Secrets

It's funny how when I don't want to share something, everyone seems to ask about it.  When I'm excited to share or actually have something to share no one asks.  Worse, I'll try to share and then other things come up so I don't get a chance.  We went home and everyone asked about work.  Naturally.  No one asks about work.  Not even when I'm trying to share something exciting or a funny story about it.  Or I'll share the story and it'll fall flat--that's usually with my mother, who interestingly always asks about work over the phone.  It's like Bill Murray's character in Ground Hog's Day when the old lady asks him about the weather and he gives a detailed forecast.  She looks shocked and doesn't say anything and he responds with something to effect of, "Oh, you didn't really want to know about the weather you were just making small talk weren't you?"  That's my mom.  I'm not so sure she's really interested, she just asks because it's the polite thing to do.  Thing is, this time I just didn't want to talk about it.  It was my secret.  Not that I like to keep secrets, although I tend to keep many from myself.  It's that I didn't want to open myself up to the criticism and the what are you going to do all quarter, which is what I got from a couple of colleagues.

I finally had to fess up that I decided to take the quarter off.  I don't like doing that with my family because they ask all sorts of questions that are not grounded in actual interest.  Their questions stem more from criticism (Why would you do something like that?) or to force me to second guess myself (Are you sure you did the right thing?  I think you should've...).  I had to say something because they were asking and I couldn't lie, as much as I would've like to avoid talking about the whole thing.  When I told my mom over the phone she asked the following: "Why?" immediately chased with "Don't you get along with your coworkers?"  I actually get along with my coworkers really well and kind of miss them right now, but thanks for your vote of confidence.  I appreciate it more than I can say and Norma (Norma or Paranorma) is gloating right now.  My mom and her are besties.  My mom speaks from her lizard brain and there's no filter, unless she's asking for a favor and won't get to the point.  This is why my so-called sabbatical is such a secret and you may think that I'm nuts by the time I finish explaining…

Any sort of dream or idea I've had has been scrutinized and blown off by my family.  I still remember being about 5 or 6 and answering the question "What do you want to be when you grow up?" with "An artist" and being told that was "nice" but that should be a hobby you need to find a real job. It was also followed by some unnecessary critique of my artistic skills.  It stung.  I avoided artsy things and singing for a long time.  Sometimes I'll indulge privately, but don't tell.  So, to take the quarter off to write is insane (I didn't tell them that part, I just said I was taking the quarter off, so it's still a secret of sorts).  It doesn't matter what kind of writing it is, although some kinds are "less than" others if you get my drift.  This fear of criticism is like a cloak or a mantle that I wear and it shrinks what I have to offer. I play it small, despite the fact that I'm an inveterate storyteller.  I've always been told that, even by my family.  Of course from my family's perspective that was not a positive moniker by any means.  I've chosen to make it positive. The irony in all this is I've taken time off to write and I haven't written as much as I would've liked.  What I've written has been by hand and private.  I've barely written here.  I'll have to get over the fear of judgement to do better writing and to get to the deeper material.  I realized that at the beginning of the quarter, the task now is how do I do that.  It really hit me when we went home.  I vacillate with the fear--it's like a layering piece, I don it and shed it and the rotation goes on ad infinitum.  I'm fearless in some arenas of my life and in others I'm meek.  Most days it's a toss up.  I like to people please but I still have these uncontrollable urges to be different.  I always have it's just those days are coming more often.  However, people pleasing doesn't mesh well with being different, especially in my family so I'll have to come to terms with that very soon or the quarter will be over and I'll have nothing to show for it.

At least I'm over this hurdle.  I've confessed (sort of) and I can get on with writing.  They don't need to know.  I resisted and resisted saying something (I've known for a couple of months I was going to do this) but I feel better (although at the time I was resentful) for saying something.  Sadly, I tried to tell a couple of friends but our conversations didn't move there like I had planned.  At any rate, now I can move on and hopefully stop worrying and looking over my shoulder.  Maybe the blog posts will come to me now...

Lora

I grew up with a friend named Lora.  She lived down the street from me and we went through school together.  We became good friends in second grade a were friends through our senior year of high school, some years more closely than others.  She had some sort of disease that made her grow wildly tall before her peers but retarded her growth around 5th or 6th grade.  She then became one of the shortest people and ceased to grow.  I defended/stood by her as an awkward giant in 2nd and 3rd grade when she towered over everyone, including the tallest viking boys.  I defended/stood by her when she was a physically and socially awkward preteen.  I stood by her when other friends came and went.  Then we stopped talking.

She had this favorite book bag when we were in high school that totally overpowered her small frame.  It was a big red, square LeSportsac.  LeSportsac was very popular during our high school years.  I don't know what made me think of that red bag.  When I did all sorts of memories came flooding back to me.  

During high school we used to walk to school every day until one day she decided that she couldn't wait for me.  I was a few minutes late.  I'm not habitually late but she was super timely--almost to a nervousness.  Then she started to leave earlier (without me) and I started to leave later.  We were lab partners in chemistry--disaster because of our height differences, arguing where the fill line actually was.  Our projects took longer and sometimes had to be redone or were lower grades.  Unacceptable to two type A personalities and who only got good grades.  I suppose this was our first foray into true failure, in more ways than one.  We couldn't work out our differences and apply a consistent system.  Of course, it was always the other one's fault.  We were part of a group of larger friends that was amorphous--the division into smaller groups always changed and no one thought twice about it.  We took turns hanging out with one another.  Eventually, Lora went with one group and didn't leave it.  It was a kind of natural split but one where there was a little tension between me and Lora.  We still talked but our relationship gradually drew further and further apart.  It confused me and no one could explain to me what was going on.  Despite some nasty hearsay, I apologized profusely for being late and, eventually, about chemistry.  I even repeatedly asked if I had done something else to offend her and she always said "no."  Lora certainly wasn't talking, at least to me.  I finally let it go because I did all I could do.  I honestly don't know what set her off until years later.

By this point we were both going to different schools.  She went to a small college on the east coast and I went to the state university.  I received a letter in the mail from her one day.  I hadn't talked to her or her friend Mari in a long time.  I read the letter, in which Lora stated she felt bad for what had happened in high school and didn't know what to do for a long time.  Mari is the one who suggested she send a letter to me.  In her letter she wrote that she was jealous of me because I had a lot of friends and was "popular" (her words, not mine) and she didn't know what to do.  She was sorry that she was so mean to me.  I guess the last straw for her was when a group of Japanese girls stayed with the high school cheerleaders--she didn't like all the time I spent with the foreign exchange students, even though it was for a short period before they moved down to California to spend a brief time with some students there.  They were doing a Pacific Northwest kind of exchange student program where all the girls collectively stayed together, with individual girls going to different homes in the same high school.  I can't remember if it was a week or two that they stayed.  Long enough to raise Lora's ire and cement it.  The letter was nicely written and when I was finished I breathed out and thought to myself, "That was really nice."  I also didn't know what to do with it.  We hadn't talked in over 2 years at this point and she didn't fit into my current life, at all.  Sadly, I put the letter in the drawer and didn't respond.  I didn't know what to say to someone I thought of as a friend but had turned very strongly against me.  Someone who knew my likes, dislikes and secrets and occasionally thought to use them against me (I'm sensitive).  Although I repeatedly thought about what to do and how to do it, because at this point her parents had moved away and I couldn't call over there, I still didn't do anything but chew the whole thing over in my mind.  I didn't know what to say to a person who while she was very close to me off and on over the years put a knife in my back repeatedly, especially in our senior year of high school.  She often poisoned the well with her bitterness and lack of enthusiasm for life.  That's not to say that she wasn't fun and didn't have a place in my life--I had to face the fact that she was the friend whom I liked but not many of my other friends liked.  Now she was a friend who repeatedly abused my friendship, rejected me and now she wanted back in or maybe she didn't.  She wasn't clear and I realized she never had been.  I did what I thought was self-preservation and I let the letter go.  I've regretted it ever since.

I suppose I wanted to let her know that I was glad she sent the letter and it made me feel better.  It was a relief to know that it wasn't anything I did to her.  I try hard to be a good friend even if it doesn't always translate to that.  Sometimes my reticence does me in.  I couldn't write her because she was no longer at that college address and years later she didn't come up on any internet searches (oddly enough).  It was actually Mari who contacted me on FaceBook years later to let me know that Lora had died of ovarian cancer.  She didn't know if I knew and hated the way she had to tell me.  When reflecting on the timeline Mari provided (when Lora was diagnosed, etc.) I realized that my internet searches for Lora began the spring she was diagnosed.  I would casually poke around and then give up but for some strange reason (which I now realize) she was very much on my mind.

This is one of those cases of how much does one put up with and where does one draw the line.  I allowed the line to be drawn for me and was somewhat passive in its acceptance.  Instead of taking the tardy olive branch I followed the status quo.  I get to live with that but I do wish peace for Lora and always have.

Sabbatical, Non-Sabbatical

So I'm taking the quarter off, a sabbatical of sorts.  It's not much of a sabbatical when I'm running the millions of errands I've put off and worrying about getting other work and research done and what I will return to when I go back.  A couple of my students are pretty sure (and worried) I'm not coming back.  If I keep having days like these, I'll probably run back--early no less.

Chief asked me how my first day of the sabbatical went and all I could say was, "It was horrible!  I got nothing done!"

He laughed and said, "Day One: Sabbatical, terrible."  Followed by, "It'll get better.  It's only the first day."  I suppose this will be an exercise in planning and scheduling myself with myself which I've never been good at.  It's very easy to blow myself off.  In fact, I'd like to take a vacation from my neurotic self but I haven't figured out a way to do that.  Either way I'll have to get my act together--figure out how to get work done or how to take a vacation from myself.  I won't feel accomplished or rested unless I do one or the other.

I had planned on blogging Monday, when I read Jeff Goins' post/challenge about blogging.  Yup, procrastinated on that one as well.  Blew myself off.  Well, as part of getting my sabbatical act together, I'm going to put the paddles to the blog and try to resuscitate it.  Meanwhile, I think I'll go to my happy place…(I'd normally include a photo here but I seem to be having difficulties.  Par for the course, this week only!)

Satan must've left the door to Hell open, it's hot in Phoenix!

I'm breaking my number one summer rule, complaining about the weather.  I don't feel it's very helpful to complain about it, because it just is.  It's ok to "talk" about the weather, but not to ruminate.  With that said, I'll say this: Satan must have left the door to Hell open, because it's hot in Phoenix.  It feels hair dryer hot--like those old fashioned ones you sit under until your head feels like it will catch fire and then maybe your hair is done.  Your mind was done long before your hair is, which is kind of like summer in Phoenix.  Summer cruises along well past the point of being summer, until it becomes more of a form of secret government torture, only nature is inflicting the pain and not the government (pick a government, any government).  So, that's my one summer rant (I hope).  When it's 117 degrees before the high point of the day, I think allowing one little comment is ok.  There you have it.

ParaNorma or Norma

I've decided that I officially have an alter ego, her name is ParaNorma or Norma for short.  This name stems from my paranoid nature the feeling that I'm constantly doing something wrong or that someone is mad/hates/out to get me.  I don't feel like this constantly, and for the most part I'm not really paranoid, but when I get into a lather it's generally a doozy.  My mind goes on some endless loop of how I'm so wrong.  Lately, I've been able to feel Norma creeping up on me and I try to keep her at bay but that hasn't always been the case.

My tendency is blame me first, ask questions later.  I carry around this guilt that would give even the strongest man an hunchback from the weight of it.  I often am asked if I'm Catholic or am told I "sound" Jewish--you the old joke about the _____ guilt.  Mine is an asian guilt for not conforming/being wrong and a being a tremendous bother of some sort or another.  At least that's what my asian mother always implied--sometimes said outright--about me and to me.  I didn't realize how much I was doing this until I started teaching and fretting about my students.  "I don't understand why..."  or "How come they don't get...?"  immediately followed by "What am I doing wrong?  How can I fix this?"  One of my colleagues finally had enough of my fretting and anxiety and very kindly said to me, "It's not you, it's the students.  You've done all you could and they just have to..."  Whatever the situation at the time might be.  Her words had an impact and forced me to shift my thinking.  I didn't believe what she said to be true all the time but it did knock me off my usual self-deprecating and self-blaming tracks enough that I could see what she was saying.  What she was saying is that I don't need to take responsibility for everything that happens or doesn't happen in the classroom.  The students really needed to step it up and I needed to step it down, facilitate but not hand hold as much as I do.

Old habits die hard and so when I went back to teaching there was a whole different set of things to fret about, mostly corporate and colleague issues, less the students, oddly enough.  When my friend, who also works there but knew me from before, texted me one day (yes, I was carrying on about wishing I didn't speak my Truth to a certain person one day), "By the way, you are the most paranoid person I know:)" ParaNorma was "born" and I decided that I needed to get some control over her.  You know, that backseat driver who is in the moment mildly abrasive yet completely corrosive over time.  Someone you put up with because they are never "that" bad until you can't stand them anymore.  We joke about Norma and I try to manage her.  It's going to take some doing.  I felt her lingering while I was trying to put a lesson plan together for tomorrow's class.  What she needs is a real Fight Club kind of ass-kicking.  Right now, I'll go back to the lesson plan and kindly ignore her.  I really do have better things to deal with and more pressing items, for that matter.  For example, the 7th ring of Hell: dealing with my children's homework.  Never a dull moment what with my boys and Norma lurking about.

Asterisk

My father didn't like his middle name.  He often made fun of it, turning into something "Italian," much to his mother's dismay.  Because of this extreme dislike, he also didn't do things by halves, he refused to give my brother & me middle names.  He said we didn't need them, kids always tease you about your middle name, etc.  My mom always looked forward to giving us middle names because that's something different than traditional Japanese.  Here's the thing: we were still teased, only it wasn't because of our middle names but our lack of middle names that caused it.  Ironic, no?  Additionally, my dad was retired Coast Guard, so having no middle names was a real issue.  There are so many government forms to fill out for everything and every box and line needs to be addressed or there'll be issues.  Our lack of middle names became one of those issues.  For many years we just had an asterisk added in the box--yes, we see you box but this is all we have for you; it's not even an actual letter.  *.

It's interesting because dictionary.com's first entry for asterisk is this:

"a small starlike symbol (*), used in writing and printing as a reference mark or to indicate omission, doubtful matter, etc."

Do you like the "doubtful matter"?  I do.  It seems to sum up the issue as a whole.  We doubt that you have a middle name?  We doubt you are telling the truth?  We're not sure where this will lead?  We are undecided or hesitant about this issue?  All these questions refer back to "doubtful."  This is ambiguous to us.

Whatever the case may be what eventually happened was something like a game of telephone:  that asterisk turned into an actual letter.  For a short while my middle initial was the letter "A."  That really is no big surprise, I can see how that happened.  The thing of it is--and to add another layer of doubt--how many "factual" or "real" documents, situations, etc. go the way of my asterisk?

On a side note, anyone care to come up with a middle name for me--especially one beginning with the letter "A"?

Male Plumage

We were out riding bikes yesterday when I spotted what looked like a pile of garbage down the side of the canal bank.  I realized that it was a female duck sitting on her nest.  It made me think about how people carry on about how beautiful male birds are & how the females are plain, drab or ugly.  Here's what I have to say to that: smoke & mirrors.  Essentially, the females have the difficult job, which precludes beautiful plumage.  It's a detriment & could get them killed.  Not that I state something that's new or not obvious.  But, that's all the male birds have to offer--besides sperm and maybe some protection, but not always.  The females have to pick a location, make a nest, warm the egg & see the whole thing through.  Maybe the male sticks around, maybe not.  In most cases, he's a glorified sperm donor.  In the best case scenarios, protector, partner and mate.  So if that's the case with male plumage and birds, what about the sassy female numbers of the homo sapiens who augment, primp and preen?  What, exactly, is their role?  (Can you tell that I made a trip out to Scottsdale yesterday, in addition to the bike ride along the canal?--a night jaunt, no less.)

The Wanamaker Factor

Yesterday, Jon got a taste of synchronicity in action & perhaps a little of the supernatural (who knows?).  He was reading his hand held & chuckling, so I asked him what was so funny.  He told me a very roundabout story, but the bare bones is this: someone who manages all of the offices mentioned to a friend's mother (she has to be very old) that Jon's family is from Whidby Island.  It's a small place, so when Jon asks people who say they're from Whidby, "Do you know Wanamaker Road?"  there's always a spark in their eye & a resounding yes.  He then tells them that was named after his mom's family.

Apparently, this woman (the friend's mother) had missed the school bus as a little girl and one of the Wanamakers had given her a ride home on his horse.  Can you imagine?!  Clearly, that was a while back.  At any rate, it's crazy that someone from AZ can know someone from a remote island in WA and know the connecting person to that story (however distant Jon is to the actual story).  The craziest part?  It was Jon's mother's birthday yesterday.  It seemed to give him a little pause.  I told him his mom was "talking" to him.  What do you think?

Early Black Market Lessons

Stuart was so excited about his new guitar & lessons, initially.  I tried to get him to keep his music book, pics & tuner in one place so things wouldn't get lost or separated.  The guitar hangs on his wall, but there are times when it doesn't make it to its home, either.  When we bought the guitar the salesman gave us a whole handful of pics, which Stuart either lost or left about so Flanders got a hold of them.  Flanders loves to chew everything up.  The tuner was an early goner, too.

In order to preserve a small sliver of my sanity & try to teach a lesson in responsibility, I started charging money for replacement pics.  I had to do this after Stuart blew through the whole lot after just a couple of lessons.  Ben, the music teacher, told me to buy nylon pics because they are more sturdy.  They are also more expensive.  Not tremendously so, but when we use a pic & immediately lose it, yes--expensive.  They are $0.25 (and by the way, where in the hell is the cent sign on computers these days?!).  I buy a couple of dollars worth & dole them out now.  Stuart loses one, he has to fork over $1 per pic.  The music teacher thought that was genius (I've been needing a ticker tape parade, so I decided  to add that--but it is true.).  This capitalistic exchange did slow the pic bleed--Stuart kept much better track of them.

When Max decided he wanted to take lessons, I took them both to the guitar store & bought them a couple of dollars worth of pics.  I reminded them that was it, for now; they lose them it's back to $1 per pic.  Stuart's reaction was so funny when he realized they were only $0.25 & he was being charged a whole dollar.  So, I tell him: "I'm trying to teach you that everything has a home and that everything costs something.  You weren't learning the lesson, hence the inflated cost."  He didn't have much in the way of a response, but I could tell he was mulling that one over for future reference.  That child has a big file, I can tell.

The other day I was thinking about the pic situation (it's now time to replenish) & realized that they may take this lesson all the wrong way.  In my mind it became less a lesson of "responsibility" and more of a darker lesson in the seedier side of "finance."  All I could think about was the Russian mafia doling out supplies and selling old military equipment to those who are fortunate to have money.  I suppose it doesn't help that I give them grief about it every time they have to "buy" another pic--I tell that if they keep this up I'll be able to retire on the pic money...fuel to the fire, fuel to the fire.

Driving Dogs & Mini

This video totally made my day.  I love Mini.  I love dogs, especially rescue dogs.  Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWAK0J8Uhzk&list=PLr8Ol3z5fRqoCemaCS2-sFm6c87mAAV05

The Half-Way House of "Things"

It's finally become winter here.  It was so warm for so long, but just in the past few days the temps are in the 30s & 40s at night & evening & sometimes when we are driving off to go to school.  It's nice.  It's not so nice when you are running late & have a child who cannot find his jacket.  A jacket that has a clearly marked & repeatedly announced home.  Perhaps it's the constant reminders that cause him to tune out--next time I'll send a "We're Moving" card & see if that does the trick.  Either way, he seems to think that his things are itinerant, gypsy-like.  I do not.  Right there is where the clash begins.  

To remedy the homework, water bottle, backpack & jacket issues, I've created homes for these things, along with a ritual.  In theory, this is how it works:  we come home from school & the water bottles, snack bags & lunch bags (if we use them that day) go to the kitchen for cleaning; the backpacks go on a hook; and the homework comes to the kitchen table to be worked on, after hand washing & snackage.  Yes, it sounds regimented but the boys & I are easily side-tracked--once I lose them they don't want to come back.  I get back on track because I don't want to be cracking the proverbial whip all evening nor herding cats.  I also don't want to be doing homework right before bedtime.  Not. At. All.  Relaxing.  I can think of a dozen "better" things to do than that, like clean toilets.  At least that would show some immediate results due to my efforts.  Running around half-crazed trying to get little boys to do homework, not so much.

This morning, is also the morning that said little boy wore short sleeves & no socks--at least he wore jeans, which is more than I can say for the other one.  At any rate, off we went to school.  I felt bad because here I am with an undershirt, a long sleeved shirt, a wool sweater, scarf, vest & boots up to my knees, walking with a little, chilly boy in short sleeves, jeans & converse with no socks.  At least they weren't the jeans that make him looked washed ashore, these reached the tops of his shoes.  The other one had a hoodie on with shorts:(  who also kvetched the whole way in that the other one always made us late...

It's still only 53 degrees out & it's nearing pick up time.  My hope is that the jacket will be found & put back in its home, not a half-way house.  I also hope that Little Man didn't suffer all day but also didn't thaw out enough to get amnesia, forgetting the whole episode ever happened.  He seems to think that everything is "home" just where he happens to drop, leave or forget them.  These half-way homes will no longer do for me, although it's sometimes difficult to blame a child who has been raised by a woman who either thinks in stacks & piles or needs an absolutely clear space, depending on the stage of her thought process & work progress.  He's hosed.  I try to be consistent & that's the best I can do.  Sometimes, my thoughts are scattered as are my tables, counter & desk.  But, in all fairness he knows that putting specific items in their real homes is essential & necessary, especially when it means getting to school on time (even more so when he can't seem to get out of bed very well now that it's dark).

I'll work on my counter, tables & desk & I hope he does the same.  I don't know how much longer I can live in a half-way house.  

B Horror Movie Star

 



I've always joked that I was the star in my own B horror film. The one where the protagonist has been telling everyone there's danger afoot or disaster's on its way but no one will listen. Can you picture it? The black & white film depicting a woman standing in the middle of the screen, screaming for help, eyes bulging, bent arms tucked in tightly at her sides while her hands move to the sides of her face, claw-like--camera pans to where her gaze is fixed, to show the horror that only she sees & understands? Yup, story of my life. I say something & I get poo-pooed about my silliness or exaggeration (I'm sure you're prone to agree after that last bit) and then, it comes true! The horror. I suppose mostly horror just for me because often others have select memories. They forget that I mentioned it in the first place. In any case, I had a different kind of B horror movie experience last Friday--in an elevator, no less! Yes--the twist was that I was the horrible monster.

When I get in the elevator at work (I usually take the stairs; but, sometimes, in the morning, juggling heavy, heavy bags & coffee & the elevator always waiting--no real excuse--but, I take it) I always get asked, "3?" sometimes I get, "...4?" immediately thereafter. Admin is on 3 & another institution is on 4. That morning I chuckled and said to the woman, No, 2. For some reason I get that a lot. I'd like to think that it's because I look like a person who wouldn't take the elevator to the 2nd floor (shameful, I know--at least she was going to the 2nd floor, as well). In reality, I probably look like someone in admin. I don't look like a student. Eyeing me, she asked if I'm a student or a teacher. I said teacher. Looking at me full-on she asks, "Fashion Design?" I laugh & tell her no, English. Yes, here's where the horror comes in. The look on her face was priceless--she looked at me as if she were trapped in the elevator with some sort of flesh-eating space creature (to stick with the 50s B horror movie theme). I laughed. She mumbled something--because many kids her age seem to mumble or maybe I'm just getting old & don't hear very well anymore--and then says, "I wish you were my English teacher. I hate my English teacher." Wow. I then became the lesser of two evils--of the "I voted for him because I really didn't want the other one to win" variety. Just kidding; actually, it was simultaneously odd & sad. She sounded so dejected by the thought of her English teacher that I felt bad for her. These students really don't like their general education classes & those of us who teach them are pretty much horrors to them (or so I'm told). At any rate, her reaction to me being an English teacher still makes me chuckle & the look on her face was too much. I thought she was going to jump out of her skin. I've had people look at me in a lot of different ways, but that one was entirely new to me. As I tell my students, you learn something every day, right?

Tinker Bell, Strawberry Shortcake & Santa Aren't Real

I didn't say it, Conner's coworker did...

Conner offered to write out gifts tags from Santa for a coworker, so her daughter wouldn't recognize her handwriting.  This woman told Conner that she told her daughter that Santa isn't real.  Yes, she has a nearly 4 year old whom she told that Santa isn't real, just like Tinker Bell & Strawberry Shortcake aren't real.  Now how these three were lumped together, I don't know.  This woman's reasoning for it is that she doesn't want her daughter to be disappointed when she's 7 & figures out that Santa isn't real.  Seriously?  I think that Max figured out something was up with Santa earlier than that.  When he was 2 he noticed that Santa's block printing is just like mine.  I countered with the commonality of that kind of printing--So common!  Really?  Santa's printing looks like mine?  How nice!  The following year he noticed that Santa used the same kind of wrapping paper that we did.  I responded with, Santa likes things to match the individual homes--it looks better that way.  While I had thought about disguising these things, I thought I had a year more than I really did to do it.  How wrong was I!

So, Conner & I discussed why the Tooth Fairy doesn't live with this group.  We are supposing that since the Tooth Fairy doesn't interrupt any Christian holidays, she's off the hook.  Conner & this woman didn't even make it to the Easter Bunny, because that was my next question, as I'm sure it is yours.  I'm supposing he lives with them, too.  We had a big laugh because there are so many other things our parents lied to us about that Santa, the Tooth Fairy & the Easter Bunny were really the lesser of the so-called lies.  Yes, she felt she was lying to her daughter.  Yes, she's Christian but not in an overly proselytizing way.

My response was & is that I'm pretty sure that Max suspects, if not knows, that the Tooth Fairy isn't real but doesn't say anything.  He doesn't say anything because of his Santa Claus suspicions.  He openly & directly questioned the existence of Santa Claus when he was in Kindergarten.  We had a long talk about believing and even if we didn't think that he was a real person (he's analytical and the logistics, among so many other things, really made no sense whatsoever to him) it was about the spirit of Christmas and the love and the magic.  If he wasn't buying that, I added (for good measure) that if he didn't believe, Santa wouldn't come.  That's just how we roll around here.  A good dose of reality mixed in with fiction never really hurts, does it?  He even went so far as to ask if Stuart believed but he didn't, would Santa bring both of them presents?  No.  No he wouldn't.  Stuart would receive and Max would not.  That discussion, despite the fact that both boys both try to wait up for the Tooth Fairy, has stilled any voiced doubts about her existence.

I suppose that on some level I'm not a whole lot different in my fantasy/reality sort of dealings with these mystical figures than this woman.  It's just I won't get jumped in the daycare parking lot when everyone figures out it's her daughter who's spreading the word that Santa isn't real!

Retirement and the Dude

Once upon a time, we lived in an older home (wait, we still do...) that had older (actually, darn near archaic) equipment.  We had an air conditioning unit that was so old, the younger repairmen (yes, they were all men) did not know what to do when they saw it.  Essentially, the scenario went a little like this:

I show them the closet where the unit resided.  They look at it and don't say anything or do anything.  Well?  I think to myself as I look askance at them.  I repeat the story and they always responds with, "I need to call my boss/office/supervisor."  A sigh inevitably escapes my lips as I walk away so he can "talk."  More like describe the dinosaur he's looking at and beg for help.  The story always ends with, "My boss/the owner/my supervisor needs to come out and look at your unit.  Can he come tomorrow?" No fail.  No kidding.  Actually, once the owner was tooling around town and was able to swing by a few hours later the same afternoon.  No, never mind, I just didn't want Dude in my whatever closet if you get my drift.

I was in my early 20s and I wanted the man who was over 40 looking at whatever needed fixing in that house.  Seriously, he's seen it; worked on it; and/or is familiar with it.  He was schooled at a time when things were hands-on and computers didn't do the thinking for you.  It doesn't shock him like it shocks Dude, as if I had something illicit tucked away and he just happened upon it.  The older man looks at it and gets cracking.  Dude makes a lot of phone calls and a series of excuses.  Plus, I was forced to spend a lot of unproductive time with Dude.  No matter how nice Dude was I just wanted my archaic  home equipment repaired and to be left in peace.  I know I sound less than charitable but when a repair situation turns into something from a sitcom I really no longer want to be a part of it.  Especially when that event was consistent.

As I was pulling out of my drive some 20 years later, the drive of a different house but nearly as old, I realized that all of the repairmen I generally want in my home (a.k.a. "the older guy") are probably heading for retirement and that Dude is now just as middle aged as I am.  At least our "new" home has newer equipment and I have age as a leverage.  Imagine trying to tell Dude about how the ancient equipment works and what's going on with it when he's a) male and b) roughly the same age or barely older than you, a mere woman and a young one at that.

Once, Twice, Thrice--It still did not suffice

One of the paradoxes of motherhood (parenthood in general) is that I feel like a broken record but I can't let some things go--lessons to be learned!  morals to impart!  I have to reduce my rules down to threes so the people will remember (and hopefully) follow them.  What brought this to mind was the kitchen garbage.

"STOP!"  I say, rather loudly.  "Before you dump your plates into the garbage, I want you to make sure you get it in the center of the garbage can--not the side, not the lid, not the floor--dump it in the center of the can." 

For my younger son, I add, "Just like the toilet--not on the seat, not on the side, not on the floor--the center!"  They all get a big kick out of this little chant I've created for them--not the side, lid or floor, but the center!"

They also like the juxtaposition of garbage and toilet--the stuff of little boy giggles.  Thing is, I'm not kidding.  I often say things in all earnestness, emphasizing my seriousness, perhaps insisting there's gravity involved--all for naught.  I take that back, they do remember but they don't always do.  Sometimes, they remember after the fact.  In their minds, I'm sure, they're thinking that has to count for something.  In some ways, it does.  I have to take a deep breath and let it out, knowing that losing my cool & my mind will do no good--except perhaps cause more laughter.  Apparently, I'm an outright comedienne when I'm angry and my analogies and adjectives cause side-splitting laughter.

Glad I could be of service.  Just don't expect me to clean your mess.

Little Box

There's a little box--I suppose it to be like a tiny trinket or treasure box--that's deep inside me.  I file things away there.  I don't think I really realized I did this until I was forced to explain how I was feeling one day during yoga teacher training.

Everyone has their own meltdowns and breakthroughs during this process and usually these come somewhere during the middle of training.  I was past the halfway mark when mine arrived.  It came like an Arizona storm and left just as quickly.  It didn't bring enough water to help grow anything but it brought enough wind to make things messy.  If you've ever experienced a southwestern desert storm you'll know what I'm talking about.  The wind picks up and blows dust over everything and there may or may not be rain.  At least that's the way it's been for the past several years.  We don't have good monsoons (which I love) like we used to.  Monsoons that clear away the dust and bring blooms, humidity and skies that are somehow bluer and more interesting than the plain, hot, dry and intense summer skies.  After a good monsoon everything seemed different to me--I seemed to see with different eyes.  The summer weather we've been having now leaves me feeling stagnant and stuck.  I go through the motions of the day but that's about it.  At any rate, this meltdown did not provide any real clarity for me.  I just knew there was something ("IT") that I needed to find and deal with.  That's when I realized that I had a kind of kangaroo affect going on with my box.  I just took things (emotions, situations, stagnation, you name it) and filed it away for "later."  Some things are really jammed in there, perhaps that's why I can't quite get in there and clean house like I would like.

Before you think I've lost it like a mad dog or Englishman in the midday sun, you have to know that I'm the oldest child of old world-like parents.  They don't see life the same way as my contemporaries' parents do, which presents its own challenges.  Also, I was always the peace-maker and people-pleaser of the family.  Head "feather-smoother" should be one of my titles.  I also realized, today as a matter of fact, that the box of tools that are in my hand currently don't work for me.  Why?  Because I wasn't allowed (and didn't allow myself) my own set of tools, I was too busy fixing/helping/adjusting/you-name-it to tend to my own garden and find my own tools.  When I expressed myself it was either "inappropriate"or just plain not ok.  Growing up I laughed too loud, felt too deeply and talked too much.  I still do that, but it's not always as open.  I often skirt around the real issue, mostly because it's too much for others, in turn, becoming too much for me.  Years of not being fully true to oneself can really take its toll.  It's not that the "me" my friends and family know is false, it's just not the fullest expression of myself.  I know there's a whole lot more joy and creativity in there, waiting.  There's a whole different element of me waiting to spring out of my personal Pandora's box, if I would just let it.  I resist opening that box, even when the lid is clanking and rattling and beckoning me.  Too much will fly out and it'll be too messy.  I have to face my fears and stand up for myself.  I know that I have to deal with it and I've been trying a little bit at a time.  Mostly because I know that what I'm working with now isn't really working--it's very intermittent.  Life's a process and I finally have the resolve to accept that (versus just knowing it to be intellectually true).

Flanders

Here's Flanders.  He's the newest member of our family & a rockin' cool dude.  He seems to be adjusting really well.  I've finally got the computer and my cell talking again, so I can add pics to ye ole blog.  We're keeping the name he came with, although Little Man wanted to add "Bob" to it (Flanders Bob).  I told him it sounded a little piratey for me, but then Chief's been calling him, "Flanderson," and I've been calling him "Flanderooney" and "Hidey Ho!" (the latter came from his online profile that the AZ Animal Welfare League created for him--"Hidey Ho, neighbors!" was his tagline with his info following it). 

Here's from our ride home:

He really wants out of the back seat and into ours!  He finally got the picture and stayed safely in the back. 





Hot Beverage?

I like my hot beverages--coffee and green tea.  I'll drink black tea and some of that other stuff, but I really prefer green.  First thing in the morning and as an afternoon snack, however, coffee trumps it all--black in the AM and a sugary latte in the PM.  Black decaf after a dinner out.  It's pretty routine--certain times of the year it's like clockwork.  That's why I got such a chuckle out of Sheldon's character on the show, Big Bang Theory, when he noted that it's a "social custom" to offer someone an "hot beverage" when they are feeling down (at least that's what I vaguely remember--I was laughing too hard at "social custom" and, of course, "hot beverage").  I heard that months ago and I still cackle out loud when I say to Chief, "Hot beverage?"



via Google images

It's the little things in life.  Yes, I continue to drink hot beverages when the temps soar above 100 degrees.  They soothe my throat and placate my psyche, if the truth be told!  In astrological terms this is interesting because I'm a taurus ruled by the throat--my dad would say that this explains why I talk all the time.  hmmmm.  I'll leave you with that as I'm off to get my afternoon latte.

Buddy & Trigger

We started our search for a dog in a kind of official capacity last weekend by going to AZ Animal Welfare League's shelter.  There were a lot of furry faces to visit that it quickly became overwhelming.  In retrospect, we were so haphazard in our selection process last time.  We chose two male dogs who were roughly the same age, but they weren't litter mates and they weren't being kenneled together.  Trigger (who at the time was called "Trasher") was campaigning very hard to be chosen.  I could practically hear him yelling, "OOOH, pick me!  Pick me!!!"  Buddy was much more laid back with a kind of "how you doing" sort of vibe, who seemed very quiet.  Little did we know!  They were the only two we asked to look at, they seemed to get along and then we decided we'd take them both.  There you have it. 

Jon & I were talking about the dogs we saw and comparing notes when I remembered taking Buddy and Trigger home with us.  Trigger could not get out of the shelter fast enough.  He practically drug me through the lobby and jumped right into the back of the truck the second he could clear the gate.  With the look on his face and his extreme panic I would've expected him to reach down to give Buddy him a hand all the while shouting, "Come on man!  We have to leave now!  Hurry before they leave without us!"  Buddy, however, had spied a person arriving to turn in two cats.  He lunged and scared one of the poor cats under some lady's car and was way more interested in that whole scenario than jumping ship with Trigger.  It was quite a circus ride.  I had taken the dogs out to the truck by myself while Jon finished paying because Trigger was in a hell-fire hurry to leave.  Boy-howdy.  All these tucked-away memories have been popping up because of the dog search.  We are planning on going back tomorrow to visit and do a better job of getting everyone more focused.  Wish us luck! 

I really need to organize my photo library.  I have good pics of the dogs and can never find them when I'm looking for or needing them!

"Suggestion/Complaint" Box, a.k.a., the Bitch Box

I think I'm going to make a complaint box for our house.  One that's just for me and no one else--my own personal Bitch Box.  I will lodge the nastiest complaints in this box & later I will burn them.  (The irony is I say I'll do these things, yet I don't think I have the courage or the patience to articulate some of the stuff swirling around in my head)  I suppose I could "suggest" things to myself, but I don't really talk like that--the harshest I get there is "recommending" that some one "be quiet" or if really mad, "shut up."  I know, still not very nice.  That's why this box seems like such a great idea, today particularly.  I feel like the past couple of weeks have really worn on me & I no longer want to take it.  Thing is, where do you "put" it, whatever "it" happens to be?  Why you put it in the box and woe be to him who tries to peek in it, right?  You get enough complaints you can then burn them and start the merry process all over, again.  Kind of like the school run--you get in the car in the morning and drop the children off and do the same thing in the afternoon only in reverse, get in the car and pick up the children.  Cyclical, like the phases of the moon and the waves in the ocean or the fighting of politicians and the kvetching of the PTA moms (of which I am not, yet another story)--things you can always count on to reoccur.  Perhaps just having a Bitch Box in and of itself will cheer me and I won't have to complain.  We'll see about that.