The Movie Moment

Why is that when you see a movie in the theater, it is almost always, by default, better than when you see it at home.  A movie that is sort of funny at home, would have been hilarious at the theater.  A movie that might make you weepy at home, could have you bawling your eyes out in the theater.  Is it a universal phenomena or is it just me. 

Let me give you the case in point.  Friday night, I went with two of my friends to see Due Date.  It’s a guy movie, for sure.  It’s something that I would enjoy most if I were a 14 year old boy… really, it’s that sort of humor.  It was, I believe, intended to be a good date movie – because there were some “OH, how sweet moments"” for the girls…but mostly it was all about boy humor – from whacking off (soundtrack appropriate – and don’t ask how I know, just know that I do know whether I want to or not) to vomiting, and getting it all over your face (thank goodness that didn’ t happen in the afore mentioned  part).  I suppose those of you who saw hangover would say that this movie was in the same general genre.  I saw hangover.  Didn’t think it was anything to write home about.  Not too funny.  I smiled.  I watched it at home.  Same with Grownups.  Some parts, a little funny.  I smiled.  I watched it at home.  Due date, I laughed out loud.  I groaned.  I covered my eyes, I sort of gagged.  I reacted.  I saw it at the theater.  And on the other end, I did cry, snuffled, nose stopped up, could have cried out loud but didn’t because I was in public, but really wanted to – every time that I saw it (only movie I’ve ever paid to see more than two times in a theater (polar express is the other).  Didn’t cry when I saw Steel Magnolias, didn’t really care that Shelby died…really.  But didn’t cry at either when I saw them at home.  However, if I watch just the scene from The Color Purple where Shug goes from the juke joint to her dad’s church, I’ll cry every time (but I cry much more now that I’m a parent). 

Anyway, the issue has been rolling around in my head for a few days and figured I’d put it out there for comment. 

The Continous Journey of Parenting

Well, it would appear that just when I thought I had a handle on the whole parenting of a college teenager, Franklin decides to expand my skill set. Last Saturday, Franklin was supposed to arrive at our home at the usual time of 11:00 p.m. This of course means mostsly 12:00. And of course this is a nonconfrontational rule break because Jose and I are always in bed and asleep by 10:00 (I'm usually asleep by 9:00). Sunday morning, as Jose and awoke for a daily 4:00 a.m. potty break, Jose noticed that the living room light had been left on. This is not normal. He then walked to check the door, which was left unlocked, also not normal, and with a feeling of barely contained irritation, he looked out the door to see that Franklin's car was not in the driveway. And because I have trained him so well, he immediately trotted back to the room, climbed back into bed, and said, "Franklin didn't come home last night." That he came back to bed and appeared to be getting ready to resume sleep seemed a bit odd. But it was all a clever ruse. His intention was to tell me so that I could be the one that got angry. And angry I did get. I never once thought that he was hurt, injured or in jail, as I was positive for any of those incidents, we would have received a phone call. Thus commenced the parental, "what are the consequences" talk. Jose was quick to select grounding from computer and xbox. I was equally quick to point out there was no way to enforce those things, and he didn't really use them that much anyway because he wasn't home that often anymore what with classes and work. And of course there's not a lot you can do in the terms of doling out consequences to a 19 year old boy who pays for his car, his insurance and his phone. And that being the case, I didn't think that I really had any choice in the matter. It was going to have to be a "do you wanna go with this, or you wanna go with that" sort of moment. I can't make him follow the rules, I can't make him respect the reason for the rules. But that being the case, I don't have to continue to have the discussion or the argument either. So, I had Jose go downstairs and get the big suitcases and I, in less than 15 minutes, had everything that he owned packed and piled in his room. It was time for Franklin to make a choice...it was a watershed moment...perhaps for us all.

So, Franklin came home about 30 minutes later. It was, I am sure the second time he'd seen that time of morning. And from there the 3 hour conversation began. Well, perhaps conversation isn't really the right way to describe it, because Franklin doesn't really hold up his side of the convesational obligation...he does a lot of shrugging and unintelligible mumbling. The line drawn in the sand...you have to decide to stay and follow the rules, or you can choose to leave. But the choice has to be made now. And suprisingly, Franklin decided to leave. You would be surprised how quickly irritation and ire would transform itself to worry and self doubt. I honestly didn't think he'd leave. But I'm not sure why I thought this. Franklin is the same boy who decided to take a 100 point zero on a math test so he coudl finish a 10 point homework assignment in English. And of course, there is the Erica effect. Erica is the tatood, pierced 18 year old girl who is still a senior in high school but doesn't live with her parents anymore because she had problems with her parents girl who Franklin likes as a friend but finds physically attractive so he's having sex with her, but he's not serious about her, they are just friends. And suddenly, it all made sense. Franklin's ability to think rationally had been seriously impacted by the blood loss to his penis. Oh sure, the blood had probably been rushing there during showers and late night private sessions for quite some time...but now..well the blood had purpose and is really more dedicated to the area than it had been in the past. And really, rent free environments can never compete with free, unimpeded sex...no matter how wierd, ugly and trashy the girl. And as it turns out, Franklin, ever the master of lie by omission, decided that Erica was just the person to house him during this "transition" period from home to his own apartment. Of course, we didn't find that out until this week. I'm quite certain that she will be her own blog in the future. Despite the entire stress and worry caused by Franklin's rapid, unprepared departure, Jose could only admit that he did release a giant sigh of relief that Franklin wasn't gay. It's nice to have all the world put back into perspective.

 

I'm not quite sure how in the course of my life, most of the people that I call friends are conservatives, republican, tea party wanna bes, whatever you want to call them. For the most part they seem to be normal, upstanding people on a daily basis, but when it gets down to politics, they turn into these me against them, it's my money don't touch it kind of people. And I just can't figure it out. I sometimes think that perhaps they grew up privileged, never having to worry about money, being able to drink milk, not just use it on cereal. Maybe not having those type of worries would explain that let everyone take care of themselves sort of mentality. And I always find it ironic that these same people are also fairly religious. It seems that the two ideas are fairly contradictory. I mean, seriously, if you're going to walk around with a What Would Jesus Do bumper sticker, tee shirt, tattoo, can you then tightly grasp possessions and material things while slapping away the hands of anyone who needs it. Ahh... do you hear it... the affronted gasp of all my friends who are saying that it's not like that. But really, that's what it seems like. Didn't Jesus reach out and provide aid those who needed it most. Did he turn away lepers and beggars? I confess I'm not a Bible reader or really religious for that matter, but I'm pretty sure that if he did, those hell fire and brimstone preachers I've been exposed to in my life (which have resulted in my not being religious) would have probably mentioned that. They are surely quick enough to mention that you're supposed to tithe and give offerings (which would make me feel better if they weren't driving around in 60,000 dollar cars, living in banker houses. It always makes me wonder if tithing is paying a salary and for a vacation or is for the good of those less fortunate. That's all that church as a business stuff... which is really another topic entirely. But it does seem to me that talking politics is about as dangerous as talking religion. People take both very personally, and perhaps it's because I'm in the bible belt that religious beliefs and political affiliation seem to go hand in hand. It's not the first time that I've wondered how different life would be if I didn't live in the south. Are there really places in this country where there aren't more churches than gas stations and grocery stores? Are there places where you don't have to hide the fact that really, you're not a church person and not worry how everyone will view that...or have them begin to pray for your obviously lost soul. Still... a whole different topic...but the two are closely tied for me... and I admit that most likely that is my own, freakish, liberal, democratic, lost perspective.

To add insult to injury, I live in Kentucky, where a democratic vote doesn't really count. And I don't know that happened. My Granddaddy Broadbent was a tried and true democrat, and preached voting democrat his whole life. When I first registered to vote when I was 17, if I wanted to vote in the primary election, I had to register democrat. And now, well, voting democratic is about like pissing in the wind to put out a fire in front of you...it just doesn't do any good. And that's frustrating. Mostly because I am so morally and ethically oppositional to the fundamental beliefs of the conservative party. I was a child who was on free and then reduced lunch when I was in school. That's a government program, a big government, help the needy program. And I received a pell grant, without which I wouldn't have been able to attend college, nor would my sister have been able to do so. And having been the recipient of these social programs, I am more than happy to pay it forward, and help the next generation. I don't really mind if my taxes are raised so that someone else might have health insurance. I don't mind to pay a little extra so that someone in need might not be in pain, or homeless. That's not to say that I want to give everyone with a hand out a free ride. But that's not the same as having a total lack of willingness to help. It just makes sense to me that if everyone gave a little, then it could make a big difference.

On top of this general confusion is also an absolute bewilderment at the polarization of the people of our country. And the fantastic notion that there are people out there who hate... HATE HATE HATE HATE Barack Obama. And I just can't figure that out either. I mean the fact that you can listen to him give an address and not cringe as he butcherificates the English language should seriously be enough to make the entire county kneel down and bless him for not perpetuating the notion that Americans are all imbeciles. That's not to disparage our last president, though I could. But it's really hard to have faith in the intelligence and decisions of a man who is barely able to utter a correct sentence. And how can you not respect Barack when he's introspective, admits to failures, or falling short of his desired mark, and takes responsibility for his choices and his failures. It seems to me that the game of politics is beginning to eat away at the fundamental principles that were the foundation of our country. I don't know if the founding fathers could foresee the greedy, self serving nature of our politicians and if that's what they intended to happen. Perhaps when you are planning a country for 13 states and a score or two of men, you don't foresee what it's like to work with 439 ( ish) men and women who had to beg, borrow, steal and sell their soul to get their position where they could beg, borrow, steal for more power, money, and benefits. Where's the Mr. Smith of our generation? Who will restore the ideals and the integrity of our politicians? Wouldn't be nice if an average joe, who wasn't a millionaire, who didn't have an ivy league education and a silver spoon could be elected. Actually not just one, but 300 or so? I like the fact that Barack Obama had to repay student loans. At least he knew what it felt like to have to borrow money to go to school (even if it was ivy league). But I highly suspect that any average joe who decided to try, would not be able to withstand the temptations and would soon be just as corrupt as everyone else. And that's really a shame.

In the end, I don't know what the answer is. I don't even know what I want the answer to be. I do know that I'll hold firm to my policy of biting my tongue when political discussions begin. I have learned the hard way that you just can't cross that line. There's no talking someone over to your side, because your side is a culmination of all your life choices, beliefs and ethics (and if I were being bitter and pity, I might include intelligence level and logical reasoning, but some would say that is hardly fair). It would be nice, though, if within my lifetime, we could find a way to all work together for the good of all mankind without the thought of profit or returns. Isn't that what Jesus would do?

On death, funerals and family

I find that funerals are really interesting places to go.  They are infinitely more interesting if you aren’t very close to the person who has died.  When you are very close to the person who is died, you don’t really pay attention to anything because you are usually overcome by grief.  I haven’t really had that funeral yet.  My granddaddy's funeral was closest, but he had Alzheimer's for several years before he finally died, so we had several mini death moments.  Mini deaths to those unfamiliar with my theory are those times when you care called to visit someone in the ICU or the hospital because they had some sort of serious attack that threatened their life.  At that moment, you face the realization that that person could actually die, and you begin to grieve the loss of their immortality.  After having several of those episodes, then when death finally comes, you are sad, but you aren’t in shock and you’ve prepared yourself better for the moment.  My granddaddy's mini-death moments were not only ones of health but of mind and soul.  There was the mini-death when he didn’t recognize me when he first saw me.  Then the mini-death when he didn’t recognize me and nothing could help him bring me to mind.  And the mini death when I went to see him and I didn’t recognize him any longer.  So when he finally died, the body in the casket was really a stranger to me.  But i mourned all of him that I remembered, all the good parts that he was.

Funerals for me now are a collective mourning of everyone who has passed.  Driving to my Aunt Jennifer’s funeral last week, I remembered my Granddaddy Walker, and Aunt Martha, and Aunt Betty, and Granddaddy Broadbent.  And then I thought about the fact that my Grandma Walker is 90, and my mom is 66 and my dad is 68, and all the golden girls are starting to die off, and well if that doesn’t make you misty eyed and a bit maudlin then nothing will.  And then I arrived at the funeral home outside Nashville and had to mental adjust to a non-Cadiz funeral.  Who knew they would be so different.  Instead of a large chapel type room with rows upon rows of pews, there was a little viewing room set up like a living room.  There were pictures of my aunt about, though not as many as you would think for someone who was 54.  And of course, the only people I knew were my mom, dad, Jodi and Isaiah, and 3 of them were in my car.  My other aunts, Jill and Jacque, were also there, but I can’t consider a face book friendship and funeral meet and greets really knowing.  And being the smart preplanned, I had dressed Isaiah in a nice vest and shirt, so all awkward social situations could be diverted by his general cuteness.  (I believe I have mentioned that I have no social skills.  My idea of being social is to attend an event, find a corner and a chair and watch everyone as they come in and mingle.)  And of course, Isaiah was also an asset because he needed to go to the restroom, and wanted to have everything explained, etc.  It’s nice to have something to do, and a child is really much more acceptable at a funeral than say a book or a Nintendo ds, or mp3 player.  The funeral itself was also a little odd.  In Cadiz, funerals are really a church service with a casket prop.  For the most part, I don’t think I’ve gone to but one funeral where the preacher really new the person who died and could tell good stories about the person who died.  I guess that comes from long term debilitating illnesses that keep people from going to church - - and out of sight, out of mind.  I think should I have a funeral, I’d like people to tell stories about my life.  But seeing as I have no life, and really no luck throwing parties, I’m not sure that would be such a good idea…i envision the sound of crickets, and creaking furniture as people shift uncomfortably and wait for someone else to talk – and since I’m dead and can’t succumb to the pressure, then no one ever will…who would fill the uncomfortable silence but me?  Anyway, at Jennifer’s funeral, there were several people who got up to talk.  One man tried to accomplish the story telling thing, but ended up sharing a short history of Baptist Hospital neonatal ICU unit, and seemed to be making sure he didn’t say anything to offend Jennifer’s coworkers.   The music they played was also, very odd.  The sound quality was horrific, but the choices themselves were strange.  Which made mom’s pre-funeral request to pick her bon voyage as funeral music make so much more sense.  Perhaps it was only odd because I don’t listen to country music, and these seemed very country music-y.  I listened closely to see if beer or dead dogs were mentioned, but was unable to focus long enough to do so, as I was busy pondering the history of Baptist Hospital’s neonatal ICU unit. 

And finally, we were to move to the grave for the grave side service.  My Aunt Jennifer was a large woman.  Not tall, but large.  And knowing that, I did feel a sort of inappropriate amusement when watching the pall bearers moving the coffin from the hearse to the stand over the grave.  And when they stumbled and faltered sliding her onto the stand, I had visions of the casket opening, and her falling out, and laughing out loud, and then not offering to help put her back in because that is just ewwww… I know it’s awful that I’m this person.  I try to be better, but I tell you nurture just can’t overcome nature here.  And then when the red-headed man began to compare death to birth, which was not only appropriate but somewhat interesting, I got distracted by the outdoor pinwheel someone had placed on a grave.  And thought, ooh, that’s pretty cool.  If I were to have a grave, I’d totally want that.  Oh, and balloons not flowers.  And then I got creeped out because coincidentally, every time the red haired preacher man quit talking, the pinwheel quit moving.  It took at least 4 pauses before that quit and by then I was pretty sure Jennifer’s spirit was there blowing on the pinwheel.

And then it was over, and no one waited to go back and visit the grave, instead we all went to eat at Loveless Cafe.   Like it was nothing.  My mom got a bit upset at one point, and my dad was relieved because it upset him that no one else was upset at all.  And that was a bit sad.  And during dinner, that is what I thought of instead of trying to make conversation with my mom’s sister’s families whom I didn’t know.  My mom’s side of the family has always been emotionally non-demonstrative.  My mother, and Jill, it would appear, use humor to diffuse highly emotional moments.  It is a technique I use as well.  Although I will say in my own defense, that I don’t intentionally use humor, I just find something funny at inappropriate times.  It’s a defense mechanism I know… I just don’t want anyone to think that I giggle on purpose or that I’m actively seeking something funny to laugh about.  And truly, it’s not really my fault that some people make some really funny sounds when overcome with grief, but that’s neither here nor there.  And during that lunch, I learned that there are many families who don’t have AT&T commercial worthy bonds between sisters.  I always felt as if I had failed in that somehow with my own sister.  Not that I don’t love my sister.  Not that I don’t like my sister.  But we are very different in interests and never developed that best friend bond that some sisters have.  And those characteristics that we worked hardest to acquire (independence, assertiveness, forthrightness, and the need to control our environments) make spending time together a little difficult.  We have not done enough of it to be comfortable in that.  It would appear that we are not the only ones who suffer that malady.  Jacque and Jill also have some sister issues.  Jacque commented 4 times during lunch that her birth was a mistake.   I think that if you asked her if it bothered her, she’d say it didn’t.  But it must be a deep rooted pain that made her feel as if she wasn’t wanted or loved as much as the rest.  And because she was so young when Jenner died, she never had enough of the time with her to put those childish doubts to rest.  And, Jacque’s never had children, so she doesn’t truly understand that any child, whether planned or not, is loved unconditionally forever by its mother, if she has a good mother.   And Jill, was upset because she felt that all of her sisters always talked over her.  That she was the middle, and not as important to everyone else -  though she’s always been the easiest of my mom’s sisters to understand.  She is most like my mom in personality and seemed to have a lighter spirit than either of her sisters.  But like Jodi and myself, there is love and a bond there.  And because I don’t know them, I don’t know how strong a bond.  And because my mother was the half sister, not really included in that family, and so much older than the rest, we are also outsiders.  My sister was no so much the outsider.  Her social skills are much stronger than mine, but she’s also the one who had gone with mom to visit Jennifer many times, so she knew everyone a bit better.  Me?  I sat, listened, watched and ate, out of my element and comfort zone.    And when I got home, I made sure that I told my sister that I didn’t resent her being first.  That I had no jealousy or coveting of any of her joy or her happiness or her success ( though I am sometimes envious of her paycheck, but never envious of the amount of work she does to get it).  And driving home from the funeral, it does reinforce the need to strengthen bonds with my sister and brother to become better friends with them somehow, though I don’t know how.  I have few enough friends who are not family, I can’t fathom what I’d need to do with family.  And they aren’t going anywhere, so it’s so much easier to get lazy and complacent and not do the work.  But no excuses, it’s important and should be done.  And though I may never have the AT&T commercial family, surely I could strive to have a movie of the week special type of family where despite the fact that we’re all odd, mistake making folk, we try our best and love each other, and are there for each other in the end.  

To Forgive is Divine

About a year ago, maybe two, during a random moment of attention during a church service, I heard the preacher speak about forgiveness. He said that we didn't have to forget the wound or hut administered by another, but we did have to forgive them. And at that moment, I felt a little better. It made sense to me that if someone really hurt me, that I might be able to let go of the anger, the hurt and bitterness of the hurt, but I didn't have it in me to let bygones be bygones and to befriend that person again. I mean, seriously, I'd have to be stupid and a glutton for punishment (and despite my current dedication to minimal participation in gym memberhsip....I am neither). So I felt better that I could say, I forgive you for the hurt, but I don't have to have you in my life. I don't have to forget you hurt me. But I won't let the hurt you issued have any more power over my life.
In the past couple of weeks, I have learned that I never really knew how to forgive until I became a parent, and specifically a parent of a teenager. As I grew up, and someone hurt my feelings, then I was grumpy with them. I wished bad things would happen to them. I replayed vicious fantasies that somehow resulted in their demise and my triumph. And though I might verbally declare that I didn't care, and that it didn't matter to me; secretly (and not always so secretly) I would wish for retribution.
Now that I'm 40, I find that I can say, I don't really care and it doesn't really matter to me. I don't know if that's because I see with greater perspective than I did when I was younger. Or perhaps the universe has taught me that I don't have to dream of retribution, it will come all by itself (and what Karma doesn't take care of 2012 will). But I think that perhaps I've learned how to forgive better because of my children.
Never in my life have I had greater hopes and higher aspirations than I have for my kids. I want their life to be better than mine was...to be easier somehow. And as those with parents of older children, or any children, know what I want doesn't come into a child's life plan very much. And there are times when the child you have worried over, sweated over, cried over... that child that you labored to deliver into this world, clothed, fed, protected... that child will hurt your feelings. There will be a time when you are not cool, not wanted, not right. You will not know everything, you won't know anything. You won't be the one with the answers, you'll be the one that doesn't understand and who doesn't know anything. Yours won't be the arms they run to when they're hurt, but the clutches they run from. They will lie to you, deceive you, say bad things about you to their friends and to your face. In short, they will rip through your heart with tiny little scissors that drip an alcohol salt water mix. You will be angry, hurt, upset, worried, anxious, hopeful, disappointed, frustrated, sad, and every other emotion you could think to experience. No one will make you feel more incompetent than your child. Nor will anyone make you feel more angry. No one will hurt you more. But then, there comes that moment, when the planets align, and that same child comes to you and says they love you. And you let all of it go, open your arms, and you forgive.

Then, if my own experience is true for most, you jump right back on that roller coaster and do it all over again, because who are we kidding, they're kids and have not yet learned how to tell their left buttock from a piece of bologna. But at least, they get to start again with a clean slate (though to be honest, Franklin's still has enough smudges that I can read the stupid stuff he's already done). It's there but washed away somehow - thus insuring that you don't murder them today, maybe tomorrow...when they drive their car past two road closed signs, watch a F150 drive through the water and think their little coupe can make it too, then refuse to actually actively work towards the repair of the car....all the while logging onto the internet with a virus infected laptop without permission.... ahhhh... to forgive is divine.

Live Like There’s No Tomorrow

There are many things in my life that I’m grateful for.  Today, I’m grateful that I didn’t have to on the first grade field trip, and that none of my students have issues with defecating.  But more importantly, I am so very grateful for my eldest son Elijah.  Today, for some reason we were having a conversation about 9/11.  He wanted to know what I was doing when it happened.  What was my reaction.  And I told him how I was at work, and I wouldn’t let the kids watch the news because I didn’t realize what a significant event it was.  But it was that event that made me first truly feel patriotic.  It was the first time that I felt as if I identified with every other person in the entire nation, not just the few people that I knew.  That ultimately, we were one.  It was sort of how I feel at the olympics while I hope that every other country will fall down and lose, even those from the really bad countries who’ve had a really hard life and really deserve to win… I even hope they’ll fall down and lose.  But it was more than that.  It wasn’t about rooting against another team, it was about understanding and appreciating the team that I was on.  And of course, any talk of doom and demise led to 2012 end of world predictions, by way of, what would you do if you were on that last plane and had to call and talk to your family.  What would you say to those you loved if you knew it was the last time that you were going to talk to them at all.  And I told Elijah that there were many things that I wanted to know.  i want to know more about so many things, but if I never had to know that thing then I was fine.  And that is where 2012 entered into the conversation.  Because wouldn’t it just suck to know when the end was coming and have to count down – but not really be able to do anything about it.  I mean if December 21, 2012 is really the time of a great cataclysm (and not just the date that the mayan calendar maker got to before he died because he didn’t know you need to really cook pork and not eat it raw – and we trust him…) then how should we be living our lives and treating people who matter.  Then I decided that if I were to have to die in such a fashion, I wanted to be driving down the road, laughing with the boys about something silly and then have my car (my brand new car that I  hadn’t even made one payment on) hit by a meteorite and we all died instantly, laughing.  And then, we had to change the conversation topic because the whole 2012 really freaks us both out a bit if we think about it too much.  And damn that history channel for making me think of it more than I’d want to.  But the thought is there.  That it’s really a choice of living to find something happy each day.  To treat those we care about with kindness (and to have patience and bite our tongue when those we care for who also have a penis and a sense of glass 1/2 empty and only see the negative and speak of it with a heavily accented el salvadoreno voice).  It means living every day so that when you curl into bed with your cheesy romance novel that you know should be something more substantial but isn’t going to be, that you regret nothing (especially not the bodice ripping, turgid manhood man who could be the one with a penis and a glass 1/2 empty and only see the negative and speak of it with a heavily accented el salvadoreno voice if you hold your eyes 1/2 closed – ooh lucky him).  And let me say it’s hard.  It’s hard to not let the being tired and grumpy come out of you.  It’s hard to not be sarcastic with your children.  It’s hard to hear your children expressing their frustration with the same loud voice you use and worry that this is the lesson that they have learned from you; and harder still to try to change so they learn a better one, not the easy one.  And all of this, from a conversation with my 9 year old son – who seems so often so much older than 9, though I don’t talk to many 9 year olds – or any except him.  But in my defense, none of them ask the same kinds of questions that he asks.  So, I am eternally grateful that I am able to talk about those things that I value and that are important with him and he can understand and share his thoughts too (like really when they say they are thinking of nothing, they really are thinking nothing, absolutely nothing).  And not to leave out Isaiah –I am grateful for his crinkle-eyed smile that reminds me of my Grandaddy Walker, I love that he is always ready to go and do something, anything.  And I love how his bossy Amy words come out in a helium sounding voice.  It puts it all in perspective somehow.   So, though it’s late for new year’s resolutions, how about I make an April resolution – to try to live like there will be no tomorrow… join me.

Licking Your Wounds

I few weeks ago, I defriended someone on facebook.  More  than that I defriended them in my life as well.  It’s not the first time in my life that I have had such a moment, a bitter goodbye, an intentional parting of ways.  And it seems as if I react the same each and every time.  There is the last straw moment.  That moment in which every little thing that you have swallowed, tried to accept, argued over, cried over comes up and says no more.  And for about 3 days, you are just proud of yourself for not taking any more crap.  It’s the next stage that I don’t much care for.  It’s the should’ve stage.  It’s the part  where I replay everything that has happened and try to resolve it in a different way… a better way.  Not necessarily in a manner that salvages the relationship, but in a manner in which you don’t have any regrets.  I suppose that’s why I replay the whole thin in my head over and over again.  It’s almost like putting iodine on a cut.  Sure it stings, but it stings in a  good way – sort of.  Somehow, the pain is part of  the process – and not always an unenjoyable part.  You know that as soon as you spray on the iodine, that it will begin to heal the wound.  And you keep going back – and why is that.  Why do we continue to seek the sting?  Is it so that we can become accustomed or indifferent to the   bigger hurt through a series of little hurts?  Do I repeat the phrase “I figured you’d backpeddle” (infamous last words from defriended person) over in my head because … because why?  I simply don’t understand why I keep going back  there and replaying the whole thing in my head.  I suppose,  for me,there’s a lack of satisfaction because I didn’t say all the things I wanted to say.  I didn’t get mean and hateful and hurtful like I really wanted to.  Sure, doesn’t that make me a great person – but I’m pretty certain that such goodness is negated by all the hateful, hurtful jibes that I have  issued in my mind since that moment.   And I think that’s it.  I don’t regret the end of the relationship.  It was more than time for it to end, it had served it’s purpose and really already died a natural death.  But it’s the fact that my feelings were hurt and I didn’t get to hurt back.  What does that say about me, that I feel the need to make someone else miserable.  And really, if not saying those mean, hateful things, makes me carry around crap for days, months, years on end why should I not say it at the time.  Why is holding your tongue taking the high road.  On the flip side, what would have the words have accomplished.  Nothing.  It would merely have escalated the whole thing to a higher level.  And eventually, someone would have to step back and say done.  And then what sort of mental conversations would I have had? It just seems that life would be a little bit better if by taking the  high road  and holding your tongue, you didn’t feel robbed somehow, cheated.  But in the long run, I suppose I’d rather than feel cheated than hurt – because hurt is the only thing that I’m really not – because I no longer cared about the person, and her opinions matter less than nothing to me and haven’t for a very long time.   I just didn’t  win the contest of words, because I walked away.. and losing sucks.

The Thinking Place

It seems that I am always carrying this blog of mine around with me.  Trying to find something worthwhile or amusing to write about.  If I’m honest with myself, I would admit that I write because I lurve it when people say they have read what I have written and enjoyed it.  That makes me feel good.  But it seems that in the middle of the business that accompanies living with 6 boys, working at an elementary school, or just living in general, that I don’t often have enough ideas, or find enough things amusing.  What I have learned about myself is that when I have a moment of peace during the day, when no one is around, I tend to think about the world around me, or about something funny.  What I wish is that that moment didn’t occur most frequently when I was in the restroom.

Just this week, I had stopped by the teacher restroom on the 3rd grade hallway.  And as I was doing what you do when you are in the restroom, I noticed for the 480th time ( I know it’s 480, because I’ve worked at Alvaton for almost 3 full years and use that restroom every day) a sign that said, we thank you for making sure that you didn’t get anything on the toilet seat or on the floor.  And for probably the 200th time, I wondered, who is that sign for?  I mean, was there once a person who worked there who came in and just peed all over the floor then left it for the next person to stumble upon?  Was there once a man who didn’t raise the seat and was a dribbler. Since I live with small boys, I can tell you that dribblers are highly annoying for those of us who sit to pee, because you don’t always see the dribble, but you ALWAYS feel the dribble.  But, at least they’ve taken down the Mr. April poster of the bulldog.  I spent many a potty break contemplating who thought that was funny, amusing, a great picture.  Deep down, I suppose i hoped that it was covering a whole in the door or something because it didn’t make sense to me at all.

And unfortunately, for me and if you’re reading this you, the same phenomena occurs in public restrooms.  You are surprised what sort of things women talk about in the restroom.  Or better yet, what little kids say to their mom’s in the restroom.  If you’re making a lengthy deposit, then you can actually have some entertaining moments.  But it’s not always what you hear in the restroom that gives you cause for thought.  Sometimes, it’s all the internal restroom drama.  I have mentioned that I go to the potty a lot, right? 

There are those people in the world who are not comfortable with public restroom use.  Sure, it’s o.k. to go in and pee, but nothing more.  Everything else is contained until they get home, or to some other designated restroom.  I am not that person.  But, I don’t know if I want that to be public knowledge.  I have apparently spent some 35 of my 40 years trying to achieve the impossible, the silent, scentless poop.  I must confess that it is an impossibility.  And I must unfortunately confess  to cheating in my attempt to achieve this biological impossibility.  There’s the flush repeatedly in the midst of the action thus providing sound cover and reducing time for odor to spread.  There is the intermittent poop, feet raised, where you try to wait until the room is cleared, but just incase, you don’t want anyone recognizing you by your footwear.  There is the poop and run, where you go as quickly as you can, speed wash your hands and leave before anyone in the stalls near you can recognize you by your shoes.  And there’s the subterpoop, where you just pretend you didn’t do that, or that it was there when you came in.  And since you can see that I apparently spend a lot of time thinking about poop (and I’m not sure if it’s because I live with small boys or if it’s just me and my penchant for taking a moment to contemplate life in the quiet moments on the pot), you can no doubt ascertain my deep annoyance when I enter into a bathroom after someone else has already left a hefty deposit.  Sure I sympathize with them, I know how it is.  But after doing my business while taking tiny breaths out of my mouth while I wonder what they could possible have eaten to make such a horrific smell, I step out of the restroom to see that someone is waiting to use the restroom, and they are going to be thinking those thoughts about me.  Or better, when you you are that person waiting after someone has left such a stink.  And there’s a general lack of eye contact at the door.  You wonder why they seem to be grumpy at you and then you walk into the restroom, and you realize that was grumpiness but shame.  And, as a side topic here, I have to say that I don’t know what teachers eat, but oh my goodness it can’t be healthy – all I’m saying.

All this being said, It bothers me that sitting on the potty is the only time that I really have to think.  I do think some when I’m driving, but I’m such a bad driver, it’s really more important that I pay attention to the road.  And car contemplation can only occur when the boys are content, and Isaiah is in the stage of car conversation, so there is not a lot of independent thought going on while I hear the melodious tones of Isaiah saying mama, mama, mama, mama, mama, mama in the back seat.  Maybe someday, I’ll find a better place to have my random moments of thought, that tend to lead to entries here, I hope so, but I doubt it.

Worry

There was a book that I read once, long after I saw the movie, called Hotel New Hampshire.  It’s by John Irving, who is by and far one of my favorite authors.  He tells a story in a slow way that lets you believe the characters are real people whose life he is recording, rather than fictional characters  who romp around in his head.  In the novel, there is a dog, named Sorrow.  He’s a black lab, who’s very old, and has a severe case of flatulence.  Sorrow was a beloved family pet, and he had to be put down.  But because one of the younger kids couldn’t let go, Sorrow was then stuffed.  Sorrow then fell out of a closet, I think, and killed grandpa.  When the plane carrying 1/2 the family across the ocean crashed, sorrow’s stuffed corpse was a bit of the wreckage survived, when none of the passengers did.  It became a bit of a theme with the book.  And the line after the plane crash was Sorrow floats.  Though most of the book escapes my memory most of the time, every so often that quote, sorrow floats, comes back to me.  Today was just such a day.

My brother is not sorrow.   He is a person that is virtually indescribable.  He is something different to every person he knows and he knows so many people.  I think that if you spoke to enough of the people that he knows, you would easily find the few common threads.  I think most would consider him funny.  He’s likeable. He’s adventurous.  He thinks outside the box, the triangle and any shape having fewer than 12 sides.  He has a good sense of humor, likes a joke, and doesn’t care to play a joke on someone, or be the butt of one. He is artistic.  He is smart.  It’s a paltry list, really, because when I try to describe him, I don’t have adequate words, except for one:  worry.

My brother is the baby of the family.  But I’m not sure if he’s the baby of the family in the way that it is stereotypically depicted.  I don’t know that he was spoiled, that he got more than the rest of us.  My sister might disagree.  And there were times in my life that I am sure that I would have disagreed.  Sometimes I think that he might have gotten the short end of the stick in a lot of ways.  My sister and I were well behaved and good students in a small town school.  He probably had to suffer a bit with those expectations.  He dealt with them by totally ignoring them.  Maybe he was ignored as we all focused on our own teen age or middle age angst.  But if that was the case, he definitely took advantage of it and had far more freedom than I needed, or wanted, or that my sister had. 

But what Jason had more of than my sister and I, was the ever present worry and concern of my parents.  And as I got older, of my sister and I as well.  My parents worried about him through high school.  Would he graduate, would he get someone pregnant, would he die in a car crash, what was he going to do with his life, where was he, who was he with, was he safe.  When he got out of high school, he joined the army.  It seemed an odd choice to me, but it seemed to fit better than college.  And not long after that, Operation Desert Storm began.  And then we had to worry that he was in Iraq.  That we didn’t know where he was.  Was he safe.  Was he near the fighting, was he protected, was he o.k., did he need anything.  Please let him be safe.  It was the first time I saw my mother burst into tears at the national anthem.

He returned from the army, decided to be a barber, got married, got divorced, and started cutting hair and doing drugs.  He decided on a whim to put his stuff in the car, and leave town, driving across country to parts unknown.  Where was he, what was he doing, did he have enough to eat, was he o.k., who is he with, is he safe.  Sometimes tempered with, the creditors are calling, the car is being repossessed, who will find him, will have have to go to jail, what will happen to him, what is he thinking, what is he doing, and still always, is he safe.

This whole phase could be a rinse, repeat, rinse repeat sort of thing.  But then he started to work in Dallas.  He was making money, he’s got his feet on the ground.  He wants to move back to Cadiz, open his own shop.  Where will he get the money, thank god he’s safe, he’s making plans for the future, we are so proud of him, that’s really something.  And he comes back, opens his shop, is making money, but then it’s disappearing.  And my brother is addicted to oxycontin, spending 500 a day.  Borrowing money on the bank to work on the shop but blowing the money on pills.  What is he doing.  Is he sober, is he high, what is he thinking, what do we do, please don’t let him over dose, how do i talk to him, how do i make him listen, does he understand what he will lose, why is he doing this, doesn’t he understand how it scares us all.  And there was rehab, and we all held our breath.  Maybe this time it will work.  Maybe this time it will be better.  Maybe this time he’ll be fine. 

And there was the army again, during the war in Iraq.  And he wants to be a combat medic.  And he’s sent over seas.  where is he going, what will happen to him, is he going to be o.k. is he going to be in a car, what will he have to do, will he keep in touch, what is he thinking, please be safe, please be safe.  And it was the first time that I began to cry at the national anthem, and the pledge, and the army march.  And he made it home, and he seemed normal.  Will he be o.k. will he mess up his finances again, will he balance his check book, will he be o.k.  will he be happy, will he find a girlfriend, a wife, a family of his own.  Will he reenlist, will he leave the army.   He seemed to fit into his own skin.  He seemed relaxed, not seeking a thrill and rush. He wasn’t always running off to see and do, but staying and being.  And today, I found out that he’s going back to Afghanistan on Thursday.  And it all floods right back.  Where is he going.  will he be safe, what will he be doing, why is he going early, are they going to take care of him, are there rebels there, who will be with him, will he be careful, will he not volunteer to do stupid dangerous stuff, is there stupid dangerous stuff that requires volunteers, will he be able to keep in touch, will he find something good where he is, will he meet someone new, will he be safe, please let him be safe.  He is not yet the person we have all waited for him to be, but getting closer all the time.  i don’t want him to go.  Does he know how much we love him, does he know how much we worry.   

JURY DUTY

 

Many of you are aware that i was summoned for jury duty this past week.  It was a relatively publicized trial for Bowling Green as it involves a murder and kidnapping.  And it is a death penalty case.  And as I was watching the final 16 jurors (out of 144) get called, there were no happy faces among them.  They were slow to stand, and grim faced to the last one.   Me… well, it was a difficult thing to decide.  It seems to be the thing to not want to serve on jury duty.  But really, I think it is a truly interesting experience.  So much intrigue and drama.  It’s an open invitation to delve into the deepest recesses and nastiest part of humanity.  Those parts that I would never see first hand (thank goodness), but that I’d see on television.  But, I can also say that the processes of getting selected for large trial like this is a long and tedious thing.  Like most things involving the government, it’s all about you be on time and prepared to wait, and wait . . . and wait.  Me, I felt a lot like I was being picked for teams.   You know the feeling, that dreaded anticipation.  Who will pick you, let it be the team with your friends.  Oh, please don’t let me be the last one picked.  Sure, I’ll never be among the first ones picked, but at least let me get a solid middle selection.  And if they don’t pick you, you sort of feel like somehow you failed.  What was wrong with me?  Why wasn’t I good enough.  I also learned about myself, or rather revisited, the aspect of my personality that doesn’t do well with extended periods of quiet, when there are others present.  I can’t sit in a jury room with 18 people and not eaves drop on another conversation, or not fling out a comment.  I can’t watch people approach the bench without trying to read the judge’s lips and determine what they are talking about, and if I can’t figure it out, then I must make up my own scenario and then wonder if it’s true.  There is a lot of imaginative play that goes on when you’re forced to wait for a long period of time with strangers.  And then I fight the urge to shout out random smart ass comments, though i don’t seem to able to refrain from muttering them under my breath.  Maybe next time, I should bring a book, or a nintendo.  Though, I’m more likely to bring an .mp3 player and the sound track to law and order.  I mean if it’s going to be going through my head the entire time, then I might as well play it for everyone else too (chung chung…).   But, any comments on how I would handle an actual trial will have to wait, as I didn’t get selected for this jury (though I know they both wanted me).  And, I won’t have to serve for another 2 years I think.  So, in the mean time, I’ll just have to find something to spend my 37.50 on; and try to let go of the regret of not taking full days off from work when I could have because I was really wishing i got picked for jury duty – and the 18 days off from work for the trial that would have come with it. 

 

Teenage Angst

So, I’ve been having a dilemma.  Or perhaps it might be better to say that my relationship with Franklin has been weighing heavily on me these last few weeks.  I can not speak for his state of mind, and lord knows he doesn’t speak to it either; but I have been walking around in a constant state of pissed-offedness with this child.  I am mad at him.  And I’m not sure why.  And I’m not even sure if this underlying anger and resentment is normal or just a freakish me thing or perhaps an oh my goodness what a bad step parent I'm turning out to be. 

For the most part, almost anything that comes out of Franklin’s mouth runs all up over me.  Today, Jose took the corvette (really a Toyota tercel) to get Kevin to come over.  He took the Toyota for 2 reasons.  First to check out how it did on the snow so that he could give Franklin some tips before Franklin headed into work today.  And secondly, it does save gas compared to the pickup.  On his way home, Jose got a flat.  i suspect he ran over something in the snow that he couldn’t see.  He had stopped at Crossroads to purchase a fix it flat, and that didn’t work so he was going to have to change the tire and wanted me to bring him the good jack from the truck.  When I told Franklin that I was going to go get his dad, his response was…what did he do to the car to make it have a flat.  To which my first thought was, what the hell does it matter what he did.  It’s not like he did it on purpose, and it’s his damn car if he wants to run it over the bridge he can, what’s it to you?  His second sentence was, what am I going to drive to work.  In response to which, I took a deep breath, and said let’s get them all home in one piece and we’ll worry about that later.  When really I wanted to just tell him to quit being so damn selfish.  I am not one for foul language for the most part, but I often cuss at Franklin in my head, which emphasizes to me the fact that i am harboring a deep seated anger.  It’s all those little things that when they’re 12, you tolerate, but when they’re 19 you are so done with.  Like knowing you have chores to be done by 10:00 a.m. and getting up at 9:45 to start them and believing that starting them before 10:00 is the same as having them finished by 10:00 and then getting pissy when you learn that that is indeed NOT the case.  It’s walking by a full trash can for three days and not wanting to have to go and say, will you please take out the trash.  In general it’s his failure to meet minimum expectations.  But it’s not just that failure.  It is accompanied by a general sense of entitlement.  Like, did you buy ink for the computer because i need to print for class.  I don’t want to take psychology because it’s too hard.  I don’t want to take economics because it’s too hard.  I don’t want to work more than 2 days a week because i have 5 classes.  I don’t want to apologize for hitting Isaiah in the face with a soccer ball because he hurt my arm.  These things, in combination with his personality’s tendency to keep thoughts to himself and not really converse with Jose or myself just combine to piss me off. 

Now, to be fair, I am going to step back and acknowledge that in large part it is my desire to control my environment and my inability to do so that is making me mad.  I want my house and my life to run the way that I want it to run and have been quite successful in creating a life that functions successfully for me.  Franklin is gumming up my works and then refusing to move or assist or do anything.  And because he is 19 and has a penis, there is really little any point in talking to him.  He’s not going to listen much past the phrase, I am so pissed off at you I can’t see straight.  I know this is true, because I have had this conversation with him in the past, and he has not made any effort to change his behaviors.  So the behaviorist in me identifies that he must be getting some reward for this behavior.  He is content and happy in this current situation, if he weren’t then he wouldn’t continue in this vein.  And if I want to change his behavior, I need to change his environment.  And when I think of ways to change his environment to elicit the response that I desire, I feel as if I’m playing games and being mean.   On Saturdays, I don’t want to let him sleep in until 9:45.  I want to open his door at 7:00 a.m. and make him get up when the rest of us are up and working instead of him coming in 2 hours after we’ve finished, and then still not getting all his stuff done.  But there’s this side of me, this sort of new age hippy thing i guess, that says, let him grow and learn on his own.  He must make mistakes and suffer consequences so that he might learn.  But you know, I’ve tried that and it’s not working and I'm pissed off.  So I think that I might just have to tell that new age hippy person to piss off and do what needs to be done. 

Is this that moment in parenthood when you say, they are adults we should transition into being friends.  We should evolve into the next stage of our development.  But when you look at your child and see how they behave,  you realize that you don’t want to be their friend, they are a freaking idiot and you are surprised that they can feed themselves and wipe their butt let alone be responsible – especially since their concept of responsible is that manage to get to class on time. (did I mention the disappointed shock that Franklin had that his English teacher this semester expected his assignments to be turned in as soon as he walked into class, not just sometime that day?  Or that he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to get up in time for an 8:00 class – and psychology 100 is hard – oh my god, whatever – do all 19 year olds act 12?).  Is this that moment that you look at your 19 year old and see him as 30 and still living in your house and doing the same thing as he’s doing right now.  Jose’s so sure that Franklin will live here forever.  I’m pretty sure that he won’t.  Because he thinks that his life here is too restricted.  He doesn’t, he feels, have enough freedoms.  He doesn’t get to do what he wants to do when he wants to do it.  He’s sure that that will be resolved when he has his own car.  He’s certain that when he has his own apartment in a year that everything will be better.  And it’s true, he will have more freedom then.  And he will then have 20.00 to live on for 2 weeks.  At which point, I will offer him food in exchange for conversation.  And maybe then, we will become friends.  And until then, I suppose that I must do what I must do to keep myself from going crazy.  And I must let go of the tentative nature in which I have interacted with Franklin in the past.  I have not truly treated him as a child, and in that I have failed him.  I treated him as an exchange student or a foster child – ultimately deferring to Jose for interventions.  Which still left me pissed off.  So no more that.  What’s the worse that could happen?  He’ll get his own place, see what i mean about being responsible and come to eat and we can have great conversation.  Actually that’s the best worst case scenario.  The worse case scenario is that he moves out and we never see him again…but somedays that doesn’t sound as bad as it should.  And this is why it is better for your child to live on campus when they go to college if you can afford it.  And that is why I’m saving for Elijah and Isaiah right now.   

A pee and poot moment

I don’t know why so many of my blogs seem to be restroom related – perhaps I spend more time in there than i should.  It is definitely one of the few places that I find that I am alone (now that the kids are older).  Anyway, today I was at a special education training.  And during one of the restroom breaks, I had one of those pee and poot moments.  I know that you all know what I’m talking about.  How do I know you know?  I know because I have been in public restrooms where I didn’t have a pee and poot moment, but the person next to me did.  So, my question here is, really, what is the proper etiquette to follow in this situation?  Should we, in respect for all others in the room, try to quietly get through the moment, hoping that we are peeing loudly enough that no one can hear it.  And why is hearing it such a bad thing.  Do we not worry about the sound and raise our feet off the floor, so that if someone is wanting to see where that sound (magnified 10x by the toilet bowl) came from, they won’t be able to identify us when we emerge from the door – firstly because they won’t see our shoes; and secondly because we are going to stay in there until everyone is gone…and if they are hovering outside, then they won’t recognize our shoes.  My own strategy seems to a combination.  And if all else fails, I fall back to the surprise attack.  When I’m peeing and the poot escapes, just channel your grandmother and say something “well goodness me.”  Chances are the lady sitting in the stall next to you will be smiling / smirking to herself thinking, better her than me.

Texting

It used to really annoy me when I'd spend time with my sister.  Every two seconds her phone would chime and up it would come and she’d begin to type furiously with her thumbs.  I mean, here I am, talking to you right now and you got to piddle with your phone.  My sister who doesn’t much care for computer, technology or the like is now a blackberry ho.  And Franklin, would stare enviously at others who were texting, reading texts, sending texts, typing into their phone….and ask frequently for the service to be added.  And I, invariably said no.  There’s nothing that you need texting for.  It was my technology wall, and I wasn’t going to cross it.  There was really no point.  But then, Franklin made me grumpy.  And I added the cheapest texting plan to my phone.  200 messages a month.  Nothing extravagant.  And it wasn’t too bad.  It was o.k.  I could send a little note to someone, or get a short note from someone.  Sort of like portable email.  For Christmas, I upgraded the family plan and got unlimited texting for 2 months for Franklin’s Christmas present.  And suddenly the concept of texting changed.  suddenly, everyone had their phone and was looking at it frequently.  Texts had emerged as the new package delivery from UPS or FED EX, which is what email used to be, or snail mail before that.  Getting a text was paramount to opening a present.  What was it going to say.  Who was it from.  Did anyone send me something?  What about now?  what about now?  now?  now?  I'll just check one more time…nothing, maybe soon.  How did that happen.  Why did it happen.  I know that I have increased my use of texting, since now I'm in the you said unlimited and I'm going to make sure that i make you regret it phase.  But in many cases, I find that i prefer texting to any other form of communication.  Why?  There are many different reasons.

1.  Texting beats phone when you are speaking to the parent of your child’s friend.  For me those conversations are invariably awkward.  I just lack idle social skills in general.  I don’t know how to successfully maneuver the realm of chit chat.  So texting lets me send the basic message without having to worry about all the social rules.  This is truly the best reason for me, because I can’t really explain adequately how uncomfortable social situations make me.  And as I learn more about special education diagnosis…i always feel a bit autistic there… though I'm not sure just being anti-social, awkward and uncomfortable really  counts, but like everyone the diagnosis of autism seems so much better than that of loser.

2.  It’s like email, but i don’t have to go to the computer.  And it’s quicker.  I can send an email to someone and not get a response for days and days.  But if i send a text, i will get a response in seconds.  Often the response is so quick that I am amazed at the qwerty keyboard typing skills of the texter… how do they get their fingers/ thumbs to work that quickly.

3.  Did I mention that you don’t have to go to the computer.  It’s nice to have a little poorly typed, thumb numbing chat while hovering under the covers in the bed (can you see the theme of coldness at casa de serrano in the winter).  So, when I’m watching the office, i can fire off a message to a friend who watches it too, Jose is not that person.  Or, if my mom calls to tell me a joke (she doesn’t text yet) then i can send it to all my friends at once.

4.  Because of everyone obsessive need to respond to a text, and I mean everyone responds to every text if only with a /k/ or a smile, it makes one feel all powerful and uber popular.  I am important.  See how quickly my inane text is returned.  Everyone who is on my contacts list really likes me, they are my friend, they care what I have to say and they respond to me.  Not like this blog where only random people read it and fewer still respond.  Not so with texting, I get almost immediate gratification.    That’s not to say that I can’t use texting to outline how ultimately I’m still a nerdy loser.  Because I am fully aware that 99% of my texts are responses to my random outshoots, no one calls me, and no one texts me…but they’ll respond, so I’ll take what I can get.

Other than my wish for a larger keyboard for my phone, I have to say that i’m pretty satisfied with the whole texting concept.  Jose has even embraced it with ease.  And will on occasion respond to an “i love you” text with one of his own. I should save those, because he doesn’t say it in person over much in real life.  But know this, I am mean and controlling enough that i will cancel texting in order to make Franklin’s life miserable should he earn such a thing.  I can still leave my phone in the car or on the kitchen counter or in my purse and walk away.  I like it, but it’s not my addiction…anyone who knows me knows that white bread is my addiction.  C  U Ltr.