heard when, as soon as we arrived, I was escorted to a cubicle to complete paperwork and answer a bunch of questions. Did I mention the contractions, oh God, the contractions, and did I mention that by now they were 4-5 minutes apart? It shouldn't have come as a major shock to the nurse on the other side of the table that maybe I might possibly have a little trouble answering her questions in a timely fashion, but apparently she had just been sent over that very hour from, oh, I don't know, the customer service desk at Sears, and she kept repeating her questions when I didn't immediately answer. Thank God Gayle finally pointed out the obvious, and she looked closely at me and said, "Ohhhh. I understand." Things went much more speedily after that, and I was finally taken to an examination room where I was forced to remove my "labor shirt" (purchased specifically for this event) and put on an ugly backless hospital gown.

Once I was on the table a nurse hooked me up to the monitors, took my blood pressure and temperature, and then checked my cervix (which was, until I experienced labor, the worst pain I'd ever known). "Hmmm," she said as if contemplating what to order from a menu at Shoney's. "You're completely effaced." Silence, accompanied by more poking, then, "You've lost your mucus plug, so don't freak out if you see blood." More silence, more poking, and finally, "Huh. I'm not sure how much you're dilated. I'll be right back." My mother had arrived, and she was timing my contractions by the wall clock, which now read 3-something; they were 3-4 minutes apart now, and I was freaked because nothing I did brought relief. Mom and Gayle were looking freaked as well. I was managing to breathe through the contractions, but it took every ounce of energy I had not to scream. I remember saying "I don't know what to do" a lot. In the midst of all of this, my nurse returned with another nurse who announced that she, too, was going to check my cervix. She was quick and efficient, no running commentary this time. I was only dilated 2 centimeters. I wanted to cry. Meanwhile, the first nurse told me that my contractions weren't registering on the monitor. I interpreted this news as "They aren't really that bad yet. They are going to get much worse." She gave me a little button and instructed me to push it each time I felt one starting, and then she left to report the state of my cervix to the on-call doctor.

There are eight doctors in my OB practice, and I dislike one of them. One. The one who was on call that night. We had attempted to page my doctor, my beloved Dr. T., per his instructions, but his pager was off. Now the icky doctor with no personality (we'll call him Dr. Cardboard) was going to deliver my baby, and I was sad. Then I had another contraction, and I decided that if Dr. Evil and Mini Me delivered my baby I would be fine with it, just so long as they did it soon. When the nurse came back after talking with Dr. Cardboard, she explained that he wanted to be sure I was in "real labor" before proceeding (read: they were not going to admit me unless I continued to dilate), and perhaps I could walk around a bit to move things along. She smiled cheerfully and said she'd come check my cervix again in an hour. If I hadn't been having yet another contraction I would have slapped her.

I grudgingly put on my robe and headed out into the hospital, Mom on one side of me and Gayle on the other. My sisters were passed out in the Admitting waiting area, which was maybe 50 feet from the room I'd just vacated. I made it to the nearest waiting area chair before I had to sit down. I've read that walking is a natural inclination during labor. Not for me. For me, a natural inclination during labor is to claw through solid wood with my bear hands. I sat in the waiting area for a few contractions and then announced that I wanted to go back to the room and lie down.

When my hour was up and my cervix was checked yet again, it was announced that I'd gone from 2 to 3. Actually, I had gone from 2 to about 2 and three-quarters, but the nurse took pity on me and told Dr. Cardboard she was officially admitting me. I have never been so happy to see a wheelchair in all my life. When we arrived in the labor and delivery room, a large open space with a recliner and a pull out sofa, the clock read 4:30. I was so sleepy I was actually half nodding off between contractions, which were holding steady at 3-4 minutes apart and were becoming more difficult to tolerate by the minute. When the nurse asked if I was interested in pain relief I wanted to hug her. She immediately put the epidural process into motion, but warned me that it would take about an hour (there was bloodwork, which had to go to the lab, and other things I can't remember). My main goal in life at that point became watching the clock and saying to myself, "I can do anything for an hour." It was almost 5:30 when the anesthesiologist came in to drug me. I wanted to hug him, too.

I remember that first hour in the labor and delivery room as calm and quiet, despite my pain. The lights were turned down low, the blinds were closed, and there was a hush about everything the nurses were doing. It was extremely calming for me. My sisters were asleep on the sofa. My mom and Gayle were watchful. My nurse talked quietly to me, not too much, just enough to let me know what was happening. When the anesthesiologist came in and started the epidural I was significantly calmer than I had been in Admitting. He, too, spoke in hushed tones and explained what he was doing and what I would feel with each step. It took him less than 10 minutes to insert the catheter for the epidural, and I immediately lost feeling in my right leg. My left side was completely normal, so I was still feeling contractions on the left. The nurse explained that she could give me four additional doses of medicine, which she would do until I couldn't feel pain. She assured me that in the event I could still feel pain after four doses, she would call the anesthesiologist back. I'm happy to report that the fourth dose was the charm. Finally pain free, I curled up into my pillows and slept.

We all slept. The sun was starting to rise, and light was creeping in through the blinds. At my request, Emmylou Harris's "Wrecking Ball" was playing on the CD player. Occasionally my sister Charity would get up and examine the contraction monitor and report her findings to me. If we listened carefully we could hear the baby's heartbeat on the fetal monitor. It was a good morning, even in spite of the exhaustion and the trauma of the night before. I was surrounded by people I love, I was feeling no pain, and I was about to meet my kid. I didn't think life could get any better, but it did. The morning nurse came in and introduced herself, and then announced that she had just talked with Dr. T. and he would be coming in to deliver the baby. Dr. Cardboard would be coming by to check on me, and then I would officially be Dr. T.'s patient. I was filled with relief and gratitude. Dr. Cardboard did stop by around 7:30; he checked my cervix (6 centimeters!) and broke my water, and that was the last we saw of him.

The rest of the morning was more of the same: intermittent sleep, Emmylou Harris singing in the background, lots of cervix-checking. Each time the nurse checked my progress she called Dr. T., and then she came back to report on their conversation. She told me he wouldn't be there until I was dilated 9, but that I was in good hands until then. Indeed I was. She was a peach. Her name, in fact, was Peach. C. Peach. She looked like she had just walked out of a 1950s movie: long white hair in a bun, traditional nurse's uniform, white stockings and white shoes. She made me remember all the good things I'd heard about having a baby at this hospital.

I'm not sure what time it was when C. Peach announced that I was at 9 centimeters, but things moved very quickly after that. She left to call Dr. T., and then informed me that he was on his way. People started coming in and setting up the room for delivery. C. Peach explained what would happen when it was time to push. She told me how long I might expect to push since this was my first labor (2-3 hours). She told me that she's worked with Dr. T. lots of times, and she gave me her take on his work (in her opinion he tended to move things along too quickly instead of letting nature take its course; as it would turn out, this was a good thing).

Dr. T. arrived about 45 minutes later. It was just before 11. He apologized for not having his pager on the night before, and then insisted that I introduce him to everyone in the room, a small crowd that now included my grandmother. He checked my cervix yet again, pronounced it dilated to 10, and went to change clothes. C. Peach flipped up the leg supports, lowered the end of the bed, and gave me a crash course in pushing. Suddenly, after feeling nothing at all from the waist down for the past 6 hours, I began to feel pressure. Not pain, just pressure. C. Peach looked at the monitor and then at me and said, "Did you feel that? That means you're ready to push." She directed Mom and Gayle to their posts, and before Dr. T. had a chance to return in his scrubs we were underway.

I would love to tell you how many times I pushed, but I don't know. What I do know is this: I have never concentrated on something so intensely in my life, and still, I couldn't feel a thing, so I was not entirely sure I was actually doing anything. And then I heard C. Peach say to my mother, "Do you want to see the head? It's crowned." I could hear my sisters squealing, and my mom and Gayle laughing, but hearing those words gave me a massive infusion of adrenalin. My entire reason for being became pushing. I thought my eyeballs would pop out and fly across the room.

When the real action started C. Peach turned up the fetal monitor so she and Dr. T. could hear the baby. Her heart was strong and loud and clear--and then it wasn't. As my contractions became more intense, her heartbeat became more frenetic. A contraction would start, I would push, and her heartbeat would disappear. Once the contraction ended it would slowly recover. I panicked, but my doctor--did I mention that I love him?--he takes no chances. He explained that she was in a bit of distress, and that he was going to give her a hand--in the form of the vacuum. I didn't want him to use the vacuum, but hearing her heartbeat go silent made me reconsider. I agreed, and he told me to start pushing four times per contraction instead of three. He and C. Peach were practically cheering, my mom was counting, and my sisters were still squealing when, at 11:54 Mia emerged.

I'm sure there was noise in the room, but I heard nothing. Time stopped. Dr. T. held her in mid-air, his long left had gripping her under her arms, and suctioned her mouth and nose. I could barely take it all in--her tiny body, her little head, her mass of hair, her wide-open eyes. I managed to ask if she was okay, and she screamed her first protest in response. He assured me all was well and plopped her on my chest. Sounds suddenly returned to the room. Camera shutters clicked, the voices of my family called out, Emmylou Harris kept singing in the background, and Mia cried, and there has never been a sweeter chorus.

If I Had Known Then What I Know Now: The Story of my Daughter's Birth, Part 1

2007-01-22T15:32:00.000-05:00

There is video footage from Christmas morning of my sisters trying to bribe the baby into being born. Megan is holding up the baby's presents--two tiny tie-dyed shirts she made, a teensy pair of baby Crocs, a Lambchop doll that talks. Charity is showing the baby the dogs and the cat and pretending to pick her nose, assuring her unborn niece that she will let her eat her boogers if she so desires. In the background my mother is on the phone telling a very animated version of our Christmas Eve catastrophe: a buck appeared from out of nowhere and t-boned my mother's car with Charity at the wheel and Megan in the passenger seat, while Mom and I drove off into the darkness in my car blissfully unaware until I suddenly realized there were no longer headlights behind me at almost the exact same moment Megan called in a state of near hysteria. The deer's antlers collided with the driver's side of the car, and then it hit the car head on. No one was hurt--well, no one other than the deer, who lost the contents of his bowels on the car and then disappeared into the black night--and if we had left Mom's house 20 seconds later it would have been my car that got hit, with me at the wheel, so we were all feeling pretty good about life except for Mom, who was distressed about the damage to her new car, and, well, the deer. We waited on the side of the road for the highway patrol for over an hour; they never came so we left after being assured by the insurance company that Mom wouldn't need a police report for the repairs. We had to stop almost immediately so I could pee behind a gas station (it was closed, but I still felt safer peeing near a gas station than on the edge of the woods) because, after all, I was minutes from being 40 weeks pregnant and peeing was my life. All of this is documented on the video, along with the sounds of holiday music in the background, and the mounds of presents and pillows and blankets in the middle of my living room, and the fire crackling in the fireplace. It was a good day. Who wouldn't want to be born into such goodness?

My kid, apparently, or so I had recently begun thinking. My visit to the doctor the week before had been uneventful--no dilation, little effacement. My nightly Braxton-Hicks contractions were becoming only slightly more uncomfortable, and the baby, while in prime position for birth, was behaving in her usual manner (read: nothing different in her movements indicated that delivery was near). I was scheduled to see my doctor again on my due date, December 28th, and I was sure I would go to 42 weeks and have to be induced, and my child would be enormous and her head would go on record as the largest head ever to be attached to a newborn baby. As a teacher I've never believed in bribing kids to get them to cooperate, but on Christmas day, I was perfectly fine with bribing my own. It seemed my only hope.

I should mention that I began the last month of my pregnancy thinking I was in labor every single night. Between the nightly Braxton-Hicks extravaganza and the constant discharge, I was sure labor was imminent and my water was surely about to break, when in fact those contractions were nothing, nada, and I was just wetting myself on a regular basis. Good times. I asked several friends who have given birth, "How will I know when it's real?" They always replied, "Oh, you'll know. Trust me, you'll know." I have to tell you, in the end, I didn't know. There was nothing unusual about Christmas day to clue me in that something different was about to happen, and that night when what I believed to be Braxton-Hicks contractions started, I ignored them. I had no idea.

We had our Christmas dinner around 5. I helped Mom prepare some of the meal, and then I ate like the pig I had become in the 3rd trimester, and then I helped her put everything away. After dinner we all sprawled in front of the TV and watched "The Lake House," and when it went off we watched "Ice Age." My mom and sisters had spent Christmas Eve at my house, but they were heading home that night, right after the second movie ended. About an hour into "The Lake House" I felt that familiar crampy tightening beginning; as the movie was ending I felt it again. At the beginning of "Ice Age" it happened again, stronger this time, and I glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes later there was another one. As I have already mentioned, I completely ignored these sensations. I had been told by authorities on the subject that I WOULD KNOW when it was for real, and this couldn't possibly be real. So I allowed my mother and sisters to leave, to go back home to Virginia (a mere hour away, but still), and I didn't even mention the contractions. After all, THEY. WERE. FAKE.

Except that about 20 minutes after they left I had another one, a rather painful one, this time after I'd been up walking around, straightening up the house, and THAT, my friends, is what freaked me the hell out. My trusty pregnancy book explained that if you change positions and the contractions worsen instead of improve, you are probably in labor. So I stretched out on my bed. Bam! Then I got up and paced. Bam! I had told my mom to call me when she got home, so I decided to wait for her call; I wanted her to get there and do what she needed to do, and I knew if I called her she'd turn right around and come back. And also, my trusty pregnancy book assured me that first labors were interminably long, and if this was the real thing, it could be hours and hours and hours before anything really happened. There was no need for her to come back yet.

But just to be on the safe side, I called Gayle, who was just 30 minutes away, and explained that I might be having contractions and that I may want her to come over, and we agreed that if I had another one she would head this way. After all, how embarrassed would I be if what I was experiencing ended up being really bad gas from the mounds of food I had consumed at dinner? When I found myself doubled over in pain 15 minutes later I called her back, and she was already on her way. It was 9:55. She told me to start timing, so I made a lame attempt to calculate the times of the last two, and then I started timing for real. At 10:12 there was another contraction, followed by another at 10:22, and another at 10:31. I got a 23 minute break then, and after that a 21 minute break; after that, the longest I went between contractions was 12 minutes.

My mom called at 11 and I explained the situation. I told her I was going to try to go to bed, that I probably wouldn't need to go to the hospital until the next day, and that she should go to bed, too, and I'd call if anything changed. I actually did try to lie down. It didn't go well. I also tried walking, standing on all fours, leaning on the exercise ball--all bad. By this time it was after midnight and the contractions were between 4 and 9 minutes apart. I don't know how long each one lasted, but I was becoming frantic. Nothing I did eased the pain, and it was body-wracking pain. I was still coughing from a cold I'd had for several weeks, and the coughing seemed to make the contractions worse. All those big ideas I had about waiting until the last possible minute to have the epidural...what the HELL was I thinking? I wanted it right then and there, but thanks to my childbirth class, I was sure they wouldn't give it to me in the near future because I'd only technically been in labor for a few hours, and according to the class, that's not long enough to make any real progress. For the first time in months I was worried about myself instead of the baby. I was afraid.

Sometime between 12 and 1 I called my mom and told her to come, book and childbirth class be damned. I was in so much pain that I was dry heaving, and I NEVER throw up, ever, so I knew things were getting serious. Out of desperation I took a warm bath. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the book assured me that the warm water would be soothing, but it did nothing to ease the pain. I did manage to shave my legs and wash my hair, both comforting gestures for me, and then I went into hyper-prepare mode. It was as if my brain suddenly registered that this was really happening and I remembered everything I'd meant to do but hadn't yet done. I curled up on the bed and directed as Gayle gathered things for me. She was as calm as I was frantic. I was trying to breathe without coughing, because I seemed to have a contraction every time I coughed, but it wasn't working, so in between bringing me earrings and my shoes and the swaddler for the diaper bag and pillowcases for my pillows, she brought me a cough drop, and I found out the hard way that what they say about eating during labor is true: it's a BAD idea, even if you're just sucking a lozenge. After mere seconds I was dry heaving again, and contracting every 3-4 minutes, and losing what tiny grip I had on my composure. It was 2 when my mom called to say she was halfway to my house; Gayle told her to meet us at the hospital, and I didn't protest.

To be continued.

Something blue

2007-01-22T15:25:00.000-05:00

A few of you have asked me, "Where the hell is your birth story? Your kid is almost a month old already!" Actually, I exaggerate; those of you who have asked were very nice about it, but it IS about time, isn't it? Thus, I plan to put it in writing in the next day or so. In the meantime, I've made a few changes around here, and as I am one of those people who can't even purchase an article of clothing without consulting a number of people on the color and general look of the item in question, I am asking for feedback. Please share your honest opinions regarding anything that is garish, hard to read, or just plain ugly about my new look.

Thank you, Trista, Kristin, and Julia!

2007-01-18T19:41:00.000-05:00

Mia received this in the mail last week, and while she's worn part of it a few times already, I've just now gotten around to documenting it. I'm really disgusted with my digital camera, which seems to be capable of taking only blurry pictures indoors. While I'm sure it would perform better outside, it's a little chilly and I don't want to use up all my Bad Mommy points in the name of good photography.

Anyway...behold the cutest baby hat and scarf ever:

Still here

2007-01-09T20:08:00.000-05:00

There isn't a great deal of sleep taking place here in our Small Corner these days*, so composing anything that makes sense is out of the question right now. It doesn't help that I've had a cough/cold since mid-December and can't seem to shake it. However, I am lucid enough to post a few gratuitous photos of Mia. Please note: it's NEVER too early to encourage sound political ethics, as illustrated below.

*Don't be deceived by the photo above. It was taken during the day. Apparently sleeping during the day is in fashion for 2 week-olds. Sleeping during the night...not so much.

Mia

2006-12-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

Santa saved the best present for the day AFTER Christmas

2006-12-26T21:37:00.000-05:00

Actually, the "unwrapping" of said present started on Christmas night, but I didn't actually get to enjoy it until today. Specifically, at 11:54 a.m. today.

Her name is Mia. She weighs 6 pounds, 14 ounces, and she is 20 inches long. Her hair is amazing--you have to see it to believe it. Pictures forthcoming, along with more details.

Upon the first day...

2006-12-21T10:10:00.000-05:00

January: Have you ever had so much going on that you couldn't light on one thing to focus on (or in this case write about)?

February: It's official: I'm a Flickr whore.

March: I've been mulling over this post for several days.

April: My temperature did not go up today.

May: There was a time when I was always embarrassed.

June: Imagine a sheepish look on my face.

July: This is a story of embarrassment (those dead plants were in my house for months) made right.

August: I found my creativity! It was inside my sewing basket! Who knew?

September: School has started. I'm so thrilled.

October: Okay, so I'm behind on Photo Friday yet again.

November: Since the laptop I've been using for all of my internet access was in my classroom, I have to resort to my antique desktop, which sometimes freezes mid-sentence.

December: It is 80 degrees in my class--er, cubicle.

Theft is fun!

2006-12-20T16:47:00.000-05:00

Another STEAL THIS MEME brought to you by Calliope.

1) December is to the teaching profession as Sand is to your crack at the beach in the summer.

2) If you gave me a Dys0n vacuum cleaner I would think you were reading my secret diary (& loving you for it) but if you gave me sparkly jewelry I may wonder if you really know me at all.

3) My house is decorated with bits and pieces of everything I love.

4) All I want for Christmas is for Calliope to get knocked up. (different than #2, this is where you tell us how much you really want world peace or mandatory nudity at strip malls...)

5) Giving a loved one soap or any type of body wash is the path of least resistance where gift-giving goes, unless said relative really loves soap or body wash. I myself like soap and body wash. In fact, I would love some of that green Dove soap in my stocking. Hint.

6) What is your favorite holiday movie? "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "A Charlie Brown Christmas"

7) What is your favorite holiday food dish? My mom's cornbread dressing.

8) Who would win in a street fight? Elijah or Jesus? I'm thinking Mary would come in to break it up and kick both their butts.

9) If I hear one more holiday song I will hope that I FINALLY start feeling some holiday spirit.

10) What is your favorite moment/s of 2006? & for all of you bitters, what is (are) your least favorite moments? My favorite moment was realizing that the rythmic pokes I was feeling several times of day was actually Chickie suffering from hiccups. My most bitter moment was watching my workplace burn down.

It's always something

2006-12-20T11:11:00.000-05:00

I have been making empty promises about this post since last Wednesday. Sadly, it's already Wednesday again, almost two weeks after I originally started it, and I still may not finish it. It's chaotic at work. Have I mentioned that? At this moment I can hear the sounds of four different classes, my own not included. Two of the classes are playing music; one is reading a novel out loud; another is attempting to do student presentations. My class is playing Scrabble; they are making the least noise. If you know me at all, you will know the irony and the significance of the following statement: I would rather be in the mall on Christmas Eve than sitting here.

But that's not the point of this post.

This is:

Thirty-two weeks ago I was sitting at my desk in a near comatose state waiting for my planning period to start so I could go home and lie on my bed in a near comatose state and wait for my ultrasound appointment. I was bleeding, and I was convinced it was happening again--that the alien looking thing inside me was making its exit and I would once again be back to square one with nothing but angst and grief to show for all my attempts at pregnancy.

I tend to be one of those people who is always right. Not the annoying kind who claims to be right but isn't. I am, in fact, actually right. Except sometimes, when I'm not.* And then I'm usually only a little off. But this time, 32 weeks ago, I was as wrong as I've ever been in my life. I have never been happier to be so.

I went to my ultrasound appointment braced for the news. As it turns out, I was braced for the wrong news. When I heard the words, "There's a healthy baby in there with a heartbeat," and, "You seem to have a small subchorionic hematoma, which will bleed a little and then most likely be reabsorbed by your body," I came completely unglued. I have been a nervous wreck ever since.

I mentioned in an earlier post, which I can't seem to find right now, that I fully expected every doctor's appointment to reveal the big hoax--that mistakes had been made, reports misread, and there really wasn't a baby in there after all. The revelation never came. I developed a case of perpetual queasiness. My clothes got too small. My boobs grew. Every ultrasound showed a living being in my uterus, a little bigger and a little more mobile every time. I know it must sound ridiculous, but I continued to doubt my good fortune. The more attached I grew to the idea of actually carrying and birthing a child, the more panicked I became about the myriad of things that might go wrong. When the pings and pokes began, when I could actually feel the kid flitting around in there, I became obsessive about detecting movement and convinced myself that if I didn't feel it all the time, something horrible had happened to the baby. I kept most of this to myself, but I was a basket case most of the time.

I would love to tell you I've become one of those serene pregnant women who sits around gazing lovingly at her swollen abdomen with a haze of light emanating from her pores, absentmindedly humming lullabies and attempting to communicate with the unborn. But I can't. I'm not there yet. I am still worried about things--head size, measurements, fetal movements, fluid level (mine is on the "low end of normal"), inhaling toxic odors, that cat scratch on my thigh. It's insane, really, but there you have it. My friend Cheryl told me recently that she loved being pregnant for the first time because she was so clueless and had no idea what was going on. This line of thinking perplexes me; being clueless only adds to my paranoia. And adds and adds.

There are those who would say to me, "Oh, stop it. You have what you want. Why are you complaining?" There are those who said it to my friend Bri recently. What I want to ask those people is this: Do you KNOW what it feels like? How many babies have you lost? Do you KNOW how much the girls in this little circle have SPENT on pregnancy attempts, invasive medical procedures, drugs, sperm, therapy? Yeah, of course we're going to worry. Does that mean we're not happy? That we're ungrateful? That we're not going to enjoy pregnancy? No, not at all, but we take nothing for granted. Nothing.

There are times during every day when Chickie is twitching around, hiccupping, jabbing my side with tiny little heels and crushing my bladder with that larger-than-average head, when I am overcome with gratitude. When I go home every afternoon I head straight for the nursery, where I sit for a while in silence taking it all in, letting the day fall away, feeling my baby toss and roll under the palm of my hand. I can't wait to meet this kid, hear its cry, hold its tiny little hands and feet, stroke its arms and hair and back. But I'm not naive enough to think that all my worries will be over once I've given birth. I'm told that at that moment, the worrying has only just begun.

I would be lying if I told you I'm not elated beyond words about the possibility of having this kid in the next week. I'd also be lying if I told you I'm not worried that something could still go wrong, or that I will be totally clueless once pregnancy ends and motherhood begins. But it's the kind of worry I'm willing to accept. It's the kind of worry I wish for every single woman who wants more than anything to have a child, and for those of you who have already been blessed with a kid or two. And for those of you who don't worry--mind sharing your drug of choice with the rest of us?

*Okay. I hope you know I'm exaggerating. I'm NOT always right. I am frequently wrong. Frequently. I was kidding. Kidding!

This is just to say*

2006-12-14T09:15:00.000-05:00

I have not
gone into labor
and probably won't
until January

and my baby
will weigh 15 pounds
and have
a giant head

Forgive my silence
work is insane
so hectic
and so maddening

*I started a post last Thursday, which I plan to finish today. Meanwhile, it would make me very happy if someone correctly identified this post's extended allusion.

Brooklyn Sidewalk Caves In, Swallows Woman

2006-12-06T15:03:00.000-05:00

Um, Bri?

thirtysomething

2006-12-01T20:45:00.000-05:00

My friend Steph is compiling a list of great things about being 30 for her sister-in-law, who is apparently freaking out about her upcoming thirtieth birthday. Since most of my readership is in the 30s range, I thought I'd enlist all of you to contribute to the list. Leave your "what's great about being 30" contribution in the comments, and feel free to include more than one if you are so inclined. I'll start:

1. I no longer worry so much about looking or feeling stupid in front of others, because who really gives a crap as long as I am content with how I look or feel?

2. I no longer obsess about that weekly pumpkin cream cheese muffin or that extra handful of Peanut M&Ms, because I've developed a close enough relationship with my body to understand that moderation is acceptable.

3. I leased a car at 21, and after the lease was up I financed the car; I never managed to pay off the loan for that car. The car I bought less than three years ago will be paid off in 18 months.

4. I have grown up furniture now.

5. I am much more interested in what a person stands for than in what a person is wearing (or what size a person is wearing), and I find it to be a much healthier interest.

Your turn.

Hell?

2006-12-01T13:42:00.000-05:00

It is 80 degrees in my class--er, cubicle. 80. The temperature of early summer. The temperature of greenhouses. A temperature it should never be inside of a building occupied by humans. And humid. God, is it humid. It smells like feet, or a gerbil cage. Nice. I am not kind when I'm hot, and I. AM. HOT. Feel sorry for my 4th block class. Feel very sorry.

Stolen goods

2006-11-30T19:26:00.000-05:00

I stole this meme at Cali's urging. If you haven't already, you are welcome to steal it, too. I don't think she'd mind. She's nice that way. Be advised, those fill-in-the blank questions are HARD.

1) If somebody said you were like a breakfast cereal, which one would you be and why?

Honeycombs, because I am multi-faceted and VERY sweet.

2) How do you take your coffee/tea?

Regular coffee hot and black, but I prefer an extra-hot latte made with 2% milk.
When drinking tea I prefer Earl Grey, and I like it with half a packet of Splenda.

3) Your bedroom is on fire. You can only reach in & grab ONE thing. Do you grab your photo album or your journals?

I'm going to exercise my rights as a recent fire survivor to not answer this question.

4) When I see Peanut M&Ms and Diet Coke I wish I could inhale them so that everyone else would know what a myth my reputation as a health nut really is.

5) Got porn?

I'm WAAAAYYY too vanilla for porn.

6) If I could meet with my college roomate and explain why I think she is a coward hiding behind her religion for ceasing to be my friend I would never think about our lost friendship again.

7) What is the worst pet name in the history of your family?

Once we had a dachshund named Feller, whose nickname was Pooter. Take. Your. Pick.

Unless, of course, you are talking about pet names as in a cutesy little name you call a family member or significant other. In that case, again, take your pick: my childhood pediatrician called me Hee-Ho (sadly, it stuck); my mom's childhood nickname was BaBo; and I called (okay, sometimes still call) my Aunt Karen Kar-Kar.

8) I would eat a bowl of OATMEAL for free, but if you want me to eat a bowl of GRITS you'd have to pay me THE COST OF A BOTTLE OF ABSOLUT, which is what I'd have to drink in order to eat the grits.

9) What 80's tv star would make you giggle like a school girl?

Duh! Tom Selleck! (And yes, friends, I KNOW he's a Republican AND a member of NRA. I choose to overlook these things.)

10) What age was your best and why?

I like now the best. 32. Maybe just the 30s in general. So far, so good.

Quick update

2006-11-30T09:15:00.000-05:00

As I was assured by many of you, my baby does not have an enormous head. My doctor shared the radiologist's report with me yesterday, and everything is within completely normal range. The head measures about a week and a half ahead of the rest of the body, which the doctor said was nothing to worry about.

Thanks for all the encouraging comments.

For those of you playing along at home, I have 15 days of school remaining. If only I had the energy to do the dance of joy.

2006-11-27T10:33:00.000-05:00

Well kids, things are definitely back to normal around here. I have given my slacker 1st block class an assignment, and most of them are doing it. Two of them, however, are sitting at the back of the cubicle (okay, so some things will never be normal) talking, laughing, glancing my way to make sure I'm not paying attention to them (Hello? News Flash! I'M NOT DEAF, dumbasses!). This is just like it used to be! I'm so thrilled I could hit them hard with a blunt object, because something else that's just like it used to be is THEY ARE GETTING ON MY NERVES. They must pass my class to earn a credit toward graduation. They must past the exam in my class to become 10th graders. Of these two boys who haven't even started their work, one has been in high school for four years and has earned six credits total (you can earn up to eight per year, if you're wondering); the other is taking 9th grade English for the third time. I'm thinking that all the care in the world on my part isn't going to make a damn bit of difference on theirs. That's why I'm talking to YOU instead.

Your assignment, and you'd better do it (see above re: blunt object) is to tell me one or all of the following things about yourselves:

1. What is the most outrageous gift you'd give someone for the holidays if you had unlimited funds?

2. What is the most outrageous gift you'd WANT from someone else?

3. What is your family's weirdest holiday tradition?

Not exactly the pregnancy update I promised

2006-11-24T15:24:00.000-05:00

I went in for my weekly appointment today, and since my doctor is out of town for the holiday I saw another doctor in the practice. She told me my doctor had noted at my last visit that he wanted to "watch my height" because I was measuring "a little small." Today's measurement was apparently on the small side also, so she sent me to the hospital for an ultrasound. Naturally I freaked the hell out.

As it turns out, Chickie weighs between 5.5 and 6 lbs. Not on the small side if you ask me, but what do I know? Also, according to the U/S tech, Chickie's head is "larger than average." Given my preexisting fear that the kid will never in a million years fit through my hoo-ha, that it's simply not possible, this is not good news for me. Now, not only am I worried about the actual birth, but I'm also concerned about the size of the kid's head as it relates to potential health issues. Anybody ever hear this news at an ultrasound? Anybody want to assure me I'm not about birth Chicken Little or one of the Coneheads? Anybody with some sense and experience want to advise me on what awful (or not) condition might cause my child to have a larger than average noggin?

Please discuss.

Thanks

2006-11-22T14:46:00.000-05:00

Due to the fire, our 9th and 10th grade students missed six regular school days and the 11th and 12th graders missed three. We are, of course, being required to make those days up because everyone knows if a child receives 174 days of instruction instead of 180, he or she will be scarred for life, will fail all standardized tests for the rest of time (oh no!), and will be doomed to a life of ignorance and ineptitude. Pardon me while I pry my tongue out of my cheek.

Anyway, today is one of those make-up days. We normally have a teacher workday the day before Thanksgiving, which means we come in for an hour, sign the book, go to lunch at 9:30 and never return. But today was officially declared a regular student day for us, and since I'm not really allowed to travel to my regular holiday destinations this year, it was no big deal for me. Apparently that was not the case for most of my students. My first class, which averages 9-10 out of 15 students, had 3 students today. Out of 19 in my next class I had a group of 11, my largest class of the day. And in my last class, normally my biggest group, I marked 17 absent, which left 7. I had a quiz scheduled for today. Silly me, I actually attempted to give said quiz to the middle group. It did not go well. Have I mentioned that my classroom has no doors and a shared ceiling space? What was I thinking?

So now I am sitting at my desk staring at my seven students, who are writing thank-you notes to the PTSA, local university, and fire departments for everything they have done on our behalf in the past three weeks, and it occurs to me that I should do the same.

***

Dear Mystery Hero,

In these emotionally harrowing weeks following the loss of our school building, I've heard countless stories of loss from my colleagues. Robin lost the hand-painted wooden murals her students have added to year after year. Kim lost the laptop her husband bought her for their anniversary less than two months ago. Tina lost the scrapbook she made as a high school junior when her basketball team won the national championship. Craig, Lisa, and Charlie lost over 20 years of teaching materials. Tim's small classroom zoo--Darwin the lizard, Monty the ball python, two other snakes, the turtle, several fish--probably suffocated before the flames reached them. Numerous people lost phones, purses, wallets, checkbooks, credit cards.

I was lucky enough not to be one of those people. Sure, I regret the loss of my teaching materials and the handful of personal books, videos and CDs I kept in my classroom. I will miss the posters I collected on my trip across the country 10 years ago, and that "Reserved Parking For Joan Baez Band and Crew" sign I took from a concert last fall. I'm a little wistful about my trophies from 6 years of coaching soccer, as well as that folder full of notes from students I've collected over the past decade. But the losses that were hardest for me to stomach--the ones that would have the biggest impact on me--were my jump drive and the school laptop I've been using for the past year. Five, almost six semesters of my life were on that jump drive, and almost every digital picture I've ever taken was saved on either the jump drive or the laptop. Ditto for everything I wrote for that creative writing class I took three years ago, as well as several assignments I created for my classes. For me, those were the toughest losses.

And then there was the brass bell. Mrs. Black, my 7th and 8th grade math teacher, gave me that bell when I "graduated" from junior high. She told me she knew I'd be a teacher someday, and that I could keep that bell on my desk and use it with my own students. It sat on my desk for about one month before I got tired of every hyperactive 9th grader ringing it as they walked by, so I put it in my top drawer. It served the same purpose there, though--to remind me that someone, once upon a time, believed that I had the potential to do this job well.

You had no way of knowing any of this when you went into my room last week, even though the fire marshall and the police deparment have condemned the building and threatened arrest to anyone who enters. You could have picked up any number of things, or nothing at all, for that matter, but you looked around my room and decided to salvage a few items. One of them was the school laptop. Another was my bag, and inside was my jump drive. And the other was my brass bell. When I walked into my classroom last Friday and saw the black trash bag next to my desk containing these blackened, smoky, soggy things, I couldn't have been happier if Santa himself had walked in and handed me a new car and a million bucks.

I know I'm not really allowed to know who you are, because my knowing your identity could get you into some serious trouble. So I can't thank you personally, but I send my thanks out into the Universe and hope they reach you somehow, in some cosmic way. I'll miss those other things left behind in my room, and I'll be eternally grateful for the things that you rescued, but mostly I am thankful for your willingness to put yourself on the line for me, and for many of my colleagues who also found mysterious bags next to their desks last week. Many heroes have emerged in the past few weeks, but today, you are mine.

Apparently, normal is further away than I thought

2006-11-22T12:17:00.000-05:00

In my last post I attempted an allusion, but I royally screwed it up. Not once but twice. The word I was actually looking for was SLOUCHING. This is what I was TRYING to allude to:

Slouching Towards Bethlehem
W.B Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Stumbling** towards normal* (With minor editing)

2006-11-21T20:23:00.000-05:00

1. Note to self: a DiGiorn0 thin crust pizza comes with a very thin piece of cardboard under it. You should NOT put the pizza in the oven WITH the cardboard under it. Bad things could happen, and you are damn lucky they didn't.

2. What's all this hype about Blogger Beta? Do I want to convert? Pros and cons, please, because that little "You can't go back!" warning scares me.

3. Today is Tuesday. It's 8:29. My final paper of the semester is due next Thursday. I have most of the research and none of the writing done, and I am now on my way to bed. Pray for me. I've come too far to blow it all by not getting my paper written because I'm so worthless when I come home that I watch an hour of "Friends," eat a bunch of M&Ms, and collapse into bed wearing my glasses, a t-shirt and no pants.

4. Note to Feeny: Um, NO, the school did not purchase this magnificent laptop for me. You're funny.

5. Note to Bri: KFC's chicken/potato/cheese bowls? If Wes leaves you for eating one he can always come live with me. I have actually TURNED THE CHANNEL to avoid seeing ads for them. I can handle my food touching, but that kind of intermingling of substances is just WRONG. Sick and wrong.

6. Logic question: I usually stop at St@rbucks on Friday mornings on my way to work for a latte and a pumpkin cream cheese muffin. Tomorrow is Wednesday, but I don't have to work Thursday and Friday, so technically, tomorrow is like Friday. Therefore, shouldn't tomorrow be latte/pumpkin cream cheese muffin day? I just knew you would agree.

*Allusion, anyone?
**I meant to type "stumbling." STUMBLING Towards Normalcy.

The kindness of [people who aren't really] strangers

2006-11-21T11:32:00.000-05:00

Friday, November 10th was not one of my better days. I had spent the week in chaotic staff meetings, at other schools, or in public places with wireless internet access, desperately trying to resume some semblance of normalcy in my professional life. It wasn't going well. I was tired, and the images of what used to be my lovely classroom (I complained, yes, but I never mentioned here that my classroom was pleasant, colorful, a happy place to go even when I wasn't happy to be in the building) kept crowding my thoughts. People kept asking me if I was enjoying my time off, or what I thought about my "new" school, or if it wasn't about time for me to have that baby. I was on the verge of something--tears, a tantrum, an ass-kicking--and I was ready for something pleasant, something unrelated to school, to occur.

It did. When I arrived home that afternoon there was a package on my front step. I was afraid I had (once again) forgotten to return the "no, I don't want anything this month" slip to my book club, but when I glanced at the return address I saw a familiar handwritten name. I sat down on the floor and opened the package eagerly. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine how wonderful its contents could be. There were chocolate pretzels. Gum drops. Gummy things. Blue corn chips (my favorite!). Homemade cookies. There were cool magnets and a personalized t-shirt. There were fun handwritten things. There was music. Mostly there was sincere thought and a show of friendship I have been grateful for for many, many months but have never found the right words to express.

After hearing me refer to "one of my blog girls" recently, an in-real-life friend asked me if I actually knew any of the people whose blogs I read regularly, if I had ever met any of you. When I replied, "no," she asked me, "How can you say they are your friends, and how can you share so much about your personal life with complete strangers?" I think most people who do not have a support group like the one that exists here in these blogs would have the same question, but even if I attempted to explain it, they wouldn't understand. Many of you have said this more eloquently than I am about to say it, but there is definitley some connection here, some unique likeness that bonds us all together. I knew it without a doubt before, and after reading about the "convention" that occurred in NYC a few weeks ago, and after being a part of said convention even though I wasn't actually there, I knew it even more deeply. Not only have we basked in the safety of the written word, but we have also opened our "real" selves up for each other, put our faces and bodies and hearts out there for others to see. If that's not friendship I don't know what is.

So thank you, my friends--thanks for the goodies and momentos, and most of all, the thoughts and the peace you sent me. You'll never know how dramatically the course of my day shifted with the discovery of that box and all the goodness it contained.

Out of the fire, into the frying pan

2006-11-19T20:38:00.000-05:00

Now that I have this in my possession you'll be hearing more from me. My brain is practically exploding. Make yourselves comfortable.

I.

In 11 years as a classroom teacher, I have asked the following journal reflection question close to 70 times: "If your house was on fire and you had the chance to go back in and retrieve one item, what would you take and why?" The answers are often the same: photo albums, scrapbooks, televisions, x-boxes (remember, I teach 9th grade). But now, having watched--literally--the place where I have "lived" professionally for the last decade go up, and then down, in flames, I see the futility of attempting to answer this question.

Quickly, right now, close your eyes. Do you know what's in your desk? On it? What's hanging on your walls, resting on your book shelves, stored in your file cabinets and closets? What have you been carrying around in your purse or bag? Where are your keys? Your wallet? Your cell phone? Think about it. I'll wait.

The truth is, unless you exit the building while it is actively engulfed in flames, you really have no grasp on the possibility that you might never go back inside. You hear the fire alarm and assume you are going out for a drill, or that someone activated the alarm by mistake, and that in minutes you will be back to your daily routine. That's what you tell yourself until you actually smell and see the smoke. Then the internal monologue begins to shift. You are certain they will douse it (it looks small and contained, doesn't it?). You tell the person next to you, "The rest of the day is probably shot." When the smoke turns black and begins to billow, when threads of smoke begin pouring from the roof vents 20 feet from the actual fire, when the glass between you and the fire appears to melt like candle wax, you say aloud, "We might not be working tomorrow." When the evacuation begins and students and staff alike are being herded onto activity buses, you are silent, but inside you are trying to convince yourself that you will eventually be allowed back into the building when this is all over. You tell yourself you will start keeping your cell phone in your pocket. You try not to shake visibly.

Hours later at a friend's house, you watch on television with the rest of the general public as flames engulf the center of the building. You have given up hope of ever seeing your stuff again, and you try to block out the image of eleven years of work burning to black ash. Your car is still in the parking lot, and friends have gone back for it on your behalf. Later you'll learn that they lied their way into the parking lot and were unlocking your car doors just as the roof of the building collapsed and flames shot 100 feet into the air. You watch this happen on TV, and you are scared for them, cursing yourself for insisting that you have your car tonight.

It occurs to you that you can still check your voicemail, and you have 15 new messages. Four are from district relations, left at various times throughout the afternoon, informing you that your workplace is on fire; the rest are from worried friends and relatives telling you to call them. You want to call someone, but you can't remember any telephone numbers--they are all stored in your cell phone. You are relieved when your friends and your car return safely, and the relief you feel when you sit down behind the wheel of your own vehicle is immense. It is only then that you begin to remember certain details, like the nine-page paper that's due next week saved on the school laptop, which is sitting on your desk (that'll teach you to do things weeks ahead of time), or the jump drive containing three years of graduate work, not to mention countless digital pictures you never bothered to print. You tell yourself to focus on the task at hand--driving to Veriz0n for a new phone, since your cell is the only phone you have. Maybe they will not make you pay for a new phone. Maybe you printed a copy of that paper. Maybe your classroom is not burning after all.

In fact, it didn't. It is in one of the only parts of the building left intact, not damaged at all by the fire, maybe some water on the floor and of course, smoke, but everything inside is safe. Except for one small problem: the second floor has started to collapse and no one will be allowed in, ever again. You will be torn between relief and anger over this, and you will not sleep well for the next several nights. You will be haunted by what could have been, and you will be haunted by what is. You will not be able to stop picturing your desk, your posters and pictures, your books. You will sit glued to the television, flipping between all the local channels, watching images of your colleagues and students in front of the ubiquitous cameras. You will see your classroom window on a news broadcast, the giant Lilo and Stitch window cling you got from the movie theater still affixed to the glass. You will cry a lot, and you will feel lost, and you will, for the first time in a long time, look forward to a Monday staff meeting, the first gathering of your colleagues since the fire alarm sounded days ago.

You will not know it then, but the trouble has only just begun.

II.

It took two days for the school board to find suitable accommodations for 1,046 students, 73 teachers, and 40 cafeteria, office, and janitorial staff. At least they seemed suitable at the time. It was decided that the 11th and 12th grade students would resume classes the following Wednesday--one week after the fire--at a branch of our local community college. One week after that, the 9th and 10th graders would start the second quarter at a state-owned former school for deaf students, a campus with multiple buildings, only a few of which are currently being used by a local university. I teach 9th grade, and I was relieved to be going to a "real" school. I was present for the first day of class for juniors and seniors, and the chaos was overwhelming. Space was limited, student schedules were completely altered, the school day had been extended until 6 p.m. (students would begin their day at noon). My half of the student body surely had the better end of the deal, with only minor schedule changes and a fairly normal school day (9:15-3:55; our original day started at 8:50 and ended at 3:50).

In the days just after the fire I harbored no ill feelings toward Principal. She handled herself well, was a pillar of strength for the community, and reassured us all, through e-mail, phone calls, and news interviews, that everything would be okay. It took four days for the shine to wear off, and the return of my absolute disgust with her failings as a leader were almost comforting, so normal were they amidst the abnormality. She insisted on doing everything herself, even when there were people standing by to help her. She blatantly refused assistance with tasks she was never good at to begin with, opting instead to stay up all night and create bigger and bigger messes. By the day the juniors and seniors returned to class, she was starting meetings by telling us how much sleep she'd gotten (or not gotten), and by then we were beyond caring, because it was clear that the loss of our building was only a temporary condition. We were stuck with her for the duration.

III.

We were allowed to visit our classrooms the night before 9th and 10th graders were to resume classes. We assumed this would be an opportunity to actually set up our respective spaces, haul in the mass quantities of supplies we'd been given by the community, the school system, other schools, and the Parent/Teacher Association, and generally prepare ourselves for the arrival of our students. What were we thinking? The campus was still under renovation; workers were everywhere, furniture was being delivered, and the sounds of sawing and hammering echoed between the three buildings we were set to occupy in less than 24 hours. The superintendent was there, walking the sidewalks, halls and classrooms with Principal, stopping to make small talk with teachers and ask how we were doing. It was hard not to be honest with him, but we smiled to his face, and then we retreated to the parking lot and stood around our cars silently, trying to reconcile what we had just seen.

My classroom, which is part of what was once a large common area, has no doors and a shared ceiling. Four classrooms and a hallway were created by the installation of sheetrock; apparently, erecting the sheetrock all the way to the vaulted ceiling was against fire code. Thus, I am now attempting to conduct class in a cubicle that holds 25 people--uncomfortably. Three other teachers and I can talk with each other and never leave our desks, and the students in the room next to mine can see and have conversations with my students. There are no bells--Principal walks around the campus at class change with an air horn--and in my cube there are no windows or air vents. It is 76 degrees when I arrive, and by the final class of the day the temperature has exceeded 80.

On the bright side, there is a bathroom in my classroom, as well as a sink. We have been issued school laptops, and the network is almost up and running. The campus is beautiful, surrounded by trees and a large creek, and it is only 7 miles from my house, compared to the almost 17 I was driving before. Students and teachers alike want for nothing--books are delivered daily, supplies pour in from all over the state, and we receive constant offers of help. It is humbling to me, almost uncomfortably so, but I am grateful for the generosity. Most of all I am grateful for the one element of normalcy that not even Principal can disrupt: the students. I have most of my original students, and remarkably, we are actually going on with our school lives in spite of all that's happened. They joke with me about my "pig nose" belly button and tell me how fat I'm getting. They remember things I taught them before the fire. They ask questions, and they answer questions, and most of them do their homework. Some of them behave like humans, and some of them are jackasses, and in four days I have already sent a few to the office. This is as it was before, and as it will always be.

Yeah, a lot of things suck right now, but I'll take the frying pan over the fire any day of the week.

Next:
My "blogger convention in a box"
An update on the "stuff" in my classroom
Pregnancy updates
Cali's cool meme

I used to work there

2006-11-02T15:54:00.000-05:00

http://webcache.news-record.com/legacy/indepth/06/eastern_guilford/index.html

Since the laptop I've been using for all of my internet access was in my classroom, I have to resort to my antique desktop, which sometimes freezes mid-sentence. I can only take the slowness for so long, so until I have replaced the laptop my posts will be short and most likley infrequent.

So yesterday my school burned down. The fire alarm went off at 2:10, at the very end of the lunch period, and since we never have fire drills during lunch, the Jaded Me told my kids some knucklehead had pulled the alarm and we'd be back in just in time to start our last class of the day. When I saw the athletic director's frantic expression as he urged us to hurry, I should have gone back for my computer and phone, which at that time were only steps away. Who knew what the rest of the day held?

It started in a chemistry lab, which was empty at the time; the chemicals caught fire and went straight into the common attic, which was filled with junk and dust and such, and within 20 minutes the entire upstairs was ablaze. When the black smoke starting pouring out of the exhaust vents they evacuated the campus.

I am fine. My purse was in my car, although my cell phone, the aforementioned laptop, and my jump drive with 3 years of graduate work was in my classroom. According to my assistant principal, the hall where my room is located was the least damaged part of the building, and this morning after gathering what could be salvaged from the front office, the firemen went into classrooms and took whatever appeared to be a bag, briefcase or purse. There is a slight chance that my jump drive is safe in that bag somewhere. That's the good news (other than the obvious--that no one was hurt).

The bad news is that there really is no news. No one is quite sure where we will go. A decision is to be reached by tomorrow, and then we'll pick up and go on. Can anyone say "surreal"?

Life here is simply scintillating

2006-10-30T19:01:00.000-05:00

About 30 minutes ago I dropped a pomegranate seed. I quickly scurried to find it--I'm told pomegranate juice stains permanently--but I never did. Not inside the chair or on the floor or in my lap. It was just...gone. I was starting to think that perhaps I hadn't dropped it at all, that it had fallen into my mouth or back into the bowl. And then, a minute ago, I located the seed. It was in my bra. It's really too bad this week's Photo Friday theme isn't "E is for--." E is for Embarrassing.

~~~

Every 30 minutes or so an ant crawls across my laptop screen. My location is irrelevant--at the table, in the lounge chair, on the sofa. I haven't seen ants IN any of these places. Is it possible that there an ant colony IN MY LAPTOP?

~~~

Chapin the Cat is asking for food almost constantly these days. I typically feed him twice a day, but lately he eats most of what's in his bowl quickly and immediately starts begging for more. I only indulge him at night because I don't want him to wake me at 2 in the morning asking for a refill. As one might expect, he seems to be growing. And growing. And God, is he growing. Have I ever mentioned how huge he is to begin with? It's like one of those bad Japanese films from the 50s about nuclear experiments gone awry--anybody ever seen "Mothra"? I've got freaking Catra living in my house.

In the beginning

2006-10-27T10:25:00.000-04:00

My seventeenth charted cycle started on March 22, 2006. I was back in the game with a new donor after a four-month break, 6 failed IUIs, a miscarriage, an HSG, 2 donors, and almost of year of recording fertility data. I was starting to think it was never going to happen.

According to That Fertility Site, I ovulated on Day 12 (April 2), a Sunday, but the OPK didn't give me a positive until Sunday afternoon. My temp rose only 2 tenths of a degree on Monday, but it rose nonetheless. I was disheartened, but I manually overrode the charting software based on the OPK and called the doctor. They scheduled me for 3:00 Monday afternoon. I had a student teacher at the time, so I took a half day and went home early to wait for the appointment. I needed the downtime. I was convinced it wasn't going to work, that I'd missed the window.

My doctor was delivering a baby, so I was scheduled with the nurse practitioner. She had done my last IUI in November, and I liked her a great deal--she explained every single move she made, right down to opening the catheter, inserting the speculum, depressing the plunger. She did not hurt me, and when she was finished she made sure my cervix was not bleeding from the tenaculum. She told me my swimmers were abundant and full of energy. She was kind, and she made me laugh, and I left feeling calm and peaceful. But I was still convinced it wasn't going to work.

I spent the rest of the week in a daze, staring at my chart, staring at everyone else's charts, trying to find some small shred of hope and finding none. Nothing was different, nothing was out of the ordinary. I was financially prepared to do two more months, but I was already looking ahead to when those attempts didn't work either, and I would be back where I started, but with considerably less money. Spring break started that Friday, and I actually managed to do other things--read, watch movies, eat [lots of junk], take Suzanna for long walks around the neighborhood [in my pajamas]. I was fighting a battle with myself--feeling myself falling into that sadness of a failed cycle, but trying to convince myself to focus on something, anything, positive. Positive.

On Easter Sunday I was planning to drive to my mom's and spend the afternoon with my family. I have to confess that I didn't want to. I wanted to stay in bed and feel sad, watch "Beaches" and "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood" and "You've Got Mail" for the billionth time and lament about a seventh failed cycle. I had tested the day before (negative) and the day before that (negative), and on Sunday, 13 days past ovulation, I almost didn't bother testing again. I showered, dressed, and with time left over I thought "what the hell" and peed on a pregnancy test. And then I almost forgot about it. I got my things together and was on my way to the car when I remembered it. I walked into the bathroom and nonchalantly picked it up, fully expecting to glance at it and then throw it away. But it was positive. Positive.

Positive! So I opened a different brand--a plus/minus type. Plus! Positive. So I drove to W@lgreens and bought a digital test. Pregnant! Positive. I could. Not. Believe it. I tried to be excited, but I was terrified. I had a positive once before. It did not last. But I gathered up the digital test and put it in an Easter basket for my mom--finally, an Easter basket worthy of The Easter Basket Queen--and headed out the door.

By the time I got to my mom's a mere 45 minutes away, the "pregnant" reading on the digital test had vanished. I tried to body slam the voice that whispered "bad omen" in my ear. My family was excited by the news, but also cautious, I think. We didn't talk about it much. In fact, I hardly talked about it all all, ever. I was too busy holding my breath.

I'm still holding my breath.

Oh, all right. Friday Photo: B is for Belly

2006-10-27T10:18:00.000-04:00

Eh. You might as well know what kind of crazy you're dealing with here.

2006-10-26T12:20:00.000-04:00

It's been boring here lately. Even I am bored with my blogging, or not blogging, whatever you want to call it. It would be easy for me to tell you that I've been quiet because I've been busy with work (which is true) and graduate school (also true), but I wouldn't be telling you the whole truth, and the whole truth is something I've been struggling with lately.

Four months ago I announced my pregnancy on this blog. That announcement followed a long period of silence and short, silly nothing posts, and not much of significance has followed since. Or perhaps more accurately, not much mention of the pregnancy has followed. I know that some women resent the sudden cease in blogging when a fellow infertile or TTCer finally gets pregnant. I don't remember the blog where I read it, but I remember reading that just disappearing after you get those two pink lines is inconsiderate, a snub to your comrades who supported you through all the RE appointments, negative HPTs, painful IUIs, hormone tests, HSGs, HCG blood draws, and crack-of-dawn temp checks. On one hand I agree. But I also know that some women, the ones who are still trying, don't want to hear about every pregnant woman's expanding waistline, cravings, morning sickness, first fetal movements, baby showers, nursery preparations, doctor visits, and name deliberations. I've been racking my brain to figure out the middle ground.

Right after my miscarriage last July, I discovered that some of my favorite people were pregnant. I was immensely happy for them--and immensely sad for me. I would go days without reading their blog, and then I would spend an hour catching up, and at the end of that hour I was still both happy and sad, but life went on, and by the time the Cutest Baby in the DC Area was born, I was newly pregnant and scared shitless and happy beyond belief. I wanted to tell everyone--and no one. I was afraid that putting it out into the Universe might jinx me somehow. I still have this creeping fear, even now at this moment as I type these words with my child's foot planted firmly in my ribcage. But lately that fear, that something-could-still-go-wrong voice that nags me daily, is not why I haven't mentioned the pregnancy much.

When I was in high school I got lots of positive attention from my instructors because I was a good writer. Writing has always come easily to me, much like playing sports comes easily to some people and music comes easily to others. My friends always wanted to talk about why I got As on my papers and they got Bs and B-minuses and Cs. I avoided these talks, which made me feel bad, guilty, like being good at writing was wrong of me and I should stop it and be more like everyone else. Never mind that I got Cs in math and later almost failed college calculus AND college biology. Hell, we can't all be good at everything. But for some reason my being a good writer irritated my peers. I made it a permanent practice never to discuss papers with my classmates--I was afraid of alienation, and making friends was hard enough for me already, so I kept my grades to myself, pretended they didn't exist.

And now I find myself doing it again, except now I can't exactly slip the evidence of my success discreetly into my bag and slide out of the classroom. I'm pregnant. Eventually, if I'm lucky, there's going to be a baby. I'm going to have to talk about the kid because it's going to take up all of my time, my energy, my attention. I've been deliberately talking about other things, or talking about nothing at all, not because I'm so wrapped up in my own good fortune, but because I don't want my good fortune to pain others.

Let me stop now and say this: no one has made me feel this way. I feel this way all by myself without assistance or influence from others. It's just who I am. I worry about these things. I internalize everything. Many things are my fault (or so I say). If someone I know and care about is acting strangely, I wonder what I've done. If I don't hear from people, I start wondering if they're avoiding me. So. I've been practicing a form of self-censorship, the act of deliberately omitting subject matter in order to avoid conflict or distress from other parties. (Sad, isn't it, how work and school creep into everything?)

And all of that is a preface to this: my period of self-censorship is over. I have allowed myself to be silent about something really big and important, something I want to remember always, and I have only myself to blame. This is not going to become a pregnancy blog, but from now on I will blog about my pregnancy. I plan to go back to the beginning. I want to have a record of these months in some form other than the scribbles on my weekly planner. I realize that some of you who have been gone might come back, and some of you who have been around might drift away, and some of you will be firmly where you've been all along, right here reading whatever inspired or incredibly dull drivel I post. In the end, though, I'm doing this for me, so that I might remain here; this is, after all, a corner I created for myself, and I need it to be an honest place where I can say whatever I need to say--or not. Many of you have let it be that kind of place all along--for me, and for the countless others on this road--and to you I am eternally grateful. I'm glad to finally be catching up to your bold wisdom, your integrity, your beautiful, funny, graceful, souls (and also yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours). And also Lorem's. Thanks for the support, chicas.

Attention librarians!

2006-10-22T12:25:00.000-04:00

Or people interested in the library profession. Or people who use libraries.

I'd like your opinion on self-censorship. My focus is self-censorship in the school library media center, but any opinions about the issue in any library setting will interest me, so bring'em on.

To get you started, here are some questions for your consideration:

How do you define self-censorship?
When, if ever, is self-censorship appropriate?
What subject areas, in your experience or opinion, most often fall prey to self-censorship?
What can we as librarians do to minimize self-censorship?

Feel free to ask or address any other questions--your help is most appreciated.

It's even worse than I thought

2006-10-19T09:49:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I was on my way to a work function that started at 6 p.m. I had stopped to get a sandwich at the bagel shop in my neighborhood and found myself trying to turn left into late afternoon rush hour traffic, so I backtracked to the other side of parking lot and made a speedy right turn. It's a good feeling, isn't it, when you think you've beaten the system and come out ahead of the game? Sure it is--when it actually works.

But yesterday I found myself trapped in traffic on what I believed would be a shortcut route back to work. I could see traffic stopped in all four directions at the intersection ahead. I could see blue lights flashing. I assumed there was a horrible accident, but it was nearing 5:50 and work was still at least 20 minutes away, so I edged into the empty lane next to me and cut into the parking lot of a shopping center thinking I could avoid the pile-up by going in the opposite direction. When I got to the shopping center exit I found myself--you guessed it--trapped again. Police had the road blocked in all directions. People were out of their cars, milling around the edge of the street, snapping pictures with their camera phones. I was disgusted. Who takes pictures of an accident?

At about that time the woman sitting next to me rolled down her window and another woman, one of the people standing around, walked over to her window and said something to her. After she walked away I pulled up closer to the woman in the car next to me, rolled my window down, and gave her a "what the hell?" shrug. The woman in the car rolled her window down, looked dead at me and said, "That's your President driving by."

Yes, folks, the President was in my neighborhood yesterday. He ate at a local barbecue joint and visited a low-performing elementary school to talk about No Child Left Behind. He rode through low-income neighborhoods and waved at people. He caused 45 minute traffic jams.

But here's the best part. Right before I left home and found myself in this ridiculous mess, I stopped to chat with my neighbor. She asked me, "Did you see your President today?" I replied, "He's not MY President." We had a laugh at W's expense, and I was on my way. And then I was in the parking lot, clueless, thinking there had been a horrible wreck, and the lady next to me looked at me and said, "That's your President driving by." Two people in a 30 minute period used the possessive pronoun your to identify the President in conversation with me. Ha. I'd be concerned that I had some pro-Right Wing conservative look about me, but my neighbor and the stranger in the car have something in common that I do not share: they're black. Apparently, at least in the South, Bush is considered the white folks' President. I asked a black colleague about this today, and she confirmed it. What scares me is that generally speaking, it's probably true. So this post is part of my continued effort to bridge the gap, which I started doing yesterday in this conversation with a stranger, the one that started, "That's your President driving by."

Me: "He's not MY President!"
Stranger: (Laughing) "Honey, I know what you mean!"
Me: "Here I thought there was an accident. Now I find out it's even worse than I thought."
Stranger: "You've got that right--he's ruined my whole afternoon. I've got places to be!"
Me: "Afternoon? He's ruined the past six years for me. Why should today be any different?"

We both decided we'd vote for Barack Obama if he runs in 2008, and then the police finally let us out and we went our separate ways. People were still standing around with their camera phones at the ready, but I didn't look back, not even for a second.

Why?

2006-10-17T22:08:00.000-04:00

Why is it that when bending over is a near impossiblity, so many things I need keep falling on the ground?

My life, or, a bunch of random stuff crammed into an exploding file folder

2006-10-11T10:16:00.000-04:00

First of all, you should know that I started writing this post exactly two days and 40 minutes ago. I got as far as the title, and then I had to save it as a draft and put it aside. I know you might be thinking, "Well, you ARE at work, after all, and you SHOULD be working. You can blog from home." To you I say, "I am much more clever at work," and, "Seriously, if you saw the state of my house right now you'd know I have way bigger problems than not blogging. Like cleanliness. Or lack thereof*." But I digress.

I started writing this post, intended to be an update of the past two weeks since I haven't really written anything since the day I wanted to quit my job, but now, two days later, I cannot remember what minutiae I was going to share with you. As it stands, new minutiae has filled my head, so I will share it with you now:

It was 43 degrees outside when I left for work this morning. I LOVE it. Love the way cold air feels when I take a deep breath. Love seeing mist in the air when I exhale. Love the old photo look of early fall mornings, sort of grainy and drained of color as the leaves move from green to various shades of red, gold and orange. Love the ridiculously blue shade of an October sky. Love having an excuse to stop at St@rbucks and get an extra hot latte. Love the sudden infusion of pumpkin spice at every bakery and coffee shop in town. I will tell you come December all the things I love about approaching winter, about how it is my favorite season with its twinkle lights and peppermint and the potential of snow. Don't believe me. In fact, you shouldn't believe me now when I tell you that autumn is my favorite season. The truth is, my favorite season is the one slowly making its way into being at the moment, the one whose unique characteristics I have not encountered since this time last year. I say I don't like change, but where the seasons are concerned I count on it.

I am starting to freak out about my grad classes. More specifically, I'm freaking out about the work to be done for them. Remember those insane reference questions? We get a new set next week. And I'm supposed to be working on my 25-30 page annotated bibliography, also for reference, but I also have a term paper and a take-home essay exam to do for the collection management class. Normally I scoff at such freaking out; normally I know it will all get finished, I will manage to do it all and do it all right, even if it's at the last minute. Yeah, and normally I am not 29 weeks pregnant. Come to think of it, maybe I'm not freaking out about the right things.

I think Suzanna the Dog is going deaf. That, or she's gotten really good at selective hearing. Case in point: Last weekend I was at a friend's house in the mountains. I left Suzanna in the house and went into town for dinner, and upon returning, saw Suzanna lying on the sofa in front of the front window watching the TV I'd forgotten to turn off. I knocked on the window. And knocked. And knocked some more. She didn't even bat an eye or flick an ear. In fact, she didn't move at all until I opened the door, so either the sound of the door opening was loud enough to get her attention, or she saw it and registered a change in her situation. On Wednesday night she slept through a thunderstorm. And when I take her out at night without the leash and she wanders too far ahead of me, calling her is futile--it's like I'm not making a sound. But then she still cocks her head and perks up when I say the words "walk," "ride," or "car." Any theories?

See, minutiae. Maybe I'm not all that clever at work after all. Heh.

*Okay, my house is not really unclean, but good housekeeping is not really high on my priority list these days. I am way more concerned about food and the placement of pillows when I'm trying to go to sleep. Really, those two things take up most of my spare time at home. Seriously.

Photo Friday: Uncomfortable

2006-10-11T08:59:00.000-04:00

uncomfortable
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.

Okay, so I'm behind on Photo Friday yet again. But I knew as soon as Cali posted the theme that this would be the subject of my photo. Only pantyhose would have been more appropriate, and I stopped wearing those years ago, so I don't have any lying (or hanging) around to photograph.

Photo Friday: Windows

2006-09-30T19:13:00.000-04:00

I have always loved photographing windows. These are a few of my favorites--the first two literal windows and the third, not so much. All three were taken in Greece. The first and third photos were taken in Rhodes, the second in Mykonos. In my humble opinion they are better viewed larger; click on the pictures to see them full size at Flickr.

I hate Paris [edited for clarity]

2006-09-28T09:02:00.000-04:00

Anybody seen "French Kiss" with Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline? Remember the flight scene, where Ryan's character is smushed up against the window with a scowl on every part of her face? And she's singing her little "mantra" song, "I Love Paris," except she alters the lyrics to fit her mood?

I hate Paris in the springtime
I hate Paris in the fall
I hate Paris in the winter when it drizzles
I hate Paris in the summer when it sizzles
I hate Paris, oh why, oh why do I hate Paris
Because my love is there--with his slut girlfriend

Imagine, if you will, the look on her face while she's singing that song, and you will have a perfect visual of me today.

I hit publish before it occurred to me that some innocent reader might assume I'm in this mood because of love, Paris, or slut girlfriends, but actually I have work issues. I know you're shocked. Let's just put it this way: if my superiors were labeled, much like, say, mouth wash or cough syrup, their labels would read, "INACTIVE INGREDIENT: BRAIN."

I just don't understand why everything has to be so damn complicated. I suppose that's just one of the many signs of incompetence. If competence were a key player in anything that goes on around here, things would not be complicated or chaotic. As it is, chaos abounds, and people [read: the people making the decisions] insist on making everything a huge production. It's like picking your nose with your ring finger. Seriously, how much success is THAT going to yield?

And another thing. Is it just MY boss, or do all higher-ups consistently contradict themselves in an effort to appear to know what's going on? In the course of five minutes, you-know-who said, regarding the SAME SUBJECT, "No, that's not the way it's supposed to work, " and "That's exactly what I was just saying." The words, "Uh, no, that's not exactly what you were saying. You just said that's not the way we're supposed to do it" actually came out of my mouth. Fortunately, only the person next to me heard them.

So now that you have a better understanding of my state, I'm going to a) try to keep my rendition of "I Hate Paris" inside my head, instead of letting it escape into the Universe, and b) attempt to unscrunch my face. In the meantime, hope that in a fit of hormonal rage, fueled by discomfort and under-consumption of caffeine, I don't completely lose control of my good sense and run screaming from the building with the words, "2 week notice! 2 week notice!" escaping my lips. After all, I'm only here for the health insurance, and I don't think they'd let me keep that if I told everyone in the building to kiss my ass.

What's on your mind?

2006-09-27T12:28:00.000-04:00

Why is it that in every news photo published of her, Condi Rice looks like she's standing knee-deep in the middle of a giant vat of cow shit?

Why is it that every third person asks how you're doing when you're pregnant? These people never spoke to me before. Why now?

For those of you who have recently had kids, did you have a baby registry? If so, did people use it? I'm being "showered" this weekend, and only one item has been purchased from the registry (by my aunt, no less). What's up with that?

Why is it that some people insist on driving for as long as they can in a known turn lane during rush hour, even though they really don't want to turn, only to put their signal on in the middle of an intersection and then count on someone's goodwill (or sheer irritation) to let them in the straight lane? More to the point, why are these people allowed to drive at all? Don't they know they are a) holding up the turn lane traffic and b) posing an accident threat by parking their stupid asses in the middle of the intersection while waiting to squeeze into the traffic they should have been sitting in all along?

And why is it that in every published photo of Rosie O'Donnell, Rosie looks like she's in heavy labor, about to give birth to something really large, like Star Jones?

The One With the Gnarly Neighbor

2006-09-27T10:06:00.000-04:00

The night before my mom flew to California she stayed at my house so she could be closer to the airport, and so she could drop off her ~~favorite child~~ dachshund, Goliath, who would be spending the week with his favorite cousin Suzanna while Mom was away. Goliath is one of those perfect dogs: he's cute, he does what he's told, he doesn't chew on the furniture, he doesn't mind staying outside, and he is madly in love with you. Yes, YOU. Yes, I know you haven't met, but it doesn't matter. Mere minutes into your relationship he will sit at your feet and gaze up into your eyes, like this:

His only fault, if you can call it that, is the barking. Now, my mother lives in the city limits, but her town is in the foothills of Virginia where it's not uncommon for one's driveway to appear to go straight up into the heavens, making it seem as though your house is not really IN the city. This is precisely the situation with my mom's house. Hence, Goliath is not used to actually seeing cars pass by on a regular basis, and when a car does come near the house it means said car is most likely in the driveway and deserves to be barked at in all manners of ferocity. MY house is on a level cul-de-sac, and while there is certainly not a steady stream of traffic during the day, there are apparently a few people who come and go with regularity. And every time they came and went, Goliath barked at them. A lot.

Or so says my neighbor. I should mention that I love my neighbor. I couldn't ask for a better neighbor. She is kind and funny and friendly, but not nosy, and we have always had a mutual respect for each other's privacy, needs, and concerns. But last Monday she was waiting for me when I pulled into my driveway, and she was pissed. Apparently she was working from home on a "report" and had a "deadline" and she "simply could not concentrate for the barking." I was quite clear on these points, because five minutes into the conversation she had mentioned those three facts about 89 times. And every time I responded, "I'm sorry, but he's not staying in the house while I'm at work. He's leaving on Wednesday. I'm sorry." What I really wanted to say was, "You know, there's a Panera just up the street. They have free wireless Internet. I'm sure it would be a perfectly quiet place to work." But I was in a hurry and kept moving closer and closer to my house in an attempt to convey my disinterest in continuing the conversation. After all, there was nothing left for me to say and I did not want to grow increasingly angry at a person whose company I normally enjoy. Meanwhile, the entire time this conversation was taking place, Goliath was gazing up at my neighbor with a look of pure adoration on his face. See above. No wonder he's Mom's favorite.

The One With the Oreo Cows

2006-09-26T19:40:00.000-04:00

This episode is best seen and not read.

The Oreo Cows

Three more lost episodes

2006-09-25T19:37:00.000-04:00

Wednesday, September 13, 2006: The One With No Subject-Verb Agreement

So I'm in an all-day workshop to--ahem--learn how to teach a class I didn't want to teach in the first place, and the instructor, who is getting paid BY THE HOUR to fill our minds with knowledge, keeps saying things like, "The students needs structure," and "We has to be aware of the student we teach." No, those are not typos. Yes, I nearly had a stroke. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. This might be a good time to point out that the class I'm supposed to be learning to teach is reading. Yes, friends, a person who is instructing teachers in how to teach reading CANNOT USE SPEECH WHERE SUBJECTS AND VERBS AGREE.

Thursday, September 14, 2006: The One Where I Turn 32

Remember yesterday's episode? Today started out as a sequel--it was a two-day workshop. Not the best backdrop in the world for a birthday celebration. The second day of the workshop was worse, as I had already decided that I was not going to learn anything of use and kept trying to tune the instructor out, only to have her force us to get up and walk to the front of the room and write things on a flip chart. Good times. Both days of the workshop I had to rush home, grab my other bag, and run to class. My back ached, my eyes were crossed, and I got only one birthday card in the mail. Bah! Imagine how thrilling it was to sit for three more hours listening to talk of collection management and reference! Yep, I was a little surly.

Friday, September 15, 2006: The One With the Fancy Dinner

So by Friday I was tired, irritable, and ready for some attention (how old am I?). Gayle was planning to take me to eat somewhere to celebrate, and I had originally wanted to have lunch at a cool little bistro-cafe-market place I used to really love, but I was so surly on Friday evening that she suggested we go somewhere nice for Friday dinner. After some debate we decided on a really nice seafood restaurant in town, one I'd never been to but had often talked about trying. We didn't have the "recommended reservations" but there was space on the patio, and the air was just perfect for outdoor dining--coolish but with a warm breeze, and most important, no humidity. Maybe I was just starving. Maybe I was just starving for intelligent conversation and some birthday attention. Maybe the food was just that good. Whatever the case, dinner...was...delicious. Except for when I accidentally flung a shrimp over my shoulder and into the container garden between me and the table behind us, it was the perfect ending to a not so perfect series of days.

Reference woes

2006-09-24T12:27:00.000-04:00

As Trista suggested, here is the entire question. I'd love to say that there actually is a context, but as you can see...not so much. I have all of the other answers, and I'm 99.9% sure they are correct, which would make the person referred to in the question in red something-or-other Jones. My gut reaction was Tom Jones, but I can't find any connection. We are not allowed to use internet search engines, but out of desperation, just to find some direction, I Googled "Tom's L*ove Connection," and the only definite match I got was about Tom Arnold. I think that particular hit is just an allusion to the one I'm supposed to find, but I can't seem to zero in on it. If you refer to Tom's Love C*nnection in a comment, please replace a letter with an asterisk--I don't want any of my desperate classmates to think they've found something and end up here with yet another desperate classmate.

3. The American equivalent of the word "waistcoat" (VEST) is the last name of a prominent Virginia obstetrician (GAYLE VEST). If you substitute an "r" for the third letter of her last name and a "y" for the fourth letter, you have the name of a deceased poet (VERY), whose first name (JONES) is the same as the last name of the person in whose honor Tom’s L*ve Connection was founded. As a boy, the poet traveled to a city in Russia (KRONSTADT) with his father, who was the veteran of at least one war (WAR OF 1812). The poet was born in a city (SALEM, MA) which lies 9 mi. SSW of a town in which the first dies for making coins in this country were produced (LYNN, MA), and his last name (VERY) combined with the first name of the first wife of the 26th President of the United States (ALICE), is the same as the author of How To Use Peat Moss (ALICE VERY). Where was she born? (ALLEGHANY, PA)

Tom's L*ve Connection?

2006-09-23T22:30:00.000-04:00

Anybody have any idea what this is? It's the last hole in my reference question pit of despair. I can't find a single lead. If I at least knew what subject area to search...anybody?

Another public apology

2006-09-21T10:41:00.000-04:00

Dear K.E. Court Cul-de-Sac Neighbors:

If you happened to look out your front windows last night around 10:45 in time to see a pregnant woman wearing nothing but a too-small tie-dyed t-shirt, excessively large underwear, and a pair of black leather Mary Janes hissing obscenities at her dog, please accept my deepest apologies. I had not intended to leave the house, only to let the dog out one last time before bed, but she bolted into the street to sniff God knows what, and then she disappeared from view. I love her, but quite frankly she is too stupid to get out of the way if a car is coming, so I felt the need to retrieve her quickly. It did not occur to me until I was already in the driveway that I was not wearing pants. You see, when I am at home in the evenings I no longer wear pants because they are extremely uncomfortable, and I have not bothered to purchase maternity pajamas (hence the too-small t-shirt). This look has become quite natural for me within the confines of my home, but I'm sure it's not something you are used to seeing--if, indeed, you saw. And if you did, again, I apologize. I'll try not to let it happen again.

Yours truly,

Your neighbor in the yellow house

Tuesday, September 12: The One With the Flying Mother

2006-09-21T09:40:00.000-04:00

I mentioned last week that my middle sister moved to California to attend art school. Last Tuesday my mother flew out to help her get settled. Her flight pattern was Charlotte-Atlanta-Orange County. At least it was supposed to be.

She arrived at my house late Monday evening, as I'm about an hour closer to Charlotte than she is. Her flight was scheduled to leave at 8-something the next morning, but with all the new flight restrictions*, and considering she doesn't fly much, she wanted to get there extra early. It was a breeze--she was over an hour early and had plenty of time to relax before her flight left for Atlanta. More than plenty, as it turns out: her flight left Charlotte late, and she missed her connection in Atlanta. The rest of the day is sort of sketchy for me, but this is what I think happened based on the frantic call I received from my sister in the middle of the work day**: they booked her on another flight, but lo and behold, it was overbooked and she got bumped. Her luggage, however, did not, so it went on to Orange County without her. She was then booked on a flight to "somewhere in Utah." Since SLC is the only city I can think of in Utah right now, we're going to assume that's where she went. Her flight from SLC was to LAX, not Orange County, so the plan was that the airline would arrange shuttle service to OC once she arrived at LAX.

She was originally supposed to land in OC at 12:30 PT, but when she finally called me once my sister had collected her from the Shuttle of Death (it seems Mom doesn't care for the 12-lane 70-MPH madness of the Southern California highway system), it was almost 5:30 in Orange County and she was stressed. She claims the shuttle driver tried to kill her by not paying attention to his driving; she confessed that she actually entertained the idea of slapping him with her shuttle voucher. And my sister's boyfriend's car has no AC, so not only were they flying down Death's Highway at frightening speeds, but they were doing so in a hot car. She had to hang up because she needed to concentrate on driving. And she wasn't even the one driving.

The sequel to this episode, "The One With the Flying Mother, Part II" aired yesterday, and it was much less eventful. No missed connections, no major glitches. She landed in Charlotte at 11 and drove back to my house. Piece of cake. Well, sort of. See, we have this new road in G'boro that allows highway travelers to completely bypass G'boro altogether. If you're actually trying to get to G'boro and you're not careful you could miss the G'boro exit and end up in the next town over, which is exactly what happened to my mom when she was trying to get to my house in G'boro at 1 in the morning. She arrived eventually, and all was well, but I think it's safe to say she won't be going on any long trips any time soon.

*It seems that you're not allowed to take a bottle of Jergen's lotion on a plane these days, but pack all the personal lubricant you want. Mile High Club, anyone?

**I was already worried enough about my mother flying across the country--it's just my way to worry--but when I got my sister's message that went something like, "Call me. I have to talk to you about Mom's horrible plane experiences" I sort of freaked. A word to my family: if you are going to leave a message on my phone in the middle of the workday, please either give me more detail, or give me no detail at all. Another case in point is my mom's voicemail message on Wednesday: "H., I can't find Megan. I don't know where she is. See if you can get in touch with her. Call me." I'm not sure which category that one falls into--too much or not enough--but I sort of handled it badly.

Monday, September 11, 2006: The One Where I'm Accused of Treason

2006-09-20T22:15:00.000-04:00

So it's September 11, and I'm already miffed at CNN for rebroadcasting all of their footage from 9/11 in real time. To put it mildly, I just don't think that was necessary. Then I get to work and numerous colleagues are decked out--I mean, DECKED OUT--in red, white and blue. Long faces and sighs and sad looks abound. THEN I check my school email and learn that there will be a 10 minute 9/11 memorial presentation ON THE INTERCOM during 1st period, right before the mandatory* Pledge of Allegiance. Deep sigh.

Please don't get me wrong--9/11 was horrific, awful, hideous. You know; I don't need to tell you. But I question some 9/11 anniversary behavior in the same way I questioned some immediate post-9/11 behavior. The flag pins and bumper stickers and "remember" t-shirts...it all seemed false, a convenient way to make a buck. I know there were sincere citizens of this country who didn't know what else to do, so they put out their flags and bought bumper stickers and wore those t-shirts, but some of it just made me feel bullied and guilty, like if I didn't stick a flag on my car's rear window I was un-American.

Which brings me back to the anniversary. I made the mistake of commenting on the parade of red, white and blue, and I wondered aloud something along the lines of, "Why just today? If we are to truly honor people like Mark Bingham and the NYC firefighters and the countless innocents who died, shouldn't we remember all the time?" Two things happened. One, my friend L. patiently explained to me that "they" are afraid we've become too complacent** and we need to be reminded--hence the CNN rebroadcasts and national remembrance movements. Two, my friend E., who was, in fact, wearing red, white and blue, asked me with a sad look on her face, "Don't you like being an American?"

There, see? Treason by government standards.

But here's the thing: I agree with L.--we as Americans do tend to be complacent. We think bad shit isn't supposed to happen here. Our country was outraged on 9/11, and rightfully so, but what about what happens in other countries every day? Hell, what about what happens in this country every day? Homelessness, hunger, child abduction, murder, not to mention hurricanes, tornadoes, rock slides, earthquakes, floods. We are complacent, but mostly what that means to me is that we are not proactive enough on our own soil; we allow children to be hungry within the same city limits where buildings are razed so newer, nicer buildings can be constructed, where churches spend more money on their marble facades than they do on community outreach, and where the five bucks I spend at my local Starbucks on a muffin and a latte would feed a 1st grader a week's worth of school lunch.

Don't I like being an American? Well, it depends. If that means being a flag-carrying citizen and supporting the President and believing for one second that the War in Iraq has much at all to do with 9/11, then no, I don't. What I do like is knowing that for the most part I live a safe existence. Unlike some people on the planet, I do not have to worry about stepping on a land mine on my way to work every day, or starving to death, or being shot because I'm a woman, or a Christian, or a liberal, or an educator. I have shoes and clothes and a family and enough money to pay my bills. I have an excellent education and a stable job. The medical care I receive on a regular basis assures me that my child has a good shot at entering the world strong and healthy. These are all things most Americans feel they are entitled to--things they deserve. If this is what it means to be an American, then yes, I like being one. But all Americans do not have all of these basic "rights." What of that? And why doesn't all of this come with simply being human?

So, uh, what does all this have to do with 9/11***? Well, it bugs me when people pour energy into "remembering" something once in a while, when every day we are surrounded by people and issues that could really use that energy. It bugs me when a day meant to honor our fellow citizens turns into a day of fist-wielding and fear-mongering, all wrought with talk of revenge and triumph. It bugs me when pride is confused with prowess. It bugs me when my fellow Americans can say somebody across the ocean needs to be knocked down but cannot acknowledge that somebody across the street needs to be lifted up. Does that make me guilty of "treason?" Eh, who knows? If so I'm in good company.

*A law was passed in my state last year that in public schools, someone must recite the Pledge aloud so that students can have the opportunity to say it if they please. I interpret that to mean that if you don't please, you're within your rights to keep your seat and refrain from pledging. However, in MY school (and probably in countless others), if my principal walks by a classroom and students are not saying the Pledge, she insists that they all stand and recite. I have a MAJOR problem with this. I think it's a right, not a requirement. I'd love to hear others' thoughts on this.

**Actually, I think "they" are afraid we've become too unafraid to buy into "their" plans, so reminding us of the horrors of 9/11 via all-day footage is a way to rekindle our fear.

***One final word on 9/11: I wasn't there like some of my Internet friends. You know who you are, and you know about that day in a way I never will. While I'd never directly ask you to talk about it, I do wonder if my anniversary crankiness is colored by the fact that I was watching from a distance. If I need to be told a thing or do, please don't hesitate.

If my life were an episode of "Friends,"...

2006-09-20T10:08:00.000-04:00

...this is how the listings for the last several days would read:

Sunday, September 10, 2006: The One With No Pants

Monday, September 11, 2006: The One Where I'm Accused of Treason

Tuesday, September 12, 2006: The One With the Flying Mother

Wednesday, September 13, 2006: The One With No Subject-Verb Agreement

Thursday, September 14, 2006: The One Where I Turn 32

Friday, September 15, 2006: The One With the Fancy Dinner

Saturday, September 16, 2006: The One With the Oreo Cows

Sunday, September 17, 2006: The One Where I Consider Dropping Out of Grad School

Monday, September 18, 2006: The One With the Gnarly Neighbor

Tuesday, September 19, 2006: The One With the Near Death Experience

If you'd like to know more about a specific episode, please comment and say so.

Please stay tuned

2006-09-17T12:47:00.000-04:00

I have a lot to say today, but currently I am beating back the urge to blog in an effort to smack down procrastination, as I must spend my early afternoon on this:

"Exam 1
September 13, 2006

Question: After viewing and participating in the Collection Policies class session, think about all the information presented PRECEDING this presentation, and discuss how it all impacts the development of collection policies.

DO NOT discuss the format or contents of the policies.

You are to discuss how the concepts and processes, presented in previous class sessions and discussions, affect the development of collection policies.

Make sure you do not exceed 5 double-spaced pages, maximum."

And also a set of reference questions, one of which is:

1. A major political figure in Texas from 1938 to 1948 known as “Pass the Biscuits Pappy” (of “Light Crust Doughboys” fame) was born in another state that was also birthplace to a famous woman who was president of the first women’s club. Her last name is the same as the former president of a group dedicated to saving a particular species of mammals, and her first name is the same as the daughter of the 26th President of the United States for whom a color was named. She is the subject of a biography written by a woman who edited a column for the American Library Association. Her home state’s leading livestock product is also the last name of a quite famous woman, daughter of a prominent politician, known for philanthropy in Texas at the turn of the century, whose name caused gales of hilarity. What was her name?

I'll be with you when I'm either finished or have quit graduate school altogether and made the inevitable decision to become a Starb*cks barista with a ridiculously large but incomplete store of knowledge about the library/media sciences.

Public apology

2006-09-13T16:26:00.000-04:00

Dear Megan,

When you finally recover your cell phone and listen to your messages, please disregard the one from me. You see, when I got the message from Mom that said, "I can't find Megan. She's not answering her phone. I can't get in touch with [her boyfriend] either. Have you heard from her? Call me," I panicked. She was, of course, calling from California, and some quick math told me she had called me at 7 a.m. Pacific time, so I assumed the worst. The last time I talked with you, you were on your way to Boyfriend's apartment to watch the Redskins game; that was two days ago. All kinds of thoughts went through my head. You know how I am. So please don't be upset by my tone. I was in a workshop that was being led by an incompetent presenter with no command whatsover of subject-verb agreement, so my mood was already sullied. And really, I would never actually drive up there and kick your ass. That was just a...a figure of speech. Yes. So, uh, sorry about that message, and I'm glad you're okay. Oh, and give me a call. At your convenience, of course--no rush!

Love,

Your Sister

Procrastination

2006-09-10T14:14:00.000-04:00

I can't even remember if I've mentioned that I'm taking two graduate courses this semester. It was all part of The Plan That Wasn't To Be: I was going to be working in a school media center, which was going to limit my constant contact with kids, which was going to limit my exhaustion; I was going to be filled with second trimester energy; I was going to get these two time-consuming classes out of the way while I was pregnant, rather than try to take one in the spring once Chickie is here. The reality of the situation is this: I'm still in the classroom, teenagers are life-sucking organisms, and by the time I get home I want to eat and go to bed by 7; on Sundays when I should be working on class stuff, I am lying around in a big t-shirt and my underwear watching Magnum repeats and taped Ellen episodes; and now I've discovered that one of the required courses for my degree is being offered in the spring and won't be offered again for two years, so I'll be taking a class once the Chickie arrives after all. I should really be on campus at the library, but they require pants there. So I'm pretending to be productive; after all, if you saw someone sitting around with a laptop typing madly you'd assume she was doing something important...right?

~~~

Tomorrow is September 11, as if any of you needed reminding. That's why this post over at Life is Sweet, Baby struck such a chord. I'm not sure I'll even watch TV tomorrow, and God, I shudder at the papers, the images that will once again be plastered all over the internet, the comments from drama-seeking colleagues and kids who are parroting their parents. Don't get me wrong--my head isn't in the sand--but is there someone out there who doesn't remember? Is there someone who actually needs to see a real-time re-broadcast of news footage from 9/11 in order to be reminded of the horror? Is it just Lorem and me, or is someone trying to perpetuate a nation's fears by "honoring" 9/11?

~~~

I'd like to publicly harass my sister over at Torching Time, Talking Rhymes. She hasn't posted since May 5. When I gave her a hard time a few months ago I was brutally reminded of my own lapsed blogging, but I've gotten better. Megan, just so we know, Summertiiime is almost over; Autumn begins in about two weeks. And we've all fully celebrated El Cinco de Mayo. Also, you are no longer at home with the slow computer, and certainly you have stories to tell from your first two weeks back on campus.

~~~

Speaking of sisters, my middle sister is on her way to California where she will live and attend art school for the next two years. It's still a little surreal for me, but every time she calls from another westward location it grows a little more concrete. I'm really proud of her--it takes a lot of cajones to pick up and move 2000 miles from home in pursuit of a dream. I think she should start her own blog. Hint hint. Hint.

~~~

I know there hasn't been much talk of pregnancy on this blog, but I thought I should at least let you know that things are moving along on the right track, with lots of emphasis on the "moving." My abdomen seems to have a life of its own now; objects placed on or close to its surface will be challenged from within. I've reached the conclusion that I'm either carrying the Incredible Hulk or a descendent of Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance. Below, submitted for your approval, is a photo taken of me yesterday at 24 weeks, 2 days. Don't worry, I'm wearing pants.

Note: when I uploaded this picture to Flickr and then looked at it I was horrified to see what appeared to be stretch marks all over my stomach. I have no stretch marks. Sure, my navel looks like the tied end of an inflated balloon, but ZERO stretch marks. I can only assume that the wavy quality of this picture is a result of its having been snapped with a camera phone.

71 days 'til Christmas vacation

2006-09-01T10:02:00.000-04:00

School has started. I'm so thrilled. Stomp on your foot, kick you in the crotch, spit on your neck thrilled. You might recall that this is not where I thought I'd be this year. I fully believe the Universe has a script for me, but I have not yet received it, and I'm mad about it in the same way Kim Cattrall was mad when she never got an advance copy of the "Sex and the City" movie script and decided she just wouldn't be involved, thanks, thereby killing all hope of a "Sex and the City" movie. Except I'm not bailing on my movie. I have too much going for me now, and besides, Kim Cattrall could afford to blow off a "Sex and the City" movie and I can't afford to blow off the Universe's plans for me, whatever they are, and I'm afraid I've gotten a bit off topic. Where was I?

School has started.

I count it as a miracle to be sitting here at work sending these words out into the blogiverse, as just last week both Blogger and Flickr were blocked by the school system's filters. Perhaps some creative and enterprising teacher convinced the powers that be that these programs can offer our students a creative outlet. Who knows, and quite frankly, who cares? I'm just happy that at moments like this I can sit down and talk to my peeps in the computer.

For those of you who don't know me personally, I've been teaching 9th grade English for 10 years. By year 11 you would think I might finally be reaping some of the rewards of the profession (a full slate of honors classes, for example). You'd be wrong. I am teaching Strategic Reading and a regular 9th grade class that is made up of children who have failed the state English I test one or more times. That's the class who's with me now. Of the 16 students enrolled in the class, there are eight males and eight females. Two of the females are white; two are black; the other four are Hispanic. There are six black males, one Hispanic, and one Asian (Vietnamese). Four of the boys are known gang members. One of the white girls has a house arrest bracelet on her ankle. This is my best class. They are respectful; they get their work done; they get my jokes. It goes downhill after they leave.

The reading classes I am teaching were designed for students who scored level I on the 8th grade reading test (level I basically means 5th grade reading level or below). Given what I've told you about my current school's er, leader, it should not surprise you that there are students in my reading classes who read on a 2nd grade reading level, and there are students in my classes who read on a 10th grade reading level, and then there are scores of them who fall in between. I must confess, I am an old school thinker when it comes to heterogeneous grouping; in spite of what the research says, I think homogeneous grouping lends itself to the most effective instruction. Heterogeneous groups that are too varied are disciplinary disasters waiting to happen. Trust me. Yesterday was Day 5, and already I had to have an administrator take two of my students to the office. Good times.

Today has been a bit better, but the more I learn about my reading students, the more I long to work somewhere else. Like a landfill. Several of my students, at the ripe old age of 14, are active gang members. One of them had to be tasered last year. About seven of them were socially promoted from 7th to 9th grade last year. A quarter of them are likely drug users; over half probably smoke. They were born the year I started high school, which means that many of their parents are probably my age. It's a scary place, high school.

The good news: I got a raise this year. Woo boy, that extra 35 bucks will really come in handy. I'm thinking bullet proof vest, maternity size medium. Anybody know where I can get me one of those?

2006-08-31T10:13:00.000-04:00

I am at work, and I am logged into Blogger. This was impossible just a few days ago, but for some reason I managed access. I'm not questioning my good fortune. I think maybe the Universe opened up the portal for me so I could say this: if you haven't already, go send some peace and light to my friend Bri. She could use some cosmic blogger love.

Happy Birthday...

2006-08-28T21:13:00.000-04:00

...to the coolest 19 year-old sister a girl could have!

Friday Photo: Music

2006-08-27T14:16:00.000-04:00

The very best way to enjoy music is at an outdoor music festival.

Seen here is my friend Tret Fure playing her fine music at the Yahara Street Festival in Madison, WI. The Yahara Street Festival is a small neighborhood event; I was in Madison for Tret's Tomboygirl Festival, and my pals and I were lucky enough to attend the Yahara Street Festival the next afternoon.

This was taken at the Shakori Hills Festival of Music and Dance. On the left is Jim Lauderdale, and on the right is Bill Reynolds of Donna the Buffalo. The energy of this concert--of the entire festival, in fact--is the reason I love live music.

Public Service Announcement

2006-08-24T21:24:00.000-04:00

The lid on a previously opened carton of Edy*s D*bs is not--I repeat: NOT--tight-fitting. Therefore, flinging open the freezer door to grab and eat said D*bs might create an unsettling motion in the freezer, thereby causing the carton to topple, in which case the lid WILL COME OFF and your precious D*bs will scatter all over the kitchen floor, inevitably landing in places such as the cat's bowl and just far enough under the stove to elude your reach. BEWARE!

So...

2006-08-24T20:52:00.000-04:00

...if Pluto is no longer a planet, what will become of that little mnemonic device we learned in school (hi Joy!) to help us remember the order of the planets? You know--My Very Energetic Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas. What now?

My Very Energetic Mother Just Served Us...Nothing?

Alphabet soup (Meme the Third)

2006-08-23T21:24:00.000-04:00

Shamelessly stolen from Lorem.

A is for Age: Thirty-one (at least for the next few weeks)
B is for booze of choice: Corona with lime...oh, how I miss it.
C is for Career: English teacher
D is for Dog: Suzanna
E is essential items you use/love everyday: Burt's Bees lip balm, the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser, my body pillow.
F is for favorite song of the moment: "Stupid Girls" by Pink
G is for favorite games: Soccer, Scrabble
H is for hometown: Beckley, WV
I is for instruments you play: I play my stereo. Does that count?
J is for jam or jelly you like: Blackberry
K is for kids: Chickie, Kid-in-Training
L is for last kiss: my cat's little pink nose
M is for most admired trait: In myself? Resourcefulness. In others? Nerve.
N is for name of your crush: I *heart* Tom Selleck!
O is for overnight hospital stays: I had the croup when I was 2 or 3. I got to sleep in a transparent tent and color the sheets with crayons.
P is for phobias: Spiders and camelback crickets, looking or sounding stupid, tornadoes.
Q is for quotes you like: "An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth leaves the whole world hungry and blind."--John McCutcheon
R is for biggest regret: "Regrets are just lessons we haven't learned yet."--Beth Orton.
S is for sweets of your choice: Swiss Cake Rolls, Edy's Dibs (mint!)
T is for time you wake up: When I have to--6:00; when I want to--around 10.
U is for underwear: Comfy cotton
V is for vegetables you love: Carrots, zucchini, tomatoes
W is for worst habit: Buying things I don't really need; worrying about the inevitable or the uncontrollable.
X is for x-rays you've had: My teeth, my left pinkie toe, my uterus, and if MRIs count, my head.
Y is for yummy food you make: I make excellent pineapple salsa, mashed potatoes, and omelettes.
Z is for zodiac: Virgo

By the book (Meme the Second)

2006-08-20T19:54:00.000-04:00

1. One book that changed your life? Hmmm...one? Well, I've talked about Kingsolver's The Bean Trees here and here; it bears mentioning again. Neely Tucker's Love in the Driest Season made me realize how charmed my life has been (it also gets mention here). Most recently, Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love made me think very deeply about spirituality and surviving turmoil. It's definitely one I'd read again. Which brings us to...

2. One book you have read more than once? I've read The Bean Trees numerous times. I reread the entire Harry Potter series every 18 months-2 years.

3. One book you would want on a desert island? If I were stranded on a desert island tomorrow I'd want the latter two books mentioned in question 8, as that might be the only way I'd ever complete either of them.

4. One book that made you laugh?Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. I read it on a flight to a conference a few years ago; we were descending to land so I couldn't get out of my seat, and something she said struck me as so hiliarious I laughed until I almost--literally--wet myself.

5. One book that made you cry? As it doesn't really take much, most of them. However, I cried through most of Love in the Driest Season.

6. One book you wish had been written? I'd like to answer this hopefully and futuristically. I would like for Barbara Kingsolver to write another novel. C'mon, woman, it's been long enough!

7. One book you wish had never been written? The Book of Ruth by Jane Hamilton. Seriously, I'm sorry I read it. It still haunts me.

8. One book you are currently reading? For pleasure, Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions. Not so pleasureable--Developing Library and Information Center Collections and Introduction to Reference Work, Vol. I.

9. One book you have been meaning to read? I could most accurately answer this question by photographing various flat surfaces about my bedroom. Instead, I'll go with something Gayle has been trying to get me to read for, oh, ten years, Watership Down.

10. Now tag five people: I'll say the obligatory, "do it if you want to." Unless you are my sister, she who has not blogged since early May, in which case you have no choice.

Friday Photo: 1958 (paternal), 1959 (maternal)

2006-08-20T12:53:00.000-04:00

This was taken in Beckley, WV in December 1958. My dad was five; Mary was three; Palley was around four months.

This was taken a few months later, in San Diego. My mom was four, Karen was five, and Jeff was a little over a year.

I never met my dad's father--he died in a coal mine when my dad was 15. My mom's dad and I were very close; he died of complications from kidney failure when I was 15. These are my favorite pictures because I feel like I'm getting a glimpse into a time I wasn't a part of, but will always be a part of me.

It finally happened

2006-08-18T17:53:00.000-04:00

I can no longer access blogs--yours or mine--from work. Let the mourning begin.

Meme, or shameless gesture on Trista's behalf because she's wondering where the hell my mix CD is (Meme the First)

2006-08-17T21:54:00.001-04:00

Thanks to Trista for tagging me to do this very cool "mix tape" questionnaire.

What songs would you have on your personal "meaningful mix" CD?

1) A favorite political track: Times, They are a-Changin' by Bob Dylan and Dear Mr. President by Pink.
2) One of those tracks that make you dance on the dance floor no matter what: Weapon of Choice by Fatboy Slim.
3) The song youÂd use to tell someone you love them: I Love You by Daniel Lanois and Emmylou Harris. I know, how original.
4) A song that has made you sit down and analyze its lyrics: After All by Dar Williams, and not because I didn't "get" the lyrics--I was just so blown away by the imagery that I wanted to look at it line by line like a poem.
5) A song that you like, that a two year old would like as well: Mambo Craze by DePhazz. But to steal Bri's idea of the iMovie of my kid, I'd have to say Thea Gilmore's cover of Crazy Love. Listen to it and tell me you don't see images of a baby.
6) A song that gives you an energy boost: Galileo by the Indigo Girls and This Train by Tret Fure.
7) A song that you and your grandparents (would probably) like: Keep on the Sunny Side by June Carter Cash.
8) A song that you really liked when you were 14-16, and still really like now: Friends in Low Places by Garth Brooks.
9) A sad song that would be in the soundtrack of the movie about your life: Sweet Old World by Emmylou Harris or Ghost by the Indigo Girls.
10) A peppy song that would start the opening credits of the movie about your life: Wide Open Spaces by The Dixie Chicks
11) A good song from a genre of music that no one would guess that you liked: Walk in Jerusalem by Mahalia Jackson.
12) A song that you think should have been playing when you were born: Close to You by the Carpenters. Heh.
13) A favorite artist duo collaboration: Creepin' In by Dolly Parton and Norah Jones
14) A favorite song that you completely disagree with (politically, morally, commonsenically, religiously, etc.): This was the hardest one. I'm still not sure I have an answer. I'm going to go with Right Thurr by Chingy, because Ellen dances to it all the time on her show and I love the beat, but how can I like a song with the word "thurr" in the title?
15) The song that you like despite the fact your IQ level drops several points every time you listen to it: Oops, I Did it Again by Britney Spears (I blame the Will & Grace soundtrack).
16) Your smooth song, for relaxing: Almost every single track of Emmylou Harris's Wrecking Ball.
17) A song you would send to someone you hate or are mad at: I dream of sending my college roommate/ex-best friend Patty Larkin's 24/7/365.
18) A favorite track from an outfit considered a Âsuper-groupÂ: Is Queen a "super group"? If so, then You're My Best Friend.
19) A song that makes you reminisce about good times with a family member: Drivin' My Life Away by Eddie Rabbit. My grandfather liked this song. In fact, any country song that was on the radio during the early 80s makes me think of him.
20) Your favorite song at this moment in time: Toss up between Educated Guess and Bliss Like This, both by Ani DiFranco, and Stupid Girls by Pink.

[Last] Friday Photo: At least my spices have a decent rack

2006-08-17T09:42:00.000-04:00

spices
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.

During the brief time I actually subscribed to R*eal S*mple magazine--you know the one with those ideas that are supposed to make your life easier...if only you had TIME to try them...--I came across this idea. My spices were old, mostly in bottles, and crammed into a cabinet where I could hardly reach them. When I saw this, which is actually a set of watchmaker's tins with tiny computer labels on the glass lids, I tossed the expired bottles, bought a bunch of fresh herbs and spices, and voila! The only thing crammed into the back of that inaccessbile cabinet now is the airtight container that houses all the extra "fresh" stuff. I have two of these, and they take up almost no space because they are flat, so I can put smaller everyday things on top of them and not make a total mess every time I use a pinch of something from the tin.

As for my fine trunk, well, my hairdresser is still in there. I'm waiting for my cousin Louie to come dispose of the body. Kidding. I kid. Or do I?

Let this be a warning to you

2006-08-10T21:28:00.000-04:00

My hairdresser called me "Chunky" today, as in, "Hey Chunky, what's up?" I stabbed him with his own scissors and hid him under the picnic blanket I keep in the hatch of my Matrix.

I thought the hormones eventually achieved some sort of balance

2006-08-08T20:10:00.000-04:00

There is a "Gilmore Girls" promo that's been running endlessly on the Warner Brothers station that shows Lorelei and Rory hugging. Rory says, "I love you, Mom," and Lorelei says, "Kid, you have no idea." I dissolve into tears every time I see it; I had to bite my tongue while I typed that last sentence. Want to hear the worst part? I don't even watch "Gilmore Girls." I had to Google the show in order to find out the characters' names. It's just that the "maternal moment" in that 10 second clip reduces me to a glob of mushy mommy goo, and even though I see the commercial coming and I know that clip is approaching, I can't stop myself. Seriously, shouldn't I be beyond these hormonal meltdowns by now?

The photo formerly known as Friday

2006-08-08T13:34:00.000-04:00

I found my creativity! It was inside my sewing basket! Who knew?

I have been feverishly sewing away on these since early last week:

I'm not a very good seamstress, but I am resourceful, so I make a lot of things up as I go. I also make a lot of mistakes. The first curtain panel took me a total of 9 hours over three days; the second took me 3 hours in a single afternoon. The purple dress is a "big sister" present for my god-daughter, whose world is about to be completely turned on its side by the impending arrival of Baby Matthew. Purple is Kate's favorite color, and I thought she might appreciate a gift more than Matt will on his official birth day. The dress also took about 3 hours start-to-finish, but again, mistakes were made. I'm already prepping the next few dresses with those mistakes in mind, so hopefully my 3 hours will be better spent this time around.

Step 1

2006-07-26T13:38:00.000-04:00

Hi. My name is HD, and I have writer's block.

There, I said it. I thought you should know, as I have been promising my version of wit and creativity for, well, the entire summer. No doubt you've noticed it just isn't happening. I find it strange indeed that my creative juices flow more smoothly during the school year when I am a self-proclaimed maniac. Perhaps that's the key, a possibility I am loathe to consider, what with all the complaining I do about my job. If I'm a better writer, a more creative being, while swimming in the miasma of public education, what of my dream of someday working from home as a writer? What on earth would I accomplish, given the singular lack of creativity I've experienced this summer? Of course, I could once again blame pregnancy, but I don't think that's fair to Chickie*, considering pregnancy alone provides endless topics to explore through writing. No, I'm afraid the problem is me.

You could argue that I simply allow myself to slip out of the habit during the summer--that practice is the key--and you'd most likely be right. When I found out I was pregnant I basically stopped blogging regularly; that, coupled with the fear that something might go wrong with my pregnancy, did a number on my writing habit. When I think back to the most productive writing I've ever done, there was always writing practice involved--daily, or at least weekly, idea gathering, journaling, and stream-of-consciousness freewriting. Before my god-daughter was born, P. and I used to meet at a local deli every week to write. We'd eat and chat, catch up on the week before, and then sit for an hour in blissful silence with our pens moving across the blank page. Now she's getting ready to deliver kid #2, and I'm not far behind her, and I can't help but wonder how the writer in me will handle motherhood. Who knows--it might be just what my brain needs to raise the bar. Time will tell.

In the meantime, given my hypothesis that my job is good for my writing, I should be quite witty and productive this fall, as I will still be working for Principal in my same old position. I mentioned a while back that I'd been offered a new job by a principal I very much wanted to work for, but thanks to a new policy in my school system, no post-transfer period transfers are being approved, even in cases where both the releasing principal and the hiring principal agree to the transfer. All current employees who wish to transfer must do so during the transfer period, January 3-March 31; after that, you basically have to either leave the system or resign and reapply if you want a new job in this system. The job I was offered became available in May, right around the time this new policy was put into effect. I checked the vacancy list religiously during the transfer period last spring and no school library positions were available then, and unfortunately, the move from classroom teacher to school librarian is a transfer, not a promotion, so the seven (count 'em: 7!) middle and high school library jobs that opened up in May were unavailable to me. Yes, it does suck, and yes, I am drafting a letter to the director of personnel.

So that's where I am these days. It isn't that there's nothing interesting to talk about...more like my battery is low and I need a jump start. So during those times when you hear nothing from me, it's because I'm looking at other blogs, reading the entries from Trista's Scheherazade Project, devouring novels and poetry, and trying to reconnect with the creative part of my brain. I'm sure I can manage it. After all, I've admitted that I have a problem. Now I have my work cut out for me.

*Chickie is the in-utero name of my unborn child, because I found out I was pregnant on Easter Sunday, not to mention the whole egg connection. I'm mentioning it for the first time here, and I'll be 18 weeks pregnant tomorrow. Kid isn't even born yet, and already I'm neglecting it.

Of small brains and big boobs*

2006-07-24T18:59:00.000-04:00

First of all, my most sincere apologies for alluding to that horrible song** again in the title of my last post. I don't know why, but every time I am remotely reminded of it, it lodges itself in my brain where it stays until something else moves into its place. It's as if I no longer have control of my thoughts--yet another brain malfunction I'm blaming on pregnancy. Add it to the rapidly growing list that includes, but is not limited to, forgetting what I was about to say, forgetting what I was saying in the middle of saying it, and putting pantry things in the fridge and fridge things in the pantry. Today I actually went a step further and attempted to put towels in the pantry, and this was just seconds after I put washcloths and hand towels in their correct spot in the linen closet. Apparently, the larger things on my body become, the more rapidly my brain shrinks.

Which brings me to a topic I don't discuss much: my boobs. Why discuss something that, for the most part, does not exist? I have mentioned here before that my sisters and I basically halved my mother's boob gene: Megan got half, and Charity and I got the other half to split. When I was younger I thought this was grossly unfair and longed for a real bra size; but eventually I found that I was happy with things the way they were. I've always been somewhere between an "A" and a "Nearly B," which has allowed me to get away with wearing insignificant bras, or none at all. But thanks to pregnancy, those days are over.

Now I'm not sure what size I wear, but things have definitely changed. When I was 9, 10, 11 weeks pregnant I wasn't paying any attention to my boobs. I was looking at my belly, which had always been very flat and was suddenly developing a round shape. And then one evening I went out to dinner with my aunt and uncle, and my Aunt K. announced loudly in the middle of the restaurant parking lot, "You have boobs now!" That was in mid-June. In early July I went swimming with some friends, and when I arrived at the pool my pal Lisa, who actually calls me HD in real life, exclaimed, "HD! Look at your boobs!" The following week I went to the beach with my mom. I was standing in front of her putting on sunscreen and noticed her staring at my chest. I gave her a questioning look, and she said, "Do you think your boobs are bigger, especially at the top?" And the week after that my friend MJ from work brought me lunch while my carpet was being installed, and her first words upon seeing me were, "You're showing now, and you have boobs!"

There is an episode of "Designing Women," one of my all time favorite shows, in which the Annie Potts character decides to get a boob job. Her doctor gives her several "test" boobs to try on so she can decide which size will best fit her tiny frame and board-flat chest, and she is astounded to discover the attention she receives when she wears them out in public. At one point she says rather emphatically, "THESE THINGS ARE POWER!" She eventually decides not to have the surgery because all the fuss is too much and she doesn't like the energy she's expending to manage her potential new size. I have to agree with her. I had no idea that what essentially amounts to FAT warrants so much attention. I don't remember getting these kinds of comments when my feet grew rapidly from a size 7 to a size 9, or when my butt expanded from a size 4 to a size 6. Seriously, what's the big deal about boobs?

*Blogger's spellchecker doesn't recognize the word "boobs," but it does suggest "boobies" as an alternative. And also, "bob's," "babes," "bibs," and "beefs."

**If you don't know what song I'm referring to, good for you. You're better off not knowing. You'll sleep more soundly if you just pretend you never read that sentence and move on with your life.

It's hard out here for a geek

2006-07-23T12:01:00.000-04:00

As promised, each day of my vacation I sent a picture a day from cell phone to blog for your viewing enjoyment. Before I left, in true geek fashion, I merged the initial mobile blog and my current blog and then I did a test send before I left to make sure it worked. Satisfied that it had indeed worked, I snapped away at the beach, sure that my pictures were making their way to you. They weren't. So much for being a geek at the beach.

Don't worry. You didn't miss much as far as the cell phone pictures go. I took some with a real camera that are far superior. Unfortunately, I'm too exhausted to do anything with them right now. Stay tuned.

Geek on the move

2006-07-17T15:08:00.000-04:00

I have just discovered Mobile Blogging and have decided to attempt to share tidbits of this week's beach vacation with you. I know you are all breathing a sigh of relief now. Look for grainy bad cell phone pictures from the South Carolina coast.

To sleep, perchance to dream (about cereal in the closet and giving birth to kittens)

2006-07-17T13:02:00.000-04:00

Those of you ahead of me in the motherhood journey will no doubt assure me that sleeping discomfort at almost 17 weeks is nothing compared to the discomfort I will encounter at 37, or even 27 weeks. Fine, whatever, I believe you. But--and I'm NOT complaining, just making an observation--the hours between 11 p.m. and 8 a.m. are not my best time of day. Oh, who am I kidding? More like the hours between 11 and 4, because there's not much sleep taking place once that magic hour arrives. Why, you ask? Beats me. It's not like I'm battling a giant belly, just a small bump, and the multiple trips to the bathroom were commonplace before. I just can't get comfortable, and when I do sleep, I wake up suddenly between 4 and 5. I never slept on my back before, but now I can imagine no more comfortable position than that, and we all know that's a no-no. I always slept on my side before, but mainly my right side, and I read recently that even that is a health risk for the baby. My doctor told me I could sleep on my stomach if I used lots of pillows, but that's never been comfortable to me, and it has to be said that my ever-growing bazooms make it even less comfy now. More on that later. That leaves the left side. In yoga practice we are told that lying on the left side puts unnecessary pressure on the heart. In pregnancy we are told that lying on the back and right side does the same. If I lie on my stomach I have dreams of squashing my unborn child. Seriously, what's left? Headstand?

And speaking of dreams, while pregnancy makes a large number of your brain cells inoperable during waking hours*, it certainly fills your head with interesting things during those few precious hours of fretful sleep. For example, I had a dream about the baby a few weeks ago. I think it was a boy, but I never got to find out, because it very quickly turned into a kitten. And last night my dreams were filled with cereal. Breakfast cereal. In my closet. Specifically, Cap'n Crunch Red Berries, Lucky Charms, Cocoa Krispies and Rice Krispies. I found them all there, stuffed down into one huge box, and began eating them dry by the handful. Perhaps I was hungry during the night? Note to self: eat a snack before bed.

I know I promised you tales of carpet installation and the crazy adventure my mom and I had at the beach, but in just a little while I'm heading back to the beach for what will certainly be another crazy adventure, this time with my mom AND my sisters. In the meantime, I'm taking a notebook so I won't forget all the things I want to write about when I return. Here's a preview:

boobs
my teenager theory
my mom's man theory
my job situation

Wishing you all beach thoughts and endless pitchers of margaritas (hey, somebody should enjoy the wonder that is tequila!).

*Gayle asked me last week after a particularly inane statement had escaped my lips, "Is the baby pressing on your brain?"

We interrupt this period of silence and inactivity

2006-07-11T09:58:00.000-04:00

While I'd love to fill you in on any number of scintillating topics (the impending installation of my new carpet, for example, and how I will consequently be trapped on the screened porch all day with my housecat, some granola bars, and two CDs; or the brief beach trip I took last week with my mom involving a slowly deflating air mattress, disgusting accommodations, a large basket of porn magazines, and what I was sure was going to be the Apocalypse), I am, in fact, going to be trapped on my screened porch all day (see above), my house full of strange men touching my stuff, and I just don't think I can give these and other subjects the attention they deserve. I will most likely use up all of my energy today resisting the urge to follow the carpet installers around in an effort to see how they can possibly install carpet in a house full of furniture.

For those of you following along who might be wondering why I'm having new carpet installed in a house I've been talking about selling, I decided one major life change per year was enough, thanks, so there will no property exchange taking place here any time soon. And if the mention of CDs above made those of you in the CD mix club go "hmmm," you should know that the two CDs I have here with me on the screened porch are indeed the master copies of the CDs I made for all of you, and no, I haven't copied them yet, and yes, I am a big slacker.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my second breakfast (laugh all you want, I'm blaming the kid!).

Friday Photo: Miss Suzanna, In the Driveway, With a Water Hose

2006-07-03T09:44:00.000-04:00

bath
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.

Friday Photo: Before and After

2006-07-03T09:43:00.000-04:00

Before and After
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.

This is a story of embarrassment (those dead plants were in my house for months) made right.

Slow day at the ranch

2006-06-29T10:27:00.000-04:00

I don't think I'm mentioned on this blog lately how much I adore Tom Selleck. Seriously, how cute is he? And sweet? And funny? I'm planning to spend the rest of the summer on his ranch in Northern California. I could be a convincing rancher, right? I'll let you know how it goes.

Actually, I'll probably just order this.

Can you tell there's not a lot going on around here this week?

Friday Photo: Rainbows

2006-06-23T09:46:00.002-04:00

Even though my mother always freaks out a little when she sees this picture--she says it reminds her of "The Ring," which I have thankfully never seen--it's one of my favorites, and a perfect tribute to rainbows and love and such. Suzanna is the sweetest, most patient dog I've ever known. She is always happy to see me, and most everyone else, for that matter. She welcomes strange animals (Chapin, for instance, and later Harry) into her domain. She would rather play with the gnawed remains of her hedgehog toy than the most expensive item on the shelf at PetCo. She allows herself to be subjected to a number of uncomfortable actions and seems to believe me when I say they are good for her: Q-tips in her ears, nasty tasting medicine, baths at the grooming salon, baths in the front yard under the water hose, eye drops, nail clippers. She will get up from her already warm spot on the floor and follow me three feet across the room if I decide I'd rather sit on the couch than in the chair, so long as she's touching me (or the blanket I'm covered up with). She smiles, teeth and all, when she sees people she loves. Suzanna has been with me my whole adult life. No matter what comes out of me come December, she will always be my first baby. There is no better dog than Suzanna.

If you're interested, this picture looks much better in its original size.

Summer Solstice, advice needed, and a bunch of other random bits of my enthralling existence

2006-06-22T10:20:00.000-04:00

Happy Summer Solstice. Yes, I know, Solstice was yesterday, but I was celebrating and did not spend much time on the computer. Actually, that is a lie. I forgot that yesterday was Solstice because I had no idea what day it was--as far as I'm concerned, the first sign that summer is truly underway. I was out running some errands and noticed a sign announcing the Summer Solstice Celebration at the Arboretum, so I called up my friend Linda, who happened to be available (another sign that summer is truly underway: spontaneity), and we joined what must have been at least a thousand other people at one of our city's most beautiful parks to ring in Summer. Linda had radical back surgery in January and rotator cuff correction two weeks ago, so we mostly stayed put and let the drummers and dancers come to us, although I did walk the length of the park to see what else was happening. Okay, that's also a lie. I was looking for the bathroom, as pregnancy for me is, at this point, one long series of trips to the ladies' room, but I did get to see the festival in its entirety on my journey. I also ran into some friends--first Joy and then Molly--and proceeded to run into them again and again throughout the rest of the evening. Linda and I also ran into some kids we'd both taught--J. and C.--and they spent most of the night with us. It was a great evening, and it reminded me that I don't take enough advantage of my city, its parks and culture and special events. Note to self: one cannot spend an entire summer in one's ~~lounge pants and a tank top~~ pajamas on one's screened porch ogling the birds, rabbits and chipmunks.

The highlight of the night was the Fire Dance. I attempted to photograph other things throughout the evening: dancers and drummers, fairies, goddesses, cute little kids with face paint and angel wings, but I wasn't using my flash and the twilight was a little too filtered to capture much more than a series of blurs. Not so with the Fire Dance. I played around with settings and finally settled on manual continuous exposure, which I think was a good decision considering the results. I'll let you be the judge:

Fire Dance slideshow

***

I could really use some advice from all you dog people out there. Here's the situation: Suzanna has an ear infection, which is, I have no doubt, a result of her flea allergy. She is on flea prevention treatment--Frontl*ne--but she's been scratching miserably, just like she does when she gets bitten by a flea. So yesterday when I picked up her heartworm medicine I asked the vet on duty at the Animal Wellness Center how exactly Frontl*ne works--does it repel fleas, or does the flea have to bite the dog in order to die or be repelled. Much to my dismay, the latter is true. I tried to explain that this is not a viable option for Suzanna due to her allergy. The vet's response: "Well, you could always use a flea spray on your carpet." Eh? Is that supposed to keep fleas from biting my dog who lives outside during the day?

I have not always used Frontl*ne. For years I used Advant*ge, and it seemed to work--no fleas, no itching, no red ears and belly. The Wellness Center recently stopped selling Advant*ge and switched to Frontl*ne because it was "a better product." I assumed it worked the same way, as the application process was the same, but apparently I was wrong. Now my poor dog is miserable. I think we have conquered the ear infection with an antibiotic that smells like hair permanent solution and must taste horrible, but she swallows it right down, and with positive results so far. But it obviously does not do anything about her flea allergy, or her fleas for that matter, and I'm at a loss. The vet told me the other topical products were all the same, that the fleas had to bite to be affected, so buying anything else was pointless. I'm not sure I believe her.

That's where you come in. I need flea and allergy advice, stat. Suzanna is quite patient, but I can tell she's uncomfortable. I am willing to try whatever you suggest. And if anyone is interested in two tubes of Frontl*ne for dogs 26-50 lbs., email me your address and I'll send them to you--they are of no use to me.

***

In other news...

...I will never shop at my local S*ears again. On Tuesday afternoon I saw, on the shiny concrete floor of America's oldest department store, the biggest cockroach I've ever seen in my entire life. Seriously, it looked like The Bug from "Men in Black." I abandoned my purchase and left immediately, because what if this mutant creature had deposited offspring in the pockets of the shorts I was going to buy? It was crawling toward the tool section when I fled; I think it was planning to make off with a nail gun and some tires. Watch your back.

...and speaking of bugs, I was nestled in my bed last night, all ready to flip on the TV and fall asleep before the intro theme music to "Will and Grace" finished playing, and that's when I spied the spider on my ceiling. We've all been there. First we rationalize: well, as long as it stays there it's fine. Then we think: but what if it does move? What if it falls? On me? While I am sleeping? And bites me? Then we are wide awake, so immediate action is our only hope for sleep. I have vaulted ceilings, and the spider was, of course, at the very highest peak, so I fetched the retractable ceiling fan duster from the linen closet, an object I had used just a few days before to kill a wasp in the skylight in my kitchen. If you've ever tried to squash a spider with what is basically the handle of a 10 foot-long feather duster, you know it's hard to achieve just the right hand-eye-handle coordination. The spider eluded me. Then it started crawling down the wall. Toward me. I ran for the obligatory massive wad of paper towels (so the spider wouldn't touch me, of course), and struck and flushed the intruder in a matter of seconds.

You should know I'm not usually this squeamish and girly about bugs, but there's a place for bugs, and that place is not inside of S*ars or my bedroom.

***

And finally...I have finished my mix CDs for the Crazy Mixed Up CD Group. I'm listening to the final cut as I type this, and I think it's safe to declare the CD ready for distribution. Look for it in a mailbox near you early next week.

Friday-ish Photo: Summer Food

2006-06-17T15:43:00.000-04:00

Blackberry milkshake 1
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.

Blackberries are second to vine-ripened tomatoes on my list of favorite summer foods. They're usually not ripe and ready for eating until July, but last weekend at the farmer's market I found some big beautiful ones from coastal NC, and I could hardly contain my excitement. I bought vanilla ice cream especially for those blackberries, and this is the YUMMY end result.

Revelation

2006-06-17T11:55:00.000-04:00

I'm not really sure where to begin this LONG overdue post. I thought by the time I finally got up the nerve to write what I'm about to write, I'd be happy and relaxed and comfortable with "going public." But I'm not. I'm shaking. My heart is beating fast. I feel like I should go get my fertility necklace and my prayer bead bracelets and my Venus of Willendorf and clutch them to me. This is not how I imagined sharing this news with the people who read this blog. But here it is. I'm pregnant. I have been for 12 weeks now. You're probably wondering why I've held out on you, so I'll get right to it.

1. Sheer terror. If you have suffered loss of any kind you most likely understand this phenomenon. You are looking at the positive pregnancy tests and expecting the very worst. You are afraid to call your doctor. You cannot eat on the day of the first beta, or any of them for that matter. And God forbid there be blood. Blood at 7 weeks was the end for me. I called my doctor's office that morning and then walked around in a stupor all day until my 2:00 appointment, where they showed me a bean-sized baby with a giant beating heart--and a subchorionic hemorrhage. I cried so much I don't even remember much of what should have been the magical first ultrasound. I have only just recently stopped looking for blood--and that is an exaggeration. I only suffered one miscarriage--a very early one, at that--and still, sometimes I think this is all a dream, that it's too good to be true, that the next time I go to the doctor the ultrasound tech is going to look at me and say, "Oh, well, it looks like we made a mistake. There's no baby in there after all." So yeah. Every time I thought, "okay, today I'm telling my fellow bloggers," some heinous fear kept me from it. Today, though, I decided to kick fear's ass. I don't want to spend the next six months battling this kind of worry, at least not without support from my friends in the computer.

2. And then there was worry of a different kind. I've been struggling with it for weeks, but yesterday Bri said it. That pretty much sums it up. Basically, I've been waiting for Bri and Calliope to get knocked up. I know there are lots more of us in the fertility trenches, but when I joined Fertility Friend a year ago, they too had just joined, had just started the fertility journey. I could relate to so much of what they were going through. In my mind I had this little fantasy that we'd all get pregnant at the same time and share symptoms and stories, and eventually we'd compare notes about our kids. Realistically this is not impossible. I remember how it felt to find out that my best friend was pregnant on the very day I started my period after my sixth failed IUI. I had decided that day to take yet another break; she told me she was pregnant that night. She had that same little picture in her head--that we'd both be pregnant at the same time. As it turns out, we are. I think Bri and Cali and I will all be pregnant at the same time, too. But selfishly I don't want them to "secretly hate me" for being pregnant first, or to stop reading my blog. I can only hope that doesn't happen, but that's not my biggest hope. My biggest hope is that they'll both be announcing their pregnancies soon, too, because that's what's meant to be, I am positively certain of it.

I want to make it clear that I didn't practically stop blogging the past several weeks because of all this pregnancy stuff. I was telling the truth about the madness that is the end of a school year. I think I have school "washed off of me" now, and the world is starting to look interesting again. I'm starting to relax a little. I'm having ideas and original thoughts for the first time since spring break. I think I can safely say I'm back into a groove that involves taking pictures and writing and blogging. I hope you'll all still be around.

The one where I grovel and assure you all I'm still alive

2006-06-08T11:13:00.000-04:00

Imagine a sheepish look on my face. Imagine, even, that I'm on my knees, humbly bowed in an act of contrition. Even better, imagine this:

There's a scene in the movie "Forget Paris" where Debra Winger is trying to free a pigeon that has somehow managed to get itself stuck on one of those adhesive rodent traps. Have you seen it? The movie as a whole is not that great, but it's worth watching just for this scene. She approaches slowly and tries to pull one of its little pigeon feet out of the glue, but if you've ever gotten your fingers stuck in a fly tape you know it's impossible to get near one of those things without getting stuck in it yourself. Anyway, to make a long story short, the pigeon starts freaking out and flapping its wings, which are still quite free; the trap, now hanging in midair below the pigeon, gets stuck in Debra Winger's hair. The sequence of scenes that follows is made up of her trying to get out of her apartment and drive to the veterinarian's office with a mad pigeon stuck to the side of her head.

That's been me for the past three weeks. More or less.

I hate to use this tired excuse again, but it really is this time of year. Last year I went from April 14 until May 25 without blogging. Of course, there were two people reading my blog then. There are more of you now. You noticed, and I appreciate it. You should know that I've actually opened the "new post" page in Blogger about 6 times in the past two weeks; once I even typed a title. But at the end of the day other things took all of my time and energy, and I ended up closing the page and hoping there would be time for blogging another day.

Don't think I haven't blogged because I've had nothing to talk about. Au contraire. Sadly, I've forgotten most of it. Here are a few things that remain in the miasma that is my brain at the end of the school year:

1. I feel pretty guilty about missing the last, what, 4 Photo Fridays, but when I get home I am pretty much a zombie (with a pigeon stuck to my head), and by the time I start feeling like a human again it's Sunday night.

2. I also feel horribly guilty for not yet sending out my Crazy Mixed Up mix CD. I have a tentative song list, the blank CDs, the mailers, the computer with which to burn the CDs. It's like a box cake that hasn't been mixed and baked yet.

3. I have been offered a new job. (I'm whispering because I don't want to jinx it.) The principal--we'll call her Principal Divine--wants to hire me. I very much want to work for her. Right now it's in the hands of central office personnel, who could drop a big fat NO in my lap at any moment. Or they could hit me with a YES. Please, pray or chant or sacrifice or burn something or meditate--whatever it is you do. I really want this position; mostly I really want NOT to be in my CURRENT position. I'm counting on your good vibes.

The good news is, today is the last student day. It's not even a "real" school day, just a catch up day for anyone who missed an exam or needs to make up unexcused absences. I had four students 1st period; there's one kid in the room with me now. The halls, of course, are full of gypsies and wanderers looking to make trouble, but there are probably only about 100 kids in the building, so I'm calling it a day. I don't think I could have made it another moment. The next three days are workdays, but I can handle those. By next Wednesday I'll be free to cut the pigeon out of my hair, allow my brain to recover, and do fun things like blog and take pictures. Until then, don't give up on me.

Exploring more of life's important questions

2006-05-19T12:33:00.000-04:00

Why is it that on the day of a scheduled haircut, your hair always turns out PERFECT, leaving you with major second thoughts about the haircut?

Exploring life's important questions

2006-05-16T09:24:00.000-04:00

Why aren't there old cafeteria men?

Edited to clarify: You know, in schools. With hair nets and rubber hospital gloves. Why?

Friday Photo: Travel

2006-05-13T12:39:00.000-04:00

A few of my favorites...

St. Mark's, Venice

Mykonos, Greece

Niagara Falls, Canada

Tucson, Arizona

Q&A, Volume 6

2006-05-11T12:34:00.000-04:00

If you could live anywhere where would that be & why?

London. I have a hard time explaining why, though. There just aren't words to describe my love and longing for this place, for the sound and smell of the Underground, the confidence I discovered as I navigated the busy streets, the thrill of walking Portabello Road market or Regent's Park. It's been 12 years since I lived there and six since my last visit, and there's still not a day that passes that I'm not homesick for London.

If you could only eat one thing for breakfast, one thing for lunch & one thing for dinner - for a month- what would that be?

Easy, as this is pretty much the case with me anyway.

Breakfast: a Zone Perfect fudge graham protein bar and a bottle of water.

Lunch: a plain bagel with cream cheese; a carton of peach soy yogurt; a small bag of baby carrots; a dill pickle; and a bottle of water.

Dinner: a bowl of campanelle pasta with butter and Parmesan cheese and a chicken breast with steamed broccoli or carrots; bread and butter; strawberries; and a bottle of water.

If you could create a fabulous summer music festival where would you have it & who would perform?

I have actually fantasized about this before. My dream job is to own a small music hall (like The Birchmere in Alexandria, VA or The Cat's Cradle in Carrboro, NC). With that in mind, my music festival would be small--only one stage, because I would want to be able to hear all of the musicians and not have to make difficult decisions. I would have it in the field behind my house a la Woodstock, because it's all about me, of course, so I would be able to walk to the festival and get the best seat. Festival visitors could park in all the cul-de-sacs in my neighborhood. The performers could hang out in my house in between sets, and I would invite local restaurants like H*rsey's BBQ and El*zabeth's Pizza to set up shop in my yard.

The festival would last for two days, maybe three, and musicians would play full sets, not hourlongs like most festivals. The musicians, in no particular order, would be:

Tret Fure
Jack Johnson
John McCutcheon
Donna the Buffalo and Jim Lauderdale
Joan Baez
Mary Chapin Carpenter
The Indigo Girls
Dar Williams
Patty Larkin
Ubaka Hill
Willie Nelson
Josh Ritter
Girlyman
Gillian Welch and David Rawlings
The Mosquitos
Erin McKeown
Bela Fleck and the Flecktones
Johnny and June Carter Cash (hey, it's a FANTASY!)

Okay, clearly it would last THREE days.

You have a dream of yourself in ten years. Describe it.

I am 41. I have been in public education for 20 years, the last 10 in the school library, and I am considering early retirement so I can get to work on my second career, which involves one, a combination, or all of the following: photography, writing, music (other people's) and travel. My child (sometimes I see a girl, sometimes a boy) is 9, and we are excited because as soon as school is out we are going to London to visit Aunt Megan, who moved there a few months ago to work for a British publishing house; and then to California to visit Aunt Charity and witness the opening of her second art studio. Ma Gayle, Nonna, and KarKar are going with us. I have just finished building my dream house on Oak Hollow Lake, and every morning I watch the sun rise over the water, latte and Zone bar in hand. We're having a party Memorial Day weekend, and when I close my eyes I can see clearly the faces of everyone I love gathered there in my home, smiling, laughing, dreaming right along with me.

This post brought to you by Cali.

Q&A, Volume 5

2006-05-08T19:44:00.000-04:00

What do you think about the new immigration laws the government is trying to put into effect? What do you think that will do to your classes as a teacher?

I get my news from two sources: the AOL startpage and NPR. And sometimes not NPR, depending on whether or not I'm addicted to some CD. That being said, I don't know as much about these laws as I should. I have mixed feelings about what I do know, so I'm not going to address this question.

Instead, I would like to talk about how there are now only 21 school days remaining. I know I keep mentioning this, but sadly, it's just about the only thing I can think about. There's room in my brain for little else. I grow less patient with my students by the day. I've started speaking to colleagues through clenched teeth. I find myself wondering if anyone would miss me if I crawled under my desk. But don't worry, I'm only like this during the month of May. Come June I'll be back to my old self. I'll have original thoughts and clever ideas. Meanwhile I'm still here (read: under a quilt on the couch watching "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns), and there's light at the end of the tunnel.

Am I your favorite student ever? Why or why not.

No.*

To repeat a question, what ARE you doing this summer? Are you working somewhere and if yes, where? Are you going to hang out with me?

This summer I plan to lie around in my pool** and eat banana popcicles and read. As for working, are you kidding? Have you ever known me to work during the summer? Ha. Haha. Unless you consider cutting the grass and planting things and transporting books from the library to my screened porch, HECK NO. No work for me. If you are interested in any of these activities then sure, I'll hang out with you.

*See, now this is the kind of answer I normally get to these kinds of questions. No one EVER answers the "why or why not" part. But I have already answered this question. See?

**I buy an inflatable baby pool every summer and set it up on my deck. There is no cozier place to read. I know you can't wait to see a picture of that!

This post brought to you by Feeny.

Random

2006-05-02T21:18:00.000-04:00

1. Have you heard about the 33 year-old Malaysian man who married a 104 year-old woman yesterday? If you're thinking it was for money, think again. According to this article, they married out of mutual love and respect. It's the first marriage for the husband, but Granny's been around the block--21 times!

2. I have new neighbors, and while they seem nice enough, their big black dog is a pain in the ass. They have absolutely no control over it, so it runs around and makes in all the neighboring yards while Neighbor Woman stands on the sidewalk in her shorty shorts and bare feet and yells at it. The dog's name is Stella. Come to think of it, maybe it's not the dog that annoys me after all. It's the constant screaming of the dog's name. "Stella! STELLA! STELLLLAAAAAA!!!" It's like I live next door to Marlon Brando!

3. My birdies have babies. In fact, the Little Brown Wren babies have already left home. The Chickadee babies are still living with their parents, and they are so loud I can hear them as I type this, loud and clear through a glass window and a closed storm door. Poor Mom and Dad Chickadee are literally bringing food into the birdhouse constantly. One will fly in with a bug as the other flies out. I don't know how many babies are in there, but based on the sound and the feeding schedule, I'm guessing 30.

4. Katie--oops, er--Kate Holmes. Wonder what it is Tom has washed her brain with.

5. In case anyone is wondering, there are 27 school days remaining. Read: I will have to resist committing violent crime just 27 more times.

6. Have you noticed the new Word Verification feature on Blogger? There's a little "handicapped" symbol, and if you click it a voice reads a series of numbers for you to type instead of the letter jumble.

7. My cat is asleep in the recliner on his back with his enormous Bugs Bunny feet straight up in the air and his front paws curled up under his chin. His head is hanging off the edge of the chair. He is the cutest cat ever to walk the earth, and I would photograph him for proof, but then he might move, so you'll have to use your imagination.

Q&A, Volume 4

2006-05-02T18:25:00.000-04:00

Most embarrassing moments make good blog fodder, if you have enough perspective.

There was a time when I was always embarrassed. I was painfully shy as a child; talking was embarrassing. Then I became a teacher. Nothing fazes me now. Nothing.

How about telling us about the time you almost chucked one of your students out the window when they...

During my first year I tried to be very serious, very stern all of the time. I had not yet developed a comfort zone in which I as teacher could talk and laugh with the students as humans AND teach them at the same time. But a kid named Gary shot all of this to hell. He was an average student in an honors 9th grade English class, and he was very chatty, so he sat front and center. I had a small table at the front of the room where I often sat to conduct class. Gary was maybe three feet away from me; I could have reached out and...smacked him. One day after the class had been doing some group work I sat on my table with my hand raised (my signal for order) and waited for everyone to settle and get quiet. It took several minutes. Finally the room was silent. I was irritated and they could tell. You could have heard a pin drop. Gary, from his seat right under my nose, where he sat with his hands folded looking for all the world like a picture of obedience and dedication, chose that moment to look up at me and giggle like the Pillsbury Doughboy. "Hee hee." I lost all composure. I laughed. The kids laughed, tentatively at first, and then when they realized I wasn't mad they lost it, too.

My favorite part of my job is talking with kids, playing with their minds and engaging them in intellectual battles. I find it's not that hard to balance that with teaching, that the two are not really so different. I often think of that moment when Gary channeled the Pillsbury Doughboy, and I'm glad I laughed. If I'd chucked him out the window, which really was my first thought, I might have turned out to be a different teacher.

What's your perfect moment? It doesn't have to have actually happened, it can be your dream of a perfect moment. Who is there? Where are you?

My perfect moment is seeing my child for the first time. Or will be. I'll revisit this one someday.

How about the worst vacation story you can muster. Could be yours, could be someone else's. Always better if it's yours though.

A Story of The Great Salt Lake
For Trista

Picture it: Nevada, July 1997. My best friend Paula and I are on a 21-day journey across the United States, and Salt Lake City is our respite stop before camping excursions at Lake Powell and the Grand Canyon. We have been driving for several days already, and we are tired. We have been eating lots of peanut butter crackers and Slim Jims. We need to do laundry. Lucky for us, Paula's oldest brother Joel was living in SLC at the time, and he invited us to stay with him and his washer/dryer for a few days. It was grand. We slept late and washed clothes. I think we even cooked a real meal. By our second day in SLC we were feeling up to a day trip, so we consulted the AAA books and decided to spend the afternoon at Antelope Island State Park on the Great Salkt Lake.

We packed a picnic lunch, slathered ourselves with sunblock, tossed some beach towels in the back seat, and hit the road. I should have known something was not right when, upon crossing the threshold of the bridge that connected Antelope Island to the "mainland," a smell worse than the worst dog fart infiltrated the car. We'd been riding with the windows down, of course, basking in the warm breeze, so the stench filled the car quite quickly. Rolling the windows up didn't help, either...just made us feel more enveloped by the smell. Neither of us spoke (perhaps we were afraid of tasting the smell?) but I'm sure Paula was thinking, as I was, "What the HELL?" I'm not sure if the smell actually faded, or if we just got used to it, but we were buoyed by the sight of the beautiful blue lake. It's really quite something, all white sand and water for miles. We were pumped. A day at the beach!

We got our stuff out of the car and headed for the shore. Both of us were wearing sandals (hello? it's the beach? wouldn't you be wearing sandals?). This turned out to be a grave error. Let me first explain that the beaches in the Eastern United States are packed sand beaches. Sure, there's a stretch of soft sinking sand near the dunes , but once you get past it you're on solid ground. This is where we'd come from, what we were expecting. Alas, the entire stretch of sand at Antelope Island was powder. Beautiful white powder. Beautiful white powder baking, blazing beneath the fiery sun in July. I think the temperature was 100 that day, but the sand must have been 150. And if you've ever walked in soft sand you know that once you sink there's no recovery. The sand is inside your shoes, and you are inside the sand, and when that sand is just a small chemical reaction away from being a wine goblet, your exposed skin begins to melt. Okay, blister. Same difference.

By the time we made it to sand that was ever so slightly firm and had hurled our towels down so we could dive to safety, we were both in shock. We both just stared dumbly at the water for a while, and then Paula suggested that we cool off. Yes. Great. Let's. We headed for the water, practically tip-toeing to avoid the Sand of Fire, and waded into one of the world's most famous bodies of water. Someone later told us the stench we encountered driving in was the result of dead animals who had attempted to drink the water and had perished in the process. Apparently drinking salt water does not do a body good. Unless of course you are a brine fly.

The Brine Fly, according to my research, is predatory but does not prey on humans. This is a dirty lie. This noxious creature, which skims the surface of the water in search of food, produces the worst insect bite known to mankind. And thanks to their abundant population, they do quite a bit a damage in quite a short span of time. Don't believe me? Look at the picture below. Note the lovely horizon, the purple mountain majesty in the background, the wispy white clouds in the azure sky. Now look at the water's edge. See it? That wide black band? Think it's a shadow? Think again. That there is bugs.

After less than five minutes in the water we simultaneously plodded to our beach towels (no words needed to be spoken), gathered our stuff, and walked to the car. We were blazing hot. Our feet were blistered. Our legs were covered with little red welts. Just before I got into the car and turned around and shot this picture. We drove back to Joel's apartment in silence, rubbed Sting Ease all over our legs, and sat on Joel's deck overlooking the city. We never spoke of the Great Salt Lake again.

The end.

This post brought to you by Sharon.

Friday Photo: Reflections

2006-04-29T16:42:00.000-04:00

I took both of these pictures in London in 1994. My interest in photography began there. I've always been very proud of these pictures.

Q&A, Volume 3

2006-04-27T09:56:00.000-04:00

What's your favorite color?
I always say my favorite color is blue, but that's not really true. My favorite color is color. I love the green of early spring, when the leaves are so small individually that you really can't call them leaves, but all together up there against the blue sky they are a brilliant shade that seems to glow sunlight. I love the silver taupe color of Chapin's belly fur. It looks like art strokes from someone's paintbrush. I love the color my toes turn when I have a tan. The produce section of a good grocery store makes me giddy. I am a whore for 10-pack colored Sharpies and Crayola crayons. When I was four I stole two handfuls of loose buttons from Jo-Ann Fabrics because the combination of their cool hard roundness in my hands and their bright primary colors was so beautiful that I couldn't bear to leave the store without them. (I had to take them back, of course, but shortly after this incident my grandmother started keeping her buttons in a cookie tin, to which I had full access. It was way better than theft.)

You've never taken drugs. Why not? Would you, if you knew that your safety would be guaranteed and/or no one ever told? When I was in high school I didn't do drugs because I was just plain afraid, and I didn't hang out with people who did drugs. When I was in college I didn't do drugs because I was afraid of losing control. I knew people who smoked pot, but again, I didn't really hang out with the drug crowd. Now I would never do drugs because I teach high school students and I see the effects of drug abuse every day. I teach kids whose parents were users during pregnancy, and I teach kids who are so addicted to any number of substances that their only thought is where they're going to get their next gram of whatever. It's not pretty. So no, not even with all those guarantees.

What book has touched you the deepest in your life?
Most recently, Love in the Driest Season by Neely Tucker. I purchased a copy for myself, and the day after I finished reading it I purchased five more. I gave them to five people and told them to read the book and share, or read it and return it to me. The ones that come back to me get passed right along to someone else. I just gave a copy to a colleague this morning. If you're interested, buy a copy or email me your address, and when one comes back to me I'll pass it along.

The book that's meant the most to me overall is Barbara Kingsolver's The Bean Trees, which I dicuss here. I've read it numerous times, and each time I am different, so I see the story in a different way. Every single time, though, I am moved deep in my core by the characters and their stories. Seriously, read it if you haven't.

This post brought to you by Lorem.

Q&A, Volume 2

2006-04-26T09:24:00.000-04:00

If Chapin and Suzanna were to converse (magically) for an entire day, and you could understand them, what would they say?
Suzanna: Um, you're not supposed to be up there on the counter.
Chapin: Bite me.
S: Uh, I'm telling Mom.
C: Bite me.

S: Hey, you're not supposed to be scratching the sofa.
C: Bite me.
S: I am SO telling Mom.
C: Bite me.

S: Excuse me, but that's MY food you're eating.
C: Bite me.
S: Your bowl is full. I can see it from here. I'm telling Mom.
C: Bite me.

And so on, until I finally arrive and Suzanna is so excited to see me that all of Chapin's bad behavior is forgotten as she wiggles uncontrollably and smiles her freaky dog smile. Chapin is, of course, smirking and thinking to himself, "Stupid dog."

If you had to choose between being blind, being deaf, or being mute, which would you pick, and why?
Mute. I didn't talk much at all when I was a child; I learned a lot that way, keeping my mouth shut and my eyes and ears open. Lots of trouble is started by talking. I'm a better writer than speaker anyway, so if I couldn't talk I'd never be put on the spot. I'd always be able to plan out what I want to say to people. I know I'm going to botch this, so maybe someone can set me straight, but in some culture you aren't allowed to speak unless you are holding the talking stick or some other such object. I think this is a good idea and would serve our culture well, not to mention our government. It would save people from making big fools of themselves or saying things they don't really mean. As far as I can see, talking causes a lot of trouble.

Of course, there was this one time when speaking would have saved me a lot of trouble. I was hiding from my cousin Tanya because I didn't want to play with her. I could hear her calling me and calling me from across the street (we weren't allowed to cross without supervision, so she was probably waiting for me to materialize so I could have someone escort me to her house) but I remained silent and hidden. Then another voice joined the call. My mom's voice. Because I was a little bit afraid of Tanya back then, I didn't answer my mom, because if I revealed myself then Tanya would know where I'd been the whole time, and she'd know I'd been ignoring her. My mom kept calling; I kept not answering. Finally my mom set out on a search of the yard and discovered me, curled up behind one of the big Maples in my grandparents' yard. She had been worried, but when she saw me in hearing distance and realized I'd been able to hear her the whole time, she jerked me up out of hiding, broke a switch off the tree, and swatted me all the way back to the house. Tanya saw it all and was mean to me for the rest of the week. So yeah, talking would have been a good idea in that situation. But I could do without it otherwise.

Why haven't you seen Willy Wonka and the Chocolate factory, young lady?!?
Because Willy Wonka is a symbol of Fascism and his candymaking symbolizes his desire to lure people everywhere into the big trap that is Fascist society.

Actually, that is bullshit. I don't know why I haven't seen it. "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" was awesome, and I like the story, so I don't know what's holding me back. I think it's coming up on my Netflix list, though, so I'll be watching it soon.

Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?
Because on the day that I was born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true. So they sprinkled moondust in my hair and golden starlight in my eyes of...wait. That's not right.

Who is your favorite sister?
My first thought was Whoopi Goldberg, but she wasn't really a sister, she was just pretending. I also like Julie Andrews, but her heart wasn't in it and she eventually became a singer, so she doesn't count either. So I guess I'd have to say Mary Patrick and Mary Clarence--I don't know their real names--the chunky one who danced in the bar and the little one with the big voice. Oh, and the old one, the one who had a gravely voice and always had something sarcastic to say. Yes, those are my favorite sisters.

And last, but CERTAINLY not least, will you write my paper for me? Why or why not?
No, I will not write your paper for you. I will not write your paper for you for three reasons. First, I just finished writing a paper of my own. It was 21 pages long. I do not want to write another paper for a very long time. Second, I have no idea what your paper is supposed to be about. I mean, what if I wrote it on the life cycle of frogs, but it was actually supposed to be about the process by which beer is made? You would get an "F." The third and final reason I will not write your paper for you is that you are a brilliant writer and should have no trouble chronicling the life cycle of frogs, or whatever it is you are chronicling.

This post brought to you by Megan.

Q&A, Volume 1

2006-04-25T12:55:00.000-04:00

How's your house hunt going?
My house hunt has been put on hold temporarily. I am still, as they say, reading the market, but the job hunt has assumed top priority. Which side of the county I live in will depend on where I end up working. And don't get me started on working. I know the time of year is working on me, but I could really not work and be happy. Spring break was ample proof that I could easily occupy myself and never get bored or feel shiftless. Of course, I'd have to live in a Maytag box and eat previously chewed gum and the occasional fast food joint discards, and this, my friends, is not what I have in mind when I say I'd rather not work. So yeah. I'm still job hunting.

If you were any animal other than a primate, which animal would you be and why?
A bird, I think. A wild bird--maybe a chickadee or a sparrow, something small. They get to fly whenever they want, most of them are beautiful, and for once I'd be able to sing without drawing frightened looks from innocent bystanders. Also, people feed birds, so there would always be an all-you-can-eat buffet around every corner.

What are you doing with yourself this summer?
Most likely more of this, minus eating after the cat.

Have you ever had one of those students who make you so glad that you became a teacher?
Several. There are a few every year. Usually not the goody-goody over-achievers, either, but the truly bright, real, funny, honest kids, the ones you can have actual conversations with. If you'd like to meet one of them, go here.

What was your favorite book when you were a tween?
In school media we identify tweens as kids ages 9-12, so I'm going to base my answer on that classification. With that in mind, I have to confess that I don't remember much about my life between the ages of 9 and 12. I do know that I absolutely loved books like Charlotte's Web, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, and Stuart Little. See a pattern? I was the kid who had long, conversations and scripted "scenes" with her stuffed animals. (I taped these scenes with my portable tape recorder; I added music with my little Casio keyboard; each animal had a different voice. My grandmother still has some of these tapes. Can you smell the blackmail possibilities?) I wanted Ralph the mouse and Stuart Little to be real. I wanted to be extra small so I could ride around in my mom's pocket and hide in tiny spaces.

This would be a good time to confess something. I was an awful student until I hit middle school. Awful. I almost failed 4th grade. I never did homework. I didn't pay attention. I never, ever applied myself. On every report card from elementary and early middle school, the story is the same: "hd is not working up to her potential. hd could do better. hd is not nearly as stupid as she wants us to think she is." It wasn't pretty. I started life as a reader--my grandfather read to me all the time, books by Nostradamus, the Bible, and lots of other giant volumes I can't name--and I have been a reading addict since high school. But in between I spent most of my free time outside climbing things, digging, making stuff, playing with my dogs, and having long conversations with my imaginary talking animals. I still do those things, but now I read, too. Part Tomboy Girl, part Book Worm. I like it that way.

This post brought to you by Trista.

It takes a village

2006-04-24T16:52:00.000-04:00

You might have noticed (and if you haven't, why not? Have you given up on me?) that there isn't a lot of writing going on here lately. Sure, I've posted, but mostly stuff I've borrowed (from Jay Leno, for example) or stolen (Hi, Trista!). What's missing, you ask? That's right, begging. As in "beg, borrow and steal." So I'm asking--okay, begging--you for material.

Here's how this will work: you ask me a question, and I'll answer it in the form of a post. Actually, this idea was also stolen (Hi, Lorem!), but what the hell. I'll reserve the right to completely stray from the question's original topic, and if I'm not comfortable with your question I might ignore it and talk about something else. Please avoid yes/no questions unless, of course, they include a follow-up question of some kind. (What kind of English teacher would I be if I didn't include that rule?)

If you're wondering why I'm resorting to this, might I remind you that this is the absolute craziest time of year for anyone in the education field? I am using all of my brain cells--all of them!--to control violent behavior (my own) and avoid encounters with ignorant people (most of my students and half my co-workers). I'm also exerting a great deal of energy on the weather at my school. You read that right: my school has its own weather. It's either Antarctica or Africa. Not much in-between. Every morning when I pick out my clothes I have to analyze yesterday's buiding climate, the actual climate outside, the last phone call dispatched to the HVAC guys at the central office to come "fix" the temperature, and the relative building temperature change that may or may not have taken place overnight based on all of the above. Most days I choose badly. Like today, when I wore long sleeves, pants and socks because it was warm over the weekend and I assumed the air at school would be on full blast. Alas, the AIR IS BROKEN so it was 84 degrees in my classroom, and warmer in the library and the office where I spent most of my day.

You see where this is going, don't you? Unless you want me to talk about weather for the rest of the week, I BEG you, ask me a question or two.

Because shameless theft is easier than original thought

2006-04-19T10:01:00.000-04:00

I stole this from Trista. She didn't tag me. She didn't even suggest that anyone else participate. I just took it. I have nothing new or interesting to say, and this is the perfect remedy, because there is always plenty of old crap to dredge up.

1. Who was your first Prom date? I didn't actually go to the prom with a date until my senior year. I was a prom attendant as a sophomore, which meant I got to stand around and serve punch and cookies to upperclassmen while wearing a Really Ugly Dress, the same Really Ugly Dress as the other 11 attendants. Wait, make that nine. Two of them were boys. My newly married volleyball coach and her hunky husband were chaperones, and I got to dance with the husband. I didn't go to my junior prom, but I did participate in the prom picture event at my friend Meredith's house. My friend Jenny and I got all dressed up and went to Meredith's to see everyone off, and then we went out to eat and to a stage performance of Steel Magnolias. I went to my senior prom with Michael F., who was one of my best friends. We eventually dated. He is still one of my best friends, and the only person from HS with whom I still communicate. All in all, the prom was boring; I'd much rather see Steel Magnolias.

2. Who was your first roommate(s)? Dayna. I was a teaching scholarship recipient, and all of my fellow scholarship recipients had scholarship recipient roomates. I did not. Dayna, who was initially a computer programming major, was randomly assigned to our little section of the dorm. We were both very shy, and at freshmen orientation they made us do multiple physical ice breaker activities on the Fonville Fountain Terrace. We were both mortified, so we half-heartedly did all of our icebreakers together. She eventually became a teacher. What can I say? It's contagious. We shared a suite with Rosemary and Stephanie, who were also teaching scholarship recipients but are no longer teachers. Again, what can I say? They were cured. Rosemary and Stephanie and I still communicate. Dayna stopped speaking to me years ago, and to this day I'm not entirely sure why. To quote the movie "Beaches," she took her friendship away without even asking me. I am still furious with her for this, because she is a huge part of all of my college memories, is in most of my college pictures, and was practically adopted by my family, and now she might has well live on another planet. I don't even know where she lives.

3. What alcoholic beverage did you drink the first time you got drunk? It's important that you know a few things first. First, during my last year of college I shared a house with Dayna (see #2), Paula, and a guy named Tim. I don't t know how we ended up with Tim; he did not go to college with us, and none of actually KNEW him. I think we inherited him from our landlord. Anyway, Tim watched "Cocktail" one night and decided he was going to become a bartender. He enrolled in bartending school. He watched that movie EVERY DAY. He built a bar in our dining room. A fully stocked bar. The second thing you need to know is that I'm not much of a drinker. Don't get me wrong, I love beer, and I enjoy a variety of mixed drinks, but even in college drinking was not high on my priority list. However, I willingly tasted every drink Tim made. He was not bad. That January it snowed 10 inches. My itty bitty car (see below) was pretty much buried, and the roads were impassable, so we were stuck in the house. Dayna had gone home to Pennsylvania for a few weeks (our college had a short "winter term" during January and she didn't need the course hours), and Tim got so bored he walked somewhere (not kidding), so Paula and I were pretty much left to our own devices. We read. We watched a few videos. We read. We re-watched the videos. By the third day we were bored. I decided we should make a fancy meal, so I set about baking a French baguette, and Paula went to work on a chicken dish. My boss had given me a bottle of wine for Christmas, so we had a delicious meal and polished off the wine. This same boss who had given me the wine had once imparted to me that brandy was the best liquor to drink in cold weather, so we headed for the bar. We drank all the brandy. By now we were hot from drinking all the brandy, so we mixed a few rum and Diet Cokes. Then we mixed some more. Then we mixed some more. If Paula is reading this right now she is probably gagging, as the mere mention of the phrase "rum and Coke" causes her to feel ill. I don't really remember what happened after the third rum and Diet Coke (hence the reason I do not like getting drunk), but I do remember waking up on the sofa and walking down the hall to find Paula. She was lying in the bathroom floor with her cheek on the ceramic tile, and when she saw me in the doorway she looked up and croaked, "Tile is cold." Good times.

4. What was your first job? Hostess at Cracker Barrell. My mom still has my brown personalized apron. I hated every minute of it.

5. What was your first car? A dull black1990 model Nissan Pulsar. I drove it until its tires practically fell off and the fuel lines all but disentigrated.

6. When did you go to your first funeral? When I was seven years old. My Uncle Renn died on my 7th birthday. It was my first experience with death, and my first experience with empathy. Renn was my cousin Tanya's father, and Tanya was my best friend, and when my mom and I walked into their house the first thing I saw was Tanya curled up under a round end table. "My dad is dead," she told me, and I just sat down next to her on the floor. Even now I don't think of that image without crying.

7. How old were you when you first moved away from your home town? I was nine when we left the town where I was born, and where most of my family lived. That was the hardest move. I "left home" when I was 21 to go to college.

8. Who was your first grade teacher? Mrs. Haynes. I vomited on her desk once, because I was so shy I couldn't get out the words "I feel sick." She was very kind to me. If a child vomited on my desk I would quit.

9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane? London, England. I was so nervous and excited that I accidentally pushed the call button [before takeoff] while playing with the air vent, so when a stewardess arrived at my seat I sputtered, "Can I have a diet Coke?" She looked at me like I had just crawled out of a hole somewhere and haughtily said, "When the plane starts flying," and walked away.

10. When did you sneak out of your house for the first time, who was it with? My friend Jodi. We were in the 7th grade. We crawled out of her basement window and walked to our friend Minda's house, but Minda forgot to set her alarm and slept right through our meeting time, so we just went back to Jodi's. It was very disappointing; I think we were expecting drama and mystery and...what? I don't know, but we never did it again.

11. Who was your first Best Friend and are you still friends with her? Tanya (see #6), and yes, we are still friends. She is 9 months older than I am, and we played together from the time we could both walk. She lives outside DC, so we don't see each other often, but whenever we talk on the phone it's at least a 2-hour event. She has 3 little boys, so I love our phone conversations. It's like listening to a reality show. I'm glad she's still a part of my life, because talking to her keeps me connected to a part of my life and pieces of my family that I desperately miss.

12. Where did you live the first time you moved out of your parents house? In a 200 year old dorm on the campus of Elon Collge.

13. Whose wedding were you in the first time you were a bridesmaid/groomsmen? My cousin Tanya's (see #11). My sisters were the flower girls.

14. What is the first thing you do in the morning? Take my temperature.

15. What is the first concert you ever went to? Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters at the West Virginia State Fair.

16. First tattoo or piercing? My Aunt Karen had my ears pierced when I was very young--four or five--and she neither told nor asked permission of my mother. That night when my mom was washing my hair she saw the earrings, threw up her hands and gasped, and dropped my head into the tub. Note to my sisters: if you DARE pierce my child's ears without telling my I will HUNT YOU DOWN and HURT YOU.

17. First Celebrity crush? I wanted to marry David Copperfield, the magician who makes entire buildings disappear.

18. Age of first kiss? Twelve. Randy C. Skating rink. We were both on skates, and he'd been eating a Reece's Cup. Ugh.

19. First crush? Justin N. He got married a few years ago, and even after all this time I felt a little stir of jealously when I heard.

20. First time you did drugs? I'm with Trista on this one--never.

Too much time on my hands

2006-04-14T11:23:00.000-04:00

I give you...KONG! Cat Kong, that is.

Now starring in a new feature film, "Cat Kong vs. Catzilla!" Behold, Catzilla!

I took these last week during a thunderstorm that was supposed to bring tennis ball-size hail and multiple tornadoes to my area. They said so on The Weather Channel. I am terrfied of tornadoes, so I curled up on the floor with the animals and my favorite comforter and watched "Friends." Might as well go out happy, I always say. But neither the hail nor the tornadoes ever came, and once the thunderstorm was over I just stayed in the floor, mainly because Suzanna was so happy to have me on her turf that she positioned herself just so on the comforter and pinned me to the ground. I had my camera nearby (I don't know, maybe I was going to attempt to photograph the airborne cows), so I snapped these pictures of Chapin, who was less inclined to snuggle and more interested in walking across my head. I didn't set out to make him seem like a giant, but seriously, it's not difficult. He IS a giant. On the outside. On the inside he is a wuss, a baby, a drama queen. I wish I could record his teeny little voice for you, and then these pictures would be even more amusing.

Friday Photo: Alfred Hitchcat

2006-04-14T09:52:00.000-04:00

Alfred Hitchcat
Originally uploaded by tbgdee.

This Friday's theme is SHADOWS. I know Photo Friday is supposed to encourage new photography, but this is my favorite shadow picture ever. Chapin has long since been banned from this window. Those poor blinds...may they rest in peace.