Monday, November 30, 2009

It's the end of PoMo as we know it..

..and I feel fine.

Ok. So I did it. I posted everyday this month and managed not to die. Some days not dying seemed like a victory - not that dying was truly a possibility; it's just an exaggeration (,Mom,) - that I was so stupidly busy that death seemed like a viable option. No, not "viable" because that means "living," and a living death seems ridiculous, though I do feel like the living dead some days. "Feasible" is a more likely adjective, I think.

Anyway, I wrote three or four "good" posts, "good" meaning "I don't hate them", and the rest were pretty much fluff, thus proving that I really should only blog when I have something to say or am prompted. I already knew that about myself - just like I knew that I only wanted to practice the piano when I felt like it, or like I knew that I wanted to take dance class on my own schedule. I don't think it's unusual to not want to do homework. When requirements and parameters are involved, even the things we enjoy doing become chores. Still, I need something to prod me in the right direction.

If you have any ideas about prodding sites (mind out of the gutter, Christine!), let me know..
:)

Sunday, November 29, 2009

I found my brolly!

It's such a silly little proclamation, but I think the memory of it is what matters. A few years ago, I was in London by myself. I had been in Oxford for a teacher training, but returned to London to have some independent time and to make sure that I could travel without a companion, a challenge that forced me to rely on my own intuition. My London friend, Mark, with whom I visited earlier in the week, let me camp out at his house for free while he was away on business. Free was the only way I could make staying work.

But there I was, in London roaming around, blissfully lost in thought. It had sprinkled on and off as is the usual London M.O. and I stupidly hadn't remembered to pack an umbrella. When the sprinkling switched to more of a downpour, I ducked into a little shop and found a small black umbrella adorned with silver moths. The moth is my power animal insect, so the brolly - the charming nickname Brits use in lieu of the more vulgar sounding 'umbrella' - was clearly meant for me. I bought it and then hoped it would rain for the rest of my stay.

When I returned home, faced with the arid climate of Texas, I put away the umbrella for the rare rainy day. Unfortunately until today, I hadn't remembered where I stored it.

Every time rain was in the forecast, I went hunting for the brolly. Hours and hours were spent digging for and cussing over and fretting about that little umbrella, the only meaningful souvenir I had bought on that trip. It was more than a thing. It was a reminder of that specific time in my life, that journey. And I had lost it.

Today while I was looking for something in a cabinet, I spotted something silver way, way in the back. As I focused in on the silver, I realized it was a moth! My moth! I began flinging all of the clutter aside and reached for the umbrella.

"I found it! My brolly! Rich! I found it! It's here!!" And I went dancing around the house with it. The celebration went on for an hour, at least (Sorry, Rich). I may sleep with it tonight. I am so glad to have it back.

Like I said, it's silly, silly, silly, silly!

And still, I found my brolly!

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Drive Home - The short version

1:00 - Fussy baby. Time to go.
Rationale - Baby will fall asleep on car ride home, will wake up in time for snack.

2:00 - One hour in. Five to go. Baby has napped for 30 minutes. Stop at Dairy Queen in nondescript town for a Blizzard fix.
Rationale: We only treat ourselves to Blizzards on road trips. We more than deserve this one, plus it is an opportunity to get milk for the baby so he'll go back to sleep.

3:00 - Baby not asleep. Break out the snacks.
Rationale: Baby will eat a healthy snack and will go to sleep when full. No fast food for him.

4:00 - Baby not asleep. Momma crawls into the backseat to entertain fussy baby. In 20 miles is a rest area.. no in 40 miles. Still, we will stop no matter what.. unless the baby falls asleep.
Rationale: Twinkle Twinkle Little Star has stopped working. We have to do something.

4:40 - Rest area break. Play on playground but "Caution. Watch for Rattlesnakes." We play anyway.
Rationale: Surely rattlesnakes won't be out today.. Surely.. Plus playing will make the baby tired, right?

6:00 - We should stop for dinner, unless baby is asleep. Or unless he is pacified, in which case we will continue with the healthy snacks and will soldier on.
Rationale: There would only be one hour left in the trip. It would be ridiculous to stop for dinner and then wrestle the baby back into the car seat that he REALLY REALLY hates at the moment.

6:30 - We soldiered on. It was a mistake. Traffic is at a standstill because of an accident. We can almost see home. We should take the nearest exit, but we won't.
Rationale: Where the hell does the exit lead? It's better to be safe, even though it will take longer than expected to get home and the baby is STILL not asleep and is cranky from being hungry and tired.

6:45 - Still stopped. On an overpass. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT. Why didn't we take the goddamn exit? The baby is SCREAMING. I beg husband (who is now the passenger)to do something.
Rationale: Mental breakdown is coming.

7:00 - Same overpass. Same stop. Baby is going to make himself sick with all of the crying. Momma starts crying.
Rationale: All hope is gone. We will never get home. We should've stopped for dinner. We should've taken the exit. Why did we go on this fu*king trip, anyway? In-laws? Why am I even married. Life is ridiculous. And why haven't the police even attempted to direct traffic? This is bullshit.

7:10 - OK. We're calm.
Rationale: At least we're not the ones in the accident.

7:15 - We're moving. Go go go go go.
Rationale: Try not to speed. Or miss any exits.

8:10 - We're home. Make quick and easy dinner. Change baby. Put him to bed. Enjoy glass of wine.Blog this.
Rationale: Phew. This wasn't the worst ride home ever. That was last year. And NaBloPoMo can suck it.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Standard

We sat around the table, a blended family, which afforded everyone the opportunity to sit in awkward silence. "Happy Thanksgiving" was trailer to the shortest, most repeated conversation of the day: "Hi, I'm (so-and-so), (so-and-so's)daughter-in-law, (so-and-so's) wife, and this is my son/daughter, (so-and-so). He's (this age). Um.. Nice to meet you, too. Happy Thanksgiving."

Of course there were the standard acknowledgements - "The turkey is so moist!"; "The corn casserole is amazing, and it's just cream cheese, corn, and green chilies? Cool."; "Who made the dressing?"; "What is this, again?" and so forth.

And the standard jokes - "I wonder if we could get away with 'Turkey Treating,' going door to door with a sack for whatever people are willing to drop in.." and, "I wonder how many houses we could walk into and just serve ourselves, where the family members would whisper in the corner about who's cousin/ex/niece we were," and for both, "How many houses could we hit before we got too full?"

I suppose this is the fairly normal Thanksgiving conversation, and I don't mean to make it sound horribly generic. There is a comfort to gathering around a table and sharing a meal as tradition dictates. I love my family, the new members - the idea that really, they're accepting me into their rituals, the ones I am just now learning. But we all secretly admit that we hope something dramatic happens - something that will bond us so that next Thanksgiving, the conversation can start with, "Hi again! Remember last year when (this incredibly dramatic, gossip worthy event) happened? Yeah. That was nuts. So how have you been since then?"

Thank God for football.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Happy Thanksgiving Eve, Y'all!
(from the Flatlands)

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

It is probably inappropriate for me to send what I'm about to say into the blogosphere because it is something so personal, so intimate that no one but the intended recipient should hear it. Unfortunately, because of the nature of our relationship, and because time separates even people who intend to keep in touch, this is the only way I know how to reach out to you.

Listen. I can't say anything to make what you're going through easier. I can't pretend that I understand even a little bit. There is nothing I can say that will be of any comfort or help. In this way I am completely impotent. All I can do is say that you got dealt a shitty hand. What you're going through is inconceivable - a fucking nightmare. It goes against any thinking that the world is in any way good or beautiful or natural, against the things that I taught you were truths, the things that are lovely.

I'm sorry. So sorry.

And I'm here if you need to reach out.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Appearances are what they seem

A woman in a brown squaw dress ran by me as I parked the car on my way to a much needed hair appointment. I took a mental snapshot - a Polaroid of something that my brain should have recognized as unusual but that left me, instead, an imprint to consider. The initial negative indicated that the beading on the dress looked awful, fake even, and probably it looked that way because the beading was plastic, not at all authentic. Then came the color: "I know people can be eccentric and all but gah. I mean, sometimes the hair salon is where folks are able to express themselves without judgement, but.. Am I judging? Is she wearing boots? Would boots go with a squaw dress? Surely, they must. Or sandals. Leather, strappy ones. This must be a product of some sort of Abercrombie ad, and shouldn't her hair be braided on each side of her face instead of down and frizzy? Abercrombie loves braids. And oh wait - is that a sucker in her mouth?"

The answer to the last question was yes. This is when I allowed myself the double take and realized that this woman was not a woman after all. She was a kid - a kid in a squaw dress, probably the product of a blue light special rather than an Abercrombie fashion attempt. Her hair was unkept because she had probably played at P.E., a common thing for 4th or 5th graders to do. She wasn't making a fashion statement. She was running an errand for her mom. "Get my purse out of the car," I imagined was the order, or, "Bring mommy her cigarettes." Something like that.

I snorted at the brain frenzy I wasted on that moment - a brutal barrage of thought per millisecond - and went into the salon.

Later, my hair goupy with hair dye, a metal pick in hand for the itchy places, I settled in under the UV dryer with a People Magazine that promised all the juicy details of Elizabeth Smart's ordeal overcome by Mormonism and David Letterman's stoicism in the face of extortion - yes, he had affairs with interns, but he's such a brooding man, a kind, brooding man - and Angelina and Brad's twins at the airport (again). That's when I heard Squaw girl's mom in the next room. I couldn't see her, but the conversation was loud enough that I may as well have been in the same room.

I tried not to listen but I figured that distraction from People Magazine wasn't entirely a bad thing, and depending on what I heard, might even be a good thing.. or a most terrible one, in which case how would I know unless I listened.. Right? So I listened.

The mom was on and on about her Botox touch up. How her personal trainer was overcharging her $10 a session. How she wished her daughter (who was getting her hair done) would just cut off all of her hair, and that if she didn't sit still, the hairdresser would have to cut it all off because she would have to keep evening it out..blah blah blah. People Magazine won.

As I was finishing up with my hairdresser, I caught a glimpse of the mom and her squaw. I thought, "Wow. She looks like every other typical mom. I never would've guessed that a person who was waffling on about personal trainers and Botox would be of average size, wearing typical mom jeans, and sporting a typical mom do. I wouldn't say that she was especially pretty or witty at all.

It was an unexpected realization and I began to giggle at the irony. I mean, who did she think she was with all of that talk? Someone off the cover of People? Katie Holmes in disguise? And what was she teaching her kid?

That's when I saw myself in the mirror - getting my hair dyed and trimmed - my own version of the blue light special - awful, plastic, fake even - not at all authentic.

Everyday is Halloween in America.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Futures up for grabs!

So, we actually did it. We officially signed up for the international job fair in February. Saying it outloud makes it so much more real (as if the credit card statement wasn't real enough!). Real and scary. And exciting and wonderful and how much should I get my hopes up?

Anyway, schools we hope to interview with include ones in Zurich, Vienna, Prague, Warsaw, Aberdeen (Scotland), and Costa Rica. Those are the ones who could potentailly hire a "team" - as in Rich and me together.

Ideally we'd get hired at a United World College, even though I'd have to apply for those jobs separately. Also, I may have a prospect in North London which would be great since I know some folks there and am less intimidated by British culture shock.

It would be smarter financially for us to stay in the US one more year. But then, when were we ever smart?

Onward to February!

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Friday, November 20, 2009

Romantic

by Margaret Atwood

Men and their mournful romanticism
that can't get the dishes done – that's freedom,
that broken wineglass
in the cold fireplace.

When women wash underpants, it's a chore.
When men do it, an intriguing affliction.
How plangent, the damp socks flapping on the line,
how lost and single in the orphaning air . . .

She cherishes that sadness,
tells him to lie down in the grass,
closes each of his eyes with a finger,
applies her body like a poultice.

You poor thing, the Australian woman
while he held our baby –
as if I had forced him to do it,
as if I had my high heel in his face.

Still, who's taken in?
Every time?
Us, and our empty hands,
the hands of starving nurses.

It's bullet holes we want to see in their skin,
scars, and the chance to touch them.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Record Labels

There is a very heavy moment that happens every year in the second right after a student asks me the most dreaded question they dare: "So, what kind of music do you listen to?" The room usually goes silent, every kid waiting to know if my taste matches theirs, for better or for worse, and what my musical inclinations say about me. In that very moment, judgement hangs in the room in the same way that it hung in the Coliseum when the spectators awaited Caesar's signal - will it be life or death for the poor gladiator English teacher?

I always feel like my answer will color the rest of the year, that either they'll respect me for being like minded, they'll shove me into the "old maid" pile, or they'll shrug me off with a label - emo, techno, bubble gum, navel gazer, screamo - or something like that. "Is the cool teacher really cool?" they'll ask, "or have we been snowed the last few months?"

I know it's silly to assign so much meaning to one question and to care about what the answer says about me. Still, I usually answer vaguely - the ole "I listen to all sorts of music," song and dance. But they know as well as I do, that my usual answer is pretty much a cop out. That's why this year I decided to go with, "Actually, lately I'm really interested in this new radio station that plays mostly indie music from people who record in their own homes. You know, the starving musicians who can't afford a fancy recording studio and who refuse sell out to some corporate label. Yeah. I'm into that."

They bought it! I didn't mention that it's the new NPR music station I'm talking about. They didn't ask, as they were nodding approval and wondering what "indie" means.

(Speaking of snowed..)

But there it is. I survived the question one more year.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

My time fairy is murdered.

So, it turns out it is surprisingly difficult to write a blog post with a toddler crawling up your leg, crying because you're not paying attention to him RIGHT NOW, with Sesame Street blaring in the background. Add to that a day of high school seniors doing the exact same thing but less endearingly, and what you're left with is a very tired girl whose stress-o-meter points to "OVERLOAD," one tick away from "SHOOT ME."

I realize I've been shitty at this year's NaBloPoMo - as in I've posted- which is good- but I haven't written a whole lot - which, for me, is bad. This is the opposite of what I had hoped would happen. I suppose I thought the magic time fairy would descend upon my world, creating just the right duration for me to calm down from school, be inspired by something, write intelligently about that something, and then have time for things like getting the rest of my ridiculous work load done, making dinner, playing with Jack, bath time, and all the other responsibilities I have, with a few hours left for working out, baking cookies or making sock puppets and homemade glitter, or another some such that perfect moms in a perfect universe do perfectly to make the rest of us feel inadequate.

My time fairy did descend, as requested, but then she did the most disturbing, rude thing one can do to a woman whose stress-o-meter is one tick away from "SHOOT ME." She laughed. In my face. For entire seconds (because who could spare more?). She then flipped me off, turned tail, and flew away.

That's why I had to kill her.

I should tell you that killing time fairies is extremely easy. Turn on one episode of Glee and you'll understand what I mean. TV is the only weapon you'll need..

I wish I could be the type of person who spins plates on poles while doing a back bend and making sandwiches with a smile on my face. But I can't be that girl, no matter how hard I try, (and my smile is usually observed as a grimace). I'm exhausted. Did I mention I have a toddler?

I'll just have to learn to be Ok with writing when I can. Also, I'll have to hope that you'll be patient with me - understanding that I'm trying to visit when I can, that I miss you, and I want to know what's going on in your lives.

In the mean time, I'll try to keep you posted.

Thanks for your patience.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Monday, November 16, 2009

Thankful for Christine

The folks over at ModCloth are affording me the opportunity via their ModCloth Thank-a-thon contest to write about a person I am thankful for. Please enjoy my extremely sincere attempt:

The Office Supply Store:

“Do you think it’s worth a dollar fifty to make our boss happy?” I asked her. We were standing in front of a depleted end cap at Staples, weighing whether or not a package of multi-expressioned smiley face push pins would be part of our next diabolical plan. A stranger standing next to us, pretending to ignore our conversation, smothered a snort.

School:

FISH. It’s an acronym for something. I have no idea what it stands for other than it’s in a book , one that’s among the favorite self help texts used, supposedly, for breathing life back into stifled, floundering grade school faculties across the country. Campuses, at this very moment, are having staff retreats – playing “get-to-know-you” games that involve answering questions like, “How have you made you students’ day? If you have a story about that, grab a red construction paper fish from the pile,” and “How have you been there for the kids lately? Take a green fish if you have,” or “Take a yellow fish if you’ve played lately.” Think, pair, share; think, pair, share. “Now, everybody, throw your fish.”

Or something like that.

It’s times like these, when I’m sitting in the middle of a faculty FISH exercise, a pile of papers in my inbox needing to be marked, that I’m glad to have my equally cynical cohort, my accomplice extraordinaire, Christine, sitting next to me. Mocking such endeavors in the form of secretly exchanged glances, or the defacement of construction paper fish, or by the planning and executing of diabolical plans – chocked full of jackholery - are the only ways we know how to deal with the overwhelming proof that in our country teachers are not considered intellectuals.

Apparently, we’re FISH.

Choose your attitude:

A black and white printout touting this message is taped on the back of the main office door, so that when one exits the office, she sees the sign. Underneath the message are two faces, the elementary equivalent of theater masks: a happy face and a sad one.

“What’s up with this sign? I would wager that it’s part of the FISH philosophy,” I said to Christine as we walked together out of the office.

“Dude. There are more than two choices aren’t there? I mean what about being mad (zigzag mouth) or surprised (large oval mouth) or indifferent (a line)? Are these two the only options? ”

“We should add the others. Obviously, this sign is lacking.”

It was agreed. With enthusiasm, everyone, including the office staff, riffled through their desk drawers looking for markers, finding any excuse to throw caution to the wind.

“This will be a great joke,” we exclaimed. “It’ll make our boss’s day! She’ll laugh at our ingenuity and praise us for playing! This is our way of FISHing without being intrusive! And she’ll understand that positive change comes from all sorts of places, including sad faces. It will be brilliant!!”

Markers in hand, we set about “correcting” the sign. We added all sorts of facial options, delighting in our creative genius, liberating the masses, hoisting our own petards! We were cheered and revered by all and, after many high fives and giggles, our mission complete, we skipped back to the realities of our lives – down the hall to our respective classrooms.

The Next Day:

The next day the sign had been replaced with a new, clean printout. The glory of our masterpiece had been taken down without the slightest acknowledgement or reprimand, thrown like a dead fish onto a trash heap.

The Office Supply Store:

Christine raised an eyebrow and smirked. “It might not be worth making the boss happy, but a dollar fifty to make us happy? Absolutely, it’s worth it.”

“I’ll take two packages. Let’s add a card that says ‘See! There are more than two attitude choices!” I said with a fist in the air.

“And we’ll put one package on our boss’s desk when she’s not looking!”

“Yes! And I’ll divide the other one between us as souvenirs.”

And we skipped off to the checkout counter having crafted a new reality, one that involved as many expressions - diabolical glee, perhaps - as we could imagine.

** Thank you, Christine, for being my very dear friend - the one who hears me, goes to bat for me, and is a complete jackhole, no matter what others think, with me. I am thankful for you, always and forever. I love you!!

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Overheard: Salon

During a break from the titillating stimulation of dead white men like Sir Francis Bacon and Mr. Winston Smith*, a side conversation at the salon:

Him: "So, what's your favorite male, angry dance moment in an 80's movie?"

Me: (inquisitive, befuddled brow, clearly (though I couldn't see myself) since he had to give a patient example)

Him: "For example, mine's Kevin Bacon - when he does that angry gymnastics dance in the warehouse in the movie Footloose."

Her: "Right. And mine is Emilio Estevez's detention dance in The Breakfast Club."

Me: (smiling) You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you. That's why I love you both, dearly. "I'm not sure.."

**Technically Winston Smith isn't dead, but come on! The bullet's coming any day now, right?

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Friday, November 13, 2009

Salon!

What do you think?:

1. Should convictions become more or less settled with increasing age?

2. Orwell’s Big Brother—still watching 25 years later: how’s He doing?

3. Is business a “calling”?

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Jubilation Awry

After a day of begging for money patron gathering for the latest edition of In the Margins (the most amazing magazine in the history of the known YOUniverse and probably beyond), the LitMag navel gazers convene for a time of sharing.

navel gazer 1: We're, like, so excited! Our group got two patrons!!!

navel gazer 2: Yeah. We got $20 from a bakery, AND we got a little something from Golden Chick.

[Navel gazer 2 hands a check to the head navel gazer, a.k.a. their teacher, a.k.a. me.]

head navel gazer: (shocked, with a smudge of disbelief) What? Am I reading this correctly? Is that a 3?

navel gazers 1 and 2: (Nodding, their smiles exploding off of their faces) Can you believe it?

head navel gazer: Oh my gosh! We got a $350.00 patron!!! With the rest of our account, we finally have enough money to publish this semester's magazine!!!

all: (various expressions of gratitude and god praising and glee and jubilation)Wow! Golden Chick is our muse! Our golden, platinum, muse!!!

navel gazer 3: This calls for a group jumping hug!!

all: (run a little too enthusiastically to each other, form a group hug and begin jumping and giggling together. Then there is awkward silence as they realize what they are, in fact, doing. They separate awkwardly)

[a pause in the space/time continuum]

navel gazer 4: Let's promise to never do that again, ok?

all: Ok.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

The Advent Conspiracy


The story of Christ's birth is a subversive story of an upside-down kingdom. It's a story of promise, hope, and a revolutionary love that is still changing the world to this day. So, what happened? What was once a time to celebrate the birth of a savior has somehow turned into a season of stress, traffic jams, and shopping lists. And when it's all over, many of us are left with presents to return, looming debt that will take months to pay off, and this empty feeling that we somehow missed its purpose.

Is this what we really want out of Christmas?

What if Christmas became a world-changing event again by turning our focus back to the birth of Christ? What could happen to your family if this focus was celebrated in loud, bold and totally unexpected ways? What if you could actually trade your season of stress for a season celebration and unbelievable memories with your friends and family? What if all of this could save a life at the same time? It can.

Welcome to Advent Conspiracy
Learn more at www.adventconspiracy.org

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Worrisome

on Predator Drone Missle Attacks, in our own words:

Anticapatory self-defense,
"Virtuless killing"
Cubicle warriors
"Squirters" (the targeted people who run for cover as seen on a computer screen)
Rubble and charred stuff
Extrajudicial killings
"The only game in town"
worryingly seductive war, perceived as "costless"
[not] an honorable way of combat

* all phrases are from "The Predator War: What are the risks of the CIS's covert drone program?" by Jane Mayer. The New Yorker Magazine. October 26, 2009.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Rich

Happy birthday, Wratch!!! You're the best husband on the planet!! Thank you for choosing me daily.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

The Moment

by Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

For Your Information Age

I can see how data and information can be seen as something that can cause the collapse of civilization, lest we forget what happened in Eden, the fruit that was consumed. But also, we've always had to sieve through the information we've been given, and now we have to be much more adept at doing so than ever before. I would assert that the problem is not that society is becoming lazy in their thinking. We're always looking for loopholes to not have to physically work as hard (a problem in itself, as Gandhi pointed out), but in the looking we're exercising the mind. (And, as it happens, a mind at rest is working just as hard, if not harder, than a mind at work because it has to compensate for the inactivity.) So, the problem is not in too much information. The problem is that we have to sift faster than we can manage.

If there is to be Renaissance, then it may be in allowing data to be data, for what it's worth and in recognizing that, like tools, data can be helpful but there should always be a respect for the rudiments - the things that are foundational to everything else: loving, thinking, believing, creating, empathizing, growing gardens, etc.

Civilization cannot end until there is an overwhelming absence of the rudiments. And if only one person recognizes the value in the rudiments, another cannot help but reciprocate - it's human nature.

I still believe that the world is good - data or no, materialism and greed included - because we are horrified by the bad things, and most of us still work at caring for each other, even in the West.

Please, activist friends, remember that people are good.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Thursday, November 5, 2009

It's not so bad, considering

5:30.
Alarm - coffee.
Parent conference - agenda 1,
Faculty meeting (sigh).
Formal. Observation!
Macbeth - good attempt
Lunch duty (oops, shit).
Macbeth - amazing class!
Macbeth - challenge, anger, defeat.
Last bell,
Parent emails.
Grading, grading, grading, drowning
6:00.

Ft. Hood.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

The Women's Bean Project

Speaking of Christine, last Christmas, one of the gifts in my goodie bag was some cookie mix from a group called The Women's Bean Project. I peripherally knew about this organization, but decided to do some more investigating when I finally made the cookies. I at least owed it to Christine who always puts so much thought into her gifts. It turns out I'm glad I did my homework, and now I'm eager to support them. In fact, I plan on doing some of my Christmas shopping at their site this year. The cookies were awesome and the cause is fantastic!!
Check it out*:

Their Mission: To change women's lives by providing stepping stones to self-sufficiency through social enterprise.

Their Vision: Women’s Bean Project strives to break the cycle of chronic unemployment and poverty by helping women discover their talents and develop skills by offering job readiness training opportunities.With this stepping stone toward success, the women will be able to support themselves and their families, and create stronger role models for future generations.

Whom They Serve: The women hired at the Bean Project have histories of poverty and unemployment; they lack hope and self-confidence; most do not have a GED or high school diploma; most are single mothers and have been on public assistance; many are recovering from experiences with substance abuse and incarceration.Women find the Bean Project many different ways, but most often are referred by graduates and current program participants.

Parole officers, shelters and other service agencies all refer women to the Bean Project.

What They Do: The Women's Bean Project is a social enterprise that offers a transitional job in gourmet food manufacturing designed to provide immediate income, arrange support services to overcome barriers to employment, and teach the job readiness skills needed to get and keep a job. Program participants come from backgrounds of chronic unemployment and poverty, and the program helps them develop the work and interpersonal skills needed to function independently in the workplace and community.

But the Women's Bean Project does not hire women to make and sell bean products. We make and sell bean products to hire women.

Women produce the goods that are sold nationwide as they develop the work and interpersonal skills needed to function independently and effectively in the workplace and community.

The Women's Bean Project:
* Meets basic needs and removes barriers to employment by paying a wage and facilitating support services
* Offers life skills that enhance a woman's ability to govern her own life
* Arranges services that increase employability such as GED and computer classes
* Provide hands-on training in the fundamental job readiness skills required by entry-level employers

Why They Do It: The tools gained during their stay at the Bean Project empower women to create better lives for themselves, provide their families with hope, and contribute to a stronger community

* As listed on their website

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Self Actualization

My very, very good "you complete me" (sign language circle) friend, Christine, sent me this portrait, supposedly of herself:
Yes, Christine. I do know what you mean..

Monday, November 2, 2009

a small list

things i do not like:
- misguided notions and selfish motives
- popping open tubes of buscuits, especially when "pressing firmly on the seam with the edge of a spoon" is required
- clutter, especially in my home
- being called "sweet" or "average"
- excuses and shoulder shrugs

things i do like:
- twilight, when Jack points to the harvest moon and exclaims, "Ball!"
- starving artists of any genre
- stilletos and sassitude
- a-ha! moments and other such clarities
- pub conversations, especially with new friends

(as inspired by Fussy Ms. Kennedy, via someone called Amanda)

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Living Juicy

Today I was digging through the closet in the front room. Ahem. I was panicking because I couldn't find Toddler Jack who was digging through the closet in the front room. When I found him, he was acting like a dog intently burying a bone, only instead of dirt being flung behind him, he was hurling cassette tapes - The Alarm, Motley Crue, New Order and Stevie Nicks - over his shoulder. Instead of a bone, he was burying a box. As I moved closer, I realized that Jack was burying a birthday card box that I received on my twenty-first birthday. Being significantly older than twenty-one now, I had forgotten that I had kept this treasure, and one glimpse of it sent me tripping down memory lane.

The Box Card Occasion:
I had to work the desk in the lobby of Coleman Hall on my 21st birthday. When I got the job, I was glad that I could work at a desk where I might be able to study, especially during the night shifts. But that day I was feeling antsy, as one might when she is pacing back and forth by herself in a silent lobby on her twenty-first birthday, waiting for her shift to be over so she can go hang out with her boyfriend - climb trees, sit in a coffee house, and do other freeing things that college students do with boyfriends when they are twenty-one.. or something like that. My pity party was becoming pretty convincing, and that's when Carol showed up.

My Friend, Carol:
She came with a cupcake - at least I think it was a cupcake, I can't remember. Carol was known for handing out half-eaten chili dogs at Christmas, so it could've been anything really. Was it a snow cone? Anyway, I'm going to remember it as being a _____something better than a chili dog/cupcake/snow cone_____ with a single lit candle in the middle. She sang to me right there in the lobby, a capella; presented the treat; and handed a very surprised twenty-one year old the box card.

Describing the Box Card:
Outside - Checkbook box covered in a thin layer of burlap, tie-dyed, handmade paper designs glued on top. Edges fringed.

Inside - Blue and orange handmade paper background, with the word "HAPPY" cut out of fabric, glued on top of the paper. Glitter confetti and gold, spiraled pipe cleaners loose within, and a scroll also made out of handmade paper.

Bottom - similar to description of outside, except for the little tag that reads "Carpe Diem Cards"

All - Completely made by Carol, except for the checkbook box itself and probably the burlap, though out of all my friends, I would vote Carol to be my "Most Likely To Make Her Own Burlap" friend.

Scroll Inscription:
"Ginger:
May your 21st year of life be filled with bushels of joy-filled juicy moments that just make you want to do the Happy Dance! Today I do the happy dance in your honor, for your life brings much joy and encouragement to mine. Peace, sister! Carol"

13 Years Later:
I sat down on the bed, forgetting for a moment that Jack was throwing cassettes (precious antiques such as Peter Gabriel, Europe, White Lion..) and that I was was supposed to be the enforcer. I allowed myself to remember that time when living was "living juicy" - that is being so full of life, that, like a bursting ripe navel orange, if one were to take a bite out of our lives, creativity and love and all the things that make our spirits abundant, would come gushing forth, dripping down our smiling chins, so much so that others wouldn't be able stop themselves from wanting a slice..

I smiled and looked at my son who was still at work flinging cassettes - U2, AC/DC, Huey Lewis, Heart.. Instead of getting on to him, I picked him up and cuddled him. I apologized for ever burying the box in the first place and explained that he should never bury it either. We should never bury our treasure.

The Message:
Live juicy, folks. Let the succulence of your life drip down your faces. Be creative - create. Work with your hands. Most importantly, love, love, love, LOVE. And to my friends and family, I am doing a happy dance in your honor today, for your lives bring much joy and encouragement to mine.

Monday, November 30, 2009

It's the end of PoMo as we know it..

..and I feel fine.

Ok. So I did it. I posted everyday this month and managed not to die. Some days not dying seemed like a victory - not that dying was truly a possibility; it's just an exaggeration (,Mom,) - that I was so stupidly busy that death seemed like a viable option. No, not "viable" because that means "living," and a living death seems ridiculous, though I do feel like the living dead some days. "Feasible" is a more likely adjective, I think.

Anyway, I wrote three or four "good" posts, "good" meaning "I don't hate them", and the rest were pretty much fluff, thus proving that I really should only blog when I have something to say or am prompted. I already knew that about myself - just like I knew that I only wanted to practice the piano when I felt like it, or like I knew that I wanted to take dance class on my own schedule. I don't think it's unusual to not want to do homework. When requirements and parameters are involved, even the things we enjoy doing become chores. Still, I need something to prod me in the right direction.

If you have any ideas about prodding sites (mind out of the gutter, Christine!), let me know..
:)

Sunday, November 29, 2009

I found my brolly!

It's such a silly little proclamation, but I think the memory of it is what matters. A few years ago, I was in London by myself. I had been in Oxford for a teacher training, but returned to London to have some independent time and to make sure that I could travel without a companion, a challenge that forced me to rely on my own intuition. My London friend, Mark, with whom I visited earlier in the week, let me camp out at his house for free while he was away on business. Free was the only way I could make staying work.

But there I was, in London roaming around, blissfully lost in thought. It had sprinkled on and off as is the usual London M.O. and I stupidly hadn't remembered to pack an umbrella. When the sprinkling switched to more of a downpour, I ducked into a little shop and found a small black umbrella adorned with silver moths. The moth is my power animal insect, so the brolly - the charming nickname Brits use in lieu of the more vulgar sounding 'umbrella' - was clearly meant for me. I bought it and then hoped it would rain for the rest of my stay.

When I returned home, faced with the arid climate of Texas, I put away the umbrella for the rare rainy day. Unfortunately until today, I hadn't remembered where I stored it.

Every time rain was in the forecast, I went hunting for the brolly. Hours and hours were spent digging for and cussing over and fretting about that little umbrella, the only meaningful souvenir I had bought on that trip. It was more than a thing. It was a reminder of that specific time in my life, that journey. And I had lost it.

Today while I was looking for something in a cabinet, I spotted something silver way, way in the back. As I focused in on the silver, I realized it was a moth! My moth! I began flinging all of the clutter aside and reached for the umbrella.

"I found it! My brolly! Rich! I found it! It's here!!" And I went dancing around the house with it. The celebration went on for an hour, at least (Sorry, Rich). I may sleep with it tonight. I am so glad to have it back.

Like I said, it's silly, silly, silly, silly!

And still, I found my brolly!

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Drive Home - The short version

1:00 - Fussy baby. Time to go.
Rationale - Baby will fall asleep on car ride home, will wake up in time for snack.

2:00 - One hour in. Five to go. Baby has napped for 30 minutes. Stop at Dairy Queen in nondescript town for a Blizzard fix.
Rationale: We only treat ourselves to Blizzards on road trips. We more than deserve this one, plus it is an opportunity to get milk for the baby so he'll go back to sleep.

3:00 - Baby not asleep. Break out the snacks.
Rationale: Baby will eat a healthy snack and will go to sleep when full. No fast food for him.

4:00 - Baby not asleep. Momma crawls into the backseat to entertain fussy baby. In 20 miles is a rest area.. no in 40 miles. Still, we will stop no matter what.. unless the baby falls asleep.
Rationale: Twinkle Twinkle Little Star has stopped working. We have to do something.

4:40 - Rest area break. Play on playground but "Caution. Watch for Rattlesnakes." We play anyway.
Rationale: Surely rattlesnakes won't be out today.. Surely.. Plus playing will make the baby tired, right?

6:00 - We should stop for dinner, unless baby is asleep. Or unless he is pacified, in which case we will continue with the healthy snacks and will soldier on.
Rationale: There would only be one hour left in the trip. It would be ridiculous to stop for dinner and then wrestle the baby back into the car seat that he REALLY REALLY hates at the moment.

6:30 - We soldiered on. It was a mistake. Traffic is at a standstill because of an accident. We can almost see home. We should take the nearest exit, but we won't.
Rationale: Where the hell does the exit lead? It's better to be safe, even though it will take longer than expected to get home and the baby is STILL not asleep and is cranky from being hungry and tired.

6:45 - Still stopped. On an overpass. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT. Why didn't we take the goddamn exit? The baby is SCREAMING. I beg husband (who is now the passenger)to do something.
Rationale: Mental breakdown is coming.

7:00 - Same overpass. Same stop. Baby is going to make himself sick with all of the crying. Momma starts crying.
Rationale: All hope is gone. We will never get home. We should've stopped for dinner. We should've taken the exit. Why did we go on this fu*king trip, anyway? In-laws? Why am I even married. Life is ridiculous. And why haven't the police even attempted to direct traffic? This is bullshit.

7:10 - OK. We're calm.
Rationale: At least we're not the ones in the accident.

7:15 - We're moving. Go go go go go.
Rationale: Try not to speed. Or miss any exits.

8:10 - We're home. Make quick and easy dinner. Change baby. Put him to bed. Enjoy glass of wine.Blog this.
Rationale: Phew. This wasn't the worst ride home ever. That was last year. And NaBloPoMo can suck it.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Standard

We sat around the table, a blended family, which afforded everyone the opportunity to sit in awkward silence. "Happy Thanksgiving" was trailer to the shortest, most repeated conversation of the day: "Hi, I'm (so-and-so), (so-and-so's)daughter-in-law, (so-and-so's) wife, and this is my son/daughter, (so-and-so). He's (this age). Um.. Nice to meet you, too. Happy Thanksgiving."

Of course there were the standard acknowledgements - "The turkey is so moist!"; "The corn casserole is amazing, and it's just cream cheese, corn, and green chilies? Cool."; "Who made the dressing?"; "What is this, again?" and so forth.

And the standard jokes - "I wonder if we could get away with 'Turkey Treating,' going door to door with a sack for whatever people are willing to drop in.." and, "I wonder how many houses we could walk into and just serve ourselves, where the family members would whisper in the corner about who's cousin/ex/niece we were," and for both, "How many houses could we hit before we got too full?"

I suppose this is the fairly normal Thanksgiving conversation, and I don't mean to make it sound horribly generic. There is a comfort to gathering around a table and sharing a meal as tradition dictates. I love my family, the new members - the idea that really, they're accepting me into their rituals, the ones I am just now learning. But we all secretly admit that we hope something dramatic happens - something that will bond us so that next Thanksgiving, the conversation can start with, "Hi again! Remember last year when (this incredibly dramatic, gossip worthy event) happened? Yeah. That was nuts. So how have you been since then?"

Thank God for football.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

It is probably inappropriate for me to send what I'm about to say into the blogosphere because it is something so personal, so intimate that no one but the intended recipient should hear it. Unfortunately, because of the nature of our relationship, and because time separates even people who intend to keep in touch, this is the only way I know how to reach out to you.

Listen. I can't say anything to make what you're going through easier. I can't pretend that I understand even a little bit. There is nothing I can say that will be of any comfort or help. In this way I am completely impotent. All I can do is say that you got dealt a shitty hand. What you're going through is inconceivable - a fucking nightmare. It goes against any thinking that the world is in any way good or beautiful or natural, against the things that I taught you were truths, the things that are lovely.

I'm sorry. So sorry.

And I'm here if you need to reach out.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Appearances are what they seem

A woman in a brown squaw dress ran by me as I parked the car on my way to a much needed hair appointment. I took a mental snapshot - a Polaroid of something that my brain should have recognized as unusual but that left me, instead, an imprint to consider. The initial negative indicated that the beading on the dress looked awful, fake even, and probably it looked that way because the beading was plastic, not at all authentic. Then came the color: "I know people can be eccentric and all but gah. I mean, sometimes the hair salon is where folks are able to express themselves without judgement, but.. Am I judging? Is she wearing boots? Would boots go with a squaw dress? Surely, they must. Or sandals. Leather, strappy ones. This must be a product of some sort of Abercrombie ad, and shouldn't her hair be braided on each side of her face instead of down and frizzy? Abercrombie loves braids. And oh wait - is that a sucker in her mouth?"

The answer to the last question was yes. This is when I allowed myself the double take and realized that this woman was not a woman after all. She was a kid - a kid in a squaw dress, probably the product of a blue light special rather than an Abercrombie fashion attempt. Her hair was unkept because she had probably played at P.E., a common thing for 4th or 5th graders to do. She wasn't making a fashion statement. She was running an errand for her mom. "Get my purse out of the car," I imagined was the order, or, "Bring mommy her cigarettes." Something like that.

I snorted at the brain frenzy I wasted on that moment - a brutal barrage of thought per millisecond - and went into the salon.

Later, my hair goupy with hair dye, a metal pick in hand for the itchy places, I settled in under the UV dryer with a People Magazine that promised all the juicy details of Elizabeth Smart's ordeal overcome by Mormonism and David Letterman's stoicism in the face of extortion - yes, he had affairs with interns, but he's such a brooding man, a kind, brooding man - and Angelina and Brad's twins at the airport (again). That's when I heard Squaw girl's mom in the next room. I couldn't see her, but the conversation was loud enough that I may as well have been in the same room.

I tried not to listen but I figured that distraction from People Magazine wasn't entirely a bad thing, and depending on what I heard, might even be a good thing.. or a most terrible one, in which case how would I know unless I listened.. Right? So I listened.

The mom was on and on about her Botox touch up. How her personal trainer was overcharging her $10 a session. How she wished her daughter (who was getting her hair done) would just cut off all of her hair, and that if she didn't sit still, the hairdresser would have to cut it all off because she would have to keep evening it out..blah blah blah. People Magazine won.

As I was finishing up with my hairdresser, I caught a glimpse of the mom and her squaw. I thought, "Wow. She looks like every other typical mom. I never would've guessed that a person who was waffling on about personal trainers and Botox would be of average size, wearing typical mom jeans, and sporting a typical mom do. I wouldn't say that she was especially pretty or witty at all.

It was an unexpected realization and I began to giggle at the irony. I mean, who did she think she was with all of that talk? Someone off the cover of People? Katie Holmes in disguise? And what was she teaching her kid?

That's when I saw myself in the mirror - getting my hair dyed and trimmed - my own version of the blue light special - awful, plastic, fake even - not at all authentic.

Everyday is Halloween in America.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Futures up for grabs!

So, we actually did it. We officially signed up for the international job fair in February. Saying it outloud makes it so much more real (as if the credit card statement wasn't real enough!). Real and scary. And exciting and wonderful and how much should I get my hopes up?

Anyway, schools we hope to interview with include ones in Zurich, Vienna, Prague, Warsaw, Aberdeen (Scotland), and Costa Rica. Those are the ones who could potentailly hire a "team" - as in Rich and me together.

Ideally we'd get hired at a United World College, even though I'd have to apply for those jobs separately. Also, I may have a prospect in North London which would be great since I know some folks there and am less intimidated by British culture shock.

It would be smarter financially for us to stay in the US one more year. But then, when were we ever smart?

Onward to February!

Friday, November 20, 2009

Romantic

by Margaret Atwood

Men and their mournful romanticism
that can't get the dishes done – that's freedom,
that broken wineglass
in the cold fireplace.

When women wash underpants, it's a chore.
When men do it, an intriguing affliction.
How plangent, the damp socks flapping on the line,
how lost and single in the orphaning air . . .

She cherishes that sadness,
tells him to lie down in the grass,
closes each of his eyes with a finger,
applies her body like a poultice.

You poor thing, the Australian woman
while he held our baby –
as if I had forced him to do it,
as if I had my high heel in his face.

Still, who's taken in?
Every time?
Us, and our empty hands,
the hands of starving nurses.

It's bullet holes we want to see in their skin,
scars, and the chance to touch them.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Record Labels

There is a very heavy moment that happens every year in the second right after a student asks me the most dreaded question they dare: "So, what kind of music do you listen to?" The room usually goes silent, every kid waiting to know if my taste matches theirs, for better or for worse, and what my musical inclinations say about me. In that very moment, judgement hangs in the room in the same way that it hung in the Coliseum when the spectators awaited Caesar's signal - will it be life or death for the poor gladiator English teacher?

I always feel like my answer will color the rest of the year, that either they'll respect me for being like minded, they'll shove me into the "old maid" pile, or they'll shrug me off with a label - emo, techno, bubble gum, navel gazer, screamo - or something like that. "Is the cool teacher really cool?" they'll ask, "or have we been snowed the last few months?"

I know it's silly to assign so much meaning to one question and to care about what the answer says about me. Still, I usually answer vaguely - the ole "I listen to all sorts of music," song and dance. But they know as well as I do, that my usual answer is pretty much a cop out. That's why this year I decided to go with, "Actually, lately I'm really interested in this new radio station that plays mostly indie music from people who record in their own homes. You know, the starving musicians who can't afford a fancy recording studio and who refuse sell out to some corporate label. Yeah. I'm into that."

They bought it! I didn't mention that it's the new NPR music station I'm talking about. They didn't ask, as they were nodding approval and wondering what "indie" means.

(Speaking of snowed..)

But there it is. I survived the question one more year.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

My time fairy is murdered.

So, it turns out it is surprisingly difficult to write a blog post with a toddler crawling up your leg, crying because you're not paying attention to him RIGHT NOW, with Sesame Street blaring in the background. Add to that a day of high school seniors doing the exact same thing but less endearingly, and what you're left with is a very tired girl whose stress-o-meter points to "OVERLOAD," one tick away from "SHOOT ME."

I realize I've been shitty at this year's NaBloPoMo - as in I've posted- which is good- but I haven't written a whole lot - which, for me, is bad. This is the opposite of what I had hoped would happen. I suppose I thought the magic time fairy would descend upon my world, creating just the right duration for me to calm down from school, be inspired by something, write intelligently about that something, and then have time for things like getting the rest of my ridiculous work load done, making dinner, playing with Jack, bath time, and all the other responsibilities I have, with a few hours left for working out, baking cookies or making sock puppets and homemade glitter, or another some such that perfect moms in a perfect universe do perfectly to make the rest of us feel inadequate.

My time fairy did descend, as requested, but then she did the most disturbing, rude thing one can do to a woman whose stress-o-meter is one tick away from "SHOOT ME." She laughed. In my face. For entire seconds (because who could spare more?). She then flipped me off, turned tail, and flew away.

That's why I had to kill her.

I should tell you that killing time fairies is extremely easy. Turn on one episode of Glee and you'll understand what I mean. TV is the only weapon you'll need..

I wish I could be the type of person who spins plates on poles while doing a back bend and making sandwiches with a smile on my face. But I can't be that girl, no matter how hard I try, (and my smile is usually observed as a grimace). I'm exhausted. Did I mention I have a toddler?

I'll just have to learn to be Ok with writing when I can. Also, I'll have to hope that you'll be patient with me - understanding that I'm trying to visit when I can, that I miss you, and I want to know what's going on in your lives.

In the mean time, I'll try to keep you posted.

Thanks for your patience.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Thankful for Christine

The folks over at ModCloth are affording me the opportunity via their ModCloth Thank-a-thon contest to write about a person I am thankful for. Please enjoy my extremely sincere attempt:

The Office Supply Store:

“Do you think it’s worth a dollar fifty to make our boss happy?” I asked her. We were standing in front of a depleted end cap at Staples, weighing whether or not a package of multi-expressioned smiley face push pins would be part of our next diabolical plan. A stranger standing next to us, pretending to ignore our conversation, smothered a snort.

School:

FISH. It’s an acronym for something. I have no idea what it stands for other than it’s in a book , one that’s among the favorite self help texts used, supposedly, for breathing life back into stifled, floundering grade school faculties across the country. Campuses, at this very moment, are having staff retreats – playing “get-to-know-you” games that involve answering questions like, “How have you made you students’ day? If you have a story about that, grab a red construction paper fish from the pile,” and “How have you been there for the kids lately? Take a green fish if you have,” or “Take a yellow fish if you’ve played lately.” Think, pair, share; think, pair, share. “Now, everybody, throw your fish.”

Or something like that.

It’s times like these, when I’m sitting in the middle of a faculty FISH exercise, a pile of papers in my inbox needing to be marked, that I’m glad to have my equally cynical cohort, my accomplice extraordinaire, Christine, sitting next to me. Mocking such endeavors in the form of secretly exchanged glances, or the defacement of construction paper fish, or by the planning and executing of diabolical plans – chocked full of jackholery - are the only ways we know how to deal with the overwhelming proof that in our country teachers are not considered intellectuals.

Apparently, we’re FISH.

Choose your attitude:

A black and white printout touting this message is taped on the back of the main office door, so that when one exits the office, she sees the sign. Underneath the message are two faces, the elementary equivalent of theater masks: a happy face and a sad one.

“What’s up with this sign? I would wager that it’s part of the FISH philosophy,” I said to Christine as we walked together out of the office.

“Dude. There are more than two choices aren’t there? I mean what about being mad (zigzag mouth) or surprised (large oval mouth) or indifferent (a line)? Are these two the only options? ”

“We should add the others. Obviously, this sign is lacking.”

It was agreed. With enthusiasm, everyone, including the office staff, riffled through their desk drawers looking for markers, finding any excuse to throw caution to the wind.

“This will be a great joke,” we exclaimed. “It’ll make our boss’s day! She’ll laugh at our ingenuity and praise us for playing! This is our way of FISHing without being intrusive! And she’ll understand that positive change comes from all sorts of places, including sad faces. It will be brilliant!!”

Markers in hand, we set about “correcting” the sign. We added all sorts of facial options, delighting in our creative genius, liberating the masses, hoisting our own petards! We were cheered and revered by all and, after many high fives and giggles, our mission complete, we skipped back to the realities of our lives – down the hall to our respective classrooms.

The Next Day:

The next day the sign had been replaced with a new, clean printout. The glory of our masterpiece had been taken down without the slightest acknowledgement or reprimand, thrown like a dead fish onto a trash heap.

The Office Supply Store:

Christine raised an eyebrow and smirked. “It might not be worth making the boss happy, but a dollar fifty to make us happy? Absolutely, it’s worth it.”

“I’ll take two packages. Let’s add a card that says ‘See! There are more than two attitude choices!” I said with a fist in the air.

“And we’ll put one package on our boss’s desk when she’s not looking!”

“Yes! And I’ll divide the other one between us as souvenirs.”

And we skipped off to the checkout counter having crafted a new reality, one that involved as many expressions - diabolical glee, perhaps - as we could imagine.

** Thank you, Christine, for being my very dear friend - the one who hears me, goes to bat for me, and is a complete jackhole, no matter what others think, with me. I am thankful for you, always and forever. I love you!!

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Overheard: Salon

During a break from the titillating stimulation of dead white men like Sir Francis Bacon and Mr. Winston Smith*, a side conversation at the salon:

Him: "So, what's your favorite male, angry dance moment in an 80's movie?"

Me: (inquisitive, befuddled brow, clearly (though I couldn't see myself) since he had to give a patient example)

Him: "For example, mine's Kevin Bacon - when he does that angry gymnastics dance in the warehouse in the movie Footloose."

Her: "Right. And mine is Emilio Estevez's detention dance in The Breakfast Club."

Me: (smiling) You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you. That's why I love you both, dearly. "I'm not sure.."

**Technically Winston Smith isn't dead, but come on! The bullet's coming any day now, right?

Friday, November 13, 2009

Salon!

What do you think?:

1. Should convictions become more or less settled with increasing age?

2. Orwell’s Big Brother—still watching 25 years later: how’s He doing?

3. Is business a “calling”?

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Jubilation Awry

After a day of begging for money patron gathering for the latest edition of In the Margins (the most amazing magazine in the history of the known YOUniverse and probably beyond), the LitMag navel gazers convene for a time of sharing.

navel gazer 1: We're, like, so excited! Our group got two patrons!!!

navel gazer 2: Yeah. We got $20 from a bakery, AND we got a little something from Golden Chick.

[Navel gazer 2 hands a check to the head navel gazer, a.k.a. their teacher, a.k.a. me.]

head navel gazer: (shocked, with a smudge of disbelief) What? Am I reading this correctly? Is that a 3?

navel gazers 1 and 2: (Nodding, their smiles exploding off of their faces) Can you believe it?

head navel gazer: Oh my gosh! We got a $350.00 patron!!! With the rest of our account, we finally have enough money to publish this semester's magazine!!!

all: (various expressions of gratitude and god praising and glee and jubilation)Wow! Golden Chick is our muse! Our golden, platinum, muse!!!

navel gazer 3: This calls for a group jumping hug!!

all: (run a little too enthusiastically to each other, form a group hug and begin jumping and giggling together. Then there is awkward silence as they realize what they are, in fact, doing. They separate awkwardly)

[a pause in the space/time continuum]

navel gazer 4: Let's promise to never do that again, ok?

all: Ok.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

The Advent Conspiracy


The story of Christ's birth is a subversive story of an upside-down kingdom. It's a story of promise, hope, and a revolutionary love that is still changing the world to this day. So, what happened? What was once a time to celebrate the birth of a savior has somehow turned into a season of stress, traffic jams, and shopping lists. And when it's all over, many of us are left with presents to return, looming debt that will take months to pay off, and this empty feeling that we somehow missed its purpose.

Is this what we really want out of Christmas?

What if Christmas became a world-changing event again by turning our focus back to the birth of Christ? What could happen to your family if this focus was celebrated in loud, bold and totally unexpected ways? What if you could actually trade your season of stress for a season celebration and unbelievable memories with your friends and family? What if all of this could save a life at the same time? It can.

Welcome to Advent Conspiracy
Learn more at www.adventconspiracy.org

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Worrisome

on Predator Drone Missle Attacks, in our own words:

Anticapatory self-defense,
"Virtuless killing"
Cubicle warriors
"Squirters" (the targeted people who run for cover as seen on a computer screen)
Rubble and charred stuff
Extrajudicial killings
"The only game in town"
worryingly seductive war, perceived as "costless"
[not] an honorable way of combat

* all phrases are from "The Predator War: What are the risks of the CIS's covert drone program?" by Jane Mayer. The New Yorker Magazine. October 26, 2009.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Rich

Happy birthday, Wratch!!! You're the best husband on the planet!! Thank you for choosing me daily.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

The Moment

by Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

For Your Information Age

I can see how data and information can be seen as something that can cause the collapse of civilization, lest we forget what happened in Eden, the fruit that was consumed. But also, we've always had to sieve through the information we've been given, and now we have to be much more adept at doing so than ever before. I would assert that the problem is not that society is becoming lazy in their thinking. We're always looking for loopholes to not have to physically work as hard (a problem in itself, as Gandhi pointed out), but in the looking we're exercising the mind. (And, as it happens, a mind at rest is working just as hard, if not harder, than a mind at work because it has to compensate for the inactivity.) So, the problem is not in too much information. The problem is that we have to sift faster than we can manage.

If there is to be Renaissance, then it may be in allowing data to be data, for what it's worth and in recognizing that, like tools, data can be helpful but there should always be a respect for the rudiments - the things that are foundational to everything else: loving, thinking, believing, creating, empathizing, growing gardens, etc.

Civilization cannot end until there is an overwhelming absence of the rudiments. And if only one person recognizes the value in the rudiments, another cannot help but reciprocate - it's human nature.

I still believe that the world is good - data or no, materialism and greed included - because we are horrified by the bad things, and most of us still work at caring for each other, even in the West.

Please, activist friends, remember that people are good.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

It's not so bad, considering

5:30.
Alarm - coffee.
Parent conference - agenda 1,
Faculty meeting (sigh).
Formal. Observation!
Macbeth - good attempt
Lunch duty (oops, shit).
Macbeth - amazing class!
Macbeth - challenge, anger, defeat.
Last bell,
Parent emails.
Grading, grading, grading, drowning
6:00.

Ft. Hood.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

The Women's Bean Project

Speaking of Christine, last Christmas, one of the gifts in my goodie bag was some cookie mix from a group called The Women's Bean Project. I peripherally knew about this organization, but decided to do some more investigating when I finally made the cookies. I at least owed it to Christine who always puts so much thought into her gifts. It turns out I'm glad I did my homework, and now I'm eager to support them. In fact, I plan on doing some of my Christmas shopping at their site this year. The cookies were awesome and the cause is fantastic!!
Check it out*:

Their Mission: To change women's lives by providing stepping stones to self-sufficiency through social enterprise.

Their Vision: Women’s Bean Project strives to break the cycle of chronic unemployment and poverty by helping women discover their talents and develop skills by offering job readiness training opportunities.With this stepping stone toward success, the women will be able to support themselves and their families, and create stronger role models for future generations.

Whom They Serve: The women hired at the Bean Project have histories of poverty and unemployment; they lack hope and self-confidence; most do not have a GED or high school diploma; most are single mothers and have been on public assistance; many are recovering from experiences with substance abuse and incarceration.Women find the Bean Project many different ways, but most often are referred by graduates and current program participants.

Parole officers, shelters and other service agencies all refer women to the Bean Project.

What They Do: The Women's Bean Project is a social enterprise that offers a transitional job in gourmet food manufacturing designed to provide immediate income, arrange support services to overcome barriers to employment, and teach the job readiness skills needed to get and keep a job. Program participants come from backgrounds of chronic unemployment and poverty, and the program helps them develop the work and interpersonal skills needed to function independently in the workplace and community.

But the Women's Bean Project does not hire women to make and sell bean products. We make and sell bean products to hire women.

Women produce the goods that are sold nationwide as they develop the work and interpersonal skills needed to function independently and effectively in the workplace and community.

The Women's Bean Project:
* Meets basic needs and removes barriers to employment by paying a wage and facilitating support services
* Offers life skills that enhance a woman's ability to govern her own life
* Arranges services that increase employability such as GED and computer classes
* Provide hands-on training in the fundamental job readiness skills required by entry-level employers

Why They Do It: The tools gained during their stay at the Bean Project empower women to create better lives for themselves, provide their families with hope, and contribute to a stronger community

* As listed on their website

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Self Actualization

My very, very good "you complete me" (sign language circle) friend, Christine, sent me this portrait, supposedly of herself:
Yes, Christine. I do know what you mean..

Monday, November 2, 2009

a small list

things i do not like:
- misguided notions and selfish motives
- popping open tubes of buscuits, especially when "pressing firmly on the seam with the edge of a spoon" is required
- clutter, especially in my home
- being called "sweet" or "average"
- excuses and shoulder shrugs

things i do like:
- twilight, when Jack points to the harvest moon and exclaims, "Ball!"
- starving artists of any genre
- stilletos and sassitude
- a-ha! moments and other such clarities
- pub conversations, especially with new friends

(as inspired by Fussy Ms. Kennedy, via someone called Amanda)

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Living Juicy

Today I was digging through the closet in the front room. Ahem. I was panicking because I couldn't find Toddler Jack who was digging through the closet in the front room. When I found him, he was acting like a dog intently burying a bone, only instead of dirt being flung behind him, he was hurling cassette tapes - The Alarm, Motley Crue, New Order and Stevie Nicks - over his shoulder. Instead of a bone, he was burying a box. As I moved closer, I realized that Jack was burying a birthday card box that I received on my twenty-first birthday. Being significantly older than twenty-one now, I had forgotten that I had kept this treasure, and one glimpse of it sent me tripping down memory lane.

The Box Card Occasion:
I had to work the desk in the lobby of Coleman Hall on my 21st birthday. When I got the job, I was glad that I could work at a desk where I might be able to study, especially during the night shifts. But that day I was feeling antsy, as one might when she is pacing back and forth by herself in a silent lobby on her twenty-first birthday, waiting for her shift to be over so she can go hang out with her boyfriend - climb trees, sit in a coffee house, and do other freeing things that college students do with boyfriends when they are twenty-one.. or something like that. My pity party was becoming pretty convincing, and that's when Carol showed up.

My Friend, Carol:
She came with a cupcake - at least I think it was a cupcake, I can't remember. Carol was known for handing out half-eaten chili dogs at Christmas, so it could've been anything really. Was it a snow cone? Anyway, I'm going to remember it as being a _____something better than a chili dog/cupcake/snow cone_____ with a single lit candle in the middle. She sang to me right there in the lobby, a capella; presented the treat; and handed a very surprised twenty-one year old the box card.

Describing the Box Card:
Outside - Checkbook box covered in a thin layer of burlap, tie-dyed, handmade paper designs glued on top. Edges fringed.

Inside - Blue and orange handmade paper background, with the word "HAPPY" cut out of fabric, glued on top of the paper. Glitter confetti and gold, spiraled pipe cleaners loose within, and a scroll also made out of handmade paper.

Bottom - similar to description of outside, except for the little tag that reads "Carpe Diem Cards"

All - Completely made by Carol, except for the checkbook box itself and probably the burlap, though out of all my friends, I would vote Carol to be my "Most Likely To Make Her Own Burlap" friend.

Scroll Inscription:
"Ginger:
May your 21st year of life be filled with bushels of joy-filled juicy moments that just make you want to do the Happy Dance! Today I do the happy dance in your honor, for your life brings much joy and encouragement to mine. Peace, sister! Carol"

13 Years Later:
I sat down on the bed, forgetting for a moment that Jack was throwing cassettes (precious antiques such as Peter Gabriel, Europe, White Lion..) and that I was was supposed to be the enforcer. I allowed myself to remember that time when living was "living juicy" - that is being so full of life, that, like a bursting ripe navel orange, if one were to take a bite out of our lives, creativity and love and all the things that make our spirits abundant, would come gushing forth, dripping down our smiling chins, so much so that others wouldn't be able stop themselves from wanting a slice..

I smiled and looked at my son who was still at work flinging cassettes - U2, AC/DC, Huey Lewis, Heart.. Instead of getting on to him, I picked him up and cuddled him. I apologized for ever burying the box in the first place and explained that he should never bury it either. We should never bury our treasure.

The Message:
Live juicy, folks. Let the succulence of your life drip down your faces. Be creative - create. Work with your hands. Most importantly, love, love, love, LOVE. And to my friends and family, I am doing a happy dance in your honor today, for your lives bring much joy and encouragement to mine.