Kate's Suburban Minutiae

Letter to my Family

2011-04-03T19:30:00.000-07:00

Dear family members who read my blog, Got a call from Mom today. And two yesterday. She wants to talk to me. I e-mailed with her last week. She knows I am having a lot of problems. She wants me to come home for awhile. She has promised me sleep! Plenty of work-out time! Food I don't have to cook! I am putting this off because I don't want her to see me when I'm not good. She blames the cancer. I plowed on ahead when I should have rested, physically and emotionally, according to her. I contend that we are giving way to much power to the amputation of a body part. Why am I writing to you? Somebody spilled the beans about my marriage to Mom. I know who DIDN'T tattle on me: Charles. He got in touch and asked when I wanted to tell her. I asked him to hold off mentioning it while I got my shit together. I realize that a blog is not truly private, and so I'm not mad, exactly. But please be careful what you tell Mom. I process my feelings on my blog, so nothing I write here is definitive. Decisions, once they are made? That's what Facebook is for! Why am I writing here, and not on my new blog? I don't want to send any family to the new blog for exactly this reason. If you talk to Mom about me again, here's the message: I'm fine. I am going to pull through. Recovery sponsored in part by New Balance, Jack Daniels, Castle Creek, Tex's Riverways and Guadalupe School. I will be in touch when I am better. She does not need to worry.

Love Note to my Old Blog

2011-03-29T21:59:00.000-07:00

I miss you, blog! I have my new place set up to look a lot like this, but I still find myself wandering back here every day. This is where my good writing is. Mwah!

Check Out Our New Location

2011-03-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

It's a safe place, beyond the reach of a once-trusted friend who manipulated, then casually discarded me.

Was it REALLY so bad that I need to close a blog that I have maintained this long? Yes. Shocking. I am still in shock.

But I need to write. I really need to write, if I'm going to emerge whole someday.

And I need the rest of you guys. I have never met Amrita, Maria, Dave, Nikki, Luz, JYankee or Katherine; but we've been friends for a long time. If I could (like in Willy Wonka) send boxes of chocolates through cyber-space to thank you for being such awesome friends, I would do it.

So let's ditch this taco stand. I already have a nice URL that I'm making cozy for us. Here's the escape plan:

Followers: There are 14 of you. I'll contact you individually with the new URL.

Blog-buddies from my blog-roll: I'll visit you on your blogs.

Personal friends, non-blogging friends (Amy, Lisa, John, Angie, etc....): I'll e-mail you or reach you on Facebook.

There are a few of you that are hard to reach, but I would love to keep you if I can (Gibbonesque, Kate, my lovely lurkers from Portland, Iowa, the UK , France). The only solution I can think of is for you to e-mail me if you'd be so kind...

kate@guadalupe.k12.ut.us

I hope you'll stick with me.

Moving On

2011-03-14T10:47:00.000-07:00

I've been writing this blog for almost four years. I'm stopping now.

Nose for No

2011-03-13T10:25:00.001-07:00

Let me tell you something interesting I learned in graduate school that I now see played out in my regular life: language change primarily originates with girls in the age group pictured above. Scary, huh? This is true of shifts in vowel height (I did a study on that years ago), grammar, and introduction of new words. Don't even get me started on slang.

It was dreaded Girl Scout Cookie Booth day yesterday, and Sara and I were rostered from 3:00-6:00. We need to sell a lot of cookies if we want to go to San Luis Obispo in June. Our share of the take from a single box of cookies? Forty cents. So I should be gung-ho about the cookie table. We got a good gig, too: Dan's Foods. Only the State Liquor Store would be better. Or the Alta parking lot, maybe. My attitude was not the best, though. Yesterday was a very rough day for me, heartache-wise. When beating the shit out of the heartbreak monster, go in armed with more than a box of cookies. Sadness makes me sleepy - I could barely stay awake while I was driving over there. And then I found that Julia, the troop leader, had set up the table outside. Brrrrr... I hopped and paced with my hands in my pockets. It's not very fun work. The boredom was only broken up by occasional sweet spots:

1. The lady who bought out our entire supply of Do-Si-Dos, then opened a box on the spot so she could have one. She offered one to the guy next to her as well.

2. The gentleman who returned to buy cookies after he had completed his shopping. I saw him and said, "Ha! I knew you'd be back!" and winked at him. He clutched his chest and said, "Woman! You send Cupid's arrow straight through my heart!" I sent him on his way with lots of cookies, but without my phone number.

3. The annual visit from my friend "Uncle" Alan. Our kids have lots of "aunts" and "uncles". He has known the location and time frame of Sara's cookie stint for weeks. He showed up declaring loudly, "I'M HEEEEERE!" He stayed for a good half-hour, bugging Sara. Asking for a senior citizens discount. Cash discount? He eats all the samples: "Yummmmmmmy!" Thank goodness he really buys a lot of cookies, because he also drives Sara ape-shit.

Things got slow, though. We were cold and bored. Our legs ached from standing on the concrete. We had one of those signs like the Little Caesar's employees use to advertise on the street corners. One girl said, "Somebody should go out and dance with that sign."
"I donwanna."
"I donwanna."
"'kay. Nose for no." Everyone's fingers touched their noses. Except for mine and Julia's. "What're you guys doing?"
"Nose for no. Last person to touch their nose has to do it." During the questioning, Julia's finger had stolen to her nose, leaving only me. Well, I didn't know about "nose for no". How could I know? Let's do it again. Uh, no.

Fine. I picked up the sign and went to a very visible place. I can take a dare, and luckily, I can still bust a move. I made sure to grab my crotch, shake my ass, moonwalk, play air guitar on the sign, etc... Well, it made my legs feel better, and I was most gratified when I turned around to see that Sara, face purple, had hidden under the table completely.

I got the girls to choreograph and dance to a song as well. Well, kind of a song. It went "Girl Scout Cookies. Aaaahhhhh / Girl Scout Cookies. Aaahhhh" That's what they are doing above.

So, yesterday was bad. But you can't dance sad. At least I can't, so I had a couple moments of relief there. And, since Si is gone (he doesn't eat pizza), we got a couple of Wasatch Pizzas to eat as soon as we walked in the door. As I sat down and picked up a warm piece of pizza in one hand and a bottle of Bobsled Ale in the other, I felt 5 seconds of relief there, too. I latch on to anything I can find. We have Girl Scout cookies, too.

Shelter from the Storm

2011-03-11T23:13:00.000-08:00

This post took a while to write; it was painful and I was not really up to the task. I couldn't wrangle my language. Si is gone for the weekend, staying at his job. I am trying to recover my tranquility.

Please: shelter is what I need right now. I sing that Bob Dylan tune under my breath all day. In previous posts, I have described flying adjectives. Today, we look to Wile E. Coyote for inspiration. In this picture, you can see that the 80 pound adjective is dropping from above. The image I really wanted was the one of Wile E. Coyote walking along with the anvil on his head, all rumpled like an accordion. Remember that one? It was the perfect visual representation of my feelings. Must be copyrighted, though. In a previous post, I described peace, and a plan. Hmmm... Let's just say that Simon didn't get that memo.

Comparing myself to Wile E Coyote kind of sucks. For starters, he is (in my opinion) a second tier cartoon character. Everyone likes Bugs better. I like Foghorn Leghorn better ("I say! I say!") All Wile E. Coyote does is mindlessly pursue Roadrunner and get smashed up every single time. He is a victim, in a way. Or just an idiot. Now, I do have a spine. Anyone who knows me will attest to this. So where does it go when it comes to this relationship? Beats me. But that is one of the reasons that I'm finally done. I'm sick of feeling like Wile E. Coyote. Sitting cluelessly in a hole waiting for the anvil to drop is NOT who I want to be. I think we can all agree.

But I need shelter from the storm. This is hard, and I'm T-I-R-E-D. I would love to find safe harbor. Deciding to end a marriage means saying good-bye to a steady, warm embrace; someone to tell me that I am still the awesome person I was before this started; someone to meet me at the door (both literally and figuratively). I'm single now, so that kind of shelter is not for me.

I have no shelter, but I need to BE a shelter. That's the other hard part. Am I going to have the strength for that?

Sara is sleeping over at her friend's house, so just Nate was at home. After supper, I lured him onto my lap for a little while. Don't worry, Nate! No one looking! Nate wrapped his arms around my neck and we compared bony bits. He has the hardest head! He wins that one, hands down! Who has a meaner, sharper chin? Time for a chin fight. Who has the pointiest elbows? Nate inherited his small, sharp bones from me, so it's generally a pretty fair fight. We laughed; I kissed him on his less freckly spots. I told that kids when they were little that freckles come from my kisses. They still half believe it.

I sent Nate to get into his pajamas and leaned back in my chair. I'm not sure what triggered the adjective onslaught: it seems to have started with a phone call that I answered "tersely" earlier in the day? At any rate, as soon as Nate left the room, I had to jump into my foxhole. Let's add "stupid" and "ignorant" to my personal adjective list. I didn't respond at all. I scrooged up small in my chair and looked at the floor for a bit, but then I heard Nate's little voice keening in his room and hurried down there. He was curled up in a fetal position on his bed, sobbing, with snot bubbling out of his nose. Nate specializes in snot. He was scared of the shouting and worried that I was going to get hit, he said. "Dad is not going to hit me." I curled around him and buried my face between his shoulder blades.
"I can't stand the tension."
"I know. In a few more days, it'll be better. I'm going to live somewhere else for a week, but I'll come over or call every day. Then I'll come back home and Dad will go on his business trips."
"Is this the worst part?" (I told the kids that the worst would be over soon.)
"The conflict will get better, then it will go away. I promise."
"But what if Dad can't get the money to-" (Si thinks it's important to share all the potential financial problems with the kids, so they "know what they're facing".)
"Remember: what is the only thing you need to focus on?"
"I am safe."
"That's right. You are safe. Mom and Dad love you. Life is full of good, happy stuff. After this bad time is over, we'll feel good and happy again." (Jesus, I hope this is true.)
I looked around among the (TOO MANY) stuffed animals on his bed, found the sock monkey and tucked it under his chin. "Mom, if we move from here, can I take all my stuff with us?" "Yeah, sure. Except maybe the crayon shaving collection..."

I read from Harry Potter and tucked him in, then returned to the (blessedly) deserted kitchen. I'm not really cold, but I am shaking with emotional fatigue. My friend Liliana assured me today that, yes, I would find happiness again someday. When I am out in the world during the day, chatting with my friends, I feel a lot better. Here, in my own home?

Not a safe harbor. No shelter here.
I opened a checking account today. Every day I move this boulder a little further up the hill.

My heart is still at large, too, which doesn't help. I told my friend Diane that I would try not to write about that, so I won't elaborate too much. It is not getting any better, though. That much I will tell you. Today (what the hell is it about Fridays???) was so hard. The rim of the bathtub, where I perch to wince, to slump, to stare straight ahead, to yell my heartache into a folded towel? The fucking enamel is going to wear off. If you are going to be a shelter from your kids' storm, all your emotion has to be confined to the bathroom. Or the late-night commute.

I'm working on it: healing up. Once in a while, I wink at myself in the mirror and treat myself to my old, world-beating grin. Oh, yeah. THAT girl! She's FUN! SHE IS STILL ME. I'm still in pursuit of her. She deserves a chance. She deserves fewer anvils. She may be ignorant at times (the blind spots are plain to see..), but she is not stupid. She sure as hell could use some shelter. Wile E Coyote would order a "shelter from the storm" kit from Acme. I'll go on-line.

Scattergories

2011-03-10T21:06:00.000-08:00

First of all, JYANKEE! Send up a flare as soon as possible, please! Iwata/Shitzuoka is south, but still coastal. Your fans will be waiting to hear that all the Beans are OK.

The last few days have been sooooo busy. You know how I was going to conquer all my paperwork? OK: "Uncle". That was the plan, and you know how I love a plan. However, the plan has joined my heart: they are both AWOL. That's OK, I'll punt. Some lists for our amusement:

Junk piled on my nightstand (a real cross-section of my life just now):

kids' school photos;

Scrap of paper where I have jotted down a bunch of places I'd like to visit someday;

Lego Club membership form;

"Runner's World" magazine;

"Paradise", by Toni Morrison;

"Running 101";

Letter from Evelyn Jahnke, elderly family friend from Markesan;

"Justice" catalog;

"Shambahala Sun" magazine for Sara, who is still fascinated by Buddhism;

list of puns;

Index cards with different weight-lifting routines on them;

flier for ESL overseas teaching fellowships (as if...);

hot cup of chai, with spoon;

school chorus schedule;

Pamphlets ("Divorce Education for Children"; "Mandatory Divorce Mediation");

Note from a friend;

paycheck;

phone;

half-marathon training schedule.

Things that are causing stress (I don't stress out too easily. Normally, I just get a little adrenaline rush, them laugh it off. But things ARE starting to pile up a little. Forgive me for not being your Zen poster child just now. I will again later.):

Fear. [to the tune of "Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Ales"] "I have nothing to be scared of / I am not a chi-cken-shit!" I sing it pompously, in a stately fashion. It doesn't really work, though. I am about to make an enormous change. I want to have faith in my judgement and feel strong. I am learning that I have holes in my faith-bucket. I feel alone. My heartache is as bad as ever, even though I don't write about it. Still lots of head-beween-the-knees time. Maybe I need a different tune. Something snappier?

Hash from a can. I admit that I liked it OK as a kid, the way my mom made it with an egg on top. We ate it a lot. This, and Spam - I fear them for their fat and sodium. I am currently able to afford fresh healthy food and plenty of variety. I don't want to feed my kids hash & eggs.

My hair. It's catywumpus, and now it's suddenly too long. It was perfect yesterday and too long today. How does it DO that? This will be the second haircut since the sad times came along. First I measured it in days (42); then weeks (6); now haircuts (2).

Judgement. I found an anonymous printout in my cubby today: statistics about how miserable people are after they get divorced; how many people regret it; what percentage feel lonely; the number of people who think they will find happiness, but don't; how most people would rather stay unhappily married than get a divorce; etc...

Shoelaces. I bought new ones for Nate, but they are not the right length. I discovered this after I had removed the worn-out lace from one shoe. I had to put the worn-out lace back in, using a nut-meat pick to push it through the eyelets. While Nate stood there with his book bag in hand, fussing at me.

My paycheck, which is not as big as I wish it was all the sudden. I looked at it tonight and thought: the retainer I own my attorney is DOUBLE this. A month's salary. Granted, I think we will use only a fraction of that, and I will get most of it back; but I need the moolah. So I can get a haircut.

The student newspaper. I LOVE our student newspaper, and I'm proud of it. one of my better ideas! It's fantastic! It is also a hell of a lot of work; and on the day it comes out, I am always pinched for time because of it.

Mark. I had to tell him about the demise of SiKat tonight. He was one of the last people to find out, because I fear his disapproval so much. There are two people I reeeeeaaaally don't want to tell: my mom and my Mark.

Anne is resigning. Another school made her an offer she couldn't refuse. She needs to be out of here in about two weeks. Hmmm... I need to post the position and collect sufficient applicants (10 days - 2 weeks); interview (1 week); facilitate paperwork, orientation, security check, W-4, office training (3 days); train the new teacher on assessment, administration, curriculum, volunteer support (4 days); get transitional cross-training set up (1 week). This is making my stomach loop the loop a little. She felt bad, springing this on me at such a rough personal time. I thought, "drop in the bucket"; but it is a VERY LARGE drop. The stress is two-fold: the work, the upheaval, the substitutions, etc..; and that Anne is a phenomenal teacher. She is one of those professionals who has both amazing cedentials and a great classroom presence. I'm going to miss her.

Things that relieved stress a bit:

My attorney. A) He looked at our money situation today and assured me that I would NOT be eating hash. He looked me straight in the eye and told me that I can do this, emotionally and economically. B) He is cutting me a big discount. I wonder what he likes to eat? C) We had a very enjoyable verbal spar about a criminal case he is defending. It is a well-known case here, and I loved getting him animated about it. D) As I left today, he reached out and grabbed both my shoulders from behind, gave me a shake and told me again that I was going to be OK. I felt like a prizefighter. He didn't try squirting water into my mouth, though.

My colleague MarySue, who took me out to lunch at La Cai Noodle House today, listened to 92% of my sad story and didn't judge me. She went through a divorce a few years ago, and her second marriage is "a thousand times" better, according to her. She reminded me that, in tough times, work can be a sanctuary. "Let us be your village", she said.

Mark. He was shocked into complete stillness for a moment or two while I thought, "Oh no! What must he think of me?" Then he grabbed both of my wrists in his hands and assured me that everything was going to be OK.

Linguistics. I tried to blow off Public Relations Committee meeting, to work on my paperwork; but I was called in regardless, because the conversation had turned to language. Actually, there is very little I would rather do than discuss semantics. Why does the phrase "teach vision" grate on us? Which two of these three words are most important when describing us: literacy; community; education? How weighted has the word "immigrant" become? I am fascinated with words that get highjacked by politics. It's a hobby of mine. I could go on and on - it's a whole blog entry on its own. Just the word "Mexican"can get me on a 10 minute mini-dissertation. I love this stuff!

My students. Of course.

How my students and I amused each other this evening:

Betting;

I found this "ice cream scoop" in Second Grade. It is really a game spinner of sorts: you push the little lever and the "ice cream" spins. It comes up vanilla, chocolate or strawberry. I was enchanted. I asked my tutor, Josh, if he would care to lay down a nickel on guessing the flavor that would come up. He did this a few times and lost a number of nickels. Then Hugo did a few tries, then Victor. The house was definitely up on the deal, so I took my casino on the road and roamed from classroom to classroom. Things got fairly high-stakes while playing with my "boyfriend", Bill. He ended up winning $.25 from me. Still, the house came out ahead. The students laughed their asses off. This is a good thing.

2. Explaining the difference between "lie" and "lay". Native speakers gathered round for this one as well.

3. Writing my examples of present / past / participal of "lie" and "lay" on the white board with such geek-ola enthusiasm, that I realized too late that I was using a permanent Sharpie.

4. Using a trick that a volunteer showed me, I took a Dry Erase marker and wrote over the Sharpie, then wiped the board clean with ease. Did you know that? That Dry Erase will lift permanent marker? I was so impressed!

5. Explaining why the "-ed" ending on past tense verbs somethings sounds like a /t/ ("washed"); sometimes sounds like a /d/ ("played"); sometimes sounds like "uhd" ("lifted").

6. Putting my hand on my throat and making everyone within a 30 foot radius do the same while going "Aaaaaahhhhhh..." "p-p-p-p-p-p-p-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-", etc... "Are your vocal chords vibrating NOW? How about NOW?" Paul Delgado said, "You CRAZY, Teacher!"

Oh, Paul... You don't know the half of it!

But I Don't Like Spam

2011-03-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

Very busy day today, and many things to blog about. But it is 1:00 AM, and I am determined to have an early night!

Our realtor visited today to talk with us about selling the house, should we need to do that. We went through all of our money stuff, too. Here's what it all boils down to: I'm gonna starve.

Simon is trying to persuade me to stay, citing the "two can live almost as cheaply as one" principle. According to the figures he was showing me, I will need to become an escort if I want to afford even a weekend in Lava. He asked me if I like hash from a can. If I wanted to deny our children extra-curricular activities. Says I can't afford to rent anything, because I'll be paying half the mortgage as well.

Funny thing, though, is that I know women who are divorced, and they are managing to eat real food! I'm having a hard time with the disconnect. I am also having a hard time staying awake. Good night.

Memo

2011-03-09T19:38:00.000-08:00

3/9/11

To: the guy who asked me today if I would be interested in being in a relationship with him after Simon and I have split up

From: me

Re: my likes and dislikes

You lost me when you started talking about my "aura". My "positive energy". Oh, barf. I don't care how good-looking you are or what you drive. Back of the line!

Sleep is NOT Optional?

2011-03-09T00:49:00.000-08:00

Sadness is banished for the time being. But holy crap-shoot, Batman! It has been replaced by a smorgasbord of other emotions. At least with "sad" I knew what I was doing. All right, all right; no, I didn't! I admit to being pretty inexpert at dealing with "sad". But now; depending on the time of day, my brain hydration level, the tides off the coast of Greenland and the brand of staple I'm using, I could be feeling anything. Joy, sometimes, briefly. Amazement. FEAR! Sometimes foreboding fear; sometimes leap-into-flight fear. Vertigo. Calm confidence (leave the driving to me!); bone-aching tension.

Sometimes when I'm thinking about my life, I catch my hands unconsciously extending outward and wonder what I think I'm reaching for. Thank goodness I work in a field that requires freaky gestures all day long. If anyone were to ask me, I would NOT say, "I am reaching toward my future." (That would be weird.) I would say, "I'm acting out shopping for produce." (That is totally normal.) I was standing under the shower just now and found my soapy hands sliding up my arms, across my shoulders, down my sides. "Am I the same person that I was? Those are my elbows...that is my neck..." I am not a giddy person. Practical! Stay-the-course! So, I think, "Can I do it?" [worried, raised eyebrows] "Yes, I can." [brows down] Or I can try and keep trying until I find the right path. [one brow up, a la Jack Black]

I felt VERY giddy this evening during class. Physically strange. My heartbeat felt irregular and I was catching my breath. This is unaccustomed, although there have been a lot of physical signs of stress. Then I remembered the probable truth about alien giddiness: I had only had three hours of sleep last night, and three the night before.

I know, I know... I'm not happy about it either.

I don't have insomnia. Right now, I'm exceedingly sleepy. I am alone on my big bed, under my down comforter. I still sleep on "my" side, rather then in the middle. The streets are silent, the light on my nightstand is soft. I have had a hot shower, so I am toasty. My hair is already drying into a higgledy-piggledy jumble of cow licks and rooster tails. (What's with the barnyard metaphors, by the way?) The lotion I put on my face smells like spiced plums. Sleep is not the problem. It's going to bed that's the problem.

Tonight, Si told me that he was concerned that he was spending a lot of time reading books about divorce, and that I was not doing the same. Is this wise? Ugh. I was slumped at the kitchen counter chasing a dead ant around the bottom of my teacup with my spoon. (Yeah, we have a few ants at the moment. Where are they coming from? Don't they know it's winter?). I pointed out that I had just got home from a 14-hour work day (a lie! I only worked 13 hours and spent an hour shooting the bull with Martina.) and could be forgiven for not diving into a tome on mediation vs. litigation. NOT the correct answer. He stomped off. Night, night, Si. (Si. Sigh.)

So, what's more interesting than going to bed? Besides getting the ant out of my tea?

Pondering my future! Tomorrow, I really have to compose my collection of ideas for the "Eleanors". And the ones for myself. My dreams for the rest of my life. The more I think,the more I see doors that can and will open if I am careful, sensitive, loving and smart. Hey! I can manage those things on good day! With a little more sleep.

Reading the newspaper! But this time of year I get hung up on the legislature, and wondering why our governor has to be such a dumb fuck. With only a couple more hours of sleep, I could govern this state better, and with a less goof-ball smile to boot. But lots more gestures.

Guadalupe paperwork! Although this is getting better. I'm almost out from under! Shut up! I know I've said that before; but this is the real thing! That's why I was up so late last night. I was on FIRE! Another collection: all the things I will do when I have slain the paperwork monster. I'll get back to my visionary, lustrous-haired, goddess-like self. Or at least get busy training Johnny Depp to take Mark's place. At the moment, all Johnny does is follow me around with puppy-like devotion, wanting to know if I'd like him to caress my shoulders. Tiiiiiiiiiresome.

Nate's pee-alarm! Yes, Nate is slaying the bed wetting monster. He has an amusing alarm pinned to his pajamas that goes, BRAAAAP! BRAAAAAP! and vibrates the moment any moisture shows up in his undies. At first I thought the alarm pack went in his pants, and I thought, "Man, Nate is gonna LOOOOVE this." But a little sensor does that job, after I clip it to the fabric inside. This has been his initiative, so its pretty easy for me. I got a book, which we read together. "Chapter 5: Fun and Easy Home Experiments to Measure Your Bladdar Size". If only we had heard of this BEFORE Sara's science fair. I layer his bed with towels and plastic sheeting, so if he has a soaker in the wee hours, he can just whip the top towel onto the floor and jump back into bed on the dry towel underneath. And after he has run to the bathroom and peed, it's my job to reset the sensor and clip it back into place. This mean that I get a nightly visit in the, um... wee hours.

"Mama! I made it to the bathroom without wetting at all! Well, just a drop."

Uh? "Thasss goo', Sweetie. Hol' on."

I turn the light on and squint in the glare.

"Wha' time issit?"

"4:45!" (He's so perky! Geeze.) "I did good, huh?"

"You did really, really grea', Sweetie. C'mere."

I fumble for the sensor and waistband of his "shark zone!" tighty-whities. (By the way, WHY don't they make men's briefs that say fun stuff like, "shark zone!"? Well, they probably do... I'm still on the lookout for pirate ones that say, "Argh, Matey! Prepare to be Boarded!") I wake up just enough to pinch a tiny piece of fabric into the sensor without pinching anything else. He always worries, though. ("Look out, Mom! Whoa! Hey, are you awake?")

"There we go. All set. Nigh' nigh'." Lights out and I am back asleep before he can cross the hall.

Now, let me be clear about something. Lots of things are my fault because of the divorce. The fact that Si accidentally put an incorrect lift ticket price on the resort website? (Sorry, everyone. No mobbing. He took it down.) My fault. I'm distracting him with divorce. All Nate's nice sweatpants have already been worn this week; the remainder have holes in the knees, so he has to wear jeans instead? My fault. I am neglecting his sweat-pant needs because of divorce. Yesterday, Nate told me that the Nintendo game he ordered off Amazon arrived late because I was divorcing Dad. I hope you will forgive me if I laughed out loud at that one. But no one blames me for the bed-wetting. It predates my run off the rails.

Sara doesn't condemn me too much. The child has a one-track mind regarding our future.

She went to the Humane Society with Girl Scouts the other night, and returned with shining eyes and the inability to speak anything but baby-talk. "Mommy? There was the cutest widdle kitty at the shelter! He on'y had one ear. He was wooking at me and he said, 'Take me home! I wuv you!'" "Oh yeah? So you were BOTH talking baby-talk?" "Yeah. Mom, I realize this is totally inappropriate to bring up right now, but, when you have your own place..." Yeah, Sara, we can get a cat.

What Do Eli Wiesel and Eleanor Roosevelt Have in Common?

2011-03-07T00:34:00.000-08:00

Not a damn thing, except that they both inspired me yesterday.

Aw... You thought it was a joke? With a humorous punch line? Too bad, so sad. If you need some humor, though, I can give you another pun. Hey, Becca: Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocain during a root canal? His goal: transcend dental medication. (Snnnrrrkkk. I'm not really a pun person, but I like that one.)

First of all, Eli Wiesel. Simon and I were recalling Night, and what Wiesel had to say about suffering and about focusing on the future. This has been helpful to both of us as we think about our new lives.

We pause in our regularly scheduled programming to ask: does Kate think that a divorce can be compared with the Holocaust?!? NNNNNNO! Before anyone comes down on me for being a drama queen with a Holocaust-like divorce, let me point out that the BIG thoughts about the BIG problems speak to all of us little people and our little problems. Otherwise, why would anyone write a book? Hmpf. Now, where was I?

As I was saying, Wiesel was describing the impact of cold, starvation and disease in the concentration camps. He concluded that he could pick out likely candidates for death and for survival based on their outlooks. The ones who dwelt in the past: recollecting their favorite cafes, old pastimes, missing friends? They were vulnerable. The survivors were the ones who looked ahead. Who had a plan for life after the war.

That's going to be Simon; and it's going to be me. Every day, I am going to take one step in pursuit of the future and stay focused on reaching out and grabbing hold of a new life. I am not going to get there by dwelling on or clinging to past history. For the next little while, I want to be totally honest with Si about my feelings and wishes; I want to have frank discussions with my friends (and hope I keep most of them); and I want the kids to see the positive potential. All that, and maybe destiny will be fulfilled.

In the meantime, I've decided to stop writing about heartbreak. Sorry! Sorry! I know! Schadenfreude is fun, and my readership has doubled in the last month! And what does THAT say about human nature, huh? I am still hurting a lot and spending long minutes sitting on the rim of the bathtub, contemplating what seems like endless pain and emptiness. BUT. I think I will stop writing about it. Yesterday, my dear friend Diane patiently listened while we drank chai lattes and I told her of all the painful business of the last few weeks.

"Is this all on your blog? I haven't been on in a while."

"Yes. Well, mostly."

'Why are you laying all this sad stuff out there?"

"It relieves the pain if I write about it. It's a way to vent."

"You might want to consider whether it's really helping you. Maybe it's a good vent; but maybe you're putting your pain on life support by writing about it? Maybe you should drop it."

Hmmm.... Thanks, Diane. We'll try it.

If not from my heart, which flutters empty still; at least from my blog, for a while.

And thanks Book Club, for making me happy when I thought I couldn't be. I laughed! Not my "fake it 'til you make it" laugh. Not my "gallows humor/ can you believe how FUBAR this is" laugh. A simple "that's funny" laugh. It felt weird: I found myself with my hands pressed to my cheeks. Cupcake tasting today, while Jessica ponders her wedding cake choices. Guinness Whiskey Baileys cupcakes. I love Book Club. Maple Bacon! I kid you not. How can you be sad when you're eating a cupcake with bacon on top?

Shock at the news that Simon and I are splitting up.

"What about the camping trip!?!" (These guys have their priorities straight.)

"I got custody of the camping trip. Booked it yesterday: July 15-17."

(Actually, Si can deal with that: Since we are going to the Uintas that weekend, he'll have me car shuttle him so he can backpack and emerge at the campground on Sunday. We can be amicable about camping trip custody.)

I floated the idea of the club I wrote about yesterday, and Mary said, "Makes me think of Eleanor Roosevelt." That's it! We're the Eleanors! OK, now: boys? This IS a co-ed club, despite the name. If you are confident enough in your masculinity to channel Eleanor Roosevelt once in a a while, you are the right kind of man for this club. After all, I would be totally cool with the Meriwether Lewis Club.

Poker party at my place will be the first event. We talked a bit about the Stillwater canoe trip idea. We were cackling about "nude before noon" and talking about women we know who can hold beer cans in their cleavage. Moira said:

"Let's not make this a family trip. Let's ditch all men and children and just go on our own."

Kate (who normally would be all over this idea...): Well, if I do something fun like that, though, I should take the kids. I don't want them to miss out on things just now.

Moira: Aw c'mon. You'll take them camping other times, right?

[Mmmmm... but this is conoeing...]

Kate: Yes. I'm gonna do that. I've never taken them camping without Si before, but-
Mary: It's easy. Think about it: who puts together your camping trips?
Kate: Well, I guess we-
Mary: Who books them?
Everyone: KATE!
Mary: Who keeps the gear list up to date?
Kate: Me.
Mary: Who plans the food, does the shopping, takes care of the prep-cooking?
Kate: Me.
Mary: Kitchen box?
Kate: Me.
Mary: What else do you do?
Kate: Uh... Pack up clothes and stuff for the kids..
Mary: What did he do?
Kate: He loaded the cooler and the truck...

[Laughter and chattering about men and loading trucks. Sorry, but the stereotypes tend to fly when you get a bunch of women together.]

Mary: Well, you can load the truck. Anything else?
Kate: He was always the one who four-wheeled down the double tracks to the good spots.
Mary: You are gonna LOVE doing that!! What do you drive?
Kate: A Tacoma.
Mary: Got chains?
Kate [realizing]: Well, yeah, actually. The chains are in the back of my truck. But, k'know, I think he's going to want thos-
Shirley: Possession is nine-tenths of the law!
Moira: Let them stay at my house for a while. We can put them in the garage-
Aimee: Wait, are we talking about the chains or the kids? You're going to have a custody battle over the chains?
Kate: I'm sure we can handle this civilly.
Mary: Keep the chains, and I'll take you muddin'.

Ooops. Put that on the list.

Peace, and a Plan

2011-03-05T00:34:00.000-08:00

[This entry is insanely long! Just think: when my life calms down, I'll go back to short, funny confections, rather than long unbosomings. Can't wait! Neither can you.]

OK, Becca, here's another pun: I wondered why the baseball kept getting bigger. Then it hit me.

Saturday morning, and the phone is starting to ring. Proposed play dates; questions about soccer practices and ski plans. The day is taking shape. Simon is at work. I couldn't stay awake to blog (again!) last night, so I'll sneak a few morning minutes.

The adjectives are no longer being hurled. Peace reigns...well, not in my heart; but at least in the house of Diggins. This is good. I'm a girl who likes excitement, but even I was having a hard time with all the thrills and spills in my life right now.

Yesterday sucked, as do most Fridays. I was sad in the morning (as usual), and it lingered all fucking day! I was not consoled by work, nor by marble cake. The superlative new produce section in our renovated Smith's failed to heal me (but I have to say, zowie! Purple artichokes? Now if I could just find the relocated pretzels...). Whiskey and soda? Cooking with Sara? Thin Mints? Cute now undies? Radical cupcake-making plans? Anticipation of book club and a movie with Diane on Sunday? Argh. Nothing worked. It's funny how I take two steps forward and one step back. Does it HAVE to be like that? Or am I not reading the instruction manual properly? I found myself back on the rim of the bathtub, examining the doorknob directly opposite me like it was going to tell me something wise. All it said was, "YOU again! Aren't you supposed to be cooking supper?"

You would think that peace in my home would console me. Or having a plan. I love to have a plan: it keeps me future-focused. And I don't JUST have a plan: I have my own line of credit for the first time in my life. Next week, I will have a checking account. I have homework assignments. By next Thursday, I need to have a handle on all the finances; I need to know the balance sheet for the mortgage; we need to have a custody proposal drawn up on a calendar page. We're going to get all of that done over the weekend.

Simon is so busy with a labor-intensive group for the next two weeks that he won't be home much. He'll sleep at Snowbird for all the evening events. Then I'm moving out for a bit; then he has extended travel followed by more extended travel, so I will move back in. We are going to reconvene here on April 11: his schedule will be starting to slow down, so he can concentrate better; and we both need to be in residence when we file papers.

Actually, this is soothing. I've always said that Diggins, Inc. was a well-oiled machine when stuff needs to get done. Am I happy?

Are you kidding?

No.

Duh.

I hate to admit it, but I'm scared.

I'm scared of being poor. I've never been one for spending a lot of money, but will I have enough to cover basic needs? Healthy food for the kids? Truck maintenance? Luxuries like running shoes? Can I live with the fact that I may not ever afford another big vacation? (Sigh.) Bye, bye France. Bye, bye Napa! Well, I have been poor before. In Australia, I was broke. Like, what-will-I-eat-this-week broke. Like, wait-at-the-grocery-store-at-closing-time-to-see-what-produce-they-plan-to-throw-out broke. When we were first married, a car breakdown or a health problem would supplant Christmas gifts. We ate La Choy from a can. This is a throwback to the Spam years of my own childhood. It will be hard to leave my relative affluence.

I'm scared of being a stressed-out, overworked mom. Will I be the one who forgets when Nate's book report is due? Will my kids have to make their own suppers and go to bed while I work nights? Will they be calling me at Guadalupe to tell me that they are scared or that they are about to murder each other? 398-2751. That was my mom's number at work. Wanna know how I still remember it? I'll bet my little brother remembers it, too. I will need a lot of fortitude and organization.

I'm scared of dating. It's a jungle out there! I have heard chapter and verse on this topic from my single colleagues, and they are young and beautiful! Plus, my heart isn't into it. I mean, my heart isn't even in the building. Maybe that will be the reality: relationships that only go so far. Yesterday TWO men that I know out-and-out told me that they are interested in a serious relationship with me. Uh, sure; what the hell? First, see if you can find my heart. Last spotted careening among the parked cars at Smith's during the pre-supper rush. Gonna get run over if it isn't careful. I have been told to "do what I need to do to get on with my life", which includes this, but... [I'm wrinkling my nose.] No matter how little feeling there was in my relationship with Simon, at least I know that I had a date for a dinner party or a fund-raiser. I could count on a cup of tea after work. It'll be hard to leave that comfort zone.

I'm scared of where I will end up. A ratty little apartment? A condo? It has to be at least two bedrooms... I need to stay in this general part of the valley, where the kids are. Sara wants to know: will she have to share a room with Nate? (Uh...) Can we paint her bedroom door with blackboard paint so she can draw on it? (Maybe...) The big question: could they have a pet? (Well...)

I'm really scared of loneliness. I'm a gregarious person and I thrive on companionship. I have had very lonely times in the past, so I know some good coping strategies. Still, I'm not excited about a return to yesteryear. About coming home to an empty house. Being on my own when I have a fever. Or a joke I want to tell. (Of course, there is always my student, Victor, for that) Or a pressing concern. Neither would I fill the emptiness of anyone else. Care for someone with a fever. Listen to a joke. Soothe a pressing concern.

These fears take the knot of heartache and tighten it with worry and stress. I look in the mirror now and think, you need to do better. Sleep, please. Run, but don't run away. Stop mooning. Eat, but not Wild Grape Pop Tarts. Will I be disciplined enough to take proper care of myself? Will I ever recover from all these worries and go, "Whew! Lets have some fun!"

Which gets me to an idea I've been turning over in my mind and discussing with Moira for a long time. And it is timely right now. I want to start a sort ...club. But what to call it? How to organize it?

Here's the basic idea. There are things my friends and I want to try. Things that we don't know how to do, but want or need to learn. Skills we lack. And now there will be things that I will only be able to continue doing if I have another willing adult or two to come along. I love doing things with my friends, but we won't all have the same interests. Plus, I want this group to be a real clique-buster featuring a more fluid membership. The cohort who wants to take Salsa lessons will be different from the ones who want to go to spinning class, as opposed to the ones who want to learn more about roller derby (yes, my butt bruise leaves me undaunted), who want to try making homemade cheese or would like to master their sewing machines. Or learn to change their oil. Or play poker. See? Sounds fun, huh?

I can take my kids camping on my own. And I will. But I wouldn't mind some non-wussy, back-country-loving company. I am committed to the idea of taking them on a canoe trip on the Stillwater section of the Green River this summer, come what may; but I really do need at least one other adult for that. Several companions would mitigate the costs and the single-mom-ish-ness. So, yeah: learn new skills; try different stuff; regroup in ways that will heal my kids and my heart. Build new ways of getting people together.

Membership? Maybe interested parties from book club, PLUS each of them invites another friend that other folks don't know yet? Or other folks that come to me and say, "Hey, I heard about that idea of yours..." What we want is a mix of old friends and new. It needs to be free-flowing, but cohesive enough that people can build close friendships and we know who the hell is on the e-mail list! Some things will be expensive - others free. Some things will need a host - others not. Some things are one-afternoon activities; others might be every week for six weeks; others would be long weekends. Some things need to have only a limited number of people- others not. I get a little tangled up in the logistics of it. If any of you have bright ideas for pulling it together, share, please.

I think we'll start with a poker party, since Moira knows a guy who would be willing to teach us how to play. Pot luck at my place, followed by poker? Eight novices? Total novices - no hustlers! Moira! Should we smoke cigars? Yeah! Only problem is that I may be living in a one-bedroom apartment that smells like mildew. Better do it soon. Aw, shit. I am going to miss entertaining! Hadn't really thought of that.

And, I need to get our annual book club camp-out organized before I can do another thing. If I can't do THAT, I can't do THIS. I need to get on that today! Tony Grove, maybe? Up and at 'em, Kate. Chores await. Day by day, until I come out into the clear.

Decorated

2011-03-03T08:26:00.000-08:00

Normally, jewelry rotates in a very wide orbit through the galaxy of my femininity. I'm one of those women with two family heirlooms and a lot of single earrings whose mates are lost. Yesterday was a little different.

First of all, I was surprised by a special watch, lent to me by a friend. I am more grateful than I can express for this loan, which serves as a reminder to me: I am lonely, but I'm not alone. Knowing this makes me feel braver. It makes a satisfying tick-i-tick-i-tick-i, like a heartbeat. I held it against my cheek and remembered the noisy but comforting wind-up alarm clock I had in the Peace Corps. It soothed me in a similar way when I was occasionally bummed out. This watch has a nifty second hand. I watch it mark the passage of time and think, I AM moving forward. This trouble will pass and, if I'm lucky I may even get my heart back one of these days. Whoa! Bring THAT on! I could glance at the time on my phone many times a day and not get nearly this level of satisfaction. Thank you! I'll take good care of it. Let me know as soon you're ready to have it back and I'll hand it over with alacrity. Just don't let me keep it TOO awfully long. The longer I hang onto it, the harder it will be to retrieve. I like it, but I don't want to grow old with it.

In addition, I went to Hansen Company and picked up my Wasatch bracelet. The jeweler had just finished making it - a little on the smaller side, for my bony little self. He came out from the back of the store with the bracelet in one hand and a little velvet bag in the other. Bag, shmag! I held out my arm and he snapped it straight on. Aahhh! My wrist is happy again. And the next time I'm in Holladay, I can hold it up and it will profile the contours of Mt. Olympus exactly.
My other wrist offers stark contrast. This was a gift from Alyssa, bestowed upon me at Girls on the Run practice. Actually, I acquired several stickers from the girls, some of which I forgot were there. I was momentarily embarrassed to discover (AFTER my stop at the jewelers, of course...) a little dolphin stuck to my left earlobe. There is a crab on my phone ("Snappy Work!"); and a cow jumping over the moon was placed (with much giggling) on the butt of my sweats.

Alyssa was my star for the day. She got a painful stitch in her side halfway through practice and was miserable. We did a lap together so I could show her what I call "belly breathing": it helps a bit. I nominated her for a special cheer at the end of practice, because it sucks to run with a stitch. She tried to demur, stating that she had not run fast. [buzzer sound] That's not the point, Honey. She in turn rewarded me with this sticker: a very sticky one that didn't want to come off until I stuck my hand under Nate's shower to check that his hair was rinsed.

Alyssa. Awesome. This blog entry was brought to you by the letter "A".

At Frida's

2011-03-03T07:50:00.001-08:00

I haven't written for a couple of days. This is because I can now blog in bed; but the minute I climb into bed, get comfy and position the cutting board with the laptop on my lap... top, I fall asleep. Changing my life is tiring, it turns out. It's hard to find the whole adult education staff in the same place at the same time. Other jobs! Grad school! Sick kids! Wayward pets! Four of us managed to go for lunch at Frida's Bistro the other day.

I love this place. Mexican food with crazy twists. How often do I get to eat... uh... rats. (No, I'm saying "rats" in frustration! They don't serve rats! Yet.) The word is Nahuatl, not Spanish, so it slips my mind, but I'm a Wisconsinite. I know corn smut when I see it. Very tasty corn smut when eaten with a little pico de gallo.

The owner, Jorge Fierro, used to be a student in our program many years ago. He does so much for Guadalupe - so, we eat at Frida's and tell our friends.

Here is my mango habanero margarita. Although my friends laughed and called it "liquid chutney", I thought it was fun.

Here's Mel, wearing Becca's purple "Miss Piggy" elbow gloves.

And here's Becca wearing Becca's purple "Miss Piggy" elbow gloves. The devious look is intentional, but unremarkable. She always looks like that. She is probably thinking of a pun to match some of the ones we have been circulating lately.

Hey, Becca: A rubber band gun was confiscated from algebra class, because it was a weapon of math disruption.

We are ladies who care about our figures, so no way are we going to order dessert. No way! OK, you twisted our arms. But not a whole dessert... We ordered a tres leches and a flan; then we held our spoons in one hand (for the flan) and our forks in the other (for the tres leches) and dug in, per Martina's demonstration here. When it comes to dessert, we're ambidextrous.

We thought about taking a little detour over to Deseret Industries for some shopping, but we hung out at lunch so long, we thought we'd better not. Next time!

Handling It

2011-03-01T08:02:00.000-08:00

Finally!

Yesterday was the first day that I felt as if my stated coping mechanisms were actually effective. I was beginning to worry that I would never feel OK again. A lot of sadness in the mornings, as always; but after thumping my head on my steering wheel a few times, I was able to go to the rec and have a long workout. I did not sit in my truck daydreaming today. I told myself, "Nope. Grab the briefcase... grab the sack lunch... open the door..." It worked.

I worked all day without any head-between-the-knees time.

Evening was very lonely. I felt the heartache creeping back, so I jumped up and:

*baked a rhubarb streusel cake with the last of my garden rhubarb;
*sorted out Nate's bookcase;
*did housework;
*read Harry Potter VII to Nate, employing all my best voices: Hagrid, Mad Eye, Voldemort ("You LIED, Ollivander!");
*did some data entry for Guadalupe.
*separated Girl Scout cookie orders - the ones for Snowbird, the ones for Guadalupe, the ones for the neighborhood (for a week or so, I'll be driving the cookie mobile). Sara should do this, I know. But she was at a course to certify as a basic-tier soccer referee, and I was in need of distraction.

By the time I got to bed, I was too pooped to be miserable.

Perhaps I might really be about to surface. Perhaps I mights actually get to gasp for breath and not drown after all. Good-bye, February! You will go down as the worst month I have ever had to get through.

Now I have to brace myself for what comes next. The adjectives have stopped flying and the sociolinguist has left the house, to be replaced by the discourse analyst. Talking, talking... unwinding, step by step... I test the placement of each foot before I place it. But I place it and continue inch forward to see if I can work my way through this maze. This is a different kind of pain, but horrible nonetheless.

If I can handle February, surely I can handle March.

Girls on the Run

2011-03-01T00:30:00.001-08:00

This was fun! And it makes me feel like I can still find the sunshine that used to come so easily. I keep dealing with the heartbreak and keep dealing with the changes in my life.

I would elaborate on my attitude, but I am snuggled up in my cozy bed, warm and sleepy. It isn't even 2 AM yet, but maybe an early night would be a good idea.

Thoroughly Jostled

2011-02-27T11:41:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm back. I am willing to own up to the selfishness of journaling. But in the overall sweep of Kate's selfishness, it's small potatoes. And, as Nikki commented, everyone who blogs understands the need for this selfishness. Others selfishly watch TV or prune their Bonsais. I selfishly blog.

Check out the dark circles under this kid's eyes! The Girl Scout snowshoe weekend at Camp Trefoil was cancelled because we had a snowstorm. (I know! We wouldn't want any little girls to get...what? Snowed on?) The troop leader called to tell me that she was going to have the girls sleep over at her house in an attempt to salvage the weekend. Sara did not sleep at all. Here is what she told me after she get home, tearful and overtired, snapped at her brother and collapsed, sobbing, onto her bed:

"Shannon snored all night, and Caitlin wouldn't stop texting, and Mo was being meeeeeeaaaaan [sob-surge]! And I couldn't stand the snoring and neither could Jessie so we went to sleep in Mo's room but there are too many stuffed animals and Jessie kicks and Mo's parakeets were making little noises and Caitlin had her period and she wanted to go home and..."

HOW many days ago was I extolling the virtues of the twelve-year-old girl?

Before the meltdown though, the girls, temporarily recharged by pancakes, walked over to Bywater Park for some sledding. The troop leader called me and I tossed our sleds in the truck and went over to join them.

This was the main attraction: entertainment provided by watching others go down it and going down it 0urselves ("UHuhUHuhUHuhUHuhUHuhUH..."). Well, I was the only grown-up who did it (remember Dad's credo: DAZZLE the children!), and I had a great time, but I was reminded an hour or so later that I still have a deep-tissue booty bruise going. My booty would like to be treated with a little more respect.

This picture shows Sara going down on her tummy, which I did not do. I have been trying to ignore the fact that Leftie has been bugging me for a couple of weeks. Blah. I haven't been to see Dr. Perfect for about nine months. Now that the days of stitch-picking and scissors-wielding are over, I rather look forward to seeing him. At least before the appointment, Dr. Perfect always makes me think about sex. Ladies, if you saw him, you would understand this. The fantasy continues as he breezes in with his blinding smile and drawls, "HelLO there, Mizz Kate!" Then he always glances at my feet. I am a "hands" person; he seems to be a "feet" person. Invariably, he will comment on my cute boots in the winter; my toenail color in the summer. But just as I'm musing, "I wonder if he has a foot-feti..." I am jarred from my reverie.

Doc: [rubbing hands together to warm them] OK, let's have a feel over here. [ramming three not-that-warm fingers into my armpit and digging around energetically]

Kate: Erk! Ack!

Doc, pausing in his excavations: Does that hurt?

Kate: You're jabbing your fingers into my armpit. It's just a little disconcerting. This is my disconcerted "erk".

Doc laughs and rams his thumb up between Leftie and my rib cage, poking as he goes.

Kate: Aigh!

Doc: Was that your disconcerted "aigh"?

Kate: [high, breathy] No, that hurts.

By the time he has finished and breezed back out again, I am disillusioned about our romantic/erotic potential. Who wants a guy who can't even get past second base? I'll be good for another nine months.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

2011-02-25T07:51:00.000-08:00

So says Carson McCullers: her words, not mine.

Last night, I felt strong. Which is good, huh? In the absence of other resources, I sometimes think that you can move forward if you can just keep your chin out and your hands on your hips. I spent some time mentoring a volunteer; then went over to Moira and Robert's for a late-night gin and tonic. I drove home fully in possession of my super-powers, singing along loudly with Nanci Griffith:

You know the poets say I'm lonely/
There's still this woman here inside.
And I've never been a fool/
When my heart was on the line.

I remembered how often this has been true in the past . There have been numerous times when I made decisions based on feelings, and they have nearly always sent me straight. My friends or my family would say, "You're going to WHAT?!?" And I did. And they threw up their hands in dismay. And I came out shiny and clean.

So, I just need to check in with Heart. "Heart? Heart! Oh, Heeeeeaaaaarrt...! HEART! God dammit!" Shit, oh dear. My heart is a bad dog, which wandered off some time ago and is now roaming the back alleys of Cottonwood Heights. Hold on, that doesn't work. Cottonwood Heights doesn't have back alleys. My heart is either running semi-feral through the foothills stealing sack lunches from snow-shoers; or it's hanging out behind Little Caesar's, waiting to see what's in the trash. Beats me. I'll tell you where it isn't, though. It's not here with me, and the hole in my chest is an empty flutter. How much longer will the ache persist? Very good question. That damn dog will not come home.

This morning I went in the bathroom (warmest room in the house!) to get dressed. But I sat on the rim of the tub and my head dropped between my knees. I didn't cry (I'm so far past crying), but I gasped for breath for a few minutes until the worst of the pain passed; then I mused at my toes and wondered how long a person can keep going. Pointless to wonder this: [dramatic whisper] I know the answer. For-EV-ah. People live with broken hearts forever. Holy shit. I will fuel my body with Cheerios and run and work and read and fold laundry and deliver Girl Scout cookies and ... Will it turn me into a grump? Will it exhaust me? Does it burn extra calories to live like this?

It's hard to believe that I can emerge shiny and clean. The pressures are enormous. I feint to the right and the left, trying to dodge adjectives. The sociolinguist in me is passing fascinated with the use of language in such a situation; but even the sociolinguist has ducked behind the kitchen island for the moment.

Selfish. Self-obsessed. Narcissistic. Self-centered. My blog is held up as evidence. Exhibit A: Self-obsessed bitch. Writing about myself and my feelings. It's all about me. Well, I have to own that. Journaling IS self-centered. In fact, any kind of introspection is self centered. I'm hearing that this is bad, and that I am bad to the point that it becomes my truth. Did you know that my own mother doesn't like me because I'm such a selfish bitch? So I hear.

It's so hard to stay off the path of least resistance. I have been bludgeoned with adjectives until I just want to roll over and say, "Uncle". But, that's what I've been doing for years. Gotta remember, "Sticks and stones..." This time, I want to stay the course.

Kate's version: "Sticks and stones will break my bones. But tones will just confuse me." [Sarcastic, but carefully executed to sound loving and sincere] Were you aware that I DESERVE happiness?? I do! After all, isn't it right there in the Declaration of Independence? Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? It's the American birthright. In fact, it's admirable. Others would, perhaps lack the guts to destroy everything they have earned and saved. Would cower in the face of their children's poverty and disappointment. Would balk at being a lonely, solitary, unloved and unlovable pariah. But not me. Heroic, really.

I hunch my shoulders and I think: if I ever needed to convince myself that I'm doing the right thing? Here's the proof.

But I still feel like a pointy-tailed she-demon.

Who blogs. I think I may close my blog, because it really is an indulgence. Now when I write, I just think, "selfish, narcissistic bitch". What is the fucking point?

Catching Up With Me

2011-02-25T00:55:00.000-08:00

I guess even I reach the point at which I can't stay awake for another minute.

Timing is Everything

2011-02-22T21:02:00.000-08:00

Well, 10:10 PM; so my work day is over.

It was liberally sprinkled with hectic-ness this evening. (I'm a linguist, so I get to make up words whenever I want. It's a perk.) There was a moment in which I was filling in attendance rolls that Mark needed right away, and 1) a driver showed up to tell me he was delivering the giant Utah Partners for Health Mobile Clinic and he couldn't get into the packed parking lot. "Where do you want me to put the clinic, ma'am?" 2) The computer lab assistant sauntered in, plopped into a chair and began to describe the fatal error message she got when she tried to log students into Rosetta Stone. "Kate, I'm staring at you. I'm staring at you because we're having a really BIG problem." 3) Some people came to tell me that they wanted to sign up for the diabetes management class we're holding in March. I had to hold up fingers. "OK. You're problem number 1. You're problem number 2. You're problem number 3." Triage.

I'm used to this, but I must admit that my timing has been a bit off all day. Simon is not around, and I'm adjusting to the differences. I had the kids ready when it was time for Si to drive the chorus-mobile; but after I had taken care of all their needs and done my chores, I was pinched for running time. By the time I got to the rec, I was able to run for ten minutes; then it was time to go to my appointment with Dr. Derma, so he could admire my belly-splotches. I'll get used to the new routine eventually... except when I need a jar opened. Believe me, I'm not feeling at all sorry for myself.

Many things happened today that made me smile.

Hermila C. showed progress on her literacy post-test. She is in her late fifties and is non-literate in her native language because her parents didn't think she needed to learn to read. Last time she took it, she just stared at the test paper and couldn't do anything. This time she was able to write her name and address. That may not seem like much, but it's huge. Slowly, slowly.

I ate a spectacular apple for lunch. It reminded me of the ones we used to buy from Pieper's Orchard when I was a kid.

The rash on my belly is no big deal and will go away when my life calms down. Dr. Derma gave me some stuff to put on it as well. I only go to the Derma maybe once every five years, but I enjoy these visits. He owned the cabin next door when we lived at the old place, but it was his vacation place and he didn't get up there very much. We looked after it for him a little, and he would let us use it as a guest house when we had a lot of company. He told me today that I seem to look younger every year! I need to go to the Derma more often.

Sara and I had the following conversation at the store:
Sara: Mom, that lady just yelled at her son cuz he tried to buy a bread bowl.
Me: Why would he try to buy a bread bowl, and why would she care?
Sara: I don't know. But she told him to put it back. Then she turned to her friend and said, "I've heard they cause cancer."
Me: BREAD BOWLS cause cancer?!? What a load of malarkey!
Sara: Mom! Not BREAD bowl. RED bowl.
Me: She thinks red bowls cause cancer? Why would a red bowl be any different from any other color? That's crazy.
Sara: Mom! Red! Bull!

Raichle is back from her weekend retreat at Lava. She has a new attitude and an amethyst crystal. She is purged of her pain and no longer cares about her creep-ass boyfriend who dumped her after eight months. By e-mail. On Thanksgiving Day. She brought in this book titled, It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken. Hilarious! I was flipping through it and laughing my ass off. Did you know that you can buy custom ring tones at www.gregbehrendt.com. You can set them to ring when your ex calls, and a voice will proclaim:
1. "Really? You're gonna answer it? Is that what we're doing now? Backsliding? Really, we're just gonna toss our self-esteem out the window?" Or...
2. "Let it go to voice mail. Let it go to voice mail. You are too busy getting on with your life. Let it go to voice mail."
I love working with younger women.

Oh, and a new joke from my student Victor M. Don't get too excited. Victor is a kindly Peruvian gentleman in his late fifties. By day, a presser at a dry cleaner. By night, teller of some of the worst jokes ever thought of. Victor and I love each other. I always get lots of hugs and kisses; big, grippy handshakes. Victor is very hard of hearing and has ginormous hearing aids. When he laughs at his own jokes, the hearing aids squeal loudly. At any rate, this was the one he told me tonight.

OK, Teacher.
Act One: 50 Argentines in the moon. ("on the moon", says Kate)
Act Two: 100 Russians in the moon. ("on the moon", says Kate)
Act Three: 1,000 Germans....on... the moon. ("Good," says Kate)

Three acts. What is the name of the movie?

50 Argentines, 100 Russians, 1,000 Germans. "Full Moon".

Don't blame me.

Lost Language

2011-02-21T09:19:00.000-08:00

From an emotional standpoint, I'm washed up. To quote Mana, "bien tostada" ("completely toasted"). I was listening to a very interesting segment on NPR yesterday about metaphor and cliche. A discussion on how much metaphor we use unconsciously ("I see what you mean!") and how the great metaphors are quickly reduced to cliche (the Iron Curtain) The speaker's premise was that the re-use of metaphors shows lack of originality and that we should seek the new metaphor in our writing. What a very lovely sentiment. I'll get started with that. Tomorrow, OK? In the meantime, I plan to wander lonely as a cloud; to kick my can a little farther down the road; to keep my nose to the grindstone.

This weekend, I have lost my language; well, at least the better bits of it. I am so drained that I can feel the way each one of my joints is strung. My tummy has freaky red splotches on it. It's sadness again, but a different kind. February has been a long month. An endless month. How many more days of February do we have? OK, I remember the plan: work, service, fun, friends, change your life.

I think that, for today, I"ll give "change your life" a rest. It has been well-served this weekend.

Friends? I wanna talk, but I don't wanna talk. I would love it if one of my friends would call me with a problem. I'm tired of my problems.

Fun? Service? Work? Play is over for a while. Work is going to have to be my solace today. Nothing like conquering a hefty to-do list when life is a bummer:

1. Housework;
2. Guadalupe paperwork;
3. Finish painting Sara's room, replace all the curtain rods, etc... and get her moved back in.
4. Nate needs to fashion a "time capsule" shaped like an old wooden bucket, for a school book report;
5. Need to run 5 miles;
6. Menu for this week, grocery shopping;
7. Supervise birthday thank you notes;
8. One last laundry load, since Nate got a massive nose-bleed last night.
9. Find my language. Huh. Maybe it's in my purse?

A Day in the LIfe

2011-02-21T01:04:00.000-08:00

I haven't done a "day in the life" photo journal in a long time.

Wake up Sara Bear-a. The boys can sleep in, but we have Girl Scouts. Oh, my gosh! Still in bed?! Don't make me have to drag you out by your heels! You can see that she hates that idea.
Much as I'd like to spend the whole weekend in my dad's old sweater, I have to try a little harder today. Maybe a nicer shirt, but I'll still wear my wrinkly old garden pants because I like them.

Quick breakfast, cup of tea, newspaper. Ewww. One glance at the front page and I was sputtering in my Cheerios.

This may or may not be the only time Sara rides her rip-stick with a bindi on her forehead and three pounds (well, seems like) hanging from each ear.

We were attending the annual World Association of Girl Scouts' Thinking Day. Eight troops met at St. Thomas More to teach each other about challenges faced by women and girls in other countries. And dress up and eat, of course. Sara's troop studied the effects of the long civil war in Sri Lanka.

I pinned girls into (ahem) saris, and then tried to keep them from the broad gestures that tend to fuck up dainty costuming.

Here's a few, ready for their presentation.

Along with my presence, the presence of my blender was also requested, so we could make mango lassi for all the other troops. I couldn't help contrasting the pristine kitchen at St. Thomas More with our less-than-ideal kitchen at Guadalupe. All this space! And I'll bet they don't have roaches, either....

Mass quantities were consumed.

Home again to scale Mt. Washload. We only do laundry once a week, so it's usually a pile big enough to require switchbacks.

Then, errands. I paid a visit to the New Balance store in Sugar House. They are providing all the shoes for the Title I girls in Girls on the Run, and discounts for the volunteers. I need new running shoes really badly. The New Balance store is a fancier establishment than I usually frequent. I found it disconcerting that a salesperson actually unlaced the shoe and put it on my foot for me, a la Cinderella. They didn't have the one I wanted in my size, but Salesdude has ordered it from Denver. "Don't worry about coming to pick them up," the salesman told me. "I'll just deliver them to Guadalupe when we drop off the order for the girls." Wow! Nice! He was also adamant that I pick out a color. "Oh, I'm really not bothered. Anything's fine." "Aw, c'mon! We have blue...green...and pink! Do you want me to order the pi-" "Green! I love green! Let's get green."

Then I went to Hansen Company Jewelers. I'm finally ready to replace my stolen Wasatch bracelet. I thought I would stop missing it, but my wrist still looks funny without it. Fate was working against me, though.

Got Sara moved into Nathan's room for a couple of days. Kind of a cozy, summer-camp atmosphere. Sara's friend Jessie came over to play. So harmonious... for now.

I need Sara cleared out so I can (finally) paint her room. Today I got all the wall prep and masking done.

Dug the spackle out from under my fingernails and made a mad dash to go out on a dinner date with some new friends. Thanks, Sara. This picture shows just how seriously I take the task of showing my hair who's boss. If I prevailed, it was only temporary.

Now Nate: Nine

2011-02-21T00:22:00.000-08:00

This was the easiest "friend" party ever! They are WAY too cool for me - my job is to stay in the background. All the boys wanted to do was talk about Pokemon ("What power is Teledaptor?"), play foosball and watch a European Premier League match. When the kids arrived, they stood in the front hall and shouted about soccer. Then they went in Nate's room and did something that made the walls shake (I didn't look. I was making meat balls and figured it was better not to know too much.) I lured them out with spaghetti, but even then, it isn't easy to get their attention. I have learned with groups of young boys to say everything three times. "Ben, bring me your plate. Ben, bring me your plate. Ben, bring me your pate." I just sort of chant it like a mantra. On the third try, it registers than an adult is talking to them. I amused myself at supper by asking for the stories of the most they have ever bled. That's all I had to say: "Hey, Bryce, what's the most blood you ever got?" Then I just sat back, ate garlic bread and let them tell blood stories. The cake was easy, too. It always is with Nate, because he only ever wants a chocolate ice cream cake from Baskin Robbins. It's his tradition; all I do is stick the candles in it.

Happy Birthday Nate! And thanks for not being SO cool that you didn't come and give me a very noisy, sloppy kiss after your guests left. You can still be my baby sometimes - I won't tell the guys.

Cereal Killer

2011-02-17T20:22:00.000-08:00

I adore cereal and would eat it at every meal if I didn't have such iron will-power.

NOT! Despite the fact that I am pledged to taking better care of myself as part of the sadness mitigation plan, some things worked against me today. Guadalupe got a huge donation of slightly stale Cocoa Crispies, and I found a box on the staff-room table. Now, I am too much of a health nut to put the Cocoa Crispies in a bowl with milk and eat them with a spoon. Because that would be... premeditated somehow. It would be legitimizing the act. Instead, I just pour some into my hand. Several times. And then pour some into a cup, and use the cup to pour them into my mouth. See, that's spontaneous, so the devil made me do it. Or hormones made me do it.

It wasn't a great day today. I'm starting to lose my little burst of strength and happiness. That's not surprising, though: I knew it would fade. I'll slip, but hopefully not all the way to where I was. My proactivity plan has slowed a bit: Girls on the Run doesn't start until the 28th; the work I'm doing on changing my life is waiting on some necessary information that I'm getting tomorrow. Friends, I had; fun, not so much. I only have lousy days at work maybe once a year, but I occasionally have days that are...ho-hum. The evidence:

I forgot that my hand lotion is very runny and dripped it all over my keyboard, requiring me to pry some keys off to clean it up.
June H., one of my most precious tutors, called me to tell me that college is killing her and that she can't volunteer anymore.
Mel discovered that, when you hold the "shift" key down for 8 seconds, it makes a very amusing noise. It also really fucks up all of the "shift" functionality. All I can say is, better her computer than mine...
Raichle took the night off work so she could head to Lava for a long weekend. I loooooove Lava; and I ache all over. My butt hurts from my ill-considered hockey stop last night. The rest of me aches from the weights routine I did yesterday. There is nothing I would love more than to go check in to the lava Hot Springs Inn and have a good long soak. No, wait! First, I want to go to the Wagon Wheel and have a double Jack Daniels with the bikers; THEN I want a good long soak.
My keyboard tray remains loose despite my many tightenings. I stabilize it with my knee, which I get to proper level by resting one foot on top of the other. Which also makes me want to go to Lava for a soak.
Gail, my most prickly tutor, was especially prickly today.
I gave away my pencil holder with the small holes in it. The holes were perfect for holding all of my many keys in a way that I could find the one I wanted at a glance. Now they are rattling around in a dice cup again, and I have to pour them all out on the desk to find the one I need. Yahtzee.
I had be a firm boss today. Our average daily attendance has dropped this month, and I have been noticing teachers sitting in the office doing paper work when I want them to be spending time with their tutors and students. I had to tell them, "Please no hanging out in the office." I don't like to have to tell them. We're professionals.
I guess I left the garage door open this morning. I remember shutting it, but maybe I bumped the opener as I was putting it down or something. Sara called me at 5:00 and said, "Mom, did you know you left the garage door open?" "I did? I remember closing it! Whoops." "Yeah, Dad is really mad at you. You're going to get yelled at." [I exhale.] "Was anything stolen from the garage?" "No, but Dad says it's more by luck than by judgement. And he says anyone could force the laundry room door and get in the house that way, too. He says to tell you we're lucky we didn't get robbed blind!"

Oh, yuck. Let's see.... Go home and get a scolding? Or stay here at the office and write in my blog?

Sara is Twelve Today

2011-02-16T21:52:00.000-08:00

"Twelve" is awesome. The best! This particular twelve-year-old still plays with her American Girl dolls; but she designs racy, biker-chick outfits for them out of duct tape. She is serious about art and will spend hours perfecting a horse-drawing. She will also use the oil pastel crayons to streak her hair. She has a collection of piggy banks, all of them empty, because she can't hang on to money to save her life. She drops into the Gad Chutes at Snowbird, but cannot seem to navigate her laundry pile. There is nothing she loves more than playing practical jokes on me and having me get even. She is going to be an archaeologist - this has been the plan since she was five. But mummies freak her out. Shipwrecks, yes; mummies, no.

She still wants to crawl in bed with me on a Saturday to have a snuggle and read poetry. She comes back from birthday parties freaked out because there were kissing games. She and her friends go up to the school parking lot to ride their rip-sticks for hours at a time. She is afraid of the old dolls in the basement. For how much longer do I get to enjoy these little contradictions?

She doesn't get a "friend" party this year. It's her turn for a "family" party. She gets to decide what that means.
For her, that means tuna melts on English muffins. Partly because she loves tuna; partly because she knows Nate hates tuna.
No birthday cake. She wants chocolate fondue. Suits me fine; but it is hard to stick 12 candles into a plate of cut-up stuff.

Shit! It looks like a conflagration! By the way, I have a wonderful camera, but take most of my blog photos with my phone. That's because loading nice photos onto Blogger takes forever! Does that bug anyone else?

Then, off to Classic Skate! My friend Moira came to meet up with us; partly to skate, and also to hear me dish the dirt about how I'm doing. I filled her in on 83% of the gory details of my messed up life, and I was amazed to find her... supportive! When we talked a little last week, I thought she took a different position. Mostly, though, we skated. I don't recall that I have ever roller skated before - maybe once? But ice skating helps. I got faster and faster, and I could skate backwards. But I couldn't switch from backward to forward rapidly, like I can on ice skates. And I can't pick up my foot to do a cross-over. If I really want to be able to play roller derby, I need to be able to do that. Moira wants to practice! Maybe we'll go a few more times! Classic Skate is great, if you wait until just before they close. At 7 PM, the place is packed. Look out for:

Little bittie children on little bittie scooters, darting among the adults like minnows;
People who are really, really good;
People who are really, really bad;
Polygamous sister-wives, holding hands as they skate four abreast and two deep. In long skirts;.
The 14-year old boy, six-foot-four and all flailing limbs, windmilling all over the track. In sunglasses;
The jump ramp, which seems to be ever-moving, ever-shifting. You never know where it will be next and whether you will be forced to go over it.
Strollers.
Tricycles.
Anyone who comes barrelling up behind you, screaming things like, "Cowabunga!", "Oh, my God! Look out!" "AH! AAAAAH! PEOPLE!" or "SORRY! SORRY!"
Ego. I was getting pretty zippy and thought I would cleverly hockey stop to show off for Moira, which sent my flying onto my ass. I am going to have the biggest fucking bruise. Luckily my backside is the kind that...well...absorbs shock. I would be fine if I hadn't landed on my phone. As it is, I think my run tomorrow is going to be interesting.

Unless I forget to mention it, we played laser tag, which made me think of nothing so much as being a really free-spirited Costco checker.

Happy birthday, Sara! Can you stay twelve forever?

[I was strong again today! I know now; regardless of how my problems are resolved, I will be OK. I suspect there are some more sad days coming before I'm through this pickle one way or the other. BUT. I can accept whatever comes because I have super friends, good Scotch, upbeat music and dark chocolate.]

And the Clouds Parted

2011-02-15T19:46:00.001-08:00

An AWESOME day today! No misery all day long! I know why this is: I was able to talk to a friend today, and it helped a bunch. No problems solved; no end to the limbo. But I have better understanding of what is going on. I was shown that I had some wrong ideas. This was a huge relief. You know how that can happen? Thank God for amazing friends who can spend a little time talking and listening. I appreciate it.

Sooooo.... I'm smokin' hot today! Motivated! Focused! I had better enjoy it while it lasts. I may be able to get a couple more days off this pick-me-up. In the spirit of a lighter soul, how about "Five Fine Things"?

Grandpa Mario met me at the door this morning and rolled my cart full of paperwork into my office for me. Hugs! Kisses! Candy! And he called me (in Spanish) "my queen". I like being a queen.
I harassed the third grade girls while they were lined up in the hall. "Hey! Who's gonna do Girls on the Run?!? Look at the cool t-shirts we get! Did you guys get your shoes, yet? " This is a little bit naughty, because they are supposed to be silent when they are lined up. I caused disturbance and got them all riled up. You know those uncles who come over an hour before bed-time and get the kids agitated when you want them to calm down? That was me.
My boss Vicki has a bad cold and feels that banana cream pie from Marie Callender's will cure what ails her. All of us at Executive Staff meeting benefited from this treatment.
Becca gave me an enormous bear-hug this morning, using the embrace as an opportunity to steal my screaming monkey. I didn't realize until it slammed into the back of my head at high speed an hour or so later.
Herminda R. came to the office tonight to tell me how much she loves coming to school.

Oh! And a bonus thing: The guitar books I ordered for Sara's birthday arrived today, in the nick of time. I just have to get her the fancy colored duct tape that she loves so much, and some green paint. I'm going to do her room this weekend, provided she can get her floor cleared off enough that I can get to the walls! Off to Home Depot right now! I will be lucky to make it before they close.

Up To Three

2011-02-14T21:22:00.000-08:00

It's a cult: I'm convinced, now.

OK, this all started last summer, when I found a Cabbage Patch head on the front lawn at Butler Middle School. Pink yarn hair, piggy eyes, icky face. Sara pushed it with her toe and said, "That is so wrong." I left her at soccer practice, snuck back and picked up the head. She had no idea, and when she found it under her pillow that night, loud was the screaming... One of my better moments. I definitely buffed my nails over that one.

A few weeks ago, Sara reported that she had found another head (pink yarn hair, again) across the street from her school. Getting this one involved cat-burglary: I had to hoist her over a fence onto private property. Lots of hysterical whisper screams on her part: "MOM! WHAT IF SOMEONE COMES AND SHOOTS ME!?" "If anyone confronts you, throw the head over the fence to me and try to look casual."

She rigged that head so it would fall into the shower when I pulled the curtain shut. I made sure it was still soaking wet and really cold when I put it in bed with her the next morning.

And again, today. I was driving toward Cottonwood Cyclery and a flash of pink yarn caught my eye. I pulled a squealing U-turn (Better hurry! Don't want anyone to beat me to it!) and retrieved the lovely specimen above. When I came home after my run, I hunkered down low in the cab of the truck. She came out to see why I wasn't coming into the house, and when she got nice and close I screamed and thrust it out the truck window at her. It has been run over by a car, so it's head is seriously fractured. It is so creepy, according to Sara, that she won't keep it in her room.

All disembodied... all with pink yarn hair... all within a half-mile radius of each other. Someone is using them for occult purposes.

[PS. I controlled the heartbreak monster reasonably well today. I would say five out of ten. I would have done better if I had gone to work, but the kids were off school. There were some very rough moments, but I was functional. Still focused on making the changes I need to make to get my groove back.]

Girls on the Run

2011-02-13T09:07:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was bearable. We went out with some new friends last night, which was a little bit of a distraction. (Although they sometimes innocently said things that made me want to scream - they had no idea.) (I felt like my smile was glued on for much of the time.) I napped in the warmth of a sunbeam for a little while in the afternoon, curled like a dormouse in the bottom of an armchair. I'm small: I can do that. I lay there, drowsing: hearing but not listening to the drone of Simon's long conversation with his parents in England. The washer was swishing away in a hypnotic manner, and I felt relaxed for a minute. Pain free and accepting. After I woke up, I lay there for a while longer, holding still to see if I could maintain the (lack of) feeling. It was a good moment, because I thought, "Ah-hah! You are doing better because you have moved into your proactivity plan and are embarking on a new service project."

Let's talk about the Girl Box. I didn't know this phenomenon had a name, but I was confounded by it when Sara started fifth grade. Up until then, the kids went out to recess and they played: ran around, pretended stuff, played soccer. Every night at supper, I would ask, "Who did you play with today? What did you play?" (This is where it all happens at school - on the playground.)

On the first day of fifth grade, Sara rolled her eyes in disgust and said, "We don't do anything at recess anymore! We just walk around, and sit on the stairs and talk."

"Oh. Well, is that fun?"

"No: everyone just gossips; and the groups just say mean stuff about the other groups."

"The boys, too?" (I got a look like, what kind of question is that? )

"No, Mom [in a long-suffering tone]. The boys are playing soccer."

"Well, go play soccer."

"None of the other girls will play!"

"Then go play with the boys."

It took a couple of weeks, during which she sat on the stairs but cast longing looks at the play field; but then she went out and asked to play with the boys. And they let her. After a while, some of the other girls joined in as well. We are halfway through sixth grade now, and they are still playing soccer.

I am not an experienced parent (poor Sara is my trial-and-error child), so I thought this was just something happening in Sara's class. Turns out it happens all over the place. Girls on the Run aims to get girls in third, fourth and fifth grade out of the Girl Box and re-focus on what they can do, rather than how they look or whether they are sufficiently conformed. The girls have a running club that meets twice a week and trains for a culminating 5k in late May.

I don't usually do volunteer work involving kids. What do I know about kids!? But I thought I would do this because Guadalupe School is going to participate and most of the teachers in the childhood programs are tired and fed up of little kids by the end of the work day. Plus a lot of them are in grad school and have to go up to the U. when school is done. Grad school has receded into my past. And I like to run. And I'm a girl.

I also teach the parents of some of these kids, and I know that the adults are concerned about high rates of diabetes and obesity; that many parents work multiple jobs and don't have a lot of time to be active as a family. Plus, the Girl Box thing irritates me. Now that I'm old and feisty, I think, "HEY! Who gets to flip a switch and kill my playfulness? Spare me." I suck at conformity. That's why I was never part of the in-crowd.

Those are all good reasons. Plus at the training yesterday, I recalled that running has been pretty helpful to me. I remember that, when I was sick a couple years ago, going back to the track at the rec center for the first time was not fun. I was dizzy from the exertion of getting from the car to the track. I sat on the bench, gasping like a fish. Walked ONE TIME around the track, gripping the rail. Then I went home and slept for about three hours. I wrote on my blog about how life was going to suck forever more! Woe is me! (I know, it was dumb.) Next day, two times around the track, holding the rail. Walking, then running gave me something to focus on and a fixed point to refer to when I thought I wasn't progressing. Now I hardly ever think about it, so when I was filling out a questionnaire yesterday and it asked, "Have you had experiences in which running was helpful to you?" I thought, "No not really. I just like it." Then I remembered: hell yeah! Not only the gradual progress at the track but the words of the people who ran there. I remember that, on one of my first days back I was staggering along, clutching the rail, and this old guy who's there a lot said,

"Well, what's up with you, Speedy Gonzalez? Rough night last night?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Generally, people don't talk much at the gym. But the regulars would occasionally pause to say, "How many laps did you manage today?" or "Pretty soon I'm going to have to get out of your way again."

I had forgotten about all that. [reproachfully intoned] How soon we forget and take it all for granted. Yeah, whatever.

At each session, we'll talk about issues that are troublesome to girls this age; then we train. There are units on friends, gossip, etc; units on self-care and nutrition; they need to come up with a community service project that we will carry out in May; then we finish with the race. It's a fund-raiser, so all you local blog-readers should cough up your $25, come to Sugar House Park and run in it!

As a bonus, the other volunteer scoaches (who are assigned to Guadalupe from outside the school community) seem cool and we had a lot of fun together. And the t-shirts are green! I hate pink girl-shit, and green is my favorite color. Portentous.

Today sucks again. I woke up absolutely miserable. But I need to stick with my plan. For today, that means a) Guadalupe administrative work; b) planning a skate night with Moira, seeing if Diane can come over on Friday, seeing if Blanks can join us for supper on Sunday; c) start the quiet phase of changing the things that I need to change. For about a week, that'll just be working through some things on my second blog and doing some research. Step by step... What else today? Everyone else is skiing. I have laundry; curried chicken pot pie; my traditional Valentine's strawberry trifle (we don't really celebrate Valentine's Day, but this boozy, lovely trifle always makes an appearance); Home Depot for the paint to finally paint Sara's room; long run. Step by step...

The Gyno Got it in One (Day 14)

2011-02-11T21:08:00.000-08:00

Today SUCKED! Easily one of the worst days I have had. That is SO not fair! I wonder if Fridays are worse because they are so quiet at the office. Trying to drink from a fire hose is pretty distracting.

I went to a new gyno today. All the usual stuff: peed in the cup; got my finger stuck; donned the gown; asked if she routinely refrigerated her lube....

Why is it that doctors seem to have no way to share medical records? I had to fill out a massive new set of history forms for the scrutiny of the new doc. She raised her eyebrows at my uh, "impressive" medical history. Oy! I prefer to impress in other ways. I am super-healthy, actually. My entire health history can be neatly encapsulated within the year 2009.

Who is my oncologist? (I refrained from rolling my eyes. Well, there may have been a mini-roll in there, before I got control of it.) No oncologist. No oncologist? [Omygawd!] Am I not being treated? I told her that I was refusing what I know to be over-treatment and that I felt confident about that decision. My prognosis is fabulous: I am cancer-free. She was a rather school-marmish looking lady, and she has perfected the purse-lipped look of disapproval.

She did like my heart though. Again, the eyebrows while listening. "Are you an athlete?" "Well, just a runner." She nodded. "You sure are! Your heart is barely awake!"

I thought, "How right you are."

After the appointment, I paused on the stairwell landing and leaned against the wall for a moment. Have you ever noticed that stairwells are excellent places to pause and think? No one ever uses them. Sometimes a door slams above or below; but it's always remote. I have a couple of students who like to meet with me on the stairs at Guadalupe. Today I tipped my head back and looked at the ceiling.

This witch of doom and gloom is not who I am. Here's my theory, for which I expect an honorary doctorate in dime-psychology: waiting for the abatement of sadness is a passive thing. Like waiting to heal from an injury. And I'm on the "sad" treadmill 'cause I'm passively avoiding the larger issue: there are things I need to change about myself and my life; and I have been procrastinating. It's time to go in pursuit of my better, stronger self. Which way... Which way...

Heartache and pain? Soooo.... I should takethe route that addresses the loss of confidence in my capacity to love and be loved. In fact, allowing that capacity to become diminished by circumstance is chicken-shit. Under it all, there is a lovable and loving girl. I think I'll go retrieve her.

How? Through service. Through friends. Through fun. Also through a bit of reflection and an injection of extra courage.

For a few days last week, I had another blog, which I deleted; and then another with a very similar name, also deleted. The language was just flowing out of me. I was shocked at my virtuosity. But it was so...what? Revealing. Tender. I was disgusted and deleted the damn blog entirely. Twice! I have been getting a lot of mileage for the last year or so by channeling my inner hedgehog. I think I will try again and overlay a little privacy; I need to write difficult shit in a way that my cousins, my colleagues or my mother-in-law wouldn't appreciate. Then I'll retire it when it has served its purpose.

And I'm done counting the days.

A New Stage

2011-02-11T12:00:00.000-08:00

Ranting! Now, my ranting fluency level is very high. So much verbiage to howl at the moon! I love to rant about politics! About education! About the environment! About beef! About Burma! About immigration! It's so fun.

Ranting in solitude to the mirror about what an idiot I am? Alone in the house, pacing the sunporch? While making Nathan's bed? Hands clamped on either side of the laptop? Declaring my anger at myself to the contents of the deep freeze? Ah, yes. The frozen marinara knows how to keep its secrets.

To a fly on the wall, I'm sure I am hilarious. Does it help? No. I really only like to rant for amusement.

Don't See THAT Every Day! (Long March, Day 13)

2011-02-10T20:27:00.000-08:00

Between all of us on this multicultural staff, we know a lot of alphabets; but not this one... Mark thinks they're runes. Anybody out there know for sure? A piece of chiffon with runes on it is a rather unusual thing to find in a bag of donated stuff. The fact that it was wrapped around $550 makes it even more interesting. Luckily, I know where all this stuff came from, so I can easily find the (retired, LDS) couple that gave it to me. (Gasp! She's secretly Wiccan! That must be it!) I'll tell them that they can have the money if they hand over the story.

So, Day 13 was not as good as Day 12, for some reason. I am trying to figure out what was good about yesterday, so I can replicate it. I had a positive, strong e-mail message from a friend in the morning... I attended an interesting, animated meeting... Could either of those things change the composition of the day? Maybe the e-mail did it.

I should remember that a week ago I was much sadder than I am today. I'm working through it. I'm just impatient, as usual. Patience is a huge part of this process - no wonder I'm being so tiresome. Somebody just smack me.

OK, so let's focus on the positive. I'll make a list of things that made me happy today.

A little chit-chat with the other track-users at the gym this morning. One of the ladies who is often there when I'm there has a cute haircut.

I brought a grapefruit for my supper that was super sweet and yummy. I peeled it and ate it like an orange, picking the tough skin off each section.

A square of chocolate: dark, espresso, truffle. Who knew you could get all those qualities to come together for one mouthful? I was at a loss for any more wonderful adjectives to describe chocolate.

Surprising Julia, the Adult Education kitchen helper, with a little present for her birthday.

My earrings, which are pretty.

Seeing my old colleague, Dorothea. We worked together for 16 years before she retired; she comes in to substitute for an absent teacher once in a while. She came to work tonight with a plate of her special cornbread in one hand (you know, food is emerging as a pattern, here...) and a white jeans-jacket in the other. She's tired of it, and she knows I've always liked it. This is how I acquire most of my clothes! Luck.

The fact that this evening's class was kind of disastrous. That may seem counter-intuitive; but I was proud of how the staff handled it. We had TWELVE volunteers who did not come in tonight. Everybody snapped to it, worked together, combined study groups, shared tutors and made the evening run smoothly. We didn't have to send any students home. Nice work, teachers!

Loud shrieking. When the twelfth tutor, Richard C. called in, he told me, "I'm at the garage. They told me my car would be ready at 6:00, but it's 6:45 and they're no where close to finished. How would you feel if I didn't make it in tonight?" I held out the phone to the office full of scrambling teachers and said, "Hey, guys! How would we feel if Richard C. didn't come in tonight?" As one, the entire office full of women screamed at tops of their lungs. Then we laughed hysterically.

So, yeah; some good in the day, in spite of heartache.

Well, Shit

2011-02-10T13:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday WAS a one-off. So unfair!

So I guess there will be no cutting switchbacks on this hike.

Today, I'm doing great as long as I can hide out for a few minutes every couple hours and put my head between my knees and gouge my fingernails into the back of my neck.

Booger.

Letter to the Universe

2011-02-09T21:15:00.000-08:00

[First, some business. Lurkers who don't comment - I can see you on my traffic widget. I love you and I don't care if you don't comment. Not a problem at all. But my attention has been directed to a possible blog stalker. There is no way to prevent this; but for a little while, I'd like to ask that anyone who comments on my blog as "Anonymous" includes at least a first name. Or a nick-name. Or a city. Or something reassuring. "Anonymous" postings without some sort of name will be deleted. Sorry! I feel bad about it. Hopefully it's no big deal.]

I am handling my sadness a lot better today. The morning was very rough, but I did not give in. And after work, for some reason. I was at a traffic light and all the sudden I felt miserable. My hands dropped right off the wheel like they weighed a ton. I put them back. I suspect I'm not done yet, but I'll take the good days as the respite that they are. They will get more frequent, I hope. Today was a day with no special news, so I'll send one of my letters to the universe.

Dear Dad, Edie, Ronnie, and all the rest of you gone people,

I am sitting here listening to Mana, singing "Tengo Que Volar", bundled as always against the chill in this drafty fucking house. Today I focused on small things - it helps.

I was virtuous at the gym this morning. Ran a little, lifted weights, then ran some more until an hour had elapsed. I'm in week 2 of training for the Salt Lake Half, so I have to pull myself together and be serious. Plus those Girls on the Run kids are going to run me ragged. I have to bring my A-game!

Drum roll! I have found a new floor manager! Mark will be so relieved. Here he is:

This photo was taken right after I said, "One of the main components of this job is to keep me happy." I wonder if we can share clothes.

At the office, I caught up with Silvia and asked her how many people came to the Sex Health talk on Tuesday. It was a great idea: separate talks for men and women, facilitated by the Latino Medical Students' Association. In attendance? Five women. No men. [Pffffffffuuuuh...] Our students are very conservative. Silvia told me that the ladies who attended got a lot out of it - loads of questions answered. There's a lot of interest among young married couples who want to know about birth control, but they're embarrassed. I asked Silvia if we could try again. I'll make the rounds of all the study groups and apply a little persuasion. Then they can say, "I had to go! Bossy told me to."

Saw my little namesake today: already four years old. The Alvarengas have moved out of the area, so I don't see them very often any more. Kate Alvarenga? I'm flattered, but I privately think it sounds really strange. The first and last names don't match. I told her mother, Alba, that really, my name is Katherine. What about Catarina Alvarenga? Nope. Just Kate. Not short for anything. Oh, well. I tried. She had the most robust laugh when she was a baby. We used to set her up in a playpen near her mom and try to get her going. She would unfailingly laugh this huge laugh. We kept wandering back in there all evening to make her do it again. Diane really cracked her up. I think she liked that cloud of curly hair on Diane. Diane, if you read this, do you remember her? So damn cute.

Public Relations Committee meeting today. These have been pretty interesting, because we are re-branding. (And I got fed! One of the board members brought in lunch. Beats Pop Tarts...) No more Guadalupe Schools. It's Guadalupe School: one school, five programs. Riffing off the "hand with five fingers" analogy I like to use. My program is no longer called VIP, either. No more acronyms. We're just calling it Adult Education. Hey, got anything better? Lay it on me. We'll have a new promo video in time for our "friendraising" lunch next month. A new web site. Here's our new logo:

I drew the stem on! It was included in the original mock-up, and I liked it, 'cause it gave me a sense of growth, movement, change.... It got jettisoned, though. Hmph. Do you see that the flower has a petal for each of the five programs? And that the petals are people viewed from above? Each holding a book? Just like the Adult Education study groups. I am enchanted. I was ragging on Vicki about how we need press-on tattoos, and the board chair of the committee loved the idea. We just need to order them. In time for me to wear one for the luncheon? Not on my tummy though.

I was asked to update the Committee on legislative stuff that could be of interest. In all honesty, I have been distracted from immigration issues by news coming out of Educational Appropriations Subcommittee about budget. Proposed cuts this year include total removal of adult education from the budget. I don't apply for state funding 'cause my program is not part of the public school system. BUT. The money I do apply for (federal) is allocated based on a match from the state. No state money, no federal money. Oh, pickle. The scuttlebutt from the feds is that Congress is looking at a 12% cut for the federal money, anyway. We did a letter-writing campaign in class. The students who were able wrote letters to their senators and representative. I pretended that there was anybody in the Utah congressional delegation at the moment who gives a shit about adult education. Hatch used to, believe it or not; but I see that he sold his soul to the Tea Party today. Pandering asshole. I need to get board members to write letters to the lions of state educational funding: Howard (don't-believe-in-second-chances)Stephenson, Chris Buttars...

OH! And SB 138 made it out of committee 4-1. This would rescind that law that requires undocumented people to carry a "Driver Privilege" rather than a driver's license. If this bill is passed, folks without papers won't be able to have any license at all. This is a good idea because...?

What else did I do today? One of my students was having trouble with her bank, so I helped her call them and get it straighten out. Voice activated phone tree. The student was amused watching me say, "CHECKING. CHECKING. NO. CHECKING. FUCK. NO! I mean CHECKING!"

Got a few basic guitar books. Sara wants to learn to play as well, and asked for guitar books for her birthday. We can share them. She called me today to tell me that one of her frienemies had spilled/poured/dumped chocolate milk all over her at lunch and she was SO EMBARRASSED. It looked like she WET HER PANTS! OMG.

We had to go to Justice so she could shop for birthday presents for a bunch of her friends. Is it mean of me to wish that Justin Bieber would turn to anti-matter? Seems like half the school is born in February, including both of my kids. This part of Cottonwood is sort of a ski resort company town. All the February births fuel speculation on how everyone celebrates the end of the season each year.

Sara is gearing up for the Canyon View Etiquette Tea. Asked for a dress. She NEVER wears dresses. This is the kid who colors her hair in hot pink streaks using a pastel crayon. OK, dress it is. Today she asked if she could wear makeup. No. Oh, Mom just a little. No.

She has been hilarious about this tea. Now, I do work with her on her table manners, but she is far from exemplary. The other night, just as I asked her to take her elbows off the table, she picked up her bread and pulled the soft inside out, leaving an "O" of crust behind. Then she took morsels of the soft part, rolled them into balls, dipped them into the butter on her plate and tossed them into her mouth. I pointed out that she was not going to pass muster in this respect, and she solemnly told me that this was the right way to eat bread. Break off small pieces, Mom! Butter each, one at a time. Uh...Hmmm...

OK, off to paint my toes bright blue and concentrate on not being sad. It's turning into a hobby. Whatever works.

Love, Kate

Pfffffffft

2011-02-08T19:22:00.000-08:00

OK. Shazam lasted for part of the day. Then my super-powers were again compromised. Just gotta figure out what gave me that burst. Try it again tomorrow.

I have had heartache before. I should be grateful. My heart is a wild little creature, but it is still not jaded, even after all these years. So, I bury my face in a towel and scream my head off until is passes. I know how to handle heartache.

I have doubted myself before. I should be grateful. I know I don't have all the answers. So I confide in my special friends. I know how to manage doubt.

I have had wild misadventures before. I should be grateful. I still think life has the capacity to surprise me. I write about them. I know how to wrangle wild misadventures.

I have forgotten my lunch and my supper before. I should be grateful. How else would I have the opportunity to subsist on rancid sandwich cookies, grape pop-tarts and garlic-soy-roasted Chinese broad beans? I know how to find food.

SHAZAM!

2011-02-08T10:00:00.000-08:00

Wow. OK, I'm back. Got my super-suit back from the cleaners. I know, I know... What happened to sad? It's very strange. I have no idea. I suspect it may come back later. But today? I blasted around the track on my run; I am totally organized; I am looking forward to my incredibly busy day.

I feel very calm, very positive. I am not mad at all. I don't get mad. But I am...focused.

Now, off to direct my formidable superpowers at my day. And just in case anyone thinks that I am efficiency personified, let me confess that I have forgotten my lunch and my supper. But I used to do that before I was a selfish, unlovable, bad woman, wife and mother. I have always been a lousy food-rememberer. There are some pseudo Oreos here, but they are beyond even what I can eat. Rancid filling. I looked for the expiration date out of curiosity. Can't find one, although the package does assert that these Austin-brand cookies have been around since 1932.

I'd Call Myself "Guera de la Guerra"

2011-02-06T19:18:00.000-08:00

Look, Ma! A piercing AND a tattoo! Kidding! It's a press-on; and Mom never comes on my blog. I'm not sure she knows about it. Good thing too, or she would have been calling me up over this past week with her own special brand of support in hard times. That would be: "The women in this family do not give in to pain. Get off your butt and get to work." Be sure to say it in a very hard tone. Seethe a little. She does hate my piercing. On my rare visits home, I was in the habit of flashing it at her, just to make her say, "Katherine! For heaven's sake!"

I had several tattoos last night, as well as my frayed jeans, my army shirt and various "bad girl" accessories, 'cause it was Roller Derby night. Flat track, at the Salt Palace. Black Diamond Divas taking on the Hot Wheelers. Awesome alter egos such as "Medusa Damage"( that was my favorite), "Pandora Doom", "Smack & Deckher", etc..

It was a lot less violent than I thought it would be. In fact, I have to say that I would be interested in giving this a try... I have not roller skated much, but I'm a fairly good ice skater. (Until you got a drivers' license, there was nothing else to do in Markesan, Wisconsin in the winter. The city flooded a rink, The Kiwaunis Club ran the warming shack, all the boys were there.) Sara wants to go to Classic Skate for her birthday treat next week, so I will check myself for hidden talent. In Wasatch Roller Derby, you don't form teams or try to join a team. It's a league and everyone practices together, then they form up their teams on the night of the derby. I know, I know... It's just a little too friendly... My friend Vicki Pineiro (who got me interested in roller derby in the first place) was there. When I expressed interest in trying it, she said that all you have to do is show up on a practice night and they'd give you a try. Don't need to know the rules (Good. They're complicated) - you can learn as you go. Looking at the girls, I can see that would EASILY be the oldest participant. By about 15 years. I can also see that the alter-egos, the costumes, the makeup, the playacting of it would be right up my alley.

Sooooo.. the daily question: did it help?

[sadly] No! If press on tattoos won't cheer a girl up, what will?! To be honest, better company would have helped. We went with a couple that we are acquainted with. Si likes them a lot; they are OK to hang around with, but they (sorry, but it's true...) bore me a little; and just now I'm craving fun company. Still, I wore my game face and flashed my tummy. Can't be a grumpy old slag.

Today was Day 9 on the Long March. If you check out my hike plan, you will see that the second leg is the "hurts most of the time with occasional moments of relief" stage. That's my goal. Nine days and I'm still not to it?!? Geeze. I am getting an eerie feeling that this is going to take longer than I anticipated. What if it takes a REALLY FUCKING LONG TIME?

OK, let's not panic. I did manage some things today. A list- Things Kate Managed:

A few basic household chores: beds, dishes, etc...;
A few loads of laundry;
I successfully prepared my sun-dried tomato, provolone and basil meatloaf.
I successfully prepared black-bottom banana cream pie.
I was able to put together a menu for next week that is not an embarrassment. Last week I did stuff like decide on a meal, write it on to the menu, then not check the ingredients or shop for the ingredients...dinner time rolled around and I was like, "Huh? Cauliflower sweet potato curry?" Worse yet, I had already planned it for a night earlier in the week and made it then.
I also read a few chapters of my book. I had hoped for escape, but the story in the book reminded me too much of my present difficulties; so I burrowed my head into the cushions on the sun-porch sofa and wished that I was Puxatawney Phil.

MESSAGE TO THE UNIVERSE: I am not a sad-sack. I am not a baby. I have always been a model of resilience. I will get that all back again. I think the reason that I am suffering this badly is that my situation is in limbo. I don't limbo well. It's that whole bend-over-backward thing. I would slap the situation into shape, but it isn't all mine to slap. Control of the situation? NOT! Any idea of the outcome? NOT! Possibility that there will never be a resolution? 'Fraid so.

I need to bring out the BIG GUNS. When I start feeling sorry for myself, I should remember to get out and find people who need help. Girls on the Run doesn't start for three more weeks. I'm thinking about volunteering in long-term care or hospice. I'm good at that. And I need to get my focus back on Guadalupe. For a while, I was thinking that I should learn to take a little time off, spoil myself, delegate a bit. Pffft. The road to hell... Immersion would bring oblivion, which would bring relief.

Tomorrow is a new day, and I will try again.

I Need a Thicker Skin

2011-02-04T22:17:00.000-08:00

Thanks, Becca, for lending me your guitar! I had a guitar once. When I was in grad school I lent it to my friend Diane Morrill (Diane, if you ever Google yourself and find yourself looking at this blog entry? I want my guitar back. You've had it since 1994...). So, yeah; she took a bunk with my guitar!

I was never good. I took lessons when I was in middle school, which was pretty fun until my eighth grade meltdown. Now, I am kind of a ham and don't mind getting up in front of people. I used to sing in front of lots of people, but I'm more comfortable usign my own vocal mechanism than playing an instrument. It's not my own body; it's this object I pick up, you know? But I was enjoying guitar lessons and when Mr. Paskey asked Alan Johnson and me to play Silent Night at the middle school Christmas concert, I was down with it. I took the melody; he took the arpeggio. Alan's mom was a music teacher and made sure we kept practicing.

I vividly remember this incident. I sang with the choir; I played my cornet in the band; but all the while I was getting nervous about the guitar thing. When it was time to play it, I had my first and only attack of REAL stage fright. I have been nervous since, but this was a dig-in-the-heels, no-way-Jose moment. I saw these two metal folding chairs out there on the gym floor. And microphones. Whooooo, boy. I recall walking up to Mr. Paskey as he was about to introduce us (imagine me tugging at his sleeve) and saying, "We're canceling this. I'm not doing it. There's no way." He handed me my guitar and said, "You'll be fine!" Nonononononono! It really was not fine. Alan was already perched on his folding chair, ready to go, looking at me like I had lost my mind. Which I had. I wish I could tell you that I pulled it off. But... Ididn't. Imagine two eighth graders playing Silent Night really badly. Now, imagine them playing so badly it's laughable. Aaaaaand dial it to one notch worse. There you are! I think we even finished at different times.

Afterward in the music room, Alan said, "Sit down." We played it perfectly. His mom stopped by my house later that evening with a chocolate eclair. I think this my have been my expereince as a user. Chocolate as a drug.

After that, I was content to strum away in my college dorm.

Soooo...here we are again. I remember some things. I can still tune, using the 5th fret system.

A basic arpeggio, a hootenanny strum.
A few chords. I have some music books that include chords. I need a basic book, though. I'll go get one next week.

And the big question. Did it help? Briefly. While I was actually playing, I was concentrating, and it helped. If only I could just sit and practice all day. But my finger tips are swollen and sore. In this, as in most things, callouses would be very helpful.

Wool Gathering (Long March, Day 7)

2011-02-04T12:22:00.000-08:00

Didn't know I was a shepherdess, huh? Where the hell did I put my crook?

I'm working on on the sadness all the time. I have made progress, I think. Yesterday was better. I was really busy; and I had helpful conversations with people. Thank you by the way, local blog-readers; for being concerned, reaching out and checking on me. I have a lot of really nice friends. I am getting drunk with people I don't usually get drunk with! On weeknights.

Today the goal is to get through the day without crying. It's 1:45 PM, and I have managed so far. Several times my throat tightened but I fought it. As Sara likes to say, "Yay, me."

I also managed a regular workout today. On the previous days I had to cut it short because I was just too...lead-limbed.

Next, I have to get my sleep back under control. It's getting ridiculous, even for me.
Then, I must conquer food. The goal is to double the amount of food that I'm eating. That's harder, though, because sadness is like a stomach stapling for me. Food? Nah... Plus, I kinda like the way I look when I'm at my thin end. As long as I don't drop below 112 pounds, I'm good.

First, sleep. Then food.

And through it all, I have GOT to stop the wool gathering. I am lost in thought all the fucking time, and I'm getting mad at myself. I mean, what is so interesting in my head that I need to keep scrolling it all day? Nothing is worth this many reruns. So I went on an active battle plan against it today, and really paid attention to times when I want to slip into a reverie. The Wool Gathering Awareness Initiative. I started staring out the window after breakfast and caught myself. Good for me! While I was tying my running shoes... caught myself and made myself stop. I also resisted while stretching at the gym (Before, I had been doing my hamstrings for, like, 10 minutes while my mind wandered away). If I keep this up, the custodians are going to try to dust me. And I did not succumb while resting between sets in the weight room, either.

I'm struggling more as the day goes on, though. I slipped into thought in the parking lot after arriving at school. I think that part of the blame should be allocated to the nice warm truck though, and the fact that it's cold outside. I was cozy! I was searching for a number in the phone book just now, but kept sliding my finger right over it while I rolled my problems around and around. That's why I'm taking a second for a quick write - I'm rebooting.

I was so focused before, too! Happy Kate was quite the juggler. Well, she'll be back one of these days. Day 8 will be better. Now, off to the distraction of staff meeting, where I will be entertained by the business manager scolding us for improper laminating. Don't ask. But I'll just say, it wasn't me!

Letter to Edie

2011-02-01T20:48:00.000-08:00

Hi, Edie-

I haven't written since last spring, but I think of you a lot. I really, reeeeeaaaaaally need you right now. I could always count on you to listen to my shit. I never even had to ask - you knew when when there was something up with me, and you'd NAIL me! You never turned a hair, never judged. And you were capable of TOUGH LOVE! Diane has taken on the role of listener (poor Diane!). She is very nice though, and does not slap me up side the head nearly as much as you did.

Today, I was rock-bottom sad. (Day 4. I'm lovin' this hike. Are we there, yet? Are we there, yet? Are we there, yet? Tomorrow HAS to be better. That is the good thing about rock bottom.) Sadness is generally not permitted at school: my sanctuary of noise, need, chaos, laughter. I was standing at the copier this evening, getting ready for class when Mark bopped through the room. I was facing away from him but maybe something in the set of my shoulders stopped him. Yeah, I know - he has known me WAY too long, huh?

"SOOOOOOOO...... How's everything in Kate's world tonight?"
"Uh, OK. Good."

He came up to me and put his hand on the back of my neck.

"Oh, yeah? You don't feel quite right."

Touching me was the WRONG thing to do. To my horror, my throat closed and I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Now, I have issues about crying. I desperately hate it and like to be all emotionally controlled. A couple of teachers who know me well tease me about how I NEVER cry, even when I ought to. I had to stand stock still for a long time before I was able to tell him, "I miss Edie."

He sighed a very long sigh. "Oh, Darlin', me too." We wrapped our arms around each other for a minute while the copier chugged through its job. He told me about how he struggles with things at home and how much he misses your no-nonsense attitude when dealing with your son Mike. I just stood very still and let his words and his pain wash over me.

You always said that Mark and I were two peas in a pod, as far as temperament goes. We both used to roll our eyes at your brassy assuredness, at your Absolute fucking Certainty; but we relied upon your rock-solid presence. You are very much missed.

Love,
Kate

The Long March: Day 3

2011-01-31T20:32:00.000-08:00

I'm talking about my slog through sadness. According to my earlier entry, I was supposed to get marching on....January 17th. I was waylaid by Fluffy Coping Strategy #2: Hope of Reprieve. [buzzer sound] Departure delayed by 11 days. I kept unpacking and repacking my load: pointless procrastination.

All of you have had to deal with pain, so you know that there is no magic bullet. The journey goes like this:

ARGH!! HURTSHURTSHURTS! All the time.
Hurts most of the time, with occasional moments of, "Ah! What a relief! Those last five minutes were actually not too bad!"
Good much of the time, with occasional excruciating stabs.
Whew! Check out my scar!

HAHAHAHA! Reading that back, it sounds pretty much the same as surgery!

So, today's hike was particularly long and rough. I'm a little out of shape.

Things that didn't help (I love a list!):

Morning routines. Mornings suck, I'm finding;
Running. I had a good long workout today: both weights and running. People say exercise helps; but I think a lot when I run. Maybe I need to fill my iPod with some of Sara's obnoxious, "tween" bubble gum stuff that takes over your brain and stays all day. "BABY YOU'RE A FIIIIIIIREWOOOOORK!!"
Driving. Driving is evil. Too much think-time;
Going to the grocery store;
Texting. I know, that's almost as weird as the grocery store. I texted, but my thumbs just were NOT into it;
Reading to Sara about Buddhism.

Things that did help:

My meeting with Jeff G. at the Utah State Office of Education. He and I are creating an adult educator development and training plan for the state. First, I am happy that the state has accepted my idea: if we want good trainings for teachers, we should send out a call for a trainer on a particular topic (teaching pronunciation, for example). Let potential teacher-trainers send in a resume, cover letter and a two-page outline of how they would cover that material in...let's say... a six-hour workshop. Whoever sends in the most kick-ass proposal wins the contract and actually gets paid a decent amount of money for their time in planning and implementing it. Let's say $500-$700. I'm sick of the way teachers are just expected to volunteer for everything, no matter how intensive the job is. You end up with a frazzled, resentful trainer and often a cobbled-together half-ass training. This'll work! So, Jeff and I were planning how to get it started. This was both gratifying and distracting. Plus, Jeff G. has giant cut-out of Tonto and the Lone Ranger in his office. And he seems to sincerely like, admire and enjoy working with me. This gave me about 90 minutes of help with my load. Thanks, Jeff.
The office. Numbing my brain with roll charts and childcare lists. Puzzling out the difference between the new students Thu Thuy Pham, Thuy Thanh Thi Pham and Thuy Pham. (No more Phams, you guys! Please, don't call in anyone named Pham. And no more Thuys, either.) Putting on my She Who Must Be Obeyed persona and letting the business office know that we really need a surge protector that does NOT squeal continuously. Mel's sarcasm. Ray's good-natured kvetching (no one can make "God dammit, Kate!" sound quite so...uplifting...). Thanks, office! And Ray, I'll get you a new hard-drive as soon as I have some money. It's at the top of my list. Hang in there, Buddy!
Stories. I took the kids over to the Cultural Celebration Center to meet my friends Moira and Corinne and listen to storyteller Bill Harley. I love listening to good stories, and this guy is Grammy-winning fabulous. Not babyish at all, to Nate's relief. He laughed his ass off. There is still a little kid in me somewhere who can push away sadness with loud singing and doing all the hand motions. Dweebie, I know. Thanks, inner dweeb!
Reading aloud. Sara's choice of book made me sad. But, by golly, I am really good at reading aloud. It's meditative. I have to focus enough to push my emotions out of my mind. I can be alone with just the fluid line of the language; the beauty of its intonation. Language: my breastplate. My high tower. Thanks, language!

Maybe Day 4 will be easier.

Helen Keller Said WHAT?

2011-01-30T20:23:00.000-08:00

"Life is a daring adventure; or nothing at all."

When my dear friend Becca tossed this quote at me yesterday, she was eyeballing a run called "Steeper than Hell" from the chairlift . Leave it to me to madly extrapolate until it covered my whole life. Don't worry: I did not run out and get it tattooed across the small of my back.

I must pause in my navel gazing to tell you that skiing with Becca is fun. She is prone to shaking her ass to the piped-in music in the tunnel, until I am compelled to inch my way forward and jab her butt with my pole. She is also prone to singing show tunes on the slope, while I shout,

"Nothing from Oklahoma! Do you hear me? Not Oklahoma!"

"OH, WHAT A BEAUTIFUL MORNING! OH, WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY!"

On the lift, she sang "Carrot Juice is Poison" for me. I sang "The Tabbouleh Song" for her. http://media.gunaxin.com/tabbouleh-song-by-remy/18360 We both sang (well, roared more than sang) "Trogdor the Burninator". http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gz1DIIxmEE

It was not decorous. Still, we are not the only ones who do stuff like this. One dude blasted by me on twin-tips, shouting, "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!"

I am still sad. In fact I am sadder than ever. But I am not OK with sad-sack behavior. So I permitted sadness while actually skiing, and in the ladies' room. Whilst driving back and forth, hucking gear, clipping in, eating lunch and riding the lifts, I sang "Trogdor" and kept my game face on.

After skiing, Simon asked me if I would like to take my goggle-eyed self out for a beer with him. Yes, indeed! We got settled with a couple of Cutthroats and he asked me what I thought of the two of us splitting up. Well, that was a long-ish conversation. Good thing they were large Cutthroats. Simon and I have been married eighteen years. We have a well-oiled, highly functional partnership. We scarcely ever fight. Last incident with raised voices? October, 2009. Years ago, in the turbulence of early marriage I used to stand in the shower after a fight, twisting my ring around my finger, thinking, "FUCK THIS! I can't stand this! That goddamn SOB... I'm leaving!" Etc...etc... No long-time married person will be shocked by this.

Marriage is hard work, and I have given an enormous amount of love and effort to ours. Simon has, too. Probably more, in fact, because he has to be married to me! But we're changing. I find him inflexible. He finds me rebellious. He's a curmudgeon. I'm a loose cannon. And we paper over it and cruise along until we realize that our marital shoelaces have come completely untied. Oh, whoops.

"Kate, if you had remembered to do those laces in double knots like I asked you to, we wouldn't be in this situation."

"I did them in double knots - eighteen years ago. Sooner or later, Babe, stuff comes undone."

I hate to give the cancer thing too much importance in my life, now that it's almost over. But it has certainly made me a lot less interested in tolerating situations I tolerated before. Go through one big change, start looking at other changes with less fear. Cancer is dangerous: look out! That which does not kill you could change your view of the world. Make you stupid. Make you brave. Make you selfish. Make you clear-eyed. Make you greedy. Make you want a better self for yourself.

So, we sat there, calm as you please, talking it over like it was the grocery list. He was offering up trial separation like he might suggest a movie. That's how I know it's a real issue this time. More discussion to come, I'm sure. And I thought, "Helen Keller was probably just referring to an overseas trip or a new hairdo or something..."

Over the Supper Table

2011-01-26T22:39:00.000-08:00

Sara asked us if it was hard to make the pig eat the sausage fillings. As in, "It's gross, the way they make the chicken and mango sausage. I can see the pig being excited to eat the mango, but not the chicken."

From 7 to 9

2011-01-25T20:48:00.000-08:00

So, I'm the director of a program that offers English as a Second Language to immigrants and refugees. Our classes are mostly at night; and although I talk about "class", it's really small groups that meet with volunteer tutors. The other day someone asked me, "Well, if someone else is teaching the students, what are you doing?"

"Oh, y'know. Stuff. Different stuff." (meanwhile thinking, "What DO I do?") "Stuff?" "Yeah...."

I decided that for one night during class from 7 to 9, I would pay attention to what I do, and record it in case anyone asks me this question again. I'll be ready.

First thing on the list: remember to pay attention.

7:00

Volunteers and students are arriving. My lesson plans are ready for them and packed in a crate. I take the crate out in the hall and lay out the lesson plans for volunteers to pick up when they come in. As always students comment on my clothes (not always favorably). It's tradition.
Check and make sure that my volunteers all arrived and that they all have students.
A couple of Peruvian students return from a long journey to their homeland. They present me with a cute leather coin purse with alpacas on it. It's the kind with the metal bands at the top, that you squeeze from the sides to open. These bands are very powerful, requiring all my hand strength to open. Colleague M. got one, too. We snap them at each other's fingers. "HARMP!"
New volunteer comes in looking for colleague W. "Please sit down, I'll go and find her." Upstairs, downstairs, forming a loop with the two staircases. No W. Upstairs, downstairs. Still no W. Reverse directions. Find W.
Feel overjoyed to see the once familiar face of volunteer J. M. She tutored for about 8 years, but had to quit a few years ago when her mother was ill. She's back! Big hugs.
Vietnamese students looking lost at the office door. One used to be a student and wants to come back. The other needs to fill out an application. Take care of them, speaking s-l-o-w-l-y.
Bus driver / computer lab assistant comes in sick. She drove the students here, but she's dying and needs to leave. Close the computer lab for tonight. Ask floor manager M. to drive the bus when it's time to take students home.
My student H. is back after being sick last week. Bullshit with him.
Find a student in a group who is not, in fact, a student. He would LIKE to be a student, but is still on the waiting list. Laugh and pat him on the cheek, but send him out.
Sit and observe one of my groups. Overhear another group talking about grammar. One student makes the sentence, "The woman looked at her children while she hit her head." The volunteer knows it's wrong, but can't really explain why. I demonstrate the actions of this sentence, using my three-ring binder to smack myself. Hilarity ensues. The students think I am incredibly weird.
Try to continue observation of my group. Get pulled away to explain the difference between tense, aspect and mood.
Try to continue my observation. Student sends word to me that he has to leave: his daughter has locked herself in a room and he has the only key. I'm glad to know, but he isn't my student. Oh, well.
Try to print a February calendar page. I recently got Office 07, and I think it's pretty easy to use, but I got tangled up in Publisher. Waste time dicking with this.
Pass out W-2s to support staff

Whoops, an hour gone.

8:00

Unlock the cash cupboard and put money in petty cash.
An advanced student needs to take the Test of Adult Basic Education. Unlock the test cupboard and find the right test booklet. Go make a copy of it. ARG! Yes, matey, I AM a pirate! Hey! We're poor! Don't call the cops.
The Vietnamese students are back. The husband of the applicant is bummed that there's a waiting list. He tried to persuade me that his wife needs to be a t the top of the waiting list. I listen, knowing his cause is lost. Nod and smile.
Confer with the floor manager. Tell him that we want to fit 2 more children in the child care. I think we have the capacity. Could he please double check? Tell him that on Thursday, a language development specialist who works for Chipotle Mexican Grill will be visiting SLC from Denver and wants to tour the program. Make plans for this.
Rustle up a few helpers and go pull my truck up to the door. The entire back of my pickup it PACKED with donated clothes, shoes, fabric, blankets, etc.... There's so much, we are worried about storage. Floor manager rearranges until everything fits.
While I was unloading the donations, somebody nabbed my parking place. Find a new parking place.
Take the Test of Adult Basic Education to the student who needs to take it. Get him settled with the test paper and leave him to it.
We have a student who lives outside the range of our little bus, so I have figured out a carpool system for her. She's a sweet little grandmotherly lady, but she is forgetful. Go find her and ask her if she remembers whom she is riding with tonight. No, she forgets. Jesse, I remind her. Who's he? I take her to the room where Jesse is teaching and show him to her. Oh, yeah.
Go to the classroom where student A. G. is studying. She has been considering my request that she prepare and give a speech at our fundraising luncheon in March. Only for 400 people or so... how 'bout it? She's been thinking it over. I perch on the table next to her and give her my "begging puppy" act. She laughs and says, "Yes." Whew! I tell her to start writing down some ideas and I'll start working with her next class.
Find child attempting to scale the toy cupboard to reach a top-shelf toy. Remove child from precarious ascent. Reach toy.
Realize that I need to give an oral Basic English Skills Test, and that I left my laptop at home. Ask colleague W. if I can use her laptop. Get it set up in the lunchroom, which is quiet this time of night.
Go to get the student I need to test. Get distracted by an enormous stranger wandering the hallway. Give him my polite but wary version of, "How can I help you?" He's looking for someone. I find that person.
Go to get the student I need to test. Get called to a group to explain "dear". Is "my dear" the same "dear" as in "Dear Sir"? What about "dear" vs. "deer"? And when we say, "Oh, dear", why do we use "dear" there? Uh...hmmmm...
Finally get the student I need to test. Administer the test, being careful not to cross my legs. My boots have these nasty sharp buckles and this pair of stockings is still intact.
Have a little one-on-one time with the student I have just tested. Everything all right with her tutors? Fellow students? Lessons? Home life? etc...
Realize that I have been too busy to mark my groups' attendance. Luckily, I know who was here. Quickly mark attendance before I forget.

9:00. Done, but not really done.

Volunteer tutor David L. comes to find me. Great lesson! Students did really well tonight. Tells me about how the lesson went. Asks about an award nomination I wrote last month. Still too soon to know whether we won. Tells me about a grant proposal he is writing.
I can hear the clatter of card tables being broken down. Since Floor Manager had to leave and drive the bus, the teachers are stacking chairs, folding tables, tidying up. I go to join them.
I carry a box of donated books into the little room where I keep our lending library. I have a volunteer coming in the morning to sort and level these and a whole bunch of others that I have collected this month and stored under the table in here. Look under the table and see that there are NO BOOKS. NONE. Every single book is gone. The teachers in the childhood programs must have taken them for their classrooms! Agh! Feel frustrated. Mental note: call the volunteer and tell her not to come! Dammit. Will I be able to get them back? I will have to put out an All Points Bulletin.
The results of the test I just gave are on a flash drive. I print the file off.
Head to the printer, but get waylaid by colleague W., who needs help finding a student file.
Head to the printer but get waylaid be colleague R., who needs me to sign her time card.
Head to the printer and actually make it.

And that's it!

Letter to C.

2011-01-20T20:40:00.000-08:00

[My friend C. is currently out of reach via e-mail or phone, but likes me to amuse him with details from my day. If it coincidentally amuses any of the rest of my readers, BONUS!]

Dear C.,

Sara is still playing pranks on me using disembodied Cabbage Patch heads. They keep appearing in places meant to startle and annoy. She got me good last night. I turned on the shower and when I pulled the curtain shut, this doll head flew out of the curtain and into the tub. Point for Sara. Of course, the doll head was still soaking wet (also drippy and very cold) when I threw it into bed with her at 7 AM. Point for me.

I was distracted at work, but not too much. However, I need to remember that if my pen won't write, the thing to do is not to wriggle my mouse. Doesn't help.

Looks like I really am going to San Luis Obispo in June. Just gotta fill out a bunch of forms, get a check-up (oh, for Pete's sake!), etc... and I will get to partake in the joy of driving a bunch of 12-year-old girls to California. 5 days! Should be great if I can strap a few of the girls on the roof.

You will be gratified to know that you are not the only one who is shocked at how little I sleep. One of our students, Maria M. confronted me this evening while I was rootling for a test form in a cupboard. (Actually three different students needed something during that rootle. I kept coming back to it and thinking, "Now, why am I here?"). Maria lives across the street. The all-seeing eye... "TEACHER! What time you leave the school Tuesday!? You last person leave?" "Uh, well, yeah..." "Is very late! I see in my window! I watching make sure you safe!" "Thanks, Maria. I know you are there. It makes me feel safe." "Tonight, you go HOME! Go BED!"

Otherwise, it was a pretty ordinary work day.

Queen Jodi the school cook tried to feed me her chipped beef-zucchini sandwich. I like getting fed, but the chipped beef-zucchini sandwich defeats me.

The third graders were in charge of taking the flag down at the end of the day. They paused after folding it into its lengthwise strip to jump rope with it. Only would have amused me more if Orrin Hatch had been here.

My students came to find me during class to discuss some childbirth vocabulary. "Teacher, is it 'due-date'? Or 'do-date'?" True, they both make sense.

And why is it that, if all the teachers are professional people who have worked with Southeast Asians for many years, we still have so much "ssnnnnrrrrkk" going on when a student says her name is "Ho"?

Juan, the custodian has just come in to vacuum. In the interest of seven hour of sleep, I should get moving.

Hope you had a good day: that you remembered to click your clicker; that you had plenty of cheap whisky in your tea; and that you got the snow cleaned out of your car. I never asked you why you had your sun roof open in the first place...

Take care!
Kate

THAT Came Out Wrong

2011-01-19T22:13:00.001-08:00

Sara thinks it's funny that, while working with clay the other day, one of her friends said, "What am I making? I'm making POT."

Ooooooohhhh. That is so funny when you're eleven.

This reminded me of the funniest thing Sara has said in years. We were floating down a river on a raft last summer and she jumped off to find herself in a deep dark patch of aquatic plant life. She scrabbled at the side of the raft and shouted, "I can't climb back in, cuz I'm on weed!" Go tell it on the mountain, Sweetie.

Sadness has a Path

2011-01-17T20:05:00.000-08:00

I don't feel sad very often, but sometimes I do. I won't bother writing about the reason. Let's just say I had a very nice vision of happiness and sweetness transforming my life; but that vision is clouded by difficulty. A Kudzu problem: as soon as I get one obstacle cleared, another pops up. I know what to do when this happens: time to slog down Sadness' path. Thanks, Sadness, for cutting this clearly defined trail for me to hike along. Pardon me if I'm not jumping for joy. CAN'T! I'm sad. Duh. I hate this fucking hike. It's long and boring. Imagine 30 miles in a damp Alaskan wilderness with nothing to look at but Devil's Club. All day. [Cue Song of the Volga Boatmen]

When I'm sad, I try to get my nose to the grindstone and press down (and you thought the cartilage was showing a bit on Michael Jackson...). I make myself a long list of things I need to do, and then I start ticking my way though it, praying that chores will anesthetize me. It doesn't always work, but it's my best resource. Anybody got a better one? If I'm lucky, I will find both achievement and oblivion.

I will try to put off the inevitable with other, fluffier coping strategies, though. Watch me try:

1. Wallowing. Uh...not helpful to futz around going, "I'm sad. Wooooooooe is me." OK, enough of that, after about five minutes.

2. Hoping for reprieve. Maybe all the things that have made me sad will be mistakes of some sort! I'll get a memo saying it was all in error, and that this sadness was really meant for someone else. La-la-la! Too fanciful even for a fanci-fuck like me!

3. Self-talk. Mine goes like this: "Well, who cares! Big deal! Is this important in the grand scheme of the world? Will this matter in 20 years? Does it increase the cases of malaria in Sub-Saharan Africa?" Know what? You can tell yourself shit like that until you're blue in the face, and it doesn't help. Your sadness is your own, and isn't diminished by comparisons.

4. Writing. Wouldn't it be great if this were really a panacea? For some people it is: look how it helped Hemingway! Hmm... Bad example. It helps me, but only a little.

5. DAYDREAMING. Oh, this one is a doozy. My drug of choice since early childhood. I can still remember every detail of the hay field, the birch tree and the open sky outside the classroom windows of Mackford Prairie Elementary. Why get down to productive stuff when I can stare at the sky for hours on end? I'm a solver; so I will comb through my problems over and over, looking for a PLAN! The knowledge that what I want may not be attainable doesn't keep me from combing though it one more time. And JUST one. More. Time. Variations on the theme: make tea and stare at the sky with a teacup; decide to make a productive to-do list. Stare at the sky with a pen in my hand. Yeah, THAT makes it OK...

6. Sleep. Awesome. The ultimate pain-killer. Bummer that you wake up to find Sadness waiting here. Tapping its toe. With the bonus of having your contacts glued to your eyes, possibility of later insomnia and just overall stiffness.

Yeah, yeah. I need to get moving and get my hike started. I will feel happy again one of these days. Maybe there will be a solution to my problems - if so, I'll be overjoyed! Please Sadness; is there a chance I will get to thumb my nose at you and tell you to get lost? More likely, one day will thread to another and eventually I'll realize that Sadness has been outpaced. I am a pretty fast walker.

Thank You Notes

2011-01-05T22:35:00.000-08:00

Every month, one of my little chores is to check the volunteer roster and determine who has an anniversary (for lack of a better word). These crazy folks have stuck with the program WAY beyond the requested three months and have been tutoring English as a Second Language for a year. Or years. Or even many years.

Without a cadre of dedicated volunteers our school could not function, so I write thank-you notes to the tutors who are marking off the years like this. January is a huge month for note-writing, leading me to the theory that tutors who start volunteering because of some New Years resolution have more tenacity. A whole bunch of our power hitters started tutoring in January. I will have writer's cramp. I will sit in meetings listening while writing thank-you notes for a couple of weeks. It gets a little monotonous:

Dear ____,

I just want to drop a line to thank you for your dedication to our...blah, blah, blah... We are glad that you are having a positive experience and hope that, blah, blah, blah...

With many thanks and best wishes,

Kate

Often, these polite little notes are not really expressing everything that I want to say. In my secret mind, I imagine how they would be: the REAL thank-you notes:

Patrick A. (2 Years): Thanks for coming all the way down from Bountiful, Patrick! And thanks for getting your father involved as well. You two make a great team. Thanks especially for being a lifeguard at the pool in Farmington. You're a major hottie, and it embarrasses Becca that you always seem to be working when she's there swimming laps. "He's seen me in my goggles!!!"

Richard C. (3 years): Thanks for your great attendance, even when you're really busy refereeing soccer all summer. We also appreciate the food drive you did for us at your job last year. And for being so amusingly absent-minded and gormless. Remember that time when you forgot and didn't show up? Becca called you to find out what had happened. You thought long and hard and asked, "Wait. Was I...not there?" Nope, not that time.

Shelby H. (3 years): Thanks for having that little dinner party at your house last summer so your students could see your home and meet your family. They each brought something to eat and had a ball. You rolled out the red carpet for them and those ladies are still talking about it.

David L. (8 years): Thanks for still enjoying it, even after being assigned to me for all these years. Thanks for offering me bites of that nasty vegan shit you always eat before class. Thanks for coming to my house to hang out; and for going to the movies with me sometimes; and for trying to get me to meditate; and for dancing with me at all dance-worthy occasions. We both suck at partner dancing and step on each other toes. Our students smirk...but when I ask you to dance with me, you always say yes.

Dean M. (6 years): Thanks for the pointers on how to prune my peach tree. And thanks for returning after you quit and said you "needed a break". You never complained, but I sensed that you didn't get on well with the teacher who was supervising you. After she quit, I sent you a letter and casually mentioned her departure. You called me up the following week and told me you had had "enough of a break". Welcome back.

Max S. (10 years): You don't know it yet, but in a couple of weeks I'll be surprising you with a gi-normous carrot cake to celebrate your 10th year at Guadalupe. I owe you so much, Max. It's not just that you'll tutor the very hardest students and love every minute of it for a decade. But I know that you make fat contributions every year. (Yeah, yeah: "anonymous". I know, though.) When your son overdosed, I thought maybe that was it; but you came back, and eventually, so did your smile.

Bill S. (5 years): Thanks for being my super-flirtatious boyfriend and giving me lewd and lascivious looks.

Gail B. (14 years): Hah, Gail, I saved you for last, because you hate being thanked! Here, I can thank you lavishly, and YOU WILL NEVER KNOW. Take that! You have worked directly with me all these years, and have been prickly in the extreme the whole time. But I know your dirty little secret: you love us. Sooo... thanks for hauling yourself down here in every weather, even though it takes you over an hour each way on public transit. Thanks for sticking with it as your MS has become progressively worse. Thanks for letting me warm your hands with mine even though I know you don't like to be touched. You and I the only ones who have been around long enough to remember that, when you started here, you were healthy. Thanks for bringing your mother down to tutor when she visits from New Jersey. Thanks for bringing your sister when she visits from Seattle. Thanks for the large annual donation that I know you can't afford. And for the garden cuttings. And for an occasional cup of coffee, which we enjoy while you criticize me. And for scaring the hell out of your students when they are lazy. All those burly drywall hangers and landscapers and construction workers quake in their steel-toed boots at the scolding they will get if they are not in their chairs on time.

Remember the time you scared the hell out of me? Yeah, it's our (ahem) favorite story. I'll write it down.

Gail was late for class, and she is NEVER late. The phone rang and this hysterical lady was jabbering at me: "Do you know a woman named Gail? You need to get to the hospital RIGHT NOW! She was hit by a car! Her wheel chair is destroyed! Her legs are crushed! Oh, my God!!"

"What? WHAT?!? GAIL!!! WHAT HOSPITAL!?" I was in a panic. Then I could hear Gail in the background, sounding disgusted. "NO, NO, NO! Give me your damn phone. Kate! I'm going to have to miss tonight! I got hit by a car while I was changing buses. Just thought I'd better let you know. You'll need to..... find...... a.....substitute." Then she passed out. [Cue wailing sirens and imperative voices.] Yes, there was drama. I called all over the place and hung by the phone until late - finally one of her friends called at about 11:00. Sure enough: she had been hit by a car in a crosswalk while switching buses on her way to school. Motorized chair destroyed. Both legs broken, the worse break being the only leg she could still bear weigh on.

I was filled with dread on my way to the hospital the next morning. Gail is my rock. True, an... extremely...abrasive rock. But still, an excellent person to have in my life, just in case I thought I might actually whine about something. Pity the fool who whines in front of Gail. I didn't want to see Gail broken, and I didn't want her to see me seeing her, uh, broken. If you see what I mean.

Yeah. Well. The violins can stop playing right now. I walked into the room. She gazed up from the bed and held two fingers in the air. "Two weeks. I think I'm gonna need to miss a couple of weeks. Don't you give those guys to another tutor. You tell them I'll be back in two weeks." And she was. As mean as ever.

I love you, Gail. You have no idea how important you are to me, 'cause there is no way in HELL I could ever tell you without being told to get lost. Fine. Whatever. See you Thursday.

According to Utah Statute

2011-01-05T22:20:00.000-08:00

This e-mail arrived at work today.

"I remind you that the state holiday falling on the third Monday of February is referred to in statute as Washington and Lincoln Day (63G-1-301). I encourage the use of this name in school calendars and other communication"

Larry Shumway, Ed.D.
State Superintendent of Public Instruction

So, in Utah, we don't have Presidents' Day, which might involve celebrating the contributions of presidents that out legislators don't like. I can see them in my mind's eye, carefully pondering the REALLY BIG issues: should we have an official state firearm? If we have Presidents' Day, could that be interpreted by some to include Barack Obama? Oh, and if we have a Constitutional Convention, should we get it catered? Red punch?

Christmas

2010-12-26T11:45:00.000-08:00

My sock monkey (center) looks a little overwhelmed, but grateful for the arrival of backup monkeys. Every time one of the kids has had a fever, snotty nose or general misery, they have asked for my monkey. He wants to know why he has to be the "moco" monkey. It sucks to be cute and popular. Simon is reminded of the Utah legislature...

Santa brought Nintendos, with some hesitation. Let the negotiations around screen-time rules begin! Sara already has two written proposals ready to present to us. (Sigh!)

According to Nate, this is an "extra stylist", meaning that he now has "two stylists". Given that, how do you explain his hair?

With Sara around, there is no discussion: it's all reuse, renew, recycle. She will squirrel all of the cardboard away to add to her enormous dollhouse thing, the Mondo Condo. It already has its own section of the basement...

Sara opened this dress from her Nana and pulled a mouth. "WHAT? Are you KIDDING me? You don't like that?!" "Well, it's a little elegant, Mom." "Can I have it?" "Mom, I'm eleven. My clothes don't fit you." "Give it here." It looks cute on me! Of course, on me it is a rather sexy mini dress: with dark stockings and high heels, it will look mah-velous. I'm not afraid of "elegant".

Sara gave Nate this little Lego-guy flashlight. First thing he says is, "Damn! I can't pull his head off."

Brother Charles sent me this, which is the most mysterious gift I have received in some time. A letter my dad wrote to President Nixon in 1973, complaining about the cost of train fares. Hmmm... I will need to call Charles for the back-story on this one. Did Nixon write back? Senator Hatch always responds to my letters, and tells me to get lost.

Sara made me search out a gift via treasure hunt. This one was themed "Mom's Quotable Quotes" The above clue takes us to the pool table...

This takes up to the antique china....

Which takes us back to the Christmas tree.

Uh, is this a quote? "Oh, I got tired of that."

So, what does a good mother do on Christmas? Pick up snippets of ribbon? Call all her loved ones? Finish her Christmas cards (maybe the ones that are still partially done from 2009)? Poke cloves into something? No.

She puts on her long-johns, hangs her pass around her neck and goes skiing. Christmas dinner will get short shrift. Ski Utah.

We're going to experiment with using the insoles from my running shoes in my too-big ski boots. Too-big ski boots are very comfortable...but you can't actually turn your skis, which is a problem.

It worked a trick! Tight enough that I got cramps in my instep, but I just undid my second buckle while we were riding the lifts, to let a little blood to my feet. All the quad-building at the gym paid off. I have also been secretly defying Dr. Perfect and working on my left pec a little. I was getting sick of only being able to pole with my right side. Fine if you just want to go around in a tight little circle...

Here's Nate's action-man pose.

At any rate, a good time was had by all. And when your quads are burning, there's one thing they want. "Feed us ham!"

Just a small-ish ham. We'l trim a little fat off it first.

Vestiges of my call home to Mom. First time I have spoken to her since...August...?

Pulling crackers.

At the Queen's Christmas dinner, she has fabulous crackers, we've heard. Hats with feathers. Diamond tennis bracelets. I would have considered blowing off skiing if I could have joined the Queen and her tennis bracelets for Christmas dinner. Maybe. If she were nice and joined me in eating with gusto. I have heard that she won't eat in front of commoners. That would make things awkward, even if there were diamonds involved. At any rate, here are my crayons, my hat and my riddle.

Christmas dinner. Very simple: ham, corn spoon-bread, green beans with mustard.

And plum pudding. Can you see the flames?

Sara practiced on her skateboard until late. "Mom, come and watch me from the sunporch!"

Diane came over to hang out and play, but we can't figure out FIFA soccer for Wii. Too complicated for grown-ups. Nate has no problem.

Now, Real Salt Lake can take on LA Galaxy even in the dead of winter.

On Poverty

2010-12-22T21:22:00.000-08:00

[Look out, this is a socio-analytical rant. I very seldom indulge, but I think I will today. Hate me all you want. But not before you admire my title, inspired by Keats. The Victorians were expert ranters. At least I didn't call it an ode to anything. That would be too barfy.]

Around this time of year, a lot of do-gooders appear at my school (people we only hear from around the holidays), wanting to help The Poor. Don't get me wrong - I don't object to the help. People need the toys / food / money / coats / blankets and I'm grateful for them. But could we please do away with all the judgements and expectations?

I see this on a macro level. If I mentioned the name of one of our funders (which I won't, because today, I like my job ) readers across the country would know whom I'm talking about. They are a conduit for major corporate charitable contributions; and the message they've been getting from these pillars of the community is that they are sick of poverty! Geeze! Poverty is such a hassle. It just never goes away! They don't want to fund agencies that provide for basic needs any more (homeless shelters, food pantries), because those agencies are not "solving the problem". This year and for the next three years, any agency that receives their largess will have to show how they are Solving the Problem, and provide the statistics to prove that, over those three years, poor neighborhoods have become prosperous.

Wow. All that from my little school. Let me add it to my to-do list. "Eliminate poverty".

Sure, Mr. Rich Guy. I'll get right on it; because I know it bugs you, having to just GIVE without some sort of balance sheet.

At both macro and micro levels, it is a pattern I have observed over many years of seeking assistance for low-income people. Are they sufficiently humble? Are they wallowing in their handouts? If they are so poor, why are their houses so clean? That TV screen is WAY too big for a poor family to have.

"My husband and I would like to adopt a family for a Sub for Santa this year. We'd like a married couple with one son and one daughter. The children must still believe in Santa Claus. They have to be REALLY POOR." In other words, this is about us and our need to experience shuffling gratitude.

ARE THEY GRATEFUL?

This was a point of discussion at our last staff meeting. ARE THEY GRATEFUL? Donors want assurances that they are.

Want my honest opinion?

No, they are not. Well some of them are, but most are not. Gratitude, generosity, empathy, gentleness, humility. These are character traits that those if us who are safe gently nurture in our comfortable children. They get jettisoned when life is tough. If people live with chronic shortage, they are not going to be generous or grateful. They will be graspers and hoarders, because that's how they get by. Those are the behaviors that get results. In similar circumstances, how much you wanna bet that we would also grasp and hoard? It's hard to admit, but there you have it. As time goes by, I find myself privately admiring certain behaviors that are not really admirable. I think to myself, "Yep. She just walked off with 40 rolls of toilet paper and she's going to sell them to her neighbors... and that is pretty fucking resourceful."
We have an annual holiday potluck and I watch folks as they go down the line. The people who push to the front will pile their plates with more food than they can eat. Then they rush to their seats, dropping food as they go, sit down and stuff themselves. Then they will fill two plates with as many desserts as they can carry. They don't care how many people are in line behind them. In the real world, shortage doesn't beget sharing. It begets greed. This year, it was worse than usual. Extra shortage? Extra greed. Hard times make people hard. Poverty breaks down kindness.

Judging this behavior from the vantage point of privilege is wrong.

If you need to feel good when you give to others, I'd recommend a paradigm shift. Don't find your gratification in the gratitude of your beneficiary. Hold out your gift, open your hands and let it go. Be gratified that your good fortune allows you the joy of loving your neighbor without a balance sheet.

Letter to Dad

2010-12-20T23:01:00.000-08:00

Hi, Dad!

I thought I'd drop a line, 'cause three different things made me think of you this weekend.

1. I was talking to a friend whose mother is in a long-term care facility in another state and has not been doing well. It reminded me of last January: my dread every time the phone rang; the exhaustion in Mom's voice; the guilt; long conversations with my siblings, filled with "if-then" scenarios. Oh, and more guilt.

Then the 3 AM departure for the airport. The long, icy drive down the rural roads. Tater-tot hot dish that Kathy Kohn made just for me. Slipping an Oreo into your sleeve during the visitation (Hey, you would have done the same for me!) (Mom was pissed when she found out! "Katherine Elizabeth! Is it true that you put an Oreo cookie in your father's casket?!?" Snnnrrrk...) Women - a long procession of women who have known me all my life - filling and refilling my coffee cup in the church basement. Packing china, washing walls. "Kids, if someone doesn't take these wool shirts, they're going in the Goodwill." And I was so frazzled that I walked out of the church where I was baptized, confirmed and married; walked out of the house I grew up in; drove my U-Haul down Highway 44 and out of Markesan for good without a backward look. Yeah, I know: where were the tearful good-byes? But there had been a big snowstorm the night before, and the roads were drifted. I was concentrating on drift-busting in my U-Haul. By the time I really had a chance to think, I was in DeMoines and too tired to give a shit.

Sorry, Dad. I digress. Why couldn't you have died in the summer? No drifting and blowing snow. And I could have lobbied to carry out our plan: launching your corpse into Hills Lake in a flaming canoe, Viking-style. Not the good canoe. One of the old ones.

OK, the other two things that made me thing of you were uprooted from the boxes of "inheritance" still awaiting my attention in the basement.

2. Ah, yes! I was rummaging and found your embroidered Goraly vest from Poland. I cooked Polish last night and thought, "If Dad were here, he would definitely have worn his vest." Like you have to every family celebration since you got it 20 years ago. I would wear it in your memory, but it's way too big.

3. (And this is HUGE, Dad!) I am sick to death of being cold in my house in the winter. In the same box as the Goraly vest I found my new best friend: your favorite Pendelton fisherman's sweater. You wore it constantly for years, until you shrunk it. Mom was throwing out your clothes and tossed it on the "out" pile. "Hey, can I have this?" "It's all shrunken!" "Yeah! It's a perfect fit!" And it IS! I have been toasty all day in your shrunken sweater. And to prevent wool-itch, I have one of your ratty duo-fold undershirts. Nice touch, sewing Velcro to the back bottom edge. I'm not sure, but I guess that somewhere in the world is a pair of long-john bottoms with the other half of the Velcro. As always, I admired your sewing skills. Perfect, regular stitches. Where did you learn to sew like that? Oh, yeah. Medical school.

Check it out! I'm a lucky girl!

I miss you Dad. Even your shop-worn jokes. Even your strange collections. Even the way you mortified me by crying every time you said the blessing. Even your ponderous "bum-bum-de-bum" hum. Even the way I couldn't whistle a tune without you drawing attention to it by joining in. Even the Oreo addiction.

It was pretty fun to call home, even in my middle age, and be greeted with, "It's KATE THE GREAT!" It was good, being great. Thanks for being my loyal fan. And thanks again for this sweater. Its the bomb!

Wild Hare? Wild Hair?

2010-12-15T23:17:00.000-08:00

Beats me. But which ever one it is, I've been catching it for the last few weeks. The Migration Policy Institute is offering up their recognition of exceptional Immigrant Integration projects; and despite the fact that only four of these are awarded nation-wide, I couldn't resist the lure of fame and fortune. Ah, the sweet taste of futility. Lift the glass to my lips.

So, I've been writing. And writing. And swearing and beating my head against the wall and writing some more. I haven't been to bed before 2:00 AM in a week. But it's done now, and sent in.

Time to bake cookies. Paint my toenails? Look at myself in the mirror and think, "Ya' look like hell! Go to bed!"

Five things that amused me today, now that I have the award monkey off my back:

1. Hearing about a grown-up pinata, filled with condoms instead of candy. I want to have a pinata at my next party.
2. ABBA. They never fail to amuse. They are belting out "Dancing Queen" right now.
3. Myself, arguing with the State Director of Adult Education about whether the state should lay down oppressive regulations on the use of volunteer tutors. I bludgeoned her with language so intense that, when I finished, I dubbed myself Poet Laureate of the Utah State Office of Education.
4. My batch of biscotti I made tonight. They expanded a little more than I expected and when I took them out of the oven, the cookie sheet kind of looked like a doormat.
5. Nathan, as always. I was listening to him squabble with Sara on the way home tonight.

Nate: So, I heard you on the playground today, Sara. I heard you call me a nigh-anderthal.
Sara: Nee-anderthal. And I didn't call you one, I said you laugh like one.

I say nothing; but I wonder, as you do, how a Neanderthal laughs...

Nate: Well, I wasn't sure whether to tell on you to the teacher or not. Mom, what is a nigh-anerthal?
Sare: Nee-anderthal.

I explain Neanderthal.

Nate: Right. OK, Sara, now I know what it is. And turns out, I AM offended. I'm telling the teacher tomorrow.

And it MUST be wild hare. How crazy can a hair be and why would anyone chase it?

Exhausted, and Sick of it All

2010-12-06T21:25:00.000-08:00

I am slightly blue, today. Pale blue. I am tired. My eyes are burning. Usually, I have a reservoir of energy in here somewhere. Hold on, while I look for that [imagine me rummaging in Hermione Granger's bottomless handbag: clank, clatter...]. Nope.

I hate to say that it's my job. But, it's my job. Sorry, job.

I LOVE my job. When it isn't trying to kill me. I should count myself lucky! Eighteen years I have popped out of bed eager to go to my job; I have lavished affection on my job; I have bragged about my job. But it has always been semi-feral, like a pet lion. So cool; and you tell all your friends and neighbors how cuddly and affectionate it is. Until it eats you.

Suddenly, there are other things I would rather do! Can you BELIEVE it?!? Here we go: ten things I would rather do than go to work tomorrow.

1. Lie in a sunbeam with my feet up and read a book.
2. Bake cookies.
3. Go skiing. Let's make it a powder day and take a bunch of girlfriends along.
4. Work out for more than 40 minutes. Maybe a nice long run...
5. Fly to Mexico and lie in a hammock with my feet up and read a book.
6. Shoot pool, eat four slices of pizza and drink two beers.
7. Hide in the periodical room at Main Library and look at old "Life" magazines.
8. Call Mom, Aunt Marian and my friend Robin (who will bullshit me in three languages and tell me that I have to get my rock-star ass back to work).
9. Get in my truck; move to a cabin in Ten Sleep, Wyoming and get a job in the little mom & pop diner there that I like so much. As a side note, the diner has a big, shiny foil star rigged to the ceiling so that every time the door opens, the star drops toward the floor; and when the door closes again, it goes back up. I was charmed by this. When people say, "reach for the stars", I don't think this is what they have in mind. Yet, there you have it - just now, I aspire only to the foil star in the diner in Ten Sleep.
10. Go rent a cottage on the Oregon coast, build a fire in the wood stove watch whales from the window while toasting my toes and (of course) reading a book.

Instead, I shall now spend another hour sorting paperwork; then drag my sorry self to bed, and work on adjusting my attitude. Hot shower. Cozy flannel sheets. Snuggly husband. Five to six hours of precious sleep. A new day starting bright and early at 7:30 AM - that's my first meeting of the day. But it's about immigration policy, so it will be interesting. (OK, this pep talk is getting a little out of hand...) And it's at Frida's Bistro. Maybe there will be food! There will be laughs in the office - as always. There will be my lovely students - as always. And I will look at them and strap on my metaphorical crampons and climb Mount Paperwork one...more...time.

Chapter One

2010-12-05T22:55:00.000-08:00

I have started reading the latest selection for our book club: "The Daily Coyote". Maybe I'll enjoy it; or maybe not, 'cause I am already pissed off with this author for stealing my fantasy life from me.

So far (and I'm only at chapter one!), she has bagged her previous life (something I used to do regularly - not anymore) and decided to move to Wyoming. As she writes about this decision in her book, she describes her initial journey through the state and as she begins to rhapsodize about the Bighorns, I found myself thinking, "What if it's Ten Sleep she's going to fall in love with? Ten Sleep is MY secret love!" Sure enough, she decides to settle down in Ten Sleep.

AND she's living in my cabin! With MY woodpile! Sorry my cabin is so blurry. I was photographing the book with my cell phone. I know, I could do better.

Oh! And she's just fallen for a sexy blue-eyed cowboy who fills out his Wranglers like this. Man, that was MY cowboy! Is this what the whole goddamn book is going to be like?

Squash is my New Muse

2010-11-30T21:58:00.000-08:00

My friend C. recommended this recipe enthusiastically - I was a little sceptical. Pumpkin just is not that tasty, you know? Unless it has submitted to the civilizing forces that make into into pie filling.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=130704456

But then this squash came into my life, courtesy of another friend, Marilyn. Hmmm... OK, I know a sign when I see it. Forces beyond my control wanted me to try the recipe. Except that I just glanced at the basics and then kicked up my heels and did my own damn thing. It was liberating. Ooooooohhh. She's such a rebel.

So, the thing needs to be hollowed out, a la Jack-o'-Lantern. This is serious business, calling for a serious knife. Cut the top off your squash. I have to tell you that, the moment my knife pierced the skin of his squash, I was TRANSPORTED by the fragrance of it. The flesh of this variety is...FLORAL! FRUITY! Oh, my God! I get to eat this?!? I was running around the house, holding it under everyone's noses. "Get a load of this! Can you believe how it smells?!?" "OK, Mom. Were you going to cook it or just stab it?" Right. On task.

Cut the top off and use a spoon to hollow it out. Resist the temptation to carve a face. That was last month. Here's what I ended up with.

Rub the flesh with smashed garlic cloves, season with salt and pepper. Then open the fridge door and stand there for a minute, looking in. Hmmm...What can I throw into a squash? My eyes lit on some slightly wilted green onions and leftover peas/mushrooms from Thanksgiving. My advice would be to choose any kind of cheese you like, and then just mix in stuff that you like with that cheese. Eyeball your available space, then mix up equal parts starch and cheese. I did stale bread cubes and Swiss cheese. Then throw in anything that goes along. Here go the peas...

I also threw in the green onions, half an apple, a handful of walnuts. I opted out of any meat. Now, if you're feeling guilty about the cheese, shut up and open a bottle of red wine. I don't want to hear any crap, especially because I'm about to slather the mixture in full cream. Drizzle it on while tossing the filling around. You want it to be moist, but not soaked. Cast sidelong glances at your husband who is watching his cholesterol. He'll die happy, I promise.

Put its hat on and put it in a 350 degree oven on a cookie sheet with parchment paper. Go away for about 90 minutes.

Yes, I know - there's a lot of stabbing going on at my house. What! I had to test that it was done. And it WAS.

And that's all there is to it. Scoop out stuffing mixed up with the squash and dish up! Nate had five servings.

Then let your imagination run. Cheddar with bacon? Would Chevre be too soft? Brie / raisins / walnuts? Mozzarella and sausage?

I want another one of THESE squashes, though. I need Marilyn to fix me up. She's coming over for supper next week. I'm going to call her and say that, if she can give me another one of these, I'll cook it up for her.

Frozen Articulators

2010-11-25T20:11:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving was fun this year: we discussed meditation and danced to "Can't Touch This". Or, at least I danced to "Can't Touch This". I want MC Hammer pants, now. The only mishap was the inside of my oven bursting into flame. I amused the panicked masses by opening the oven door and blowing out the flames, like a giant birthday cake. We did have to open the windows for a few minutes, though; and it was pretty chilly out.

How's that for a segue? Because what I really want to comment on today is how it felt to try running fast while feeling my lungs crystallize. I pre-registered for the Cottonwood Heights 5k last week, observing that the average temperature for this day is 37 degrees. How would it be to run wearing nothing but tights and a sports-bra? And to actually sweat? To visualize my heated muscles loosening as they powered up the big hill? But it was 9 degrees, so instead the only vision available to me was of myself plunging desperately across the snow-crusted tundra; stumbling as a howling wolf pack, their breaths steaming, close in upon my helpless form. Hey, whatever gets me through.

Two undershirts, lucky shirt, two hoodies. Stocking cap, neck gaiter. I know my pain points: fingers, thighs, back of neck. Not much I could do about the back of my neck, but I put Hot Fingers in my gloves and pinned one to the inside of each pant-leg so they pressed against my quads. If I could have, I would have taken 400 Hot Fingers and pinned them together to make a body-suit. Think chain-mail.

Then came the tough moment at the Start line. Unable to run wearing all that shit, I decided to ditch a hoodie. Neck gaiter? Or no neck gaiter? Aw, I'll be fine. Ditch the neck gaiter. So I lined up with 1,800 other idiots. First my lips went numb. I would try to purse my lips a little to blow air out and after a bit, they just stopped paying attention. Next it was the tongue. Bye, bye tongue! See you later! I tried sort of tucking it under itself. It's really hard to swallow your tongue and run at the same time. Are you imagining me with my tongue lolling uselessly out of my mouth like a demented cow? Maybe that's how I looked; but I have no idea, since I couldn't feel a damn thing. But then my uvula (you know, the dangly thing in the back of your throat) also checked out. That was new... The second I crossed the Finish line, I slapped my hand over my mouth to warm up the air I was breathing. Talk to me! Talk to me! Wake up, lips! Can you hear me?

I went back to the rec center to warm up a little before I tried to call Si, but even then, I got on the phone and said, "aiunycamimuh?" [Translation: "Hi, Honey, can you pick me up?"] Home into a hot shower; cup of tea; cozy sweater. No good. I've got almost no voice at all. Glottal frost-bite: who knew?

I Think Too Much

2010-11-24T23:17:00.000-08:00

A friend told me today that I think too much. Hold on while I just cut THAT out.

......

......

Ah! That's better. I'm all empty, now. Whoops. Shit. I'm thinking AGAIN!

Well, this is a long-bemoaned Kate-design flaw. First observed by V., my best friend in college, who asked me if I could just please live in the moment for a moment? Then by a co-worker, who said, "You fret." (I thought that was a little mean.) And most frequently and famously by my darling and now departed Edie, who summed it up as, "Quit mind-fucking yourself." Followed by, "Go get a gin and tonic."

Here's the deal. I like to solve problems. Quickly, even. I am a fully posable action figure. When it's something like an injury, a broken zipper, a swamped rowboat, a broken cake, I'm good! When it's people and no action is currently required...I think too much. [Look out! Here comes the self-justification... comin' at ya.... NOW!] Well, hell, yeah! Because my actions cause reactions; because I want to be wise! Sensitive! Live a considered life! Ergo, I ponder.

[Another self-justification...three..two...one...] It's bad to speak ill of the dead, but Edie could be...a little...abrasive.... Any of our mutual friends out there care to weigh in? To love Edie, her friends had to accept an occasional (or frequent) bludgeoning. And now we all miss it, of course.

[Oh, no. Here come the little-voice-that-dares-to-speak-the-truth. Bitch! I HATE her.]

I ponder for the same reason I used to stand on the high-dive while my friends called, "JUMP, for Chrissakes!" But if I tell her I'm pissed off, will she say... If I accept one iota more than I have a right to, will I... And furthermore, will jumping off this metaphorical high-dive make my butt look big?!?

I will keep working on this (hopefully while NOT giving it a moment's thought).

Pinata Season

2010-11-23T22:44:00.000-08:00

Winter has arrived, although the promised "blizzard"? The reason I cancelled classes tonight for the first time in eight years? Was that dinky little snow-shower IT? I used to live in Big Cottonwod Canyon, so it takes a lot of snowstorm to impress me.

At any rate, I'm beginning to realize that it is almost time for the holidays and with them comes the dreaded pinata season.

I used to think that I struggled with pinatas because I was not sufficiently familiar with Mexican culture and therefore missing out on some sort of pinata etiquette. This misconception was partly fueled by Diego Rivera. How can something this beautiful possibly be evil? Well, for starters, Diego Rivera was not urged by the children in the painting to "Get a Batman one! No! Dora the Explorer!" Every year in which I can't think of something more wholesome to do at our Adult Education Christmas Party, I am the Pinata Czar... Uh, -ess. Naturally everyone brings their kids and Kate, idiot that she is, imagines a Rivera-like pinata activity. Let me tell you why it's not. Just in case you haven't yet been stupid enough to try this.

1. Rigging the thing. It weighs about 12 tons. After years of pretending that we had NO IDEA how that ceiling tile at the neighborhood church hall got destroyed, we finally figured out to remove a couple of tiles and rig the pinata to the structural stuff underneath. Now we have NO IDEA how the structural stuff got destroyed.

2. The pinata bat. I used to think that there was such a thing: the right tool for the job. One that couldn't permanently maim someone. Uh-uh. The possibility of being maimed is all part of the pinata experience. We use a mop handle. One of my many jobs is to try to keep the bystanders (especially the ones holding the babies up for a better look) BACK! BACK! WOULD EVERYONE PLEASE STAND BACK! No, they won't. The kid who has a turn, particularly if s/he actually makes contact with the pinata, will start whacking like some sort of crazed axe murderer. It's supposed to be my job to disarm this windmill of death after a few whacks. I do this by going in low: I crouch, then SPRING, expertly tackling the child.

3. Turn taking. Forget about it. No matter how formidable I am, the kids will clamber, nag, tug, elbow each other in the face, whatever it takes to have the next turn. Any child under seven who thinks s/he is going to get a look in will only have a chance if they have an older sibling to be the fixer.

4. But the finale is the worst. You would think these kids had never seen a Tootsie Roll in their lives. Monkey piles four children high, over a mini Snickers? The best year was the one when the rope was still attached to the pinata while it was on the floor being savaged by the roiling masses. Mark, faithful rope-man, was trying to intervene in the melee, which he did by walking into the fray and lifting out children one at a time, with the end of the pinata rope still held absently in his hand. What he didn't realize was that one of the kids had the rope wrapped around his neck. So every time Mark waded into the pile, he was pulling the rope tight and strangling the kid. Who totally deserved to be strangled. Finally he figured out why the kid was being yanked into the air by his neck every time he approached, and let go of the rope. Profuse apologies to the parents followed for the ligature marks on their son's neck, to which they simply replied with a shrug, "Ah, that's pinatas for you."

Running Into Rain

2010-11-14T21:38:00.000-08:00

Miserable weather in Salt Lake today. Two of the five words I still remember from German paced back and forth in my mind all day:

Schlechtes wetter.
Schlechtes wetter.

It lends itself so much better than the English equivalent: This weather sucks!

Still, I went for a run. I don't like being cold, so I put on my long-john shirt under my usual stink-bomb running shirt and dug out a little pair of knitted gloves. When I first climbed out of the warm truck and started stretching, I was not thrilled. My neck is particularly fussy about being kept warm. The rain slipped down my back.

But about three minutes after I started, I was suddenly transformed by one of those crazy moments of grace, in which you feel as if you are in exactly the right place at the right time. I ran to meet the rain as it fell - collided with it. My face slicked with moisture, I ran fast, without tiring. I stepped on a rock that rolled out from under my foot and sent me skittering. My ankle did not care. I jumped puddles with a flourish, just because I wanted to.

The last half-mile is all downhill and I stretched my stride just a little, trying to get another inch or two out of each step. I spread my arms out to the side and flew down the hill - I'm a bird! I'm a plane! I grinned at the guy walking his dog and stuck out my tongue. The rain pattered on my skull and my body steamed.

So, there it is. For a few minutes, my happiness was perfect. I keep promising myself that this is who I will be all the time. After I recovered from the mastectomy, I said I would remember to be grateful for the gifts of strength and motion. (That's one problem with a blog - I believe I committed myself in writing...) After Edie died, I promised myself that I would live in the moment more - she was always bugging me about it: ponder less. And especially, now that Dad is gone, I keep swearing to myself that I would try to remember to find a little more fun, a little more human connection in every day. Uh... Hmmmm.....

Pretty much, I suck at self-transformation. Particularly at the pondering stuff. Edie would be exasperated if she knew. But I had twenty solid minutes today when I was everything I have been wanting to be. Not bad for a lousy day.

Bored as a Captive Monkey

2010-11-10T23:05:00.000-08:00

Introducing Grandpa Mario, as we call him at my school. He is a 70-something gentleman from Colombia - he and I ADORE each other. I do not have a bigger fan. Every time Mario encounters me in the hallway, I will receive hugs and kisses and flowery compliments, such as (translated from the Spanish) "My love! My beauty! How is my precious darling today?" Who else calls me "precious darling"? He will occasionally visit me in the adult education office to chat. With everyone else, I encourage English as the language of random bullshitting; but Mario sees himself as my Spanish teacher. We talk about his childhood and about his various fitness kicks. He claims to keep up his (really good) physique entirely from isometric exercise. He likes to hear about my running.

Today, he taught me a fabulous new phrase. This is typical of our teaching/learning style. He was venting some of his frustration about work, and said that he was:

Mario: Tan aburrido como un mico amarado.
Kate: As bored as a WHAT?
Mario: Un mico! Mico!

[I dive for the dictionary.]

Kate: Ah! "Mico" is "monkey"!

[We both indulge in monkey noises for a second, cuz why not?]

Mario: [in Spanish] You didn't know the word for "monkey"?
Kate: [in Spanish] You know, Mario, it's not a word I use every day around here. OK, so: "I'm as bored as a somethingsomething monkey....."

[I think about this for a minute. No! What?]

Kate: Amorado!! Amor- Love? Shit! An enamoured monkey?!?
[I make a pitty-pat motion above my heart]. Mario! How can an enamoured monkey be BORED?
Mario: No! No amorado! AMARADO! [At this point, Mario grabs both of my hands in an isometrically enhanced grip and deftly ties me up in my own telephone cord.] Amarado!
Kate: Aha! [trying to wriggle free from the phone cord] HOSTAGE monkey!

The dictionary recommends "captive".

"Bored as a captive monkey." The only problem is that I will never use this phrase, cuz I'll never be bored as long as I'm getting tied up at work.

Sorrowing and Pain

2010-11-07T23:09:00.000-08:00

Home field advantage! 21,000 fans! How could we possibly fail to knock out FC Dallas (those wankers)?

But the truth? They brought their A-game tonight. I have to admit that FC Dallas were on FUEGO. Our guys couldn't keep posession. At one point, a guy in our section leapt to his feet and screamed over at the Dallas fans' section, "HEY, DALLAS!! HOW COME YOUR GOALIE BLOCKS LIKE A LITTLE GIRL?!" Sara was not impressed: "What's THAT supposed to mean?" And the Dallas goalie was god-like, in all honesty. So we ended up with a nail-biter...

(Nate wouldn't let me publish the tearful picture.)

And finally, a silent stadium filled with gloom. That's it for Real Salt Lake until next year.

Today's Piss List

2010-11-03T21:55:00.000-07:00

1. One of my students is trying to blackmail me to the tune of $1,800. [Un]fortunately, because of language barriers, I can't figure out why or how.

2. I am suffering from acute PMS, which, combined with the easy availability of Halloween candy is causing a serious lapse in discipline.

3. A particular big-name stakeholder has changed the criteria for funding this year. And although I sat on a conference call today and listened to the stakeholder's 45-minute explanation, I still do not understand what the hell they want. Neither do they.

4. My hair has been sticking straight out behind my right ear from four days, and will not lie down.

5. I had to go to Nathan's parent/teacher conference at 8 AM this morning. I am not able to create complete sentences until about 8:30.

6. My program has almost no materials budget for this year. That is why Ray's computer needs a new hard drive; why the CD player is broken; why the shipping for the new text books was much more expensive than I thought it would be; why the printer needs a new "Maintenance Kit", whatever the hell that is.

7. All attempts to scale Mount Paperwork have been foiled by one fire on the mountain after another, all of which need to be stomped out before any more progress can be made.

8. My summer clothes are still hanging in the closet. My winter clothes are still in trash bags up on the closet shelf. I wear the same pair of pants over and over rather than take the time to get out my warm clothes. I am in denial.

9. I hate my house - it's ugly. And my street- it's noisy. And my fingers - they are bony. And my hormones, which are the cause of all the trouble. I'm going to bed.

The End of an Era

2010-10-27T21:50:00.000-07:00

There was the year of the skeleton costume!

And the Anakin Skywalker year, with the bat costume.

This year, Nate wants to be David Beckham. And I'm actually feeling bereft, despite the fact that I whine about Halloween costumes all through the month of October every year. "But Nate, don't you just wear your Beckham jersey and some other soccer stuff? That's a BORE!" No, 'cause I'm doing a Mohawk for him. That's all that is required of me this year.

Sara? WILBUR WRIGHT. I kid you not. All that is needed is a jacket, tie and a bowler hat. "Well, and planes, right Sara? You need to fill your suit pockets with paper planes and bombard the other kids during the costume parade." She asked permission to do this, and was denied. Against school rules. Someone could lose and eye, I guess. Or start feeling like they want to join a gang. I explained to her the virtues of apologizing instead of asking permission. I helped her make the planes as well. "Do you want me to get sent to the Principal's office?!?"

Geeze, Sara, if you are going to be sent to the Principal's office once in your life, please let it be for exuberant plane throwing.

More Crazy Cock-Ups in the Kitchen

2010-10-24T21:57:00.000-07:00

The weather sucks today! So windy that there were times when I looked out the window and expected to see a chicken coop flying by, a la Wizard of Oz. So much for hiking with Diane! But all is not lost - there's still wine; and Diane had beets from her garden. We decided to play kitchens, while it was Si's job to uncork the lubricant for our talents. Or something. Tonight's menu: Two Potato and Beet Hash with Poached Eggs and Greens. [Ohhhh. Now that I am looking at the recipe again, I see, in small print under the name of the dish, "For tips on poaching eggs, see p. 230." Would that have helped?]; crusty bread; Pear Upside Down Spice Cake.

First, the cake. I make this cake all the time, and I think I have even blogged this recipe, so never mind about how it is made. I'll just say this: it's easy enough that you can chat and drink while making it.

The kids each got a beater. Rubber spatula? Mine! Diane is company, so she got the bowl.

She's such a lady.

Now, down to business on the hash.

Ingredients, for 4 servings:

1 T of EVOO

1 C finely chopped onion

3/4 lb. Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and cubed

3/4 lb. sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed

1T chopped fresh sage

3 garlic cloves, minced

1/2 lb cooked beets

1/2 t salt

1/2 t black pepper

1 T red wine vinegar

4 lg. eggs

First, chop all this shit. Drink while chopping.

1. Heat 1 T oil in a large skillet over medium high heat. Add onion to the pan, saute for 5 minutes or until tender and golden brown. Check.

Add potatoes, 2 t sage and garlic. Here's my sage. Still holding out in the garden.

Cook for 25 minutes or until the potatoes are tender, stirring occasionally. We were roasting the beets in the meantile, so I get those out and peeled them.

I look lke a murderer. It's one of my favorite things about cooking beets. Out! Out damn spot!

OK. Stir in beets, 1/4 T salt, 1/4 t pepper, cook 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Still looking good...

2. Poached egg time! OK, I confess, I have never poached an egg. Scrambled, fried, over-easy, hard and soft boiled, yes. Poached, no. So, sue me! It's just never come up! But the instructions were clear, and I followed them.

Add water to a large skillet, filling it two-thirds full. Bring to a boil; reduce heat and simmer. Add 1 T vinegar. Break each egg into a custard sup, and pour gently into the pan.

Look how gentle I'm being! See how the water is slightly tinged from the vinegar, and that we have a good amount of water!

Cook for three minutes, or until desired degree of doneness. Uh... are they supposed to look like that!?! Now, I have to tell you that I went to page bloody 230, and there was no additional wisdom there, except to tell me that poached eggs are tricky. You don't say... Remove eggs from the pan using a slotted spoon. Unless they are kinda stuck to the bottom of the pan...

Still, it plated up beautifully. Look at that!

And the taste testers agree: IT SUCKED! Uneven doneness in the potatoes, messy eggs, and an overall lack of melding in the flavors. Simon did not complain, but just now I saw that he has made a big "X" across the recipe in the magazine. I get the hint, my love. It wasn't apalling, but it is not a keeper. Diane, there are only a few friends that I wold invite over to cook and eat experiments!

But, there's still the cake. God, I love an upside down cake. Just the "voila!" factor. Watch this!

Voila!

Now I just have to clean the egg out of the bottom of the pan.

Friends Don't Let Friends Wear Flip-Flops, I Guess

2010-10-22T21:14:00.001-07:00

BTW, do you have any idea how hard it is to take a picture of your own foot? I mean from the side? I almost rammed my heel through my monitor.

Yesterday, I was perishing for a stiff drink by 11 AM. What, only 10 more hours to go?

I started off by calling a student who has been missing school, to ask her to please get her butt back here (in the nicest possible way, of course). After a number of rings, the line picked up, but the only voice was a SCREAMING little baby. Either the kid answered himself or the mother just held the phone on front of the baby's gaping maw. "This'll show that meddling teacher. I'll sic the BABY on her!" Meanwhile, I was calling, "Hola? Bueno? BUEno. Eh, BUENO!! BUUUUEEEENNNNOOOOO? Buenobuenobueno?"

And, I discovered that my carefully planned tutor training workshop was going to be FUBAR. In order for this new routine to work, we need an activity for the students who are displaced when their volunteers come to the training. We have a special class for them, built up around an episode of the Cosby Show. Yeah, I know, we should just buy the season we want instead of ordering it off my Netflix account. However due to budget cuts, the light at the end of the tunnel has been turned off: effective immediately. I was unconcerned until I received, instead of Cosby Show, Wild at Heart, with an e-mail notice explaining that Cosby Show is not currently available, and that Netflix hopes I enjoy Wild at Heart instead. I love Wild at Heart. But would an elderly Vietnamese lady be able to learn much English from it? "I bet you can fuck like a bunny?" Yeah, and don't tell me that Cosby Show is on YouTube. Guadalupe blocks YouTube, just to mess with me and stop me from watching Kevin Federline sing Dick in a Box all day.

And then there were the shoes. I run right before I go to work, so I have to put my work clothes in my gym bag and change in the girls' room when I arrive. I had my cute little outfit with the pink camisole and brown shortie sweater with my brown and pink skirt, and no ...shoes. I looked again. Nope, still no shoes. Ooooh, my Nikes are going to look so HOT with this outfit. Shit. Inspiration! Months ago, B. swiped a colleague's flip flops and hid them. This was an unsuccessful practical joke, since the colleague never even noticed they were gone; and B. forgot about it. I went and checked the hiding place. Still there! Yes! Really dusty, ugly black rubber and, you know how some flip flops make a sexy little snick, snick, snick as you walk along? These go FWOP FWOP FWOP. Lots of smirking. My colleague W. would never be caught dead in ugly shoes at work. Neither would she ever forget to bring shoes. She brought me this pair and gave them to me. Not such a bad day after all. Thanks, W.!

Back From Another Journey

2010-10-18T22:53:00.000-07:00

Gosh! According to my Neopod, I have some very persistent buddies out there who kept checking to see if I was ever going to come back. Here I am! XX

OK, a pattern is emerging. Every time I have a mid-life crisis, I disappear. Why not vent right here in my little vent-o-sphere? Beats me! So this time, if you check out my picture, you can see that I cut off my hair; and the scissors slipped and cut off my smile, too. Oh, whoops. I'm happy about the hair. The smile has already grown back. I get tired from these little trips outside myself. They come from a need to go further and do more. Like there isn't plenty to do right here in Cottonwood? Hell, today I played a rollicking game of Simon Says (the traditional version, not the marital version), and engaged in a gender perception analysis of horse movies. Who could ask for more?

I was at home today with Nate and Sara and two other kiddos - their version of Simon Says was driving me nuts:
"OK! OK! Simon Says! Are you ready? Simon - no hold on a sec. Uh... Simon says........[really long pause] Touch your toes!"
"Wait, did you say, Simon Says?"
"Hah! You lose!" Etc...Etc...

Oh, for Pete's sake. I looked up from my work. There are ways to make this game entertaining for [sadistic] grownups.

"All right. Let's get real about this game. Simon says, put our hand on your butt. Simon says, put your other hand on your butt. Simon says, stand on your left foot. Simon says, wiggle your bum. Wait! Did I tell you you could put your foot down? You're out. Simon says, put your finger in your ear. Simon says, put your other finger in your other ear." After, that, I just move my lips, while they go,"Huh? Huh?"

We also went to see Secretariat at the matinee. A leeeeetle bit schmaltzy. OK, REALLY schmaltzy. Complete with scenes of fathers dying of strokes (comforted by daughters who actually manage to reach the fathers' bedsides in time), which made me gouge my nails into my palm. But, I got to sit with the boys on one side of me and the girls on the other, which gave me an interesting perspective. And Sara had Junior Mints. She would insert one of these into my mouth whenever I opened it, baby bird-style. At any rate, from the girls' side, I could hear [sniff, sniff, muffled sob] at the more sentimental bits. From the boys' side, just the sound of fidgeting. Nate told me afterwards that he did not dig that girl movie. I pointed out that it was actually a horse movie. Same thing. Wow. Who knew?

*****
So, back to the issue of getting my groove back. I need to do a few things. I'm compiling a list in my head. It's already well past midnight, so I think I'll commit the list to the eternity of the Web tomorrow.

The Long-Awaited Backpack

2010-08-15T20:08:00.000-07:00

I have been lazy about posting. This is partly because it is so stinkin' frustrating to put photos in Blogger; and it's hard to blog when my sweaty arms stick to the vinyl tablecloth; and it's hard to blog when I am preoccupied by work. And I'm not feeling witty at the moment, either. But, here I am, sticky and witless, ready to try to get my groove back.

Finally! After years of waiting until both kids could carry enough weight that we could get into the back country, we managed to pull off a two-night backpacking trip. There was a time when Simon and I had this down to such a science that we knew exactly which piece of gear went into each pocket, how many packets of instant oatmeal we needed and which bungee cord was just the right size for which sleeping bag. We didn't go very far: just three miles to little Wier Lake, which we had to ourselves the whole time. We hiked in and set up a base camp, then spent the second day just goofing off. We hiked out on the third day. Usually Simon and I relocate every day, but this is the way to do it with kids.

Unless you do it this way, of course. We met these guys coming out as we were going in. So, they rented these llamas from...are you ready for this? The Krishna Temple in Spanish Fork. So unlikely on so many fronts: that Spanish Fork has a Krishna Temple; that the Krishna Temple has a llama rental service. Si wondered if there was a llama named Dalai. "No, Honey. That would be rude to the Buddhists." This one was a real ham. As soon as I took out my camera, he walked right up to me and showed my his best side. Now the kids are all for chucking the backpacks and renting llamas.

We had perfect weather, which is miraculous in the Uintas. No moon, either, so the firmament was perfectly complete from horizon to horizon both nights. The Perseid's meteor shower is visible in Utah this week; the experts said that it would not be visible until 3:00-4:00 AM and that any other shooting stars would be "incidental". I beg to differ, as we sat there from 9:30-11:00 PM going "OOOOOH!" and "AHHHHH!" every ten minutes or so as HUGE meteors shot across the sky, often with long, thick tails.

Car camping is fun, especially down in the desert. But I like backpacking better. Less crap=fewer chores. I am perfectly happy with two pairs of undies, two pairs of socks, one shirt, one pair of pants. I have my same little kitchen I have had since college. Simon, though, unbeknownst to me, hauled in a bottle of Cabernet and a couple of these cheesy plastic wine glasses. Then he had the nerve to complain that he was the only one who didn't have room to bring a paperback. Oh, whah. Yeah, we actually had a little reading time, since we didn't move camp. And time to take a hike to some other lakes in the area.

We found this perfect, throne-shaped rock by the bridge at the bottom of Long Lake. If only there had been, like, four of them. At our camp. We just sat on the ground, so we had lustful thoughts about this rock. We also found, stashed in the memory of the GPS, a geocache we had programmed in years ago but never hunted. It was nearby, so we went and found it.

There was even time for a little bit of this!

A New Name

2010-08-05T22:12:00.000-07:00

So, the name of the program I work for is VIP, which stands for Voluntary Improvement Program. Who the hell thought of this lame-ass name? Uh, yeah, everyone really is OK with being here. As opposed to that other, involuntary improvement program across town.

I have carried this burden of hate for 18 years. Then a new member of the Board of Directors ventured to call it a little bit strange; and I said that there was nothing I would love more than to change it, if I only could. My boss looked surprised and relieved. "I always thought we couldn't suggest that to you, because you loved the name so much." What?? Are you kidding me?!? How soon can we change it? "As soon as you can think of a new name," she said.

Cool.

Uh....

It's not as easy as it seems.

First of all, let's list some very, VERY overused components: English; Language; Study; Skills; Center; Learning. Here in Salt Lake, you can find the English Language Center, the English Skills Learning Center, the English Language Study Center. So, forget that.

So, how about something metaphorical? You've got your peaks, your horizons, your bridges, your helping hands, and loads of other trite, shopworn names. I know of a program called something like The Blossoming of the Flowers of Learning.

And I have an aversion to acronyms as well.

My colleague, B. had a good idea. Why not just choose a word that we like and build the new name's acronym around that word? Hmmmmm... Of course, the first pleasant word that came to me was EAT. "English... for Adult.... uh..... T. T. English for Adult....T.T.T.T.

B. thought of ACNE. Adult Classes iN English.

I love it! I wonder if my boss will embrace it.

But What About This Delicious Chickpea Fennel Stew I made For You?

2010-08-03T21:21:00.000-07:00

OK, so, how big a deal is this, really? It's bugging me! I could use some advice.

Ever since Sara was born 11 years ago, I have made a point to have a Family Supper Table (F! S! T!). I work evenings twice a week, but on every other night of the week, I've made a home-cooked meal from scratch and we've eaten together. I try out one or two new recipes every week, I experiment with unsual ingredients. It has kind of passed as a hobby for a busy working mom who doesn't have time for hobbies.

But now, Nathan wants to play club-level soccer. This means that, in addition to his Tuesday afternoon practice for our little local soccer program, he would also have practices on Monday and Wednesday nights. 6:30-8:00, so he would need to be out the door a little bit after 6:00 PM. If I were a stay-at home mom, I wouldn't have a problem with it. I could get supper on the table by 5:00 or 5:30. But I usually don't walk in the door until that time. We usually eat a little late: maybe 6:30 or 7:00. I just don't see how I can keep up the family meal thing, unless we eat at 8:30 PM, and that's kind of late for me.

I voiced my concern about the loss of two more nights of eating together, but Nathan and Simon are not concerned. They can't believe that I would care about this. I've tried warning them of the dire effects it could have on the family if we don't eat together. The life of crime that awaits Nate if we don't share a hot nutritious meal. How Sara will start having sex f we don't all come together once a day.

How often does your family eat together? How do you make it work? Working moms, how do you get your meals together in time? How do you keep it healthy and not resort of carry-out? Got wisdom?

Ordinary Friday

2010-07-30T21:05:00.001-07:00

Well, I'm determined to get back to daily blogging; but today had not a single amusing thing in it. Well, except poor Simon and the Bitch From Texas (AKA the BFT). She is bringing a group of skiers to the resort next winter, and this plan is already set in stone. But now she wants to visit so she can: take photos of the insides of the rooms; note the depths of all the pools; ask Simon if he can't manage to wrangle this or that freebie; etc... He had to stay at work until 9:30 tonight, taking her out to eat and tour all the restaurants at the resort. And he has to drive to the resort tomorrow, pick her up, take her to tour an elegant restaurant in the valley, then drop her off at her aunt's house in Riverton. Yeah, enjoy your weekend, Si. If only they were having an affair! Then he would at least have some intrigue. But she only seems to irritate him. Poor guy.

So, since it was a totally ordinary day, I'll record what I did. It'll help you sleep. The routine of a working mom who's dying for a weekend.

7:00 AM: Up and dressed. Wake up the kids. Breakfast with the paper. Cup of tea. Supervise the making of beds, brushing of teeth, application of sunscreen. The kids are going to work with Si these days, as Snowbird has an awesome daycare/summer program. They all leave together and I straighten up the house and get my lunch packed.

8:55 AM: To the rec center. Run for about five minutes to loosen up, then lift weights until a little before 10:00 AM. Then it's off to Guadalupe.

10:20: Arrive at work and change into regular clothes in the girls' bathroom.

Voice mail first. Deal with incoming, then make calls. Today, it's the Labor Commission, with questions about one of our students whom I think is being stiffed out of a worker's comp claim. Please-leave-a-message-and-we-will-try-to-return-your-call-within-two-business-days. Believe me, I didn't expect better. The Labor Commission is a black hole.

E-Mail. Deal with incoming. Then I have a whole bunch to send, about stuff like: one of our tutors who was ordered to do volunteer work by the courts and is not going to complete his hours on time- he wants me to find him more things to do. A lady who runs a diabetes education group - I'd like her to do some seminars for our students next month. Looking for someone with a NetFlix account who can get me a particular episode of the George Lopez Show, which we want to use for a class in a couple of weeks. City Hall to RSVP that I will be attending their conference on workplace discrimination next week. And a bunch more. Blah, blah.

12:10 PM: Leave school and zip over to another part of town from my laser appointment. Ladies, it is extravagant, I know: but lasering my bikini line is the best money I have ever spent. I have annihilated razor rash! For Evah!!!

12:30 PM: Get zapped, which takes about 15 minutes, apply aloe vera and zip back to school.

The afternoon is spent pleasurably in filling out my annual reports to our local United Way about how much our program has accomplished with the money they gave us. Click "SUBMIT"!

Aaaaand it is the end of the month, so I have to update the rolls, the tutor files, the testing rosters, add students, drop students, etc.... But I can't, yet, because I still haven't finished archiving all of my 09-10 records and getting the new spreadsheets ready to start entering 10-11 data into them. This is what I get for going on vacation. I put on my archiving hat and get busy. This is a soporific job,and I am grateful when my boss interrupts me to take me on a little walk to the classrooms upstairs.

All of the classrooms are being rearranged so that Guadalupe Schools can expand and start taking 4th graders next year. This means that the one multi-purpose room that we used to have will become another kids' classroom and the multipurpose room will be moved to the evil portable out in the parking lot. I was hoping for one space in the main building that work for a class of 30 adult students, so my boss and I examined rooms, counted desks, talked about white board positioning.

Back to archiving. Shit. It is after 4:00 PM at this point, and I am not ready to leave. I still have a lot to do before I can pack a crate with the month-end books, which I will have to work on at home over the weekend in order to have them ready for the arrival of August. Booger. I'll probably have to spend a couple of hours at the office tomorrow, on sacred Saturday. Blah.

BUT. I must be on the road at 4:40 PM. Simon is dining with the BFT this evening, and so he is sending the kids down from the resort on a bus and I have to be at the bus stop to meet them at 5:20 PM.

I arrive a little early and have a second to start my new book, What Looks Crazy on an Ordinary Day. This is so absorbing that I hope the bus will be late. Alas, it is on time.

The kiddos tell me about their days as we drive over to Walgreens and drop off Nathan's little disposable camera for development. He has filled it with shots from our vacation and is in a hurry to see how they turned out.

Home again by about 6:00 PM. Out to the garden first ting. Find a few cherry tomatoes that are ripe already! Do some weeding.

Inside and make spaghetti carbonara for super. Sara helps. She is getting good at helping. As much as possible, I sip a gin and tonic and supervise. I have this fantasy of coming home from work some day and finding dinner on the table.

The three of us eat together. A little more time with the newspaper and with my book. Clean up the kitchen. Go in Nathan's room and clean out under his bed, which has been getting on my nerves. Pajamas. Teeth. Story. We start The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain. I had forgotten how fabulous this book is. The kids are enthralled and keep asking for more. MORE![Buzzer!] Forget it! Outta time!

Open the windows wide to try to catch a breeze. Roam around the house, picking up bits and pieces of kid-flotsam. Si comes home and complains about the BFT. I make a show of sniffing him to see if he smells like extramarital sex. He laughs and goes to ride his exercise bike. And here I am. And now I will go and take a bath. Cuz it's Friday and tomorrow will be another busy day. Hopefully not as boring as this one has been.

Favorite PIctures

2010-07-29T22:22:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid that my well is a little dry at the moment. So busy digging out my desk after vacation. But here are some favorite vacation shots.

Ooof!

2010-07-12T22:41:00.000-07:00

I haven't forgetten about my blog. Just busy as hell getting ready for the new school year, packing for our extended camping trip in Wyoming and trying to find the source of a musty-ass smell in my kitchen!

It's Gonna Be Spain vs. Holland

2010-07-07T22:20:00.000-07:00

I love watching World Cup soccer. When it's exciting, well...then I'm excited. And when it's boring, I have a little nap. Either way, I win! This year's tournament is not as thrilling as 2006, when (in my opinion) there was more style to the play, more dramatic goals, more fights, more jersey-kissing and praying, and...the famous head-butt.

This year, I am not sure which team I prefer. True, the Spaniards are major hotties; but I have a soft spot for the Dutch team, because I know that somewhere out there Willem van Santen is watching them.

When my dad went to the Boy Scout World Jamboree in...1983 or so, I asked him to bring me back some pen-pals, and he did. I exchanged letters with several boys a few times, but the correspondence with Willem stuck. We wrote tons of letters to each other over the next eight years or so. The year that I lived in England, I went to the Netherlands, met him and stayed with his family. After that visit, the letters between us became a little more revealing and emotional. I wondered if we might...what? Have a relationship? It was the same problem I had in my relationship with Simon: how can you know when you can't spend any time together? The Atlantic Ocean is big. And in those days there was no e-mail. When I went to live in Poland, he said he would come to see me there. His letters became warmer than before. I thought that would be the opportunity to see if there was anything there. We made plans to meet, but at the last minute, he wrote to say that he had met a girl and was in a relationship with her. According to him, he was not very serious about her, but she had problems in her life and needed him.

Well, that was that. In the letter, he said that, when the time was right, he knew he would end this relationship because he didn't see it leading to anything permanent.

By the time I get the letter saying that he had left that relationship honorably and wondered if I still had feelings for him, I was back in the USA and had been married to Simon for about three weeks.

I suppose it turned out the way it was supposed to. But Simon has sharp edges; and whenever he hurts me, I think about Willem, who was a much kinder person. Maybe it would not have come to anything, but I wish I had had the chance to know for sure. As it is, the lost potential of that friendship tantalizes me, even 20 years later. I especially wish that we were still in touch. We have both moved numerous times and I don't have a good address for him anymore. There are five Willem van Santens on Facebook, but some of them don't have pictures. I'm too embarrassed to contact each one and ask if he is the right one. He could find me if he looked; since he hasn't contacted me, I guess he does not want to go there.

Of course, he was crazy about football. Every time the Netherlands plays, I think, "Well, Willem, for just a couple of hours, I at least know what you're doing, even if I don't know where you are."

Why I Prefer Fiction

2010-07-06T22:49:00.001-07:00

I am all out of escapist reading material at the moment. I've requested What Looks Crazy on an Ordinary Day and This Much I Know is True from the library; but until they arrive, I have magazines (an issue of Shape and one of Runner's World) and my training manual, Running 101. Yeah, this is my punishment for my marathon reading jags. Forced non-fiction.

So, maybe I'll learn something? So far, Running 101 has taught me that, if I were going to make any progress in my times, it would have happened in my first ten years of running. After ten years (according to the book), runners will plateau and can only expect to maintain. So, how many years have I been running? Uh..... 23 years. Running in races and paying attention to my time? Six years... Oh, dear. Like sand through the hourglass...so pass the days of our lives. God dammit. Even Mobey Dick is more uplifting that Running 101. I must have a copy around here somewhere.

Well, the Bolsheviks Thought is was Patriotic...

2010-07-04T21:36:00.000-07:00

I was driving last night with the radio on and there was some sort of very conservative message about our patriotism here in Utah; our love for the flag and all it stands for, etc...

The music in the background was the typical orchestral pomp common to this sort of message...but... wait! I knew that tune! Whoops! It was the Internationale!

Finally Over!

2010-07-01T20:41:00.000-07:00

I had to finish Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, by Bebe Moore Campbell. It was making me a useless junkie. I had it with me today, because I started off at the dentist this morning. I took it in case I had to do any waiting around. But then it was time for the gym. I pulled up to the rec center and realized that I had forgotten the little index card on which I had written my weight-lifting routine. Why, yes, I could have gone running instead; or, yes, I could have zipped home and got it - the rec is just a couple of minutes from my house. But instead I found a little shade for my truck and read this book. For two hours. I thoroughly recommend it.

Weaknesses

2010-06-29T22:37:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about things which utterly dissolve my will-power. I'm pretty disciplined for the most part. I don't leave beds unmade or dirty dishes in the sink. I like the gym. I don't veg very much. But there are a few things that completely destroy my self-possession:

1. Dark chocolate. No diet can come between us. I will hoard; I will not share. I will tell you it's gone when I am hiding a piece under my napkin.

2. Waves and waving branches. Sometimes, I will jump, realizing that I have been standing stock still for the last ten minutes, staring at my neighbor's Cottonwood as it sways in the breeze. There is a Hornbeam tree in my back yard that hypnotizes me. Sometimes, I'll take a late-night cocktail out on the back patio and just watch the tree.

3. Men. Bless 'em. I will drop everything for a little flirting.

4. A good book. I can't walk through my bedroom at the moment without stopping to stare at Your Blues Ain't Like Mine, by Bebe Moore Campbell, where it sits on my nightstand. I know I am supposed to get ready for work. I know I have a busy day ahead. But, still I reach for the book and read standing up (as if that makes a difference). If you also go spineless in the presence of a good book, stay away from this one.

OK! What about you? Can you think of a few things that will cause you to drop every good intention? Share, please!

Bad from Beginning to End

2010-06-25T21:56:00.000-07:00

This day SUCKED! It sucked so much that I need a gin and tonic IV.

1. I woke up to the sudden realization that my credit card was gone. I had not wanted keep an eye on my purse at my school's picnic last night, so I took the credit card (in case I needed to run to the store for hot dogs or something) and tucked it in among some paperwork in a plastic shopping bag. And of course, at the end of the evening I unpacked the shopping bag and tossed it in the recycling without thinking about the credit card. Si was pissed off, and gave me a lecture. I thought I had better rush to school and dig through the recycling, so I left without breakfast and was three quarters of the way there when I had a sudden memory. Sure enough, I had decided at the last minute to conceal the credit card inside my camera case. There it was, safe and sound. Too far from home to turn around, have my breakfast and read the paper. Got a nice early start at the office,though; and it was such a pleasant place to spend a really long day.

2. Since the AC at our school is on the fritz, my office got hotter and hotter all day, topping out in the 90s by mid afternoon. I ate, like, 5 Popsicles, but still could not stay awake. I melted at my desk, in a torpor that I was unable to shake.

3. At 5 PM I was thoroughly melted, and it was time for me to drive north to the lovely town of Hooper, where Sara was playing in a soccer tournament. Rush hour. Traffic inching along at 10 MPH almost the whole way. Although I left an hour before kick-off, I managed to arrive near the end of the second quarter.

4. Having found my daughter's match, I was finally cool and relaxed on the grass by the field when the whistle blew for half-time. [Let me pause for a minute to say that the guys who are coaching and the soccer-moms who are organizing the tournament are a bit freakish about the whole thing. Lots of self-important striding about and yelling. I am a bad soccer-mom. I mostly sit on the sidelines and daydream, languidly clapping when others clap.] Okay. So the coach's wife yells, "SNACK!" That is the signal for the "snack parent" to produce the sliced oranges that are ubiquitous at Utah kids' soccer half-times. It was not until that exact moment that I remembered that I was the "snack parent", and that my carefully prepared snacks were still in the fridge at Guadalupe Schools back in Salt Lake. Oh, that sick horror, when you realize that you are the forgetter of the snack. The coach at this point is YELLING, "WE NEED FRUIT AND WE NEED IT NOW!" [Um... does this strike anyone else as funny? The coach is like a TV ER doc: "FRUIT! STAT!"] Well, dirty looks at Kate when she has to confess that she has forgotten the snack. The kids didn't care, but of course the parents use this as a measure and a mode of judgement. The coach's wife was digging around, crying, "Is there anything we can use as a snack?"

Not to make excuses for my sorry self, but I have often wondered why we feel it is necessary to feed children during any type of physical activity. Water, of course; but is it necessary for a child to have a snack at half-time, followed by another snack and a sugary drink at the end of the match? How do other children all over the world manage?

Well, I am good at staying cool under pressure. I asked at the hospitality tent where I might find the nearest grocery store. "Wellll, now...." (She wasn't chewing a straw, but it would have been fitting...) "Just go down the road a piece, 'til you come to the Sinclair station, then turn left and go a piece more until you get to the KernsMart." A "piece", as it turns out, is about five miles. I made it there and back with granola bars and drinks in time to watch the last minute of the match.

I stopped by the school on the way home and rescued my original snacks from the fridge. Sara has to play yet another match in Hooper tomorrow. We have snacks to spare.

She WANTS Braces?

2010-06-22T21:25:00.000-07:00

OK, things have sure changed since I was a kid. Back then, braces were made of birch bark, and kids only got them if their teeth were so bad that there was a chance:

1. they wouldn't be able to eat and might starve;
2. teeth were growing in through the roofs of their mouths;
3. there was a good chance that they would never mate.

Now, everyone is in pursuit of the "perfect smile".

Sara's dentist said that she needed braces. It's a racket, I'm convinced. He's getting kickbacks from his orthodontist buddies. We took Sara to two different orthodontists who said, "Probably not." Yay!

Well, this is the other difference from when I was a kid. Sara WANTED braces. She was devastated that she wasn't going to get them.

"But, Mom! All the kids have them!"
"Sara, you don't NEED them."
"But, I want to fit in."
"You don't understand. You already have what they are trying to get. You should be glad!"
"Please? Pleasepleaseplease? The other orthodontist told Daddy that it would only cost about $136 a month!"

Lost My Temper

2010-06-18T20:49:00.000-07:00

Losing my temper is like a roller coaster ride. Do you ever feel that way? My anger builds slowly. It's like the car ratcheting its way S-L-O-W-L-Y- up the track. Then there is the moment of pause at the top. I look down the swooping track and think: do I really want to do this? I actually don't get truly angry very easily. Irritated, exasperated, fired-up, yes. Angry, no. Because when I do lose my temper, it is a very bad thing.

And when I lose it, there is an anti-gravity, a bottoming-out; and also the sense of release that I love for the power of it, but which gives me a sick hangover afterward. I'm a Midwesterner: typically, we avoid confrontation. After I lose my temper at a person, there's an excellent chance I will never speak to that person again. It's the nuclear option. I have not indulged in it in YEARS. The last time was in about 1994 - I threw a sugar bowl at Simon's head. I was cleaning up the mess for days.

And why this was the situation, I don't know. This guy really wasn't worth it. This was a phone call to the office from a guy who was interested in being a volunteer tutor for our English program. If any of my colleagues read this, they will be shocked - I'm always saying that we need to be extra-especially nice to a prospective volunteer. They are gold. But this guy...

First of all, he was bizarre. Let me choose a font that denotes a flat affect and snippy, nasal tone. We'll go with his one:

Him: Yes. I want to volunteer.

[I wait, listening for a second. There is usually more elaboration, explanation.]

Me: To tutor English as a Second Language?

Him: Yeah, OK. [Like, whatever. Like it had just occurred to him this minute. I wondered if he was court-ordered. Some volunteers are. So, I asked:

Me: How did you hear about our program?

Him: Some other volunteer place. [Again, a long pause. Again, I expect to hear more, but there is a huge void. Finally he says:]

Him: The ESL Center.

Me: Oh, OK. Well.... [...and I launch into my usual explanations about what our volunteers do, when we have school, how to get started volunteering, etc... Normally, these turn in to conversations in which the prospective tutor asks questions, there is dialogue, etc... In this instance, I am unnerved by the complete silence on the line. At one point, I begin to wonder if he is still there. I pause...longer...longer...I'm just about to ask if he is still there when he says:]

Him: Yes.

So I tell him about how we have orientation for new tutors twice a week. I tell him that we will have one next Tuesday, but that we will then be taking a short break and will be back in session on July 13. After that we'll return to our routine of two orientations a week.

At that point, he had something to say.

Him: Well, I don't have a lot of time. I plan to start going to the College of Social Work in the fall and I only have free time over the summer. I really need to get started right away. You know, you people say that you need volunteers, but when I called ESL Center, they told me that they have already done their volunteer training for this month. Then I call you and you tell me you're taking a vacation?!? You say you need volunteers, but you just throw up barriers for people.

Why should that make me snap? I have managed civil phone conversations with everyone from annoying salespeople to ambulance-chasing lawyers to immigrant-bashers. But I let the roller coaster run its course.

Me: NOW LISTEN HERE! (Yes, I admit it. I said, "listen here".) THIS PROGRAM IS OPEN ALL YEAR ROUND. DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE. SO, WE TAKE A LOUSY TWO WEEK BREAK SO I CAN CLOSE DOWN ONE SCHOOL YEAR AND GET ANOTHER ONE STARTED AND YOU ACCUSE US OF THROWING UP BARRIERS!?!?!? WE NEED VOLUNTEERS, BUT NOT SO BADLY THAT I NEED TO PUT UP WITH THIS CRAP! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!!??

[The whole time I am ripping him a new one, there is the Little Voice that remains rational. It is saying,

Little Voice: You are letting yourself do this because you know this person has no social skills and could never be a competent tutor anyway.

I would never talk this way to a tutor who took issue with our break in a normal, rational way. In fact, I have occasionally arranged special orientations for people who have schedule conflicts. But is this case, there was no way I was going to accommodate this freaky, snippy, mean guy.

Would you believe, he didn't have anything to say for himself? All I heard after that was a click. Coward. I can only hope that I scared him.

I threw the receiver at the phone as hard as I could. Then I picked it up and threw it again. And once more. I know how I am when I am like this. I could easily have smashed the phone to pieces.

Little Voice: Do you really want to go to Vicki and tell her that you need a new phone?

Me: No. I guess not. This feels so good, though.

L. V.: No, You'd better stop. And by the way, why didn't you just say something banal, like, "I realize that it seems like a barrier to you, but it is a necessity that we close for a short time to prepare for a new fiscal year?"

Me: That's what I would have done, ordinarily.

L. V.: You better hope he's not as crazy as he seemed. What is he comes down here with a gun?

Me: Little Voice?

L.V.: Yes?

Me: You are a major drama queen and you can shut up, now.

How about you? Do you have a temper? Do you give into it very often? Do you know before you blow that you are going to do it? How does it make you feel?

It's Just a Pedicure

2010-06-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

I've never had a pedicure. I've always figured that I would save the money and paint my own toenails. But then my colleague, A. showed up with very pretty toes the other day and I was a bit envious. I was admiring her feet and complaining about how dry and cracked mine always are. She told me that getting a pedicure isn't just about the toenail: they soften, exfoliate, massage... Yeah, but for how much? She goes to the Paul Mitchell School and gets half an hour of foot happiness for only $18. I glanced at my cracked heels and decided: I was havin' me one of those.

Granted, I'm a rookie at this, but how hard can it be to make a pedicure appointment?

I called and arranged to go in next Saturday morning.

Receptionist: OK. So, how many appointments?

[Huh? My mind races. Do you have to go in for one part, then come back later for more? Are the appointments all in half-hour blocks, but I need an hour?]

Me: Uh... I don't know. How many do I need?

Receptionist: No, I mean how many people?

[Now my mind is really racing. I'm imagining those scenes from Wizard of Oz when Dorothy et. al. are in the Emerald City and each one of them is being worked on by a small army of people. ]

Me: Wow. How many people do we need? I mean, it's just a pedicure.

Receptionist (who is now getting tired of me): I'm asking if you are bringing any people with you?

[Moral support?]

Me: No....why would I do that?

At this point, another colleague, M. is about peeing herself, listening in on this. When I got off the phone, she told me, "Lots of people go to get pedicures with their friends." Really? Shit, should I call some friends? Will I be the only one getting a pedicure without my posse? Come to think of it, that is what Dorothy did. Now the receptionist will think, "Oh, THAT one. I remember her. She's dumb and she has no friends!"

Chocolate Porcupine

2010-06-15T21:35:00.000-07:00

So, we were out to dinner the other night and Nate ordered one of these. Actually this isn't the exact same thing: Nate's was way bigger and slathered in ice cream. I asked whether his eyes might not be too big for his stomach. No, he saved room. I hate it when kids save room.

He couldn't finish it, of course, so we brought quite a bit of Porky home in a box. In the meantime, I had decided that I need to go back on my diet. I do fine with it until it's almost supper time. Then, I have a really hard time not snacking. I'm so hungry. Three days after the arrival of the now forgotten porcupine, I was making supper and feeling...let's say, peckish..and also rebellious (diets have that effect on me). I saw the box in the fridge, opened it and dived in. I mean, I was scooping up the chocolate in my fingers and cramming it in my mouth, looking right and left like I was some kind of burglar, even though I knew everyone else was out at soccer practice. Yummmmmmy!

Nate ate very well at supper and popped up from the table with a meaningful look at his dad. "Yes," said Si. "You ate such a good supper. Now you can have that chocolate porcupine." "GOOOOOOOOOODYYYYYYY!!!!!" Nate ran for the fridge, arms outstretched for the handle.

Aw, shit. So he hadn't forgotten it after all.

"Nate! Just a second! Come here for a minute!"
"Just a sec, Mom. I have to get my yummy porcupine!"
"No, come here first. I need to talk to you about....the... porcupine."

Simon's eyes went wide. My in-laws both turned to watch. Simon says, "Did you EAT the..."
He turned purple with supressed amusement. I shot him the evil eye.

"Nate, come here and sit on Mom's lap for a minute." [Simon snorts.]
Nate gives me that grin that means he is about to burst into tears.
"You see, Nate, I thought you had forgotten about the porcupine, so I-"
"You ate it!?! OH MY GOD, MOM!"
"Well, I'm very, very sorry. I had no idea you still wanted it. It was wrong of me to eat it. [Meanwhile, I was thinking how tasty it had been and wondering if I really repented.]

Nate BURST into tears. "Burst" is a very good verb to describe the way that Nate cries. The tears positively squirt out of his eyes. They were raining down on my arm.

"Well, now, Nate. Maybe we could have a trade..."
"WHAT KIND OF TRADE?"
"Well, would you like to have a couple of the chocolates I brought back from San Fr-"
"THOSE ARE ALREADY MY CHOCOLATES. YOU BROUGHT THEM BACK FOR MEEEEE!"
"Oh, that's right. What about three of my favorite Hob-Nobs from England?"
"I DON'T WANT A COOKIE!"
"Donut from the grocery store"?"

The tears stopped instantly. INSTANTLY. So abruptly that I'm surprised a rainbow didn't shoot out of his nose.

"DEAL!" He took the edge of his shirt, wiped the tears off my arm and ran off to play. "Hey, Sara! Guess what?"

Sometimes I Do Sweat the Small Stuff

2010-06-14T22:36:00.000-07:00

But I hate myself for it. Hey, who moved my Zen?

So, someone said something today that could be construed, if I were in the right mood, as insulting. And it was said in front of rather a lot of people. Plus it doesn't help that Simon heard it and later said, "Did you hear that comment? Did you think it was appropriate? I thought it was unnecessarily aggessive."

Of course, my response was bland - vanilla with vanilla sauce. Why create a confrontation? Probably the other person meant nothing by it and for them, it's forgotten.

So, OK. finished. But it is still bugging me. I run my fingers through it over and over, trying to figure out why it bothers me.

What do you do when something is bothering you and you cannot figure out why you are wasting energy on disturbance?

Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Friend

2010-06-13T21:55:00.000-07:00

It has been ages since I have written a book review! Well, what's THAT all about?! I love doing this, particularly when I hate the book, which lends passion to my voice. I have to give my usual disclaimer, though: this is not a book review by an experienced, talented or articulate reviewer. If you want that, go find a nice, classy book-review blog. If you want some low-class ranting, you have come to the right place.

The Gospel According to Biff is one of the most ridiculous hunks of literary clap-trap I have ever bothered trying to read. The premise is interesting: what about all those years when Christ was growing up? What was he doing? Did he have anything resembling a normal childhood? How did it prepare him for his future role? And this topic is interesting to ponder even if you don't believe that Christ was the Messiah. If you believe he existed and was a social philosopher in his time; if you believe that he created phenomenal social change, then you would be curious. And a lighthearted approach seems like a good fit, since we all know that it's all speculation. Don't look for anything thought provoking in this book, though.

In this rendition, Jesus, unsure of what is expected of him in his future role, decides that the best way to sort that out is to find the three magi and ask them for help. So he travels to Kabul and hangs out with Balthazar. Then, he goes to China and hangs out with Gaspar, who is at this point a Buddhist monk. Then he took offerings of food up the snowy mountainside and bonded with the Abominable Snowman. I slapped the book shut and went to read Madame Bovary. It's just too dumb. I realize that I'm missing the whole interface with Melchior, but who cares?

And the humor is so lacking in real wit and subtlety. Lots of fart humor, camel poop, blow job jokes etc... The author ruins the fun by trying too hard. He'll put a gag in there and then verbally poke you in the ribs, yukking, "Didja get it? Huh? Huh? See, he's farting 'cause he ate a two thousand year old egg! Is that funny or what? Oi, I just kill myself!"

AND...I found two typos.

Final rundown:

Quality Writing: 4. The author is not illiterate; he needs a better editor. And occasionally, he had some lines that were truly pithy. They were all quotes of Lao Tzu, though, so he doesn't get much credit.

Interesting Characters: 3 Jesus is the good cop, and Biff is the tough talking bad cop. Surprised? Neither was I.

Good Plot: 2 It's amazing: how can you can take a tale of travel, adventure, beautiful women, battles, blizzards and demon fights and make it so boring?

Un-put-down-ability: 2. If you can get past the Abominable Snowman, let me know. I'll be impressed with your stamina.

Overall score: 2.75.

England 1, USA 1

2010-06-12T22:40:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm sure this guy is not having a happy evening.

MIL and FIL are visiting from England this month. It's MIL's birthday today and she had a flower delivery in the afternoon. The delivery guy, looking at the English flag drooping, wet and forlorn over the front door, asked if they were a condolences bouquet.

Dismal

2010-06-11T22:08:00.000-07:00

It will not stop raining.

Today's high was 59 degrees. The furnace kicked in.

I woke up chilled, with a stiff neck. If I sit down, I immediately doze off.

I couldn't get out into the increasingly weedy garden because it was pissing down relentlessly and will continue to do so for the entire weekend. All through the dark cold winter, I think about how hot and dry a Utah summer is and I can't wait for it to arrive. If I wanted this, I would have moved to Seattle. The weather is the same, but the politics are more my style.

Long Lost

2010-06-10T23:07:00.000-07:00

Tired, so just a short post. I was sitting on the plane, coming home from San Francisco, and giving my wallet a bit of a sort-out. I reached into a little-used slot and pulled out £20. I was totally dumbfounded. Why did I have 20 quid in my wallet? Crisp, new bank bills. Then I remembered the £20 Simon had given me last year in England when I had asked for some cash. I KNEW I hadn't lost it. I KNEW I had put it someplace really safe!

'Kay. I'm Full

2010-06-09T23:12:00.000-07:00

Chinatown.

After crunching numbers for nine solid hours, this was the only "bar graph" I was interested in looking at. Mine is second from the left. Obviously, I have the best retention.

Found a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with the BEST damn Chinese I have ever eaten and a ton of attitude as well. People crammed in there any which way. I ordered Bao Bin Pork, and Mu Shu Chicken appeared. She set it down on the table and no one claimed it, since no one had ordered it. She came back in a minute:

This for you.

No. Not mine.

She went away and came back a few minutes later.

This for you.

I ordered the pork.

No. You eat this.

Well, I ordered pork, but I like chicken...

Good. You order this. Eat this.

It was good. I'm so STUFFED! I have to say that I am tired of food. And I am tired of data. But I am not tired of San Francisco.

Up to My Elbows in Crab, not Data...

2010-06-08T21:56:00.001-07:00

...although the meeting wasn't too bad today. We were seated with the Samoans. Adult basic education is, as you might imagine, somewhat challenging when the students need to island-hop in order to get to class.

After 9 hours of number-crunching, the Utah, Montana and Alaska folks headed down to the waterfront. Here's where we had supper.

This back view is what I call the crab entrance. They got off the boats, go in the back door...

...and their legs end up here. I am a little embarrassed to admit that I have never eaten crab-meat still in the shell. My colleague from Juneau gets to experience this sort of maritime bliss on a regular basis and instructed me on the use of my shell cracker. I gave up trying to be dainty after a couple of minutes and just let the sauce run down my arms.

Then it was off to the Buena Vista for Irish coffees.

I need to come back here for a real vacation one of these days.

Arrived in San Francisco

2010-06-07T23:20:00.001-07:00

You can smell the briny smell of the Bay, here. I can't wait to get down by the piers tomorrow. The hotel is antique, but restored in an interesting way. Check out my room.

Yeah, the coffee table and the nightstands are orange acrylic cubes. The armchair has two front legs, but then a wheel in the back, like a wheelbarrow.

All these huge mirrors!

Right downtown.

All Packed

2010-06-06T23:34:00.000-07:00

Very late. Just a quick post. Off to San Francisco tomorrow for a conference on using data to make decisions about adult education program management. Are we excited yet? It's called "Diving Deep into Data". For three looooooong days. But, I have never been to San Francisco!

Before I travel, I always make a list of how I hope it will be. Or think it might be. Or whatever.

The hotel will be a groovy "boutique" hotel downtown, and I will be able to walk to the piers.
I will get to eat in Chinatown.
I will take some awesome pictures with my new camera (which I am transporting in my hot little hands the whole way. I almost bought it a seat of its own.)
I will find a place down by the Bay to go running. Or maybe I can get up to the Presidio, if I have enough time.
I will get a chance to pester the Utah Director of Adult Education about policies that drive me crazy that I think she ought to change. This is how I drive her NUTS when we travel together. It's a hobby...
I will find and purchase San Francisco-themed salt and pepper shakers (Si broke the handle on our pepper grinder the other night. It was only 16 years old...)

Gotta go to bed!

Alone, and Loving It!

2010-06-05T20:50:00.000-07:00

I got to be alone again last night (Second time in two months! My kids must be growing up.) Here's what I did:

Took the time to go out and admire my irises.
Watered my pepper plants and talked aloud to the vegetable patch, as in, "Oh, my pwecious pets! Are mommy's little darlings thirsty?"
Blew off supper. Didn't cook; didn't eat. No time to cook! I was busy reading!
Read three chapters of Madame Bovary and two chapters of Lamb. Read Bovary aloud, so as to really soak it up. Reading aloud keeps me from rushing, but it's hard to do when people are home.
Bought Creamies and had a banana one late in the evening (so I guess that counts as supper?). Wondered if I looked erotic eating it. Thought that I would go find Si and eat it in a suggestive way while waggling my eyebrows at him. Realized he was not home. Missed him. Just for a second, though.
Painted my toenails a frightening shade of ...what would I call it..hot scarlet. Looked at the effect and thought that it looked cheap and tawdry. Added a sparkle top-coat. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Took a bath. Lay perfectly still in the bath. Enjoyed the fact that, since I have cut my hair short, I can rest my head against the back of the tub without the clip poking my head.
Read more Bovary until I dropped off.

Meetings, Bloody Meetings

2010-05-28T21:11:00.001-07:00

Here I am with the bureaucrats at the Uta* State Offic* of Educatio* (you know the place I mean). Nice touch to have an engraver present, huh? This etching was done after we had spent most of an hour arguing about how to quantify "student progress".

With the exception of the tablecloth, this is quite realistic, especially my glower and knitted eyebrows. What? No I am NOT the March Hare. This is my blog, so I get to be Alice. The other participants haven't been in contact with a real student in so long, they have forgotten why they even come to work in the mornings. In presenting the formula to quantify student progress, the Mad Hatter produced a chart with an equation 5 pages long. I was like, "Couldn't we just call it progress if the student gets a higher score on the post-test than on the pre-test?"

Nooooooooo...... Then no one would get paid to come up with a five page equation. What if the student makes just one point of progress? Is it statistically significant? What if the single point of progress is the result of higher blood sugar or having got laid the night before?

I am lucky that I am invited to attend these meeting and that they have been consulting me in these matters. Better to bang my shoe in the table at a contentious meeting than to not be there. It's when your back is turned that they do this to your program.

Snow Again

2010-05-24T22:43:00.000-07:00

My friends and relations in Wisconsin are starting to irritate me. I can see that it is lovely and warm there. They don't need to rub it in with all the Facebook posts about camping and whether or not it is time to turn on the air conditioning.

In Salt Lake, we woke up to snow. Not just a dusting. A significant, branch-breaking, foot-soaking, tomato-killing accumulation.

Think of the money we are saving by not turning on the sprinklers, yet! Shit. Who cares? We're still running the furnace.

I headed out to work in a less-than-fabulous mood. I had dug out a pair of closed-toed shoes, but the slush was coming in over the tops of them as I walked around the truck, brushing off the windows. Where is the desert I know and love? If I wanted Greenland, I would move to Greenland.

By the time I get all the way around the truck, my feet are wet and cold. Forget the windshield. The wipers will get it. I clamber in and start the wipers. S-L-O-W-L-Y the wipers inch their way along about half of their arc, then crunch to a stop. "Sorry. Too heavy." [Sigh.] I don't WANT to get out in the snow again, which has fallen down my collar already and made my back all wet. I stare at the wipers, willing them to prevail. "C'mon! You can do it!" I can hear the little motor though, which is getting pissed off.

Alright, already! But I am NOT getting out. I open the driver's side window, sending a shower of fresh snow into my lap. Holding the brush/scraper at an awkward angle, I reach the scraper out and around and start trying to help the windshield wipers. This doesn't really work; only sends more snow toppling into the car.

Yes, don't bother pointing out to me that I am wetter at this point than if I had climbed out of the car and done the job properly. I don't want to hear that.

Finally, my scraper hits the sweet spot. I push enough snow around that the wiper is able to function properly, at which time, it sends about a cubic foot of snow off the windshield at a perfect angle to slide down the shaft of the scraper and fall onto the seat next to me, soaking my ass and making my day.

All Alone

2010-05-21T19:26:00.000-07:00

By myself! In my house! I could clean out the down stairs hall closet, or I could read Madame Bovary. Hmmm... decisions, decisions...

Letter to Edie

2010-05-20T21:48:00.000-07:00

Dear Edie,

I got my mammogram results yesterday and they were negative. Clean Screen Number One! I wasn't worried. Had the mammo been suspect, they would have called right away. A wait, followed by a letter in the mail, is a good thing.

I didn't notice feeling anxious; but after getting the result, I felt surprisingly...better. Suddenly, I thought that the rain felt good on my face, that the Rec Center was a Utopia of human kindness and that the inside of the truck smelled nice.

I was also surprised that, in the middle of my run, I had to leave the track and go cry in the ladies' restroom.

I have discussed this at some length with my friend Shirley D., who had a mastectomy years ago. To be a person who has survived a cancer diagnosis is a great thing as long as you can avoid thinking of the people who didn't. Every time I think, "I'm lucky!" or, "I'm going to be fine." or, "Thank goodness those smart doctors found it early!", I am sending a joyful message with pain in my heart. I wanted you to be my partner in that good fortune, not the counterweight to it.

I spend a lot of time missing your friendship and wondering whether I'm living in a way that you would have appreciated. If you were here, you would snort and say, "Obviously not, since you're still mind-fucking yourself." You would prefer if I just looked forward, not back at all. Or, better yet, if I looked neither forward nor back, but just enjoyed the place I am in at the moment. You were a lot better at that then I will ever manage to be, I'm afraid. Still, I did have a flash of it yesterday. We might be able to call that incremental progress, huh?

Thanks for being a big enough, bold enough presence in my life when you were here, that I can conjure you easily when I need to. And I still need to a lot.

So You Think You Can Teach Fifth Graders?

2010-05-19T21:36:00.000-07:00

NO! I never made a single claim!

For the last two weeks of school, the fifth grade teachers ask the parents to take over the instruction of our little darlings and "share our talents". Problem is, I don't have any. And where will the teachers be while the parents are teaching? Las Vegas? Couldn't we just do some nice math drills instead?

Sara bullied me into saying I would teach something. After all, I am a teacher, right? ADULTS! I teach adults! I am afraid of kids. After much dithering and fussing and almost chickening out ("Two sections? She's got me down for two sections? No one is going to sign up for even one section! And they'll hate it! I'm calling her on Monday. I'm gonna tell her... that I have to take a fresh-air tuberculosis cure in central Europe that week!"), here I am, writing a lesson plan, just like I do all the time at work (for adults!).

I need help. I am requesting input. Here's what I've got so far.

I'm going to call the class (which is 60 minutes) something like "One-Act Slam!"

Objective: Students will work in small collaborative groups to outline, read and act out a short skit.

I have a stealth objective. Alleged skills as a writer and a teacher aside, this is 60 minutes with a bunch of 11 year-olds. How much writing can I realistically teach? What they really need to learn are cooperative learning techniques, because I've noticed how kids this age struggle to do group projects. The most capable / bossiest one always leads, then ends up doing all the work. The more passive ones just give up and goof around. With that in mind...

Preview:

Brainstorm what has to happen to write a play. (They'll say, an idea, a rough draft, making changes, rehearsing, etc. At least that what I am fantasizing they will say.)

Group them in groups of...oh...four. Randomly? Let them group themselves? Don't fifth grade girls fall down dead on the spot if you force them out of their cliques? Am I insured for that?

Use the feedback from the brainstorming session to assign roles within the group: scribe; casting agent; editor; director. Label them with adhesive labels. Ship them to Siberia. End of class.

No? Oh, all right.

Presentation:

Remind them that this is a SLAM, so they need to be brief but brilliant.

Provide each group with a lap-sized white board and fine point dry erase pens. This will make editing easier and will help them limit the length of the thing.

Give each group two? Three? No, two random, evocative photos from our photo file at my job. We have loads of photos of all kinds of things: a kid being bandaged by a paramedic; a person being led into a courtroom in handcuffs; a dude rollerblading in a business suit; you name it. So they get these random photos and they need to somehow create a story that includes the situations pictured. I let them get to it.

Practice:

Groups have a limited period of time to come up with a plot outline. After ?? minutes, groups share their ideas. I'm hoping that making them report back after each part will keep them on task.

Same thing with composing a first draft. No need to share with the class at this point, but they have to have a rough draft ready.

Students read through and edit within their groups.

Final Product: They rehearse and act out the skits for each other.

So, what do you think? My biggest fear is time. I'm not worried that we won't fill the hour. In fact, the opposite. How do I carve it down if I see the time is getting by? I'm good at adjusting a lesson when I teach in my subject area, but this is mysterious. And (this is the big thing) WILL IT BE FUN? Can it be made more fun? The othermothers are always so elaborate. Many othermothers would have a little stage with curtains, etc...etc... Bitches.

The cool parents are doing stuff like Cookie Decorating. I must be out of my mind. But I'm a shitty cookie decorator. OK, feedback?

Some Things Need to be Rekindled

2010-05-17T21:57:00.000-07:00

I really have a lot to write about these days, but I need to reestablish my blogging routine.

Nate came running into the house this evening before supper, terrified that he was about to be abducted.

"MOM! I was just playing out in the yard and this car stopped and the people in it smiled at me! I think they're headed this way!"

Sure enough, a knock at the door. Nathan squealed in fear and hid. Oh, for Pete's sake. I opened the door to find the Sabet family, to my great pleasure. Soraya and Jafar and their son Aryan. Nate and Aryan used to go to the same daycare center and played a lot when they were in preschool. They go to different elementary schools, though; so we really haven't seen the Sabets for...three years or more.

They were driving past the house and Aryan spotted Nate. He was so excited that he asked his dad to stop. Poor Nate didn't remember Aryan at all at first, but they ran off to play and left the parents to brew strong tea and talk about gardening. Jafar is a horticulturist.

I have to do better with these folks. I really like them. They live very nearby, but we don't visit back and forth. Our kids are the same age, but we don't get them together. This is totally my fault. Soraya has always been the outgoing one and probably despairs of me as just another American so-called friend who never has time.

BWOOP! BWOOP! Digression Alert! [Which is true! How can I have time to chill when I have to de-junk Sara's bedroom? She was in such agony over the mess that she finally invited me to have my own wicked way with it. Talk about the most fun I can have with my clothes on! I LOVE to throw stuff out! I got busy and filled the garbage and the recycling dumpsters. She thinks she has no storage. When you clean out the CRAP, she has plenty of room in there!

BEFORE

AFTER

Back to Sabets. It is true that I used to avoid her a little - Nathan didn't like playing with Aryan and I didn't know how to handle that in light of how much Soraya wanted them to play together. Now, though, they get along great. I'm thinking I'll ask them to come over this weekend. Be it resolved that I will try not to get stuck in my social rut and that I will make time to cultivate my friendships.

I'm Back!

2010-05-12T20:23:00.000-07:00

Where have I been? Beats me. April is OVER! But, thank God! Too many deadlines, too many obligations.

Over the past month, I have:

Planned and carried off a six-hour teacher training with my colleague Anne, on How to Teach Pronunciation;
Run in a half-marathon;
Run in our local Race for the Cure;
Traveled to Washington DC for a conference on professional development for teachers;
Helped plan a school fundraising dance, which was no more successful that the one we did a couple of years ago;
Wrote two ginormous federal grant proposals;
And Simon had a couple of inconvenient business trips.

That's where I've been. I know, I know... Hillary Clinton wouldn't bat an eyelash. Hillary Clinton also has handlers. I want a handler.

My two fat federal grants are handed in at last, and I can start to dig myself out from under. I have been in a daze. Time to try to get some decent sleep, too.

I got up at 5:15 this morning, so I would be on time for my 7:00 AM mammogram. Better to go in early, I figure, before the day starts to get all backlogged. And it's my first post-cancer mammogram; I'll feel like I've reached a milestone to have a clean screen. This is only my second mammogram ever, after all. The first one sure opened a can of worms!

At any rate, I got dressed, had breakfast, looked at the newspaper for a few minutes...got all ready to go. And just before leaving the house, I glanced at my planner and saw that my fucking mammogram is tomorrow.

Well, shit. All that lovely sleep, wasted. I took off my skirt and stockings and climbed back in bed and was finally able to doze off again, moments before I had to wake up once more for the start of my real day. The one that is actually TODAY, not TOMORROW? You know, if I had been clever, I would have gone anyway. I'll bet they could have worked me in. How many people want to get their boobs mooshed that early in the morning?

The best part is, I get to do it all again tomorrow at 5:15.

Regarding Sara

2010-04-09T22:28:00.000-07:00

I was looking back through some of my older posts. I have been blogging for quite a while, I guess. When I started, it was so much easier, because my kids were petite and cute. They had chubby cheeks and little bittie teeth. They said adorable things and loved everyone. Now.... they are older. They are not cute very often. More and more, I think, "Help! I'm in over my head!" I miss the days when the most pressing question was, "Baby food from a jar, or make my own?" Parenting is getting complicated, just when I thought it was supposed to get easier. Here are the questions that I must ponder this week regarding Sara, who recently turned 11.

Pressing questions for the mother of an 11 year-old girl.

1. Does this flat-as-the-Kansas-prairies child really need a bra? Actually, the answer is yes, I guess. The pediatrician said she would feel more secure about herself if I let her have one. Those two were in cahoots - I could tell. OK, we went to Target and found the training bra aisle. It took some searching to find ones that weren't padded (No WAY! How can you enhance something that DOES NOT EXIST?), but we managed to get some little vest thingies. By the next day, she was already complaining about straps showing. Welcome to the rest of your life, kid.

2. How much help with a project is too much help? Here's her Oregon "float" for the long-awaited Fifth Grade Parade of States.
I think it turned out pretty well. You've got the covered wagon theme going, and the flat bit up by the handle is the "ocean", complete with fishing boat. Then there's a map suspended from the wagon bows. True, her dad built the wagon bows and figured out how to make the mountain. He showed her how to paint it, but she did the painting and all the rest. Anyway, at our house, parental help is dicey anyway. Notice that the wagon bows are already going catywumpus. That's because we decided to pull it to school this morning using the overland route, which was a little bumpy.

Simon also suggested adding a few of the state's products, and found a bottle of Oregon wine in the rack. We drank it up, and he put the bottle on there. The only other product they bothered with was a piece of wood. C'mon! He just wanted the wine bottle on there to see if he could get a reaction from the school administration over some zero tolerance policy; or at least cause some clucking among the Latter Day Saint teachers and parents. Since he is out of town, I took the wine bottle off the float and threw it out. See Sara? Parents aren't really very helpful after all.

3. What am I supposed to do about the badly behaved girls in her Girl Scout troop? There are three brainless, blathering girls in there that I don't even think realize that they are at a Girl Scout meeting. They spend the whole time yelling and monkeying around. It drives the other girls crazy. The troop can barely get anything done. The leader says it drives her nuts, too, but that, "These are the girls who really need Girl Scouts the most". Hmmm... That's a very nice sentiment. The leader is a better person than I am. I find myself fantasizing about chaperoning a camping trip and scaring them so badly with bear stories that they run away and never come back. Maybe a little scratching at the tent wall in the middle of the night, with some growling and huffing sounds...

4. Am I supposed to be freaking out about middle school already? She has one more year left in elementary school, and then it is time for the dreaded middle school experience. Turns out that, just as she is supposed to start there, the building will be torn down and rebuilt. The kids from her school will be bused to another middle school several miles away, where they will share the building with the kids from that school. Granted, it is a really spacious school, but some parents are already pulling their kids out of our local elementary and putting them in elementary schools that will be served by middle schools unaffected by the disruption. Of course, that means that they can't use the school buses and will have to drop off and pick up their kids every day. I work full-time. And Sara doesn't want to be separated from her friends. If I let her be bused to the other school, am I the Antichrist?

5. Does she need braces? The dentist says so, and referred us his orthodontist buddy. But of course, it might all be a conspiracy. I had braces, but there was no doubt I needed them. My mouth looked like a glacier that was about to calve. How the hell am I supposed to know if she needs braces?

6. And the big one for today. Do I think this haircut looks cute? She loves it. Sure, Sara. I would never dream of telling you that you really...

...look just like your brother! See? Don't you think her teeth look fine? I mean, once those canines come in.