Not dead yet.

I realize this is all vanity but..
Yesterday I went to a Texas bar and grill and while I awaited the arrival of my darling family for the grill part, I had a drink in the bar part.
A man - a complete stranger - bought me a drink.
Yes, my friends. This 35 year old mamma's still got it. :)
And then I introduced Ken (yes, that was his name) to my fantastic husband and beautiful son. All were very gracious.

Letter to my family

Hi,
A lot of folks asked me if I was going to watch the royal wedding, some with their tongues in their cheeks, others as serious as coronary angioplasty. The answer to that question is yes. Of course I watched it. Not in real time.. I did have to work the next morning. But I TiVo'd it and watched all of it, including the balcony kiss ( correction: kisses! scandalous)!

There was tons of British patriotism bandied about leading up to the glorious day in several communities, including celebrations at my new school. Here is an article from one of London's papers, The Guardian, a more liberal publication. ;) Look for the ACS Cobham section here.

If you want to hear the accompanying song by students from my future school, check it out here. Love you,

g

Scratch

Holy shit. I feel the itch.

I'm pretty sure it means I'm crazy. "Well, we already knew that, " I hear you mock in that nasally, sing-song tone. Yes. Let's go ahead and confirm it. This is me - crazy as a flippin' wing-nut bat, entertaining the challenge to participate, once again, in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).

So, here's the hilarious bit: I've already lost the contest. The time honored rules of NaBloPoMo state that participants should write everyday during the month of November. Correction. Participants should POST everyday during the month of November. Today is November 2nd, so technically, I've already lost. Phew. That takes the pressure off.

"So why the hell try?" you inquire (again with the nasally bit.. Geez!). Here's why, genius: I have successfully stripped away every part of my life that is mine alone. I've stopped writing. I've stopped reading for pleasure (mostly). I've shortened my time on Facebook by turning on all of the privacy controls, including ones that allow other people to see my posts, thus dissuading me from wasting time on posting. I work, then I come home and work. Following that, I play with my son until he goes to bed, and then I lay out my clothes for the next day, make my coffee and lunch, and then collapse so that I can find some semblance of energy for the next day when I start it all again.

"Why have you done this to yourself?" you ask. (sigh) That's complicated, friend. I'm certain it has something to do with feelings of inadequacy and placed and/or misplaced priorities. Whatever. What I'm saying is that I'm making a pledge to allow for my well being (writing and reading in particular) to be a more important aspect of my life. I want to write. I love writing. I want to practice writing because I love to do it. Yes, that means that I will get griped at for choosing time for myself over time for my job/husband/kid. I'm fully aware of how that may appear to some people who would rather I prioritize my life differently. But hey, those people are going to tell me I suck anyway, so I may as well suck hardcore.

I vow to try to post as much as possible this month. I've already lost the contest, so that means my obligation is to myself only.

I like that idea, bat shit crazy or not..

My job is bipolar

Last year was incredibly wonderful and difficult at the same time. I think that's how it is with being a school teacher. For example I LOVED my students. My LitMag staff was the best I've ever had. My IB kids were incredible. My English IV students.. I really liked some of them. (and this is where in sitcoms you hear the needle getting pulled off of the record)

As much as my LitMaggers and IBers made me excited to do my job, the other classes were so difficult. Some of this difficulty was a result of the usual teaching obstacles: Too many students in one classroom; too much paperwork; too many responsibilities that extended beyond the actual job of, oh let me think - teaching; very little discipline; tons of micromanaging; irrational parents; etc.. But some of it was that I had a tough group of kids.

As often as folks get upset about inconsiderate drivers or rude customers, teachers are likely, if not certain, to deal with the worst of the worst every day. You're thinking that in your job this is true, too. However, teachers are expected to be more forgiving. It's like knowing every single day the same punk kid driver in his car that costs twice as much as yours will inevitably cut you off in traffic, flip you off, and then laugh at you while texting his cleverness to his friends. As a teacher you know this is will happen again, and it shocks you each time, yet you still hope that something you do or say might make the rude driver a little bit more compassionate someday. "Maybe tomorrow when he cuts me off and flips me the bird, he won't laugh as loudly," you think. "Maybe if I call his parents (who taught him to drive), I can get ahead of him or show him that what he's doing is abusive and humiliating."

Every year you are guaranteed to have one mean driver in your class. But some years you have twenty of them. Last year I had forty. (40 out of 120 is too big of a percentage) Contrary to public opinion, there is nothing to do about a student's lack of respect toward a teacher. Unless a kid actually becomes violent against a teacher, all she can do is file paperwork and hope for an understanding counselor or principal. Plus, changing a kid's schedule to get him our of a particular class means that you have burdened another on of your colleagues with another issue that they do not need or deserve.

My personality is not commanding or controlling which some might say is part of the problem. The few times I've tried to "rule by force", it comes back to get me and makes me feel horrible. Combatting the rude drivers by being an even ruder one is sort of ridiculous and leads to accidents. I'm more of a mutual respect kind of teacher. In other words, I hope that if I model integrity, patience, responsibility, good will, and generosity, the kids will mirror it. They do for the most part. We have open dialogue in my class. I am a firm believer in inquiry based learning. Sometimes, though, the students don't mirror me. That's when things get tricky.

Monday is the start of a new school year. I will meet my new classes and get a sense of what kind of drivers they are. I'm trying to be optimistic, but there is a whole car-load of anxiety that comes with the start of the year.

Criminal - A Smooth One

The crazy kids in the LBC (see below) tasked us with the job of writing something brilliant for the topic "Criminal." It turns out that much like I can't hear the word "chaotic" and not think of Brittany Spears, I can't hear the word "criminal" and not think of Michael Jackson, followed by a brief synapse blast to the Alien Ant Farm file in my brain, and then back to the king of pop. It always goes in that order: Jackson, Ant Farm, Jackson. And then if I allow myself more than a second of associations, my mind goes here:

My cousin, Krisiti, was a cheerleader in high school. (Sorry, rough segue I know, but it will all become clear soon). Actually, she was a cheerleader and homecoming queen and competed in various team sports and creative problem solving competitions, and I'm 97% certain she actually hung the moon. Next to her, I was some Virginia Wolf character, all plain and mousy, who was made fun of for committing unpopular crimes such as playing with dolls until I was 13 and caring about Olympic figure skating. I say that in jest, with only a tweak of resentment, knowing now that my personality was simply shy in comparison to hers. The point is, I adored Krisiti in the same way that Robin adored Batman. Kristi was my hero. I wanted to be like her. So when we went to visit her in Small Town, Texas I spent much of my waking moments with her, and she was sweet enough to include me, her younger, reclusive cousin.

In small town, Texas, one spends her free time in one of three ways:
1.Makin' the drag - (driving from one end of town to the other and back (usually a distance of about two miles), stopping for a "town coke" (a soda with ice and a straw) and conversation at the drive-in)
2. Drinkin' (alcohol in copious amounts)*
3. Knockin' boots (also in copious amounts)**

Because, as I've said, I was of a more meek stock than many of my teenage counterparts, Kristi and I spent a lot of time makin' the drag. We'd buy vanilla cokes and ride around town sipping them and talking about Kristi's fabulous life. I seem to remember doing this while listening to "Smooth Criminal", Michael Jackson's version. It was sort of a sound track to that time in my life. I remember those times fondly in sepia tones.

I wish I could flesh out some more detail regarding these memories, but the truth is I'm not sure there is a whole lot more to them. They weren't earth shattering, nor are they particularly mention-worthy.

So that's it.

That's what my brain does when someone says the word, "criminal".

*addendum - shooting guns is also popular, tied in popularity with drinking alcohol
**clarification - for those of you are not familiar with US idioms, this means having sex and is usually followed by someone winking, and saying "Aw yeah."

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Crime or Criminal, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Letters

I recently saw the film Letters to Juliet (as in Capulet) which was every bit as girly and sappy and swoony as I expected it to be. Of course there was a happy ending - birds chirped and deer ate out of my hand Disney style. But that's not what I thought was interesting.

I'm not sure if it exists or not. I haven't done any formal research. And though I've been to Italy, I've never been to Verona to actually see if Juliet's balcony and the wall leading to the balcony actually exists. Until now, I had never considered that Shakespeare wrote his his play based on anything except pure fantasy. I do know that Romeo and Juliet is not among the group of plays deemed by academics "The Historical Plays" like Macbeth or Richard III. Honestly, I never really cared at all about whether or not there truly were Capulets or Montagues. The story, though interesting, just isn't that good, especially compared with the genius of Lear.

The interesting thing about Letters to Juliet is that the entire story depends on the idea that there is such a thing as Juliet's balcony and that women from all over the world write letters about their love lives or lack thereof and ask for Juliet's advice by placing their letters between the bricks and mortar in the wall that Romeo would've climbed to get to the balcony.

Of course we understand that Juliet can't answer - she very literally guts herself with Romeo's dagger when she awakens from her death-like slumber in the tomb and sees that Romeo is really dead thanks to one of the worst miscommunications in Western history. It's her spirit that is supposed to answer. That and four women who have taken it upon themselves to collect the letters daily and write responses to those who are heartbroken, indecisive, confused, and/or afraid.

That's the part I like.

The Juliet club answers letters in an effort to support these women in the spirit of Juliet, the one who abandoned her entire being to love and who both learned and taught a valuable lesson about the consequences of decisions we make. It's Ann Landers meets romance, but in a much more passionate venue. Ah Italy... (swoon)

It's a terribly romantic idea, I think.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Letters, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Talk is Cheap

A year or so ago, I was inspired. I had just come home from the new release of In the Margins and had an incredibly cool art piece that had been showcased at the magazine's release party sitting on my hearth for the week end until I could cart it back to school.

The art was odd, the subject questionable. The medium was collage - a ginormous canvas modge podged with square magazine cut-outs, the abstract face of Woody Allen outlined over the collage in black paint. For some reason, I fell in love with it, probably because it was so freaking weird. Even though I have no real connection to Woody Allen, his movies, nor his choice in spouses/children, I had to admit that it was a perfect conversation piece. I mean, who in her right mind would have a blown up, stylized portrait of Woody Allen in her living room?

"Me! Me!! Please? Let it be meeeeeee!"

The following Monday I reluctantly returned the art to school (damned integrity) and inquired about purchasing the piece. I was told that it was already sold. My heart sank. I shuffled away crestfallen.

That's when I had the idea: Surely I could create my own masterpiece! Surely I could make up for my utterly devastating lack of artistic talent with modern technology - tools such as a school-issued, 1980's manufactured overhead projector and some duct tape! I went to the hobby store, bought a ginormous canvas, some Modge Podge and spray-on glue. I spent the next three hours cutting out interesting squares from Conde-Nast, The New Yorker, and House Beautiful. I began spray-gluing them to the canvas. I would, after having made the collage, go to school, project the face of whomever I chose (not Woody Allen, for that had been done already) and paint.

After about 5 hours of intense (ahem) artistry, I collapsed in the living room floor, distraught. My masterpiece was a ridiculous sham. It looked like an ill-behaved puppy had dug through the trash, the contents of which had landed on my canvass. There would be no conversational mantel piece for me- no unusual weirdness for my living room. That, accompanied by the re-realization that I was not talented at all artistically, stung something fierce.

I quit. Thus the canvass sat in the guest bedroom for over a year. Until yesterday.

Yes, friends. I dug it out. I removed all of the "collage" and vowed to begin anew. Damn-it.

Manic Post-Graduation

So, the kids are all grad-gi-ated and such - And I was elected to read their names! - which means that summer has officially begun. This also means that I am now coming down off my high, the kind where you shiver in a corner, rock back and forth, eyes glazed over, and beg for someone to please, please, for the love of god, please just knock you out.

Summer is a weird transition.

I know it's not the same for all teachers, but to go from working 12 hour days for ten months to having to "find something to do" is a kind of withdrawal, or is at least an excusable life change. My brain which is used to making 100 thousand decisions per second - "Class, here's what were doing today; no, you may not use the restroom, please don't interrupt; I just received a pass for so and so from the office, no you may not go now, or yes you can; If I could just recap..; last class you didn't understand __________. I'll talk about it after the announcements are over; no you can't see your grade right now, I'm trying to teach; Are you crying? Do you need to go to the hall?; As I was saying..; Another pass; So, Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter; Wake up, you in the back; Stop talking; No you still may not use the restroom; The play Macbeth is cursed; You're tardy? Nice of you to join us. Where's you pass? Go back to the office; It is a Scottish play which means that you have to pay extra close attention to inflection; Stop throwing things; Another stray announcement; AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!; Yes, I'm fine. Only 89 minutes of class to go. As I was saying..

And so we've been doing some work around the house to cope with the de-tox:

The house is extremely clean and organized.
The fence is mended.
New curtains are purchased and hung.
Flowers are planted.
The dishes are clean.
Pictures have been framed and hung.
New furniture - a bench with cubbies and a shelving unit - for the baby's room is put together.
Baby's toys are all organized on new furniture.
Old furniture has been moved to the garage.
Baby's winter clothes have been boxed and moved to the garage.
Three boxes of books are removed from guest room and sold.
Laundry is clean.
Lawn is mowed.
Wii is played.
Bills are paid.

This all happened in two days and there was still time to watch a little TV!

I'm trying to will my body and mind to be idle for just a few days so that I don't die of exhaustion. Americans are really good at that. At the same time, sitting makes me itchy.. I have to go and do!

Oooooh...

In the twenty minutes I had today between school and picking up Jack, I stopped at my favorite coffee spot for a much needed pick-me-up. One of my favorite barristas, Annie, was working. Here was our conversation:

Annie: Hey! How's it going?

Me: The usual. You?

A: Nothing to report, really.. Well actually, I had an interview for a grown-up person job.

M: Oh really? How'd it go?

A: Not too well, I don't think..

M: What? Why?

A: Well, the interviewer was..um.. different.

M: What do you mean?

A: First of all, she did most of the talking and hardly asked any questions.

M: Not a great interviewing strategy..

A: Yeah. And when she did ask questions, they were weird ones like, 'Have you ever had a fish?' and I was like, 'Uh.. no..' and then she asked, 'Well you know what a fish looks like, right?' and I was all, 'sure', wondering where she was going. Then she took out a piece a paper and started drawing. Can I use your receipt? So on one side of the paper she drew this (drawing a fish-like scribble with teeth - totally abstract), and then asked, 'Do you know what this is?' 'Er, a piranha?' I answered. And she was like, 'Actually it's a Great White Shark.' And then on the other side of the paper she drew this (drawing another fish-like being made mostly of squares) and then she asked, 'Do you know what this is?' 'A clown fish?" I guessed. 'No. It's an angel fish. Here at our company we do NOT want a shark, nor do we want an angel fish! We want this (and she drew another fish scribble in between that looked a lot like the first fish). What do you think this one is, Annie?' And I was all, 'um..it's a,' and I must've paused too long because then she interrupted me and exclaimed, "It's a barracuda!" We want barracudas to work for us, Annie. Are you a barracuda?' And all I could think of was the song.

M: Heart!

A: Yeah. And so I think I nodded. I don't know. But after that she told me that she was looking for someone with more experience for this entry level job. I told her that I was perfect for the position and that I could definitely do a good job, even though I didn't have a lot of experience. She said she'd get back to me, but I don't know.. I wrote her a thank you note -I could really use this job - and I said something like, 'It was great meeting you! I can't wait to be your barracuda."

M: (Laughing really hard)

A: Yep. At least I got a good story out of it.. Maybe I should go to grad school.

Writing Woes

I used to be a writer. I suppose what I mean is I used to connect with people through my writing. Lately everything has been so forced, so impersonal. I hadn't realized to what extent this was true until today when I began going through old posts, especially ones from my first blog, Viaggio.

Obviously, the biggest change since Viaggio is I had a baby. I don't mean to blame him for my writing neglect, but I do mean to say that writing time - hell, thinking time, being time, reading time - is gone for me. Also, I am working full time at a job that demands more than the hourly parameters of what the pay scale defines. Teaching is not a full time job. It's a life consuming one if done correctly. And again, that isn't to say that it's the job's fault. It's just that I choose to make it a priority - children are our future, education is a gateway, yadda yadda, yadda. On top of that I actively work at my marriage, I try to have friendships (though those too have suffered) and run a household. I no longer exercise - that would be an activity that would require alone time.. So, obviously, the writing I do is sub-par.. at least in comparison to what I know I can do and want to do.

I'm pissappointed at little about it. I knew when I had a baby that I would have to make time for me. I didn't realize that the time I made would come in 10 minute increments or less- like the breaths I take between getting out of my car and taking the baby out of his car seat (15 seconds), or the cup of coffee I allow myself on week end mornings before I get the baby out of his crib (10 minutes), for example. I do enjoy a work day once a week - glorious Thursdays! - when Rich picks up Jack from Nanny's and I get to, er.., work. Sometimes I allow myself that time to work on my consortium posts, but mostly that's grading or studying time, apart from the time I work after the baby goes to sleep. I have vowed on many occasions, fists raised, that I will take back my life! And then the baby wakes up from his nap, and as is perfect and lovely, and I become Momma again, relinquishing the "me" that it would take to spend time here.

Mary Oliver, incredible poet and one of my heroes, said all writers should make appointments with themselves. That way they will be committed to the practice. I've tried. Believe me. I just can't seem to get things to fall into place without interruption, whether that be a demand from the baby or from work, or, God forbid, actually talking to my husband away from the clicking of computer keys or grading utensils.

Some would tell me that obviously writing, then, isn't important. That I should put that aspect of my life on hold for a while. Those folks obviously don't know me well enough to understand what writing truly is to me, or really how much writing is a part of who I am. It is me in a sense.

That said, I need to practice. You can't be good at something unless you work on it. I need to work on it.
Maybe this confession will open some doors for me. Maybe the door is only open until I am overwhelmed by my other roles again. A week? Two? In any case, here is some genuine, heartfelt discourse, a bridge hopefully, to a more relatable subject and voice.

Yo Contra Ellos

Dogma in a Nutshell

artist: anonymous student in my class

medium: pencil and marker on scrap paper

message: metaphorical, in my opinion, but open to personal interpretation. Art is, after all, a relationship, isn't it..

Tag. you're it.

Parade of Lights

My mom owes me twenty bucks.*

During the last afternoon of her visit, we piled in the car to get our ritual town coke** and decided to check out the prices for our community's "Parade of [Christmas] Lights" exhibit. The sign read, "$15 per car Monday-Thursday; $20 on the week ends."

Fully aware that our one-and-a-half year old son, Jack, loves lights we knew we had to go. Evidence: when Jack wakes up he runs to the living room, points to the Christmas tree and says, "chee!" (his word for tree, the sentiment being, "Momma, could we please turn on the lights on the Christmas tree?"), and then he whirls around to the kitchen and says, "nomin?," translated as "snowman?" our other light-up decoration we keep by his seat at the kitchen table. And then there are the lights around our front door, a little strand of red and white that we haphazardly threw up just to say we decorated. At night he sees lights on the other houses in our neighborhood. He points at them and yells, "Oh Wow!" And then there are the normal lights in the house - the fan light, and the bathroom light, and the kitchen light, all the normal lamps and flashlights, etc. that he notices. With delight he exclaims, "Ooooh!" as we illuminate each of them through the course of the evening.

That afternoon Mom said, "Ginger, you have to take Jack to see the Parade of Lights. In fact you might have to leave the Christmas tree up all year! He loves it! I'll leave you the money to go. Just promise me you'll take him!"

She forgot to leave the money, but we were convinced we had to go.

And we went.

We left right as the sun was slumping on the horizon and the sky was that gorgeous deep blue, the color that makes a whimsical impression and then quickly fades to black. I wanted to be sure to be at the front of the line at that moment in order to avoid the crowd. Already lines of cars, bumper to bumper, sat in two lanes full of families who were eager, if not a little impatient, to see the festive spectacle. I remembered to bring snacks and the eclectic "Happy Holy Days"CD my friend Russell for us. All was perfect!

When we got to the entrance, we paid, turned off our headlights as per the sign, and I pulled Jack out of his car seat into my lap so that he could see better. We drove through the maze of lights. There were a million things to see: blinking toy soldiers, a hundred Santas making toys, reindeer attending flight school, angels heralding, elves having snowball fights, deer leaping, squirrels throwing nuts, - a billion, trillion things to look at!

Despite the glowing wonderland around us, Jack was most interested in the floorboard of the car. He squatted on the floor and did his best to be in the way. He found the car's hazard light button which he rhythmically pressed in time to the Happy Holy Days CD. We tried to point and squeal like he does every morning to trick him into being interested, but he fussed and wanted down, and needed to do everything except look at lights. In short, going to the Parade of Lights was a nightmare for our son.

At the end of the trail was a lovely carnival complete with rides, funnel cakes, and pictures with Santa. Jack looked around, blinking, drooling, bored. We even took him on his first carousel ride. His expression remained blank as the horses went up and down and the lights spun around him. One cup of wassail later (Rich and I needed something to make it worth our while), we got back into the car to head home. Our baby had defeated us.

As soon as we pulled into our driveway and drug ourselves out of the car to come inside, Jack saw the piddly lights around the door. For the first time that night and with an expression of complete awe and wonder on his face, he exclaimed, "OH WOW!"

Of course.

* Mom, You don't really owe me $20. You do too much already! :)
** Town cokes are sacred.

Karmic Collision

I should've known yesterday that my day would be a challenge when on my drive to work a car swerved out of its lane on the highway, perpendicularly crossed two lanes of traffic, drove down a moderately steep but definitely bumpy median towards a gas station, hooked a sharp u-turn- I assume upon the realization of what speeding recklessly into a gas station truly might feel like- into oncoming traffic on the access road, and then stopped abruptly.

In that instant, my mantra turned from a zombie-esque, "coffee. coffee. coffee," to more of a horrified, "Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!"

Apparently, I was not the only one who had a reaction, as several cars had to pull over to steady themselves.. or to stop in case the imminent accident were to require witness reports. I'm not sure which. I do know that if the latter is true, I was certainly one among them since I was weighing whether or not I would be able to: a.)see a car roll 5 times across a median and render aid b.)watch a car drive into the side of a gas station, burst into flames, and then be mentally Ok at having seen that happen c.)watch a car drive headfirst into another car, an all to popular murder/suicide method in this area.

What exactly was my responsibility in a situation like this? What I really wanted to do was keep driving and pretend that nothing happened. But then I'm far too responsible (or weak depending on interpretation) to ever be the girl who drives off to cope with whatever guilty instability witnessing something like that would entail. Luckily for me there were no injuries, only a severe traffic violation. Unfortunately, however, the rest of my day picked up the slack - havoc for whatever karma didn't come around in one specific accident. Five discipline referrals and an injured body later (I fell again at school), I limped my way through my front door, stupidly dedicated to "trying again" tomorrow.

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!

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.

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.

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?

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..

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)