Alternate Realities

The Great Haste - Elijah's Story

2011-11-18T08:40:00.001-08:00

The Great Haste
Everyone knows Martian Mickey. If you don’t, you will soon.:” On one special day, Mickey was at his house; you know just chillin’. Then the mailman knocked on the door. Knock! Knock! Mickey filled with excitement. He rushed to the door as fast as he could. When he opened the door he was shocked. The mailman has pimples! Ewww! And he had a box too. He asked “uh…what is this?”
The mailman replied, “why this is a letter from our local community.”
Mickey thought and wondered a bit before he was issued the box. After a while, he replied, “OK . . . I guess.” Then he was handed the box. HE slowly made it back to where he was chillin’.
He wondered what the letter was. Once he opened it, he gazed at all of the words. HE couldn’t believe what he saw. How could forget?! The most horrible place on Earth!!! The doctor’s office!!!
Martian Mickey almost burst into tears. The letter reminded him that he had an appointment tomorrow. Mickey tried to keep it together. He began to think that somehow he could run away, or he could try to fight. He even thought about hiding in the closet. He decided to take a drink . He picked up a soda and gulp, gulp then crush.
After hours of thinking and two policemen came to talk about a noise complaint, he decided to go. Thankfully he had a plan. The next day, Mickey headed to the doctor’s office with two things: his pride and a bottle of shampoo. As he got in his car-mobile, he said, “It’s just me and you doctor’s office.” Five minutes later, he exited his car-mobile and approached the big doors. He took a big gulp and walked inside with the shampoo “duh duh duh duh.” (scary music played in his head.)
The nurse inside nicely asked him to sit down. Mickey replied, “shut it! Umm… I mean… ok.” The nurse was shocked. Mickey waited four hours. The glares from the nursed did not make him feel any better, and he was already feeling kind of sick to his stomach.
After many scary moments with the nurse, the doctor was ready. Mickey followed the so-called doctor (a.k.a. Evil Master Mind) to his office, and on the way, Mickey was so scared he almost threw up. Mickey was very surprised that the doctor’s evil lair (office) was actually very clean. The Evil Master Mind (slash doctor) told Mickey to wait. Mickey stumbled, “O…K….” He waited and waited. HE was getting tired. He then remembered about his plan. He pulled the shampoo bottle out of his pocket and began thinking and thinking and thinking.
Then he got it. Just at the right time too, because that very second the doctor (slash Evil Master Mind) walked ino the door. Mickey quickly shoved the shampoo down his pocket.
The Evil Master Mind (slash doctor) asked Mickey to slowly open his mouth. Mickey laid down and did as he was told, and he slowly pulled the shampoo out of his pocket. The doctor (slash Evil Master Mind) slowly pulled out his tools. Mickey slowly opened the cap and aimed at the Evil Master Mind (slash doctor)’s head. The doctor (slash Evil Master Mind) turned around. Mickey gave only a few seconds for the doctor to realize the situation. Then SPLAT!!! Soap was all around the Evil Master Mind’s (aka doctor)’s face. 1…. 2…. 3….
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH” screamed the doctor. Mickey jumped up and dashed away. Mickey dashed down the hall. SPLAT!! SPLOOSH! People screamed “AAAAHHHH! My eyes!”
Mickey rand down the hall. HE could see the door. He said excitedly, breathing hard, “Yes! I made it.” Then the police smashed the door and yelled, “FREEZE!”
Mickey stopped and sprayed all of htem, but there were so many. He decided to jump out the window. HE got into his car-mobile and drove away.
When he got to his house, he quickly bolted the door and blocked the windows. Mickey was breathing really hard and muttered, “I made it.” But from behind, a shadow appeared. The figure whispered, “we need you.”
Mickey answered, “Wh…what?”
The shadow replied, “we need you on our side.”
Mickey yelled “Come out! I got soap! I’m not afraid to use it.”
The shadow slowly crept out of the corner. The shadow was a shady man. HE said, “Mickey, I saw what you did in the Doctor’s office (slash Evil Master Mind’s Lair).”
Mickey replied, “wait…you saw?” The man said, “we want you to join the FBI. We saw you with the soap. You’re a professional.”
Mickey was surprised but he always dreamed of being a secret agent man. So he agreed, and began saving the world with his awesome soap bottle.
The End

The Red Headed Step Child

2011-11-08T05:39:00.001-08:00

I have always been one to keep boundaries, or to compartmentalize things and people. It’s not something that I think about, it’s just something I do. Like there are work friends, and non-work friends. There’s my family and Jose’s family. There’s real family and married family. I’m not very good at crossing groups, or really moving through these imaginary lines. It doesn’t mean that I like or care about someone less, it just means they have a place in line, a sort of hierarchy I guess. I’m not supposing that anyone else does this. And as you read this you are probably thinking what a horrible thing to do. I have no defense. It just is the way it is. I could in fact, probably easier than I should be able to, make a list of people I would save from a drowning in order from first to last. Bad right. It only works when you don’t aren’t actually involved in the sinking ship scenario, but just thinking about it. For example, when Isaiah was a baby, the discussion that I had with every person in my house was that is something happened, their job was to save Isaiah. And if they couldn’t save Isaiah, then, and only then, would it be ok to save themselves. However, I told Jose that this didn’t apply to him. If he couldn’t save Isaiah, he’d better die trying, because I’d probably never forgive him otherwise. Anyway, all this weirdness isn’t the reason that I’m writing today. But it’s necessary background needed to understand what comes after.

I strongly suspect that Franklin suffers from the same mental processing. I think he puts people into boxes and doesn’t want them to move out of that box into another box. And he’s not going to try to put the boxes together. He has this little microcosm of people at my house. He has my family in Cadiz. He has his family in El Salvador. He has Jose’s family. He has has friends. Here is what I suspect. That he has my family and Jose’s family here in Kentucky. But his real family lives in El Salvador. And since we’re not his real family, he really can’t be bothered overmuch with getting involved in our lives.

I try to make justifications for this, try to find a way to change my mind about what I think is true. But I’ve not quite made that happen yet. Franklin came to live with us when he was 16 years old. In retrospect, that was really too late, for him to feel like he was really a part of our family. But I just couldn’t make myself push to have him come earlier. I couldn’t take a child away from his mother, no matter what the opportunities would await him in America. It wasn’t until he was 14 or so, that I thought he could make that decision for himself about wanting to come. By the time he came to live with us, who he was going to be was pretty firmly set. Sure there was still some wiggle room, but the foundation had been laid. And not to disparage his mother, who did so many things right, there are a lot of things that I would have tried to do differently. But then, I have the luxury of the American life which would have allowed me to try to make those changes. When Franklin arrived he had already acclimated to doing what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted without a lot of parent interference. He had not made any effort on his current semester of grades, because he thought they wouldn’t matter, so he was failing all of his classes. It is perhaps the best example of this thought process. He does not push himself or achieve for himself. He is not a queen bee, or king of the pride, he is a worker bee. He will do only what he’s expected to do. He will not find anything extra to put him over the top. And if it’s not explicitly laid out in the instructions originally given, then it will not be done because “no one told me to do that.” It is by far the most annoying trait in a human being that I have ever seen, and it lives with me.

But even that isn’t really the issue. Franklin came with the idea that he was an outsider and he has let himself stay in the role for the past 5 years. Any all family event was not something that he wanted to attend. Believe me, I understand the teenage perception of the FFO. It sucks, but mostly just the getting there. And because I understood, I didn’t try to push him too much. My mistake. Maybe it would have been better to foster grumpiness in exchange for spending time. On top of that, Franklin’s tendency to keep to himself and not talk to anyone really, only thickened the wall between us. And because he was 16, because I thought what he was doing was probably the hardest thing ever, I gave him space. I treated him more like an exchange student than a child. I didn’t push him like I know I would push my own children. I didn’t feel that I had the right. And as a result, I now have a step child, who doesn’t consider himself a part of this family. Though he doesn’t say it that way, his actions time and again reflect his disinterest in being a part of this family unit. He chooses not to go on family vacations with us. He worked his schedule at work so he doesn’t suffer through church or the family breakfast that we have after. And this year, it was that he doesn’t really want to come to Thanksgiving or Christmas in Cadiz. Now, he may argue that I’m over stating that position. But I would disagree. W hen you ask, are you expecting me to come to Cadiz for Thanksgiving. What you are saying is, “I don’t want to go to Cadiz for Thanksgiving how mad are you going to be.” And when the question is repeated for Christmas, well, that’s just the icing on the cake.

I can say that it was a big enough hurt to make me step back a bit. This lack of connection, this desire to not be a member of my family, is not a new conversation between me and Franklin. We’ve had it several times. And his response, usually, is related to the fact that he doesn’t like to talk to people. Not just us, but anyone. To which I respond, bullsh#$%^t. Being a part of a family isn’t always about talking and sharing your innermost secrets. If it were, then I would not be a part of a family. As in the Walker household, we laugh and wax philosophical, but we don’t delve into our own personal crap with each other. Sometimes we delve into a non-present parties personal crap, but that’s about it, really. Having those big conversations is a huge, frightening production that no one really enjoys. Deep down, we’re all relieved that everyone has someone so that that person can be the one to hear all the fears, hopes, dreams, etc. Being family is about spending time together. It’s about enjoying each other’s company, at least 60% of the time. It’s about connection and shared history. It’s about knowing that even if we’re different, you got my back with everyone else (even if you immediately turn around and tell me I’m 10 kinds of idiot). Hell, when you get right down to it, family serves the same purpose as religion. It’s the knowledge that you are not alone in this world, ever. It’s a weird kind of love that isn’t always accompanied by genuine liking. It’s probably all based on innate survival instincts from when we first crawled out of the primordial ooze. And it has been lost through the years as industry and technology have allowed us to move away from our families. And you can believe, that Franklin doesn’t want to share such a bond with us. What’s wrong with us. We’re not to weird. We’re decent, if not always good, people; some of us are better than others. But more importantly, we all have made an effort and expressed a desire to include Franklin in our lives and in our family. And though I compartmentalize and can’t really ever say that Franklin is my son without pausing first (cuz he’s not my son… as my son would have already been murdered for such behavior). That doesn’t mean that I didn’t treat him like a son (actually I treated him nicer for the first year or so). My dad and Glenda have treated him just like a grandson. And my mother has made an attempt to bond with Franklin as well. But I think Franklin only hears noise and interruption. We are something that must be survived so that he can get back to his real family. And that is what most hurts me (and I’m working diligently at expressing my hurt as extreme anger, thank you very much).

So, the person that I am, says I am done. I don’t want to try anymore. It hurts my feelings and makes me angry. But the mom in me (and this is when I feel the line between step son son fading away) tells me that I have to keep trying to make the connection. Because one day it will be something that he craves or needs and it should be there. And the cherry on top is the fear in the knowledge that when he leaves, and it’s coming, that it will not be a temporary goodbye. It will be permanent. When he leaves, he will not return to visit, or to spend time with the boys. When he leaves, he is done; it will be too late to find a way to make him want to be in our family. And here, I am so glad that he is not the child of my womb, because I don’t think that I could survive that hurt – this one is bad enough.

Up and Out

2011-11-08T03:32:00.001-08:00

Well, first I must say that there should be a general thank you in Franklin's direction, as if it weren't for him I would not be conflicted enough to write. But he does exist and conflict he does create. so here we go.

There is a reason why kids go off to college. Sure, as a parent of young children you think to yourself that you don't want your kids to go. 18 is still so young. What will they get into; what dangers lurk behind the guise of friendly faces waiting to draw them down the path of self destruction. And the reason parents of young children think that is because they have young children. What you don't realize is that when your child reaches the age of maturity, they also approach the age of, hmmm...what shall I call it...? assholedom comes to mind, but that might just be for boys...maybe there's a bitchiland for girls. The fact of the matter is most individuals from the age of 18 to 24 can't think about anything or anyone else but themselves. They are in fact the center of their own universe and no other universe even exists or matters. And as a parent, you will try to remember being such an insensitive, selfish, jerk but you won't remember anything like that. You will think to yourself that you were pretty good. You will say that you did what your parents asked you to do, even when you didn't like it. And why can't your child be just like you were. Well they probably are. You just were so centered on your own personal life and happiness that you didn't register, as even the tiniest blip on your radar, that your parents were pulling their hair out in frustration over the idiotic, stupid, crazy, dangerous, life altering choices that you were making. And it was easier for you to be unaware of said parental angst, because most likely you lived in a college dorm and your parents didn't see you on daily basis...to which i say to you count your lucky stars.

Franklin is not lucky enough to be able to live on campus. It costs $500 a month to live in the dorm. And being the overtly frugal person that i am, I can not justify spending as much for a communal bathroom and 1/2 bedroom as I spend on my house payment each month. It simply makes no sense whatsoever. And since Franklin, god's gift to the universe, didn't apply himself to his fullest potential, he does not have any governmental funds coming his way to make campus life a reality. Needless to say that these past two years have been a bit challenging. Strike that, this last year has been challenging. The first year, he was still stuck firmly in high school at college mode and kind of holding his own. But then, he met A GIRL. Enter the teenage change. Apparently, meeting a girl who will let you see her naked makes studying next to impossible. Which makes sense if the jokes they make about blood moving to the penis and not to the head is true. I would imagine that it's probably difficult to study in the state of 19 year old semi-arousal. (Let me note that know for a fact that she didn't have any difficulty studying and kept her grades up, which may indicate something about Franklin's skills...just saying if heredity plays any role whatsoever, there will be some direct instruction going on). And so with the arrival of said girl, the need to go out and stay out become an almost constant. And when that resulted in brief foray into cohabitation that then resulted in arriving back home with his tail between his legs, I figured it was a lesson learned. When it was accompanied by failing grades, well, it was a very expensive lesson, learned. But alas, no. It would appear that the draw of a 19 year old vagina far outweighs rational thought, or really irrational thought, let alone forethought, and potentially afterthought. And the call of the wild hit again, and the same mistakes were made, just as shoddily. I mean seriously, the first time it was "I fell asleep and when I woke up it was 4 a.m." which is a half-hearted lie at best because mom's know that teenagers never wake up spontaneously at 4 a.m. They are either going to bed at that time, or crawling from the bathroom to their room. They don't wake up at that time. And this last excuse, "I'm too tired to drive home. I'm just gonna sleep here and be home in the morning." To which I say, Kudos to the casual tone of the text, delivered a mere 3 hours after everyone here has fallen asleep. And a little bitterness that we're not even worth a brand new excuse, but just a variation of the previous. Not that I'm suprised, as Franklin has demonstrated time and again, he'll find the easy way and stay with it...til...well, I've not seen him change this behavior yet, so I don't actually know how long it will last. So, after a few hours of fuming, ranting, raving... it was decided that with such freedom comes rent. Yes, I know that I did things that my parents wouldn't approve of. I stayed out all night. I got drunk. I experimented with all manner of things. But my parents didn't know. And I for sure wasn't doing it in my parent's house, unless they were somehow involved. And I didn't ask them to pay my way as I blew my money of frivolous perishible entertainment. I had hoped that perhaps that Franklin would find a way to get his own place, move out, and take the next step that he so desperately wants to take. But, staying was easier, and what did I say about Franklin, but he's a rut finder. So, he has taken advantage of paying rent, and spends 5 out of 7 nights out, somewhere. Which drives Jose totally out of his mind. And paying rent apparently doesn't stop you from getting a 1 hour in spanish chat an hour before you have to get up and go to class. What can I say, he's really getting a discounted rate.

And what does all of it mean? It means that I push the boys to get really good grades so they can live on campus when they are older. Because though I acknowledge the teenage need for freedom. The desire to grow as a person and make your own choices and decisions. I strongly advocate not having to witness the assinine nature of those choices. I don't want to know, unless you have to have a shot in your penis, at which point i want to know and post on facebook. I'm not sure that you can truly be friends with your children at this point, yet. They still need a parent, but an absentee parent. Someone to ask the right questions, and to call and check that the important things are being taken care of. I suppose for them it's about like having your cake and eating it to. But when they live at home, well, they are still 10 and will be treated as such. Course, to be fair, they still act like they're 10 when they come home (not cleaning up after themselves, unable to use a microwave, oven, stove, dishwasher, washing machine, vacuum, broom, sponge, etc.) They just can't grow up all the way until they leave. And the longer they stay, then the longer the battle between us. So, seriously, as soon as you can, when you know they won't end up on the street, give them the boot. Because until they leave, you can never move to the next phase of your relationship...the one where they buy you dinner instead.

The Office

2011-07-31T13:08:00.001-07:00

Have you ever watched the Office? It’s one of those quirky shows that really is funny, but it takes you a while to get into it enough to find it funny; at least that was true for me. After I started watching it for a while, I began to think about which of these characters in the office was me; as it is a pretty representative microcosm of people of the world.

There will always be the not quite qualified person in charge, who seems to have gotten there by being incompetent at their present level, sort of well liked, and the only one who applies for the job (which is what I must assume, because otherwise I can’t figure out how they get promoted). This person does not always have to be in charge, but they have gotten a job for which they are wholly unqualified. This person always walks fast in the hallway, like they are on their way to somewhere important. The more people in the hallway, the busier they will appear to be. Too busy to be stopped and asked a question.

There is the pretty but mostly useless girl or boy. This is the person who has a job, but doesn’t want it. They are daily, waiting to quit. They put forth no effort. Are happy to let someone else do their work. They don’t care if they get fired, because they were just going to quit anyway.

There’s the extremist, that one person who is 100% devoted to some self selected cause and it rules their life. This person is the master of the awkward conversation. They are going to talk animatedly and at length about some topic about which you know nothing about and care nothing for. And they will always catch you when you have about 5 minutes of free time and no way to escape. And those 5 minutes become an eternity.

There’s the nerdy, slightly annoying person who’s feelings you don’t want to hurt, so you hide from them when you see them coming so you don’t get caught in conversation with them.

There’s the know it all, been there, done that, let me tell you my story person. This person must insert themselves into every conversation with an anecdote as to how whatever random topic relates to them and their experience. They know which movies to see, which pop tarts are best, their kids have been in every club and won every award, and they have participated in every organization in the world.

And there’s the grumpy person. That person who gets a cake for their birthday then complains that it’s not the right flavor; or gets flowers from their mother and complains that they don’t like daisies, only roses will do. It’s a dilemma really. Because on the one hand, the selfish, I’m in it for me side, I don’t want to spend time with the grumpy person. I don’t want to eat lunch with them, or hang out with them before, during, after work. I just don’t care about what they have to say or do, and it’s always grumpy and always about them. But, the other side, on my muted undeveloped social skills side, there’s the “but I don’t want to be a bad person.” So the grumpy person is included as a guilt invite. No one wants them to come, but you invite them because you don’t want to hear them complain about how they weren’t included.

The worse part, is that you can’t put yourself into any of these categories. Oh, I’m sure that I’m the wonderful funny person. Of course I am. But Sally knows it all down the hall thinks that I’m the nerdy annoying person. Mostly because she doesn’t know me, I’m sure.

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A Life in a Day

2011-07-28T16:20:00.001-07:00

Apparently there is a new documentary coming out called a Life in a Day. The premise was that everyone around the world, record that happened to them on July 24, 2010. These videos were submitted and then compiled to make this movie. At first glance it looks like the same type of video where people offer 3 words to summarize their life. What prompted the notation was that the director, during the interview, said something to the effect that we have been taught since childhood, that we are all different. Our cultures and lifestyles make us different. But what he learned from this project, is that underneath all the surface differences was that we are all the same. We find joy in the same events and fear the same things. That this project made him feel like we were all of one mind with a million different voices. This is, of course, not a new idea to those of us who have read Richard Bach's One which proposes that we are all part of a single one and that the differences resulted each time a choice was offered. But, if you track back far enough, then we are all part of one mind. I always really liked that theory - it always made me seem closer to God somehow, as I always assume that he was the original one. Such thoughts always jumped right into Mark Twain and the Mysterious Stranger and the thought that we are sort of a mental experiment of God. And why these sort of ideas make more sense to me than anything in the Bible, I can't really explain, I just know that it is true - perhaps because it's more philosophically based rather than faith based. Who knows, and not really the point.

So, if someone had to take a glimpse into my life during any random day, what would I want him to see? On a summer day, he's gonna see everyone in their space doing their thing. We are all at home, but essentially separate - except for Isaiah who is the glue who connects us all. Elijah would be playing a game, i'd be reading or watching a movie, Franklin would be skulking somewhere sloop-shouldered and murky. The part I would want to see, would be the parts when Isaiah tells me he loves me, or when he creates his pokemon or dinosaur exhibits. But those times are not nearly as often as they should be. There's much of the day that is wasted and idled away. However, to be honest, I think that if I lived a life in which every moment was important and counted, it would have to be a short life, because i would have to kill myself. It would be too much for too long and I couldn't handle it. And I don't think i'd appreciate it. It would be like people who live next to the ocean, or in the mountains who don't see the view anymore. I think I'd most like to record the laughing moments - but not the ones where we're teasing just the ones in which we are joyous, and tickled for no reason where a little giggle turns into pee on yourself laughing. Or maybe the tender moments when we are quiet together and happy to be there (these happen less than I'd like...it is in its very nature a justification for letting your kids sleep with you). Those are the moments of my life I'd like to record for others to see and share, those are the moments of my life that are most important.

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A Life Worth Living

2011-01-16T11:13:00.001-08:00

My grandmother passed away this week. O.K. actually she was my step grandmother. And more often than not a part of me thought of her as a step grandmonster. And as funerals usually do, I found myself reflecting a bit… about life and the meaning of it all. Ruth Broadbent was the name of my grandmother. And I know one thing for sure about her. She didn’t like us when we were little. I don’t know how she felt about me when I got older. But I know for a fact that when we were little she didn’t like us. Not that she came up and said I don’t like you. But when you’re a kid, you can tell. When I was about 5 or 6, and my brother, sister and I were in Cadiz for our annual summer visit of 2 weeks, we spent one week with Grandma and Granddaddy Walker. The second week was spent with Granddaddy and Grandmother Broadbent. Usually, the set that picked us up, got us first; and the second pair delivered us back. Anyway, it was a Grandma Walker first year. And the switch over was happening. Grandmother Broadbent came to help me put my shoes on and I told her that I didn’t want to go with her. The memory is a bit vague, as I’m older and my memories all blend together. But I remember it being a bit of a battle of wills. And I know that she left and I stayed with Grandma Walker. I don’t remember much in the way of laughter or smiles, but much in the ways of heavy sighs and frowns. When I got older, much older, I learned that there was also some difficulty between her and my aunt Cheryl. Though I don’t profess to know what that is…nor do I really want to know. What I do know is that it wasn’t just my perception that she was a hard, difficult person to love. And as I walked into the funeral home, my aunt Yvonne hugged me and told me she loved me. And it took everything that I had to not laugh out loud in shocked disbelief. Perhaps I was at the wrong funeral? And as I was sitting through the ungodly long music ( I swear it lasted 20 minutes or more), and then the strange merging of peaceful, easy feeling and amazing grace, and then some strange 1970s must have come from a spaghetti western, ballad (at which point, again I was trying not to laugh), it hit me that this was simply a travesty. I should be overwhelmed with grief. This woman, though not really my grandmother, was the only grandmother that I had ever known. And I felt nothing for her passing. I felt bad for Yvonne, because they were close, and for Sarah and Katie (the real grandchildren), and some for Cheryl, but not for the death or the passing. And as the preacher began his sermon (in Cadiz there is apparently a no eulogy talk about the person rule if Amy Serrano attends the funeral) and the preacher said that she made good biscuits, country ham, and red eye gravy. And what a summation of a life that must have been. What a horrible thing that there was no one to stand up and say more about her. Even at this late date, I would have relished an opportunity to hear someone’s positive regard for her. To hear that she loved, gave, laughed, had joy – even if she never chose to share that with me. And I sat there wondering why didn’t she like me. And though I suppose I could have been maudlin and whined about the unfairness of it all…really what was the point. I had accepted for some 20 years that I was nothing important, and I was already o.k. with that. Wishing it were different didn’t make it so. But more importantly, it made me want to work on myself so that at my funeral – which of course no one will attend because they don’t attend my parties when I’m alive, that I’d like for someone to be able to say something more about me than I made a mean pancake (I don’t do red-eye gravy – really grease and water, bleck…). Of course, who am I kidding…I’m never going to set aside money for a funeral, it’s a waste of funds. So when everyone comes to Elijah and Isaiah’s house, I hope that someone is genuinely upset that I’m gone, but does not regret my relationship with them (except perhaps Satan from Eleventh Street, she can regret all she wants). But I’m pretty good with my standing with all others in my life. And that says something. I just want to have lived a life that was worth something, to others and to myself (mostly to myself because I can’t do anything for others really). And if that’s what I walk away with from the stepgrandmonster’s funeral, well then that was lesson worth learning and I suppose she gave me a gift after all.

Go 25% or Go Home!!!

2011-01-08T19:00:00.001-08:00

So, today was yet another FFD (f-in family dinner, newly coined by my nephew Lanny). It was technically the birthday dinner for Franklin, my oldest son, who has recently turned 20. He was late (which way made me grumpy). How can you, if you pick the date, the time, the menu not bother to show up on time, don’t even call to say you’re late until 10 minutes after you are supposed to be here, then arrive saying you didn’t think it was that big of deal. But despite the 10 minutes of enraged she-devil that emerged when Franklin arrived and came to give me a hug hello like nothing is wrong, that is not the topic. The topic is the conversation that we had once I calmed down… not all the conversation, just the important parts.

The conversation began innocently enough with Franklin asking me about the movie The Social Network. He told me how it inspired him and made him want to do well in school. That he saw this guy who was his age who essentially was so smart, did so well in school, and then had an idea and changed the world. Which was not at all what I saw in the movie, but that’s neither here nor there. The important part is that he said in the midst of this conversation something to the effect that I might be surprised, but he’d had never given 100% or tried his best on anything. My response was that no, I wasn’t surprised at all. Which wasn’t entirely true. I suppose, I was surprised that he actually admitted to such a genuine lack of effort or involvement. I hear that the first step to conquering an addiction is admitting you have a problem. I don’t know that such an admission of his personal lack of effort will result in a lasting change, but I was so hopeful. He talked about watching the movie over and over again and every time he saw it he got inspired. He was ready to do something, be something. And for a few moments, I was hopeful and excited with him. But then the conversation shifted and moved and ended up squarely on the doorstep of his current booty call. Now he wouldn’t call her a booty call. He’d call her almost a girlfriend. He likes her. And they have sex. And she wants him to be his boyfriend, but he doesn’t want her to be his girlfriend. And that being girlfriend and boyfriend today means that you like someone as a friend, want to see them naked and then see what they are all about, to see if you like them or not. Which placed me firmly in the other generation. Because I’d figured if you were seeing someone naked on a regular basis, then you should already know what they are mostly about. I had thought that time when you are getting to know someone was called dating. And I thought dating came before that. That was when you tried to find out about someone to see what they were like. And it was even a chance to take a test run on the seeing naked part. But girlfriend and boyfriend means that I don’t want to see anyone naked but you. It means that I think that I love you, or that I do love you.

So naturally our conversation moved to this girl, Erica. And the fact that if she’s just his booty call, that I didn’t really want to have to know her. That you don’t introduce booty calls to your family. At least you don’t introduce them to my family. And then I talked to him about not wasting time with someone that you knew you weren’t going to love. I mean seriously, if you know after a few weeks whether or not you really like this person, if you are crushing on them, or not. And if you don’t feel that little spark, then being friends is o.k., but why waste time with what you know you don’t really want. At which point, he told me about this other girl that he kind of liked. That he felt that she was almost the perfect girl for him. But he was with Erica. And I almost lost it. I mean it was a shake my head and try to see if he was serious kind of moment. I could not, and still do not, understand why you would stay with someone that you like as a friend, and enjoy having sex with enough, instead of trying to be with someone that you already have a kind of crush on. Now, if Franklin was a girl, then I’d say that he was suffering from the better to be with someone than be alone. It’s a common enough phenomena among the fairer sex and lends itself to all kinds of mediocre relationships that go no where and make no one happy. But Franklin, Mr. All By Myself himself, isn’t really that person. And it hit me… Franklin is the easy peasy lemon squeezy guy. He’d rather have something convenient and easy and there that he doesn’t have to work for, than having something wonderful or great that he might have to work for. He doesn’t go Big or go home. He would prefer to just dip himself in corn syrup and see what comes to him, he live with whatever that might be.

To be fair, it’s been a long long time since i’ve been 20 years old. And when I was 20, I was mired in the uber unhealthy relationship (I was the hag to his fag). And I have not much room to talk when it comes to bad relationships, because I spent most of that time praying that my fag would settle for 25% himself because that was better than nothing. It took several years for me to realize that I was settling not the other way around – well that and gay men don’t like beautiful women naked they definitely won’t like fat ugly ones. But the upside is that I’m older and no how precious time is. And wouldn’t it be lovely to emerge from those trying years without having totally screwed up your life. Wouldn’t it be nice to begin a career at the tender age of 23, with little to no debt, self confident and secure in yourself, and with someone who compliments you (not says you’re pretty, but is essentially the jelly to your peanut butter). Apparently that age old adage that youth is wasted on the young was created and maintained for a very good reason. So, in the meantime, as Franklin marks time with Miss 25%, while watching miss 90% could be the real deal pass him by, I suppose these are the lessons he must learn… such a shame that it has to be a practicum course rather than a lecture. The latter, though boring and a pain to sit through, is so much easier in the long run. If only Franklin only knew how much work he was creating for himself later, he’d probably give a bit more than 25%.

The Movie Moment

2010-12-06T15:22:00.001-08:00

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

2010-11-20T15:28:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-11-06T05:30:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-04T16:10:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-17T14:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-23T19:07:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-31T17:38:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-27T04:07:00.001-07:00

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

2010-02-25T17:45:00.001-08:00

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

2010-02-10T09:50:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-30T16:26:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-25T15:49:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-09T18:40:00.001-08:00

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.

Christmas 2009

2009-12-25T17:17:00.001-08:00

I have survived - just barely- with Daddy in the hospital christmas eve, helping glenda get ready for family christmas, cleaning up for glenda cause she'd spent the night in the hospital with daddy, family christmas dinner, eating ham because we never have pork at my house, opening presents – getting a clown costume and money for my summer vacation, feeling guilty because Kevin didn’t have as many as everyone else, santa activities, forcing everyone to sleep in one room and not allowing anyone else to go back downstairs because Jose was the elf this year and he wasn’t getting up to do it and was sure he’d be up before the boys ( he wasn’t so forcing him to do it before 11 and keeping the boys in the room worked best)little boys who wet the bed because they so didn't have to pee before bedtime, whatever, sleeping with wet pajamas because there was nothing else to sleep in, getting up early, waiting 30 minutes before forcing everyone else to get ready, wondering in what wierd hell Santa leaves all the presents in the bag that I have been carrying around from room to room for 3 days with presents in that the boys have seen instead of taking them out of the bag and putting them in the santa bag purchased specifically for that purpose, shaking my head at how bad boys are at being santa’s helpers, watching the boys open their presents from santa and mamita, papita and mom and dad, feeling guilty because kevin only has one presewnt to open, visiting with the relative no one else wants to visit with, another family christmas, lunch this time and again focus on the ham, playing dirty santa, ending up with two gifts, both of which i like, thank you jodi, the drive home, and last presents between the boys, feeling relieved when Kevin was so happy to see his bike and not upset at all that men’s bikes now come in the color purple, then putting everything away, listening to the children be whiney and happy all at once like kids who’ve been up since 5:30, mostly that 5 year old whose idea of sharing is for him to have it, but since he’s the only one who got toys and not video games everyones all over his stuff, outlining the day ….now, to go hide in the bedroom, read, and sleep until dawn.

Showing the Love in a Family of Open Doors

2009-12-19T00:14:00.001-08:00

I often look at the world and say there are two types of people. It’s really amazing how many times you can really do this well. There are two types of people….

those who like to get the mail, and those who don’t care

those who like to open gifts, and those who’d rather watch

those who like to read, and those who want to watch tv

those who spend and those who save

and my newest, via Franklin, those who like to have doors open and those who don’t. Because I’m a very small minded, self centered person, it never occurred to me that there existed in this world, people who wanted to keep their door shut. But, apparently there are. Franklin is a door shut kind of person. Right now, he’s rooming with my nephew Lanny, who is a door open kind of person (apparently a Walker family trait.0 It never occurred to me that except in anger, or sex, door shut was really an option. I don’t like the door shut, really, i prefer to know what’s happening. And really, I think shut doors bother me a bit. What are you hiding, that you have to have a shut door. Or, if you’re not hiding something, you must be trying to keep me out. I don’t even like to keep my classroom door shut when I teach. I only shut it if hallway noise gets to be too disruptive. And this even when demon spawn, my supervisor at 11th Street made the shut door mandate. i risked it all to keep the door open.

so anyway, Franklin is a closed door kind of person. He keeps his bedroom door closed. And is pretty grumpy if anyone enters into his domain. You’d think that anyone who grew up in a third world country, where in many cases doors and windows are optional that he wouldn’t be so closed doorish – shoot, my brother in law, Eliseo, has a really nice house and the only doors in his house were bathroom and doors that were made of iron for the front door. But apparently my perception of Franklin’s El Salvador experience is skewed, because his door is closed (byth literally and figuratively, but that’s a whole other blog). So, Franklin is a door closed kind of guy, and that closed doorish personality transcends all concepts of personal security when he’s in the bathroom. He latches the door and locks the door (via doorknob). And this leads us to the Walker family tradition of showing the love.

Last year, when my brother came to visit, he took great pleasure in dousing Elijah with cold water in the bathtub. Elijah was really mad, but I just told him that is how Jason shows you that he loves you. Elijah, upon learning this new custom, has really enjoyed showing his love to others throughout the year. It has, in deed, been his great joy. Imagine our delight when we discovered yesterday that Franklin had left the door tot eh bathroom only partially locked – latched, but not locked. And I reminded Elijah that he hadn’t had the chance to show Franklin how much he loved him. Now, Elijah, never one for grand gestures, was just going to show Franklin a small cereal bowl full of love. But really, what kind of gesture is that. It’s no gesture, I say. So, I got the blender pitcher and and filled it up with some 40 ounces of pure love. And let Elijah enjoy his moment of brotherly bonding.

Imagine my surprise when a few moments later, I heard a loud crash in the hallway. Franklin had snatched the blender pitcher from Elijah, and then throwing it with enough force that it shattered the bottom portion, after first bouncing off Elijah’s back. And then i realized that there were two t ypes of people…

people who think it’s funny, though not always pleasant, to splash or get splashed with cold water..// and Franklin who is at the to take much of the joy out of almost anything…I really have seen such a dramatic display since I was in my teenage years. Who knew really, that boys could be such drama queens. And my response, is really, to find every opportunity to show him the love for years to come. Because if there is anyone who needs a little good old fashined demonstrations of affection disguised as water, it is definitely Franklin.

Flattery will get you....

2009-12-16T12:03:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, my first at Alvaton, I signed up for secret santa. It would be a great way to get to know someone, become part of the community, blah blah blah. I was lucky, because I drew Brenda's name from the mailbox. I didn't really know her, but she seemed to be a really nice, friendly person. She seemed like someone that I would like to get to know better. So, I set forth to be the best secret santa ever. I didn't just leave little gifts, like almost every day. I left notes, and letters and stories. When I made cornflake candy for her, I told her a story about my grandmother and how important those christmas goodies she had made for me were. I shared my memories with her. And to be honest, it really felt a little like flirting, and to this day that's what I called it. It sort of encompassed that college, meet someone you really like and stay up all night talking sort of feelng. I love that feeling, and you really never get to have them as often when you're older, and seldom when you're married. Spouses seem to frown upon those sort of moments...go figure. It was a perfect secret santa season, without a doubt. And, knowing that I'd never live up to it, I just didn't do it again. But each year, Brenda comes and asks me for a little story. And I feel so bad, because, I don't always have something to write. Apparently, I'm not a long term flirter, I'm just a short term, slam, bam thank you ma'am kind of gal... who knew. So, then, Brooke Gadberry, the kindergarten teacher for whom Mrs. Cross is an aide, learned about my blog, and then decided to print the entire thing out and put in a binder to give to Mrs. Cross for Christmas. And I was simply floored. It's as good as being published I think. When someone reads and then says that it was great. Or someone finds my blog and then sits and reads all 5 years worth of entries. I am touched, beyond measure. And then still sitting here thinking, but I don't really have anything to say. To which I must then respond, I suppose, I guess I say nothing really well. So I think Brenda and Brooke for giving me a Christmas moment that I'll never forget, just that feeling of being appreciated and valued - not for my oh so luscious body but for my mind..damnit.. and hopefully, there'll be much more to come.

Small Blessings

2009-12-05T17:10:00.001-08:00

Last week, on the way to school, we were rounding the corner, and a mother deer with her two babies walked across the road. And being me, I stopped the car, and we watched them until they walked into the nearby woods. Then Elijah and I talked, all to briefly, about how such moments need to be cherished and enjoyed, because they are fleeting when they occur, and don’t happen often enough. The conversation has been rolling around in my mind since. Then last night, the history channel had a special that was discussing the Mayan calendar and it’s predictions that the world would end, as we know it, on December 21, 2012. At which point, Elijah asked that we change the channel because those doom and gloom shows really get under his skin. But, that got me to thinking about how you really never know when time will end for you, and how, like watching the deer crossing the road, we have to look at each moment and enjoy it and value it, because once gone, it is gone forever. So, I thought I might add some of the moments that I remember and cherish so that I might not ever forget.

Elijah counting to 10 while I was pushing when Isaiah was born – even though he almost gagged when he saw all the blood, he was there and excited.

The memories of my grandaddy that come flooding in every single time i hear I’ll Fly Away.

Hearing Elijah and Isaiah get tickled and belly laugh every time…it makes me feel so grateful that we had two instead of just one.

Every birthday, anniversary and mother’s day card that i have gotten from Jose because it is only in those cards that he takes the time to say sweet things, like he’s grateful for me and our life together.

The fact that I was able to get a picture of Elijah, Daddy and Grandaddy Walker even though Grandaddy didn’t know who we were.

Any moment that I am moved to tears in a moment of sentiment – even though it’s like a million times more often since motherhood than before…

Having an entire week with my parents and my kids and no arguments, fussing, tension.

The way Isaiah runs to the door when I come home and asks if I brought him something, and how glad he is when i did.

Having conversations about the way the world works, or history, or friends and family with Elijah. I am so grateful that I like him and that he likes me and that we can have fun together.

Sitting up until 1:30 to talk with Franklin about daily junk, after spending an hour giving him a lecture and telling him how mad he made me.

Isaiah’s grinning, smiling eyes, his willingness to hug and kiss, his love of reading and learning and school.

Jose playing with Lutos when we first moved into the house so it looked like they were dancing.

Elijah and Isaiah picking up a squiggling lizards tail and running about trying to find someone to show it to.

Isaiah and Big Mama sitting outside and waiting for the ducks to come, which they did everytime they heard his voice, in droves.

Elijah’s effective use of sarcasm.

Elijah’s conversations with me about everything from hair growing on his picala, to what happened in his video game, to the kids at school and my prayer that we’ll have them forever.

I could go on. And I am aware that my moments tend to be child specific, but truly, my life tends to be child specific – and i’m o.k. with that. So, I challenge you…add your moments and share them.

Tis the Season

2009-12-05T17:05:00.001-08:00

Christmas time. This was my blog request topic from Judy Corbin. And I’m pretty sure that she was thinking that perhaps I should wax poetic about Christmas being all about the birth of Christ and family and the like. But it’s hard for me to take that line since Christmas has never been about those things for me. Well, family was always a part of it. But really, you don’t appreciate family until you are considerably old er, and members of your family begin to die. Until that happens, you take family for granted, whether you mean to or not.

Christmas for me has always been more about Christmas Spirit. You know, the Charlie Brown Christmas, the Grinch’s heart grew three times that day, Frosty was fine, and Rudolph saved the misfit toys kind of spirit. It’s an on and off season for me. Some years, I’m so excited about Christmas that I can’t even sit still. And just as likely, I’ll be indifferent to the whole event. Being one ruled more by moods than anything else, I’ve never been very good at figuring out why some years Christmas is great and others it’s merely average. I think in part, the mediocrity of the season emerges with the stress at trying to make everyone else’s Christmas something special. I want to try to find the perfect gift for the boys so that I can have that moment of joy when they open the gift. Of course, that stress is compounded when I have to find a gift from myself and Jose, Big Mama, Papita and Mamita, as well as give a few hints and clues to the big man in red himself. I don’t stress over the money too much, I stress instead over hiding how much I spend from Jose, who is mostly likely amazed that the dollar continues to stretch so very far, and what a good shopper I must be to get so much for my buck.

To be perfectly honest the past couple of years, I have blamed my dirth of holiday spirit on my tree. My small, pathetic tree. The tree that is only 1/2 has big as my old tree. My old tree which was perfect. My old tree which was tall, and wide, and wonderful…sigh…i miss that tree and can’t afford a new one that was of similar size and dimension. But soon. Maybe if it snowed more it would help me get into the Christmas groove. I am grateful every afternoon for the north pole radio, because music is always that magical influencer. It’s the best part of a church service – to be fair, it’s probably the only part of the church service that i actually listen to. But music is the mood affecter. And I’m always ready for Christmas when I hear carols.

Maybe it’s all about getting older. And knowing that Christmas is more like sex than you’d ever thought. Doesn’t matter how good it is, it’s all oven in 10 minutes and then you’re left with nothing but a mess to clean up. Maybe with age and perspective, we forget how to live in the moment – whether it be the moment of anticipation or the moment of joy – and we see it from too far away and how it all fits into the main scheme of things. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what i want, or what to ask for. And not needing anything means not expecting anything great under the tree. Which seems uber selfish, but also very much the child. I know there is still a child within me, and as I sit here writing trying to figure out why the Christmas blahs hit more and more, that child is inside of me banging about, jumping, dancing in her seat and singing sleigh bells, loudly. And I hope that that child is stronger than the adult.

When to Give Up?

2009-08-16T18:33:00.001-07:00

It seems to me that one of the most difficult things to figure out is when to cut your losses and run. And it happens with every single thing in your life. When should you leave the job your in and go and try something new. When should you leave the person you’re with? When do you admit that a person who was once a good friend of yours, isn’t really your friend anymore? It is one of those issues that goes against the very human nature to find a rut and stay in it. Or perhaps that’s not an issue of human nature, but Amy nature – and me being me, I just assume that everyone is similar is some fashion to me. That is, I think, a fault of mine… but also a different issue. This giving up point emerged this weekend when one friend of mine finally decided to get a divorce. This isn’t the first time that she has come close to this point, but she backed away and gave it one more try. And she may well do so again… Even though the thing she married (can’t really call him a man because he’s not mature enough to be one) doesn’t really deserve said second or third chance. But of course, I don’t love him, nor have I seen him naked – so perhaps I don’t have all the information. But when it comes to relationships, when do you say, I’m done. In my own life, the one relationship that I had prior to Jose – if you call dysfunctional fag hagging a relationship, the giving up was in stages – sort of an emotional leave taking without admitting anything followed by a physical leave taking. But since the emotional distance happened first, the physical parting wasn’t so bad. And what caused the leave taking – misery and the desire for something better. Giving up at Eleventh Street was much easier – sort of made that decision upon my second dealing with Satan – and then it was just a matter of finding another opportunity – and then a year or two to remove myself from my resentment that Satan stole the dream / goal / life plan that I had for myself. And again, there was an emotional / mental leave taking first. Those sorts of choices seem so much easier to me than others. These were clear cut. A matter of misery or happiness. Really what choice is there. But then there are other vaguer choices – choices that aren’t life altering – and are really a matter of annoyance or inconvenience vs. not being sort of annoyed sometimes. Like when I went to my high school reunion and for a moment thought – wow, maybe I’ll have some friends from high school – only 20 years after the fact. And then, well, that didn’t happen. And though I had saved phone numbers into my address book on my cell phone and email address to my contact list, and would occasionally include said people on a group email, eventually, I had to come to the realization that some mythical closeness, ATT commercial reunion, wasn’t going to happen. And even then, it took me another two weeks to delete phone numbers from the phone. On the flip side, with the age of technology, I can really not put forth an effort, but keep up with people and satisfy the “how are they need” without committing to actual relationships. And I suppose, ultimately, if I weren’t the type of person who had to quantify relationships – identifying, classifying, assign levels of involvement, then perhaps life would be easier. I’m sure there are people out there who say, she’s my friend and friend means friend means friend. And she’s as good a friend though I don’t see her ever, sometimes email or chat via facebook, and have very little in common as is he’s my friend, who i see every day, talk to every other day, and share personal stuff with. Do people do that? How do they do that? How can they be equal? They aren’t equal. But I think the people who do that are also able to say “oh , here comes so and so, I don’t like her” to themselves as they chat politely and animatedly to the person – whereas, I say, “I don’t like her” and then half smile and walk in another direction. It’s an issue – this letting go, saying goodbye – but I’ve no solution quite yet.

Facebook

2009-06-30T05:02:00.000-07:00

Facebook … really what is it. Many call it a social networking site. And I suppose it does meet that need. I know that I have a chance to connect with more people via Facebook than I do in real life. But it serves another, ulterior motive, at least for me. It satisfies that small town need to know everyone’s business. It’s the virtual peer into the medicine cabinet when you are using the guest bathroom. You get to see everyone’s little posts, their pictures, and tiny snapshots into the lives of people that you may see every day, or haven’t seen in years. It’s like the snoopers dream high school reunion. For instance, on my limited friends list, I have members of the elite Trigg County graduating class of 1987. I wasn’t a member of that group, but on Facebook, I am a “friend.” Who knew it would be so easy to be included. Though, let’s not kid ourselves, I still am unable to engage many of those members in chat when we’re both online. But rather than feel rejection, I snort to myself and figure they haven’t the technological savvy to know how to chat. And then create a mental image of said unresponsive person looking all over the place when they hear that annoying bubble popping sound that emerges when someone sends a chat message. What can I say, not everyone is a clicker on the computer. And there’s something gratifying in looking at everyone’s pictures – seeing their homes, their families, how they’ve changed. And it’s entirely possible to do that without any worry of what they think of how you’ve changed – or how they may be judging you. And since the people that I tend to be judging never respond to chat requests….well live and let live I suppose.
I suppose facebook is sort of like participating in your own virtual reality show – the real housewives of facebook or it’s equivalent. And the little blurbs are like the video diaries that everyone must complete. And it’s interesting to see how everyone deals with the status changes. My nephew pops in and puts up random music lyrics. Makes him seem philosophical somehow – which is redeeming because he doesn’t seem philosophical in person. I use mine to send out one liner comments that I hope are humorous … sort of like random thoughts from SNL. And then there are the few who send out cryptic messages about frustration or gossip without committing to the event at all. And of course, I don’t know them well enough to be in the gossip loop…but now I know enough to ask someone who might know.
And then there’s the friend’s list. Those who have added as friends every person they have ever known, some they don’t, or anyone who makes a friend request. I’m not that person. I only add people that I know, have fond memories of, or want to know more about. And in that, it’s symbolic of my entire existence. I have always been a person who would prefer to lean against the wall and watch without participating. And in facebook, I get to stack the party room so to speak and watch who I want to watch. I used to think that I wanted someone to invite me in to the room to be an active participant, but now, I’m not so sure. I don’t do well in social situations with people. I much prefer to sit with a small group and chatter (though if I were in an egotistical mode, I’d say hold court) – and my slowly increasing friends list portrays that aspect of my personality. But others, they are the party people – hooking up 200 friends in 48 hours – and then chatting briefly with a few – the social equivalent of working the room.
Facebook has definitely opened up the whole concept of texting to my generation. We may not understand or appreciate 10 teenagers sitting next to each other – talking to each other while staring at their phones and texting 20 other people at the same time. But facebook lets us know that if it were 25 years ago, we’d be doing the same thing if the technology were available. And with such games as mafia wars, or Farmville, it even addresses the socialization needs of those nerdy boys who were creating their own realms of dungeon and dragons that followed them from class to class in high school. In fact, I was at a friends house the other night and her husband had a 30 minute conversation with his brother, via telephone, about what he needed to get in terms of money laundering and getting rid of competition. If I were a police officer I might have been concerned… And I am no different, checking onto my page every so often to see if someone has left me a message, to see if anyone is one who I’d like to chat with (and damn those people who stay logged on 24/7 without actually doing anything).
So, I won’t say it’s an addiction. I will say it satisfies many needs. The need to keep in contact without actually having to put forth the effort of a visit or a phone call or an email. It satisfies my biannual nostalgia fest when I feel compelled to try to find people that I once knew and cared about. And it gives me an audience for these little mental notes that I make for myself but share with others (Doogie H. of course apparently being my unknown childhood role model).

Summer Vacations

2009-06-24T05:18:00.001-07:00

Summer is really a wierd time of year when you're a school teacher. I remember when I worked at Kinko's - and well everywhere else, and summer was just the hot time of the year. But when you teach, and you don't have to work in the summer, then you sort of enter into this wierd zone of space time. Every day feels like a Saturday, in my case a Saturday when Jose has decided to work overtime. I don't have to flip my alarm clock over because i don't care what time it is. The kids sleep late, giving my all this time in the morning to watch shows I've DVR'd during prime cartoon time, and I have time to sit and read and be lazy. There's no bath time schedule, no homework schedule, no schedule at all.
Though, with Jose gone to El Salvador for two weeks, and Franklin with him, there are all the chores that I have pawned off the last few years - carring laundry down and upstairs, taking out the trash, and I have to wash all the dishes, every time. There's no leaving them in the sink to see if someone else will jump to the task. And like a day when Jose's at work, there is a mad scramble to keep the house slightly less like a tornadic explosion to avoid the grumpy complaints about what did you do all day to have the house be such a mess. I would only wish that summers in Kentucky weren't quite so humid and hot -- because seriously who wants to melt when you open the door.
I sometimes wish that I was the crafty mother who would have the kids do some neat projects -- find a way to create a memory that will last a lifetime. But, if you didn't catch the lazy comment earlier, that's a lot more work than I really want to do. And if I start the day slow and lazy, then I want the whole day to be slow and lazy - hands down, no question about it. But, I think for the boys, summer is still a magical time. There are no cool wooded areas to explore and be imaginative -- but there is time to be silly, to laugh, to go and meet new people and maybe do something different. I know for them there's more time or chances to go to mcdonalds - which I have now decided is my least favorite restaurant of all time -- nothing on their menu that i crave or desire at all....or to go see a movie.
I think the magic of summer is time. Time to spend in each other's company, time to lay in the bed and be lazy, time to laugh, time to cry, whine, bicker and time to get over it. Time to take a nap in the afternoon, to laze by the pool, to read a trashy novel, or a good one, time to conquer a new universe or ancient realm. Having the time to choose or not as you desire -- and having no one to tell you what you must accomplish in that time, being led only by whims and desires. And that is why summer rocks.

The Best Movie Going Experience

2009-06-23T18:36:00.000-07:00

I have been perfecting this movie going thing for a while. There are a couple of reasons for my intent focus in this area. The primary reason is that I, personally, really love to go to movies, to watch movies. I would be so happy if they'd make a movie theater with lazy boy style chairs -- or better yet, comfy beds and the movie on the ceiling (have that going on in the boys room) -- though the thought of going to a chick flick and having some couple making out next to me is enough to let me know that it's a bad idea for the general public. For those of you who have taken younger children to the movies, you know that the experience is not quite a joyful as it could be. Not all the kids movies are really that good -- I am not, for example, eagerly anticipating seeing G4 about the hamster things -- but I am looking forward to hearing the boys laugh out loud when they find something funny. But even if it's a bad movie, I would like to have an enjoyable movie experience. I don't want to get up and take anyone to the bathroom. I don't want to have to pass food or drinks during the entire movie. I don't want to be bothered at all once the movie begins. If you don't get me during the previews, expect to get me grumpy and pissy.
In order to faciliate this movie experience, I have developed a few techniques that I will share with you here.

1. Always choose a matinee - preferably a middle of the week day. Today we went to see Night at the Museum and we were the only people in the theater. The advantage here is that when you have a little kid who gets bored - he can run around a section of the theater and won't bother anyone.
2. Stop at the dollar tree, dollar store, any cheap store and buy a few different types of snacks for cheap. Kids never eat all of anything and they prefer a little of many different things.
3. Bring a cup for everyone (ones with lids for the little ones)
4. Bring an extra large plastic bowl or a couple of small plastic bowls.
5. Order the family special - large popcorn and large drink (you get one free refill) -- then during that down time when you are waiting for the previews, give everyone a bowl with popcorn, and a cup with drink (little kids can have cups with lids and straws). If it's not enough to share - then go get the refill at the beginning of the movie instead of the end.
6. Establish the snack chair, that is easily accessible to all - and put the already opened snacks in it. Kids come and graze and return items as needed.
7. During the first preview - force all small children to go to the restroom - for that last minute attempt. By then they'll have had a couple drinks of soda and be able to produce a small stream - enough to hold that bladder for another hour and 30 minutes.
8. Enjoy the movie.

Now, you have to be able to ignore wierd looks from people who don't know why you are travelling into the movie theater with a walmart bag full of plastic ware (candy is of course contraband and hidden safely in the purse). But when you make it through a whole movie with nothing more than normal movie chatter, you will be wondering why you didn't do this before.

I would also recommend allowing your children to sit a row away from you - which is easier to do when the theater is particularly empty. They feel all grown up because they are sitting on their own; and you don't hear them be silly and giggle and feel compelled to shush them. Then when you leave the theater, everyone has enjoyed the movie as much as it can be enjoyed (did I mention the hamster movie - no way I'm going to really enjoy that). And on the way out, if you haven't gotten that popcorn refill, you can get the refill and put it in the walmart bag that you have brought with you - tying off the top to prevent spillage. That popcorn you eat at home later, when you're in bed watching a really good movie (like Live Free and Die Hard or Pride and Prejudice).

Let me know if you try it and how it goes.

I Walk the Line

2009-06-23T18:33:00.000-07:00

Franklin Serrano – the Double Edged Sword

My son Franklin (though secretly there are days when I say – that is no son of mine – my son would never do something like that!!) is a double edged sword. Though, I’m pretty sure that it is the wrong terminology – still, I think once you’ll see what I mean. With every forward step that Franklin makes – each step that makes Jose and I breathe a little sigh of relief that things will o.k.; he takes 2 steps backward, all the while figuratively slapping us upside the head in our naiveté and innocent belief.
For example, the same day that he finally decided that he was going to Western and going to be a Spanish teacher, was the exact same day we caught him smoking in the house and discovered that he had been smoking for 2 months. When I see him calling to check out his enrollment information for Western and then brag to Jose; Jose rips the carpet out from under me and informs me that he called and reminded Franklin 3 times that he needed to call today – and thus, my joy at his taking initiative was stolen and buried..
And then on graduation day, we were having a small celebratory event with his friends and Jose’s family. One of his friends asked me to transfer pictures from his phone’s memory card to a flash drive and when I did, I found pictures of prom. And not just any pictures of prom, but pictures that Franklin had taken himself from the front seat – and in the backseat, there were 3 Japanese anime looking girls. Now that might not seem like much, but Franklin and Andrew had both assured us that since neither of them have a full license, only the graduated license that only allows one other person in the car, that there would be no other people in the car. And here I was, on arguably the biggest, most important day of Franklin’s life, and I had caught him in a lie. Sure, I figured that he’d probably done that anyway – but I couldn’t prove it – not being able to prove something lets you pretend it doesn’t happen. And so…. I had proof and me, being me, had to find a way to deal with the proof, and decide upon a time. I spent much of the party fuming a bit…again, not at the event, but at the lie, and then at his own stupidity for taking pictures of himself in a lie.
So we had a talk about it, and I cried – because I’m learning from Franklin that parenting is perhaps one of the most painful tasks that we’ll ever undertake. With my own, I’ve not yet stepped over into the realm of fear and anxiety. There is still mostly hope, pride, joy, and dreams. It is little wonder that with such an auspicious start – coupled with our refusal to let go of those things, the nest leaving (both emotionally and physically) is so difficult. It’s like the magic of childhood is bleakly overshadowed with reality. And the mommy brain, that was activated the instant we gave birth and spent the first 3 years looking at every single component of the world and environment seeing potential hazards has to expand itself beyond a 20 foot radius to encompass an entire town, a virtual reality, a thousand other people who have only their own best interests at heart, not my child’s. And the struggle that Franklin has with Jose and I is nothing compared with the struggle that we have within ourselves to let him go and do that – especially when he still has so many important lessons to learn – and who will be there to teach him.
I am currently walking on a fine line. It’s the I’m there if you need me line; and the feel free to take some risks, but don’t cross this line line. I’m officially at the point of my life where the phrase, “as long as you live in this house, you live by my rules” pops unbidden into my head anytime he wants to do something that just isn’t going to happen. But, I coach most of those responses in terms of social contracts. It’s an issue of common courtesy to let us know if you’re going to be late. Perhaps you don’t have a curfew, but my car does; and it must be in the driveway by 11:00 p.m. And then building in baby steps for both of us. Letting him know that he can have more freedom, but he has to establish our trust in him and demonstrate responsibility.
And even though he looks at us, rolls his eyes, and say we treat him like a girl (apparently in El Salvador girls are caged and protected, boys run free and wild) – I’ve decided that I don’t care. He can hate us, mutter under his breath, and come up with such canny phrases as “how will I ever learn, unless you let me try, or I make mistakes.” He can make all the mistakes he wants when I don’t to watch him do it. That’s the part of parenting bliss that no one tells you about. We all strive to return to the era of hope, dreams, pride and good will. And we are quite willing to suspend disbelief and nod and smile when they tell us all the good things they are doing – ignoring the experiential knowledge that they are getting wasted on a floor with cigarette butts and god knows what else scattered about not 4 hours before they came home for a visit. Parents of college age kids actively ignore the mommy brain, brushing it under the faded keep your grades up carpet. Mostly because we equate decent grades with good living. They couldn’t be passing their classes if they are partying ALL the time. And if a problem arises, it’s very difficulty to step back into the mire. Because by then, truly, parents have no control or power and must sit back and watch – our own lesson to be learned.
That is where I am . . . holding firmly to my mommy brain eraser…but not quite using it yet. Hoping, beyond hope, that there is another way . . . to relinquish control but not contact and communication . . . seeking a way to share my experiences and those of others with him so that he can make informed decisions . . . and dreaming that if he makes a mistake that he learns a valuable lesson and decides to share his experience with us instead of hiding it. I’m pretty sure it can be done . . . I’ll let you know one way or the other.

Teenagers -- bleck

2009-05-02T14:52:00.000-07:00

So, I'm currently immersed in the utter joy of transitioning a teenager into an adult. It's really one of the most unpleasant experiences that I've ever had - even worse than ARC meetings that require more than 6 people. And before I begin, I think that I should get a very big thank you from my parents because I am quite certain that I never, but never, put them through this same sort of crap -- Holden Caufield was never a character that I identified with. Teen angst wasn't my schtick. However, Franklin seems to be right there in the middle of the world is unfair, why can't I make my own rules, I have no freedom, you are stupid and old and don't know what it's like. (Though to be fair, it's entirely possible that I'm putting some words into his mouth, but since there aren't any words coming out, then what's a girl to do.) And to top it off, he's so like a man in that I've been pissed off at him and barely talking to him for a week - and when I told him today that I had been very angry at him, he looked at me in shock. Which lets me know that I need to step up my game on being upset. I suppose the latina way is to rant and rave loudly, throw stuff, something like that. Maybe I'll try that next time.
Anyway, today I told Franklin that without ire, irritation or meanness, I was going to start treating him like an adult. That meant that I wasn't going to follow him around and remind him that he had obligations. And that if he wanted to go and do, then he needed to give proper notice - which for me was always, but always 12 to72 hours depending on the need. And that as an adult, he was going to be allowed to make mistakes. And if he didn't like the result of those mistakes, or missed opportunities because of his lack of iniative, then that was no one's fault but his own and he'd have to deal with it. It was, so to speak, a formal letting go. And I think that I needed to say it more than he needed to hear it. But, it's also a little bit like the mini-death (the first big illness that puts your parents, grandparents in the hospital when you realize they can die, so that when it actually happens, it's not as big a shock as it could have been). I know it's not the only time that it's going to be said or talked about, but each time, it should get easier - I hope so anyway.

One of those Moments

2009-05-02T14:43:00.000-07:00

So, Friday, we took a day. We'd gone to Cadiz to see my dad, who had the flu - though we didn't know that until we got there. So the boys and I, in consideration for senior citizen illness - and hidden concerns about swine flu - decided to turn the day into an educational field trip day. We went to Land Between the Lakes. The first stop was the planetarium. We got out of the car, and began to walk in, me and my boys. And being a good mom of boys, familiar with the simple joy in creating a lovely, loud fart, as I was walking and felt the urge, I succumbed. And when I looked behind me to see the reaction of the boys, instead, I saw a strange man, who had mysteriously appeared behind Elijah, walking up. And I froze. Now, in retrospect, if I'd been a bit smoother, I would have laughed out loud and told him that I'll be he sure wasn't expecting that. What I came up with was, "oh... oh..." blind grasp for Isaiah's hand and another "oh...Isaiah." With a deep seated, though realistically fantastical, belief that perhaps the man would credit said gas passing to my young son, instead of me. And then, there was the painful walk into the planetarium, as he sped up and passed me - catching and avoiding my eye as he walked by. And me, not to be cowered into embarrassment, looking at him and saying, "hello, how are you?" And then once he'd passed, Elijah came up behind me and looked at me and whispered, "you passed gas in front of him." In my deep felt mortification, I can't recall all that he said - I know that he had a "that's just not right." sort of approach, and all I could do was grin stupidly while I attempted not to break into hysterical laughter, nodding all the while. And now as I think of it - that man could probably witness the whole conversation in the window of the doors as he was walking up - and still, he had the courage to open the door for us. And I, had the courtesy to not pass gas again as I entered.
And now, I challenge each of you to share your own caught passing gas story - because you know you all have one. It's liberating to share it and own up to it. I FART therefore I AM.

Franklin's Smoking Gun

2009-04-23T08:12:00.001-07:00

I know why there’s a heaven.

2009-03-11T04:10:00.000-07:00

It seems in the major scheme of things, I have had two life long quests. The search for that perfect friend, the best friend of telephone commericialdom, and a unmitigated sense of faith, or perhaps religion is a better word. I have spent more Sundays than I care to count sitting in church listening to a preacher and thinking to myself, “I’m not sure it that’s right”, or “I don’t agree with that”, or, “how can this man be preaching such utter nonsense and hate?” Last weekend, I rented and watched the video religulous. And it wasn’t what I expected, but it was very interesting. Bill Maher who is ½ Jewish but raised catholic and now a non-religious man was seeking answers. He wanted someone to show him that their beliefs were correct. And during that video, a priest (and by and far the priests were really much more laid back than the rest) said something that really struck me. He said that people tend to look at the bible as science, when it’s not. The bible was written from between 2000 BC and 200 AD by all accounts. Modern science – you know real science that wasn’t based on monsters and whirlpools living at the edge of a flat earth, didn’t emerge until about 1500 years later. So anything in the bible that tries to explain creation, or anything scientific, can’t be accurate, because no one knew about anything scientific back then. It was an “A HA!” moment for me. That belief and science really don’t have anything to do with each other, they should never be seen walking down the road holding hands because only really ugly children are bound to emerge – and I think that is indeed the case. So, that puts me back firmly in my I can believe in a higher power, I can believe that Jesus was a good man who had some valuable lessons, and I can believe that miracles happen (though mostly those are perception and that’s all that matters) – but I can’t subscribe to the doctrine and dictates of organized religion. Not that that doesn’t mean that I won’t still have to go to church with Jose because it is SO not what he believes and that’s o.k. too.

Armed with that knowledge, however, doesn’t in anyway shape or form change the fact that will still in a pinch subscribe to the cookie cutter, fairytale style elements of faith. 4000 years ago, people died a lot. People died young. Young people saw a lot of people die. And it is to the parents of those young people that we owe the creation of an after life. I know this because I myself, just yesterday had to create such a pretty place. Our cat, Charlie, who we had found as a stray at the elementary school, came down with some mysterious ailment and died. Charlie is not the first animal to die in our house. In fact, Charlie is the last in a long line of animals – so many animals in fact that I begin to fear that we are becoming Pet Semetary 4. Usually, the highway gets them. If not the road, they run off to meet their demise after a wild night of partying. But not Charlie. She never went outside. I got her fixed so she wouldn’t run away. And don’t you know that it wasn’t good enough. She died anyway from some unknown cause.

When we got home and learned about her death. Elijah was pretty calm, a little sad, but not overly so. Isaiah stopped and looked stunned, but it looked affected. He went outside looked in the cage and then slowly walked into the house and burst into heart wrenching sobs. He wanted Charlie. He wanted Charlie back. Where’s Charlie. And there I stood with no answer that I could give him that he would accept, that would soothe his hurt except that “He’s in heaven with god now.” And 45 minutes later after building on that initial comment, Isaiah finally calmed down enough to go swing and then move on (scoring a few bonus points by asking Papa not to kill his cats anymore, please). And there it was – the reason and the why of it. Whether you believe or not, Heaven is a fairytale place that soothes the fears and sadness of those you leave behind. It also makes those beginning the journey feel so much better about having to go – if you know that you’re going to see someone again. And it even makes Hell a rational place, because God knows you don’t want to see Mrs. Lawler in heaven, so she’s not invited because she’s a bad persons. And don’t get me wrong, heaven would be a great place. Though, I don’t know if I wish there was one, because I’m pretty sure that as Mrs. Doubting Thomas here, I probably won’t get there.

Isaiah's First Communion

2009-03-01T15:01:00.000-08:00

Alright, so today is Sunday and Jose decided that it was a Sunday he wanted to go to church. He's sort of wierd on the Sundays he decides to go and not go. Going to church is never more important that overtime, but if he doesn't work, or doesn't want to sleep in, then we must all jump up and go. Today, Jose had originally planned to go to the 9:30 service, as Franklin had to be at work and we could drop him off on the way in. And me, being the generally non-church person, was not about to let anyone not go to church if I had to go (though Franklin tried to steal my malicious joy as we walked in saying he didn't care if he went to church ... which was a commendable effort, but I saw his face when he stumbled from his room to the bathroom this morning after going to bed after midnigh - and he cared.) So, because we were going to have to leave early, we kept Isaiah with us in the church service instead of taking him to Sunday school. And this week, they had communion. They had communion two weeks ago too -- so I'm wondering if perhaps the fact that the church purchased the catholic property next door (bought the church and are going to tear it down to expand) has perhaps resulted in adopting some practices - who knows. Anyway, Isaiah, who was pretty happy to hear the music. Wanted to have someone read the words on the jumbotron thing they have, and was not quite sure how to effectively whisper was holding his own in church. And apparently, he was listening much more closely than I ever listened in church, because when the deacons began to pass out the grape juice and wafers, he got really upset. When I asked him what was wrong, he said "I don't want to drink blood. That's blood." And there I was torn between getting tickled and then panicked that I had just created a religious zealot who really really believed the symbolism was in fact a reality (sort of like Jose Luis Jesus Miranda who believes he is the 2nd Jesus - no really). He absolutely refused to try the wafer, but I was able to get him to taste the grape juice after tasting it first in front of him. Then, once he realized that it was not blood, he was pretty quick to ask for some more. But it's the panic that was important and just goes to show you that faith isn't something that is acquired, it's something that's learned -- and I'm not sure that I want it to be learned or not. It's my forever debate - between the logical, rational part of my mind that says no way and the part of me that was told since infancy that this is true. It's a debate for later.

The Tag A Long

2009-02-15T14:41:00.000-08:00

Alright, I'm pretty sure that I have had the opportunity to have a singularly unique experience this Saturday and could think of little else except that it was definitely blog worthy. No doubt about it. Saturday, February 14th was the scheduled birthday extravaganza for Isaiah. He had invited his "girls" from preschool and we all met at Chuck E. Cheese. Suprisingly for 10 a.m. on valentines day, Chuck E. Cheese was packed. There were 5 parties there that morning. I got there early to put out the Pokemon tablecloth and decorate with some pokemon brought from home. And then set out to chase kids and spend tokens like there was no tomorrow.
A few minutes after we arrived, the kids at the party table next to ours arrived... boys about 7 or 8, who were immediately envious of all the pokemon stuff on our table. It was a proud, crappy chuck e. cheese party moment. At least someone envied the table. And after our 45 minutes of play, we made our way to the table for the sit down portion of the party. At which point, the tag along appeared. Out of nowhere, a little girl appeared and sat down at our table. I asked her what party she was here with. She looked at me blankly and then muttered something about Eliza, and then pointed vaguely off in the distance. And put in such a wierd position, with other parents watching to see how I'd handle it, I just offered her some pizza, we had extra and it didn't seem to hurt anyone. A few minutes later, I caught our extra guest going through the goody bag. AT which point, the generous lady hid somewhere behind spendthrift and greedy bitch. And I politely told her that though I didn't care if she ate pizza, she wasn't going to get a goody bag and she needed to leave it alone. And she did. A few minutes later, she had moved to the table next to ours. And she had found her party at last. She came back after the Chuck E. Cheese birthday sing along. And when I called all of my kids to get their picture taken with CHuck E. Cheese - she hurled herself right up on the stage and next to Chuck. And out of nowhere some other little boy sat next to Chuck on the left. It became quite apparent that social rules concerning bonding with strangers must not be learned until one is considerably older. And a picture with Chuck with a strange woman holding the camera and 7 kids that you don't know is not outside the norm. And then it was time for cake. And her comes our girl, asking for a piece. I was only too happy to give her a piece because bringing cake home is like begging for diabetic coma. If there is cake in the house, I will eat it - always. And if they could make a low carb / sugar free cake that tasted like real cake, then I'm pretty sure that I would die happy.
Of course by that time the Chuck E. Gestapo were hovering about the table. And those perky helpful girls who were only too happy to assist you for the first hour and 20 minutes of your party turn ugly when they are trying to force you to get out of your table, you only booked it for an hour and a half, no longer - move it!!!! And as I was picking up cups and plates, pizza bones and wrappers, one of the moms came over to talk. I asked if she would like some cake as apparently I was giving it to all and sundry. She laughed and then told me that our little friend who had seemed at home at the party next to ours, didn't belong to that party either. But unlike me that party had just ignored her - passing pizza, drinks and cake around but never too her. Which struck me as funny on two levels. First that the way to deal with the problem was to put on blinders and say "i don't see you, i don't see you, i don't see you." And secondly, that the girl didn't belong there either. Jose, in a moment of rare humor, leaned over and said, "I think she comes every Saturday looking for parties." And, I suspect that he may be right. I laughed out loud, and then was very grateful that she was perhaps an only child and not one of three who were party crashers. And who knew that there was a party crashing market for the under 10 set. I can envision her even now sitting at home, rubbing her belly and contemplating what kinds of cakes will be there next weekend. Who knows if she comes in early enough if she gets free tokens as well. Seems overly sophisticated, and I am wary of the adult she will come and what kind of weddings she will see in her life time.
In the mean time, if you know the older girl in the picture hugging up to Chuck, give me her name and i'll send her a thank you card for coming to Isaiah's party.

25 Things About Me

2009-01-27T15:49:00.001-08:00

Th facebook phenomena

1. I am an inherently cheap person
2. If it cost more to be diabetic than it did to be healthy, I'd probably work much harder at it.
3. If the boat was sinking, I would save my children before my husband
4. being fat is comforting
5. I am always waiting to get fired
6. I am not a nice person
7. Most people don't much care for me and that's o.k. cause I don't care for most people
8. Elijah can make me laugh harder than anyone else ever has
9. My children have a bit of magic in them
10. Obama and I have similar moles on the left side of our noses, does that mean we could be related
11. I would rather read a cheesy romance novel than a great work of literature
12. I don't like babies
13. I have never had a boyfriend
14. I don't like clothes very much and would work in pajamas every day if i could
15. I don't like going to church - ever
16. I have a love hate thing going with facebook - it annoys me but that doesn't keep me from signing in each day and wishing it were set up differently somehow.
17. I like to watch bravo reality shows -- and the Hills -
18. I would ove for Spencer Pratt to be caught engaging a male prostitute on sunset blvd
19. I used to dream about Prince when I was very upset
20. I've seen a man get a vasectomy
21. Vasectomies smell a bit like getting your teeth drilled
22. I would love to have a giant, stress free, highly attended birthday party before I die --
23. People think I'm bossy
24. meat is my favorite food
25. i think my eyelashes are growing smaller as I grow older

Party Trauma

2009-01-27T03:56:00.001-08:00

This weekend, Elijah was invited to a skating party for a friend of his in class. Her name is Eliza. Much of the year, he's kind of had a crush on her, but not so much of late. Or he's been talkig about her less of late. But they are still friends, and he decided to go and be one of only 2 boys at the party. The issue was that Elijah had never been skating. And compounding that issue is the fact that Elijah is not a small, petite little man. With his skates on, he was as tall as I was and weighs as much as an adult - a skinny short adult, but an adult. So, though the spirit was willing, the body was weak. And like most adults, Elijah suffered from the "Oh my god! it really hurts to fall." When you learn to skate when you're little, you don't have that same problem, but for sure it's an issue when you're older. Jose and I went skating once when we first got married. And by skating i mean we paid for skates and then walked around on the carpet for about 40 minutes, looked at how slick the rink looked and then decide that it wasn't worth the long term disability that would invariably be the result of any real fall. After trying for a bit, and watching all of his friends zip by, and having 2 pretty hard falls where he really wanted to cry but couldn't because there were like 4 gazillion people there (including, in case you forgot Eliza and his friends from school) he decided to take his skates off and sit and watch. And then it happened, the flash back. Suddenly Elijah was me at any and every social event that I had ever attended -- especially the ones in which I had no transportation. And his head got lower and his face longer. So, we left, me with tears in his eyes and Elijah wondering why Eliza wasn't more upset that he was leaving... I mean she wasn't upset at all, did you see that mom? She didn't even say goodbye really. The important part is that he was happier when we were walking out than when he was sitting there. And I so remembered that sense of relief of finally being able to leave a place where I didn't feel like I fit in and was embarrassed or unhappy. And even though it was a little awkward, in the long run, I'd do it every time. And then we invited his friend Riley over to spend the night, and all of it was cast aside and forgotten...by Elijah at least. And Isaiah. He spent most of his time pretending to fall, because when you are only 2 inches off the ground, falling is a bit like riding a roller coaster. Or maybe he was trying to help Elijah feel less awkward. But when he really fell, hard, on his butt, he crawled right on over to me to rub it and was ready to go when we were.

2009 - or whatever

2009-01-08T16:48:00.001-08:00

A new year. It's supposed to be a time of resolutions. And here it is, two weeks into the new year and all I can think of is that my blood test for my endocrinologist is in a week and I'm pretty sure that I haven't been closely monitoring either my intake or my blood sugars. And all my kids at school are struggling with writing resolutions. And I think, should I make my own? Sure I should - but what's the point really. A resolution is just me saying this is something that I should do, but probably won't. Why can't my body make it's own resolution and let my brain and all those pain centers check out while it takes care of business. I mean seriously, I think my stomach should say, I resolve to cause uncontrollable nausea everytime chocolate, chips or other unhealthy foods reach me. Or even better, my throat should resolve to close or gag everytime high carb foods reach it. But oh no, there's that damn brain in the way. And it's not a licking the bottom of the boot brain - It's not setting the world on fire -- but it is clever enough to talk circles around the throat and the stomach. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it has the rest of the body under some sort of post hypnotic suggestion in which the mouth, throat and stomach believe that chips, candy and bread are actually broccoli, green beans, and cucumbers (raw not pickled).

Last year, I wrote my resolutions down and kept them by the computer. And I accidentally read them about 3 times when I was searching for some piece of paper that I was looking for. And I didn't reach any of those - didn't even come close - and they were soo easy - just needed a little will power - brain power really - to get them through.

So my resolution this year is to win the lottery and then hire someone to walk around behind me and slap me on the back of the head anytime i have bad food (no matter how good it tastes) in my hand and approaching my mouth. I mean 24 / 7. And if that same person could strap me to some excerise equipment and force my limbs to move as well then that would be good. I'm pretty sure that I'd be a bit healthier after that.

In the mean time, my resolution is to not make a resolution that I can't keep. Therefore, I'm probably not making any resolutions.

Christmas Joys

2009-01-08T16:40:00.001-08:00

I have decided there are few moments of bliss that are less wonderful than watching your child open any present and have them be so excited and just, well, happy. And there is a petty part of me that gets jealous of Santa - who gave the really cool gift. "Really mom? a tee shirt. Thanks." is not nearly as cool as "WOW!!! MOM MOM MOM LOOK WHAT SANTA GOT ME!!!!" Doesn't matter that we're the same. And hopefully will be perceived as 2 different people for years to come. Though, I must take the time to write a note to my science teachers of the past who have enabled me to create a believable fiction of how and why Santa is able to perform his duties -- and only having to rely on a because God made him that way as a last resort. It was the polar express year, and fortunately, Elijah can still hear the bell for which I am so glad.

Even for Franklin, my savvy 18 year old - being able to suprise him with the gift that he wanted and there was no way that we couldh've afforded if I didn't happen to be one of the savviest coupon finders on the internet that I know (acknowledging openly that I only know a handful of people who shop on the internet and they all have more free cash and don't care to pay full price). There is just such a wonderful amount of joy and pride in finding that gift and knowing that it is something they wanted and like -- EVEN if they are going to flip the XBOX 360 the wrong way and forever mar the game so that it can't be played anymore.... there was 2 weeks of being the best mom ever -- or knowing that SANTA rocks because he knew exactly what to get!

I sort of wish there was a way to garner that sort of praise for my everyday kind of stuff. Don't think it's going to happen any time soon.

Being a Grown Up at Christmas

2009-01-08T16:28:00.000-08:00

Another Christmas come and gone and I've finally emerged this holiday as an adult - officially. You know how when you're younger - and even when you're older -- you open a gift with a bit of anticipation wrapped around unadulterated excitement. You just know, without a doubt that the next gift you open will be the absolutely perfect gift. There will be no better gift at all in the world -- NONE!!!! And, I'm hoping that for some of you, that gift turned into a reality. And if it has, then I'm a little bit envious. But to my recollection, I have never really had said gift opening experience. And, on top of that, I do not do a very good job of faking a pleased reaction. If I like someone or something, then you know it. But if I don't like something or someone, you know that too. I try to say the polite thing, but I can't seem to get my face and physical reaction to match the words that I say. So, opening presents is a bit of an endeavor in anxiety for me. Because I don't want to hurt someone's feelings, I really don't. So, getting me a gift, has also developed into a bit of an anxiety ridden experience. Coupled by the fact that because I know that no one will get me the gift that I want, I go ahead and buy what I want for myself when I can afford it - which limits even more possibilities for gifts that could be received and enjoyed at the same time. And as I am in the middle of my 39th year, I have finally realized that I can be happy that someone just cared enough to get me something. Of course, that may also come with the fact that I have 3 different groups of gifting (work, Jose's family, and my family and friends) so I can easily regift items without fear of hurting someone's feelings - and then I feel like the gift that I didnt' really want is actually money that can purchase something that I really do want - and then just enjoy the thought behind it. But, I will admit that when we were playing dirty santa at my dad's house this Christmas and I opened the oven mitt I was so very very very grateful that I got last pick because there was no way that I wanted that thing and am pretty sure that my sister stole it from me because she didn't care - or maybe she really wanted it, but who can figure wanting that. And it has taken me 39 years to tamp down my optimistic hope that I will open the perfect gift. THough I'm less hopeful. And Jose, god love him, isn't not a shopper. And when I thanked him in November for buying me the sketchers that I wanted (and specifically told him that I wanted when he asked and requested black and showed him my generic version of the shoe) and then refused to open it until after Christmas because I didn't want to waste my suprise present from Santa on a gift that I already knew what was... he responded .. you don't know what they look like (he was a bit discouraged that I saw the charge on the bank statement to which point I encouraged him to use cash if he didn't want me to know what he bought me). And he was right. I didn't know what they looked like and I did like them and was suprised. But how much nicer would it have been for him to know (after only 11 1/2 years of marriage) what I wanted without asking and I could have been totall suprised -- of course who are we kidding -- I'd probably be disappointed anyway -- really, it's my very own catch 22.

A Sigh of Relief

2008-11-05T15:54:00.001-08:00

This is to be short and sweet - and more to come later. But I didn't want to let the moment past without some sort of commentary. First, let me say that I have turned my children into nerdy people. I printed out election maps and as the results were called out, we colored in the different states according to had one each. I found myself somewhat offended that Kentucky was called so early for McCain - it seemed so close and so few of the votes had been received, how could it be called with only 10% of the results in. It hardly seemed fair. First to really have a vote that would be pounded into the ground by the red, then to have it discounted so quickly in the race. And after Pennsylvania went for Obama, and they brought out their magic map and showed how it was virtually impossible for McCain to win, well, I let the sleep over take me. And when I awoke, it was to the happy information that indeed Obama had one, and not barely, but resoundingly -- even if I still lived in a god-forsaken red state -- sigh. I'll have to move to Louisville, that county at least when democratic. But, better to be living in a red state with a democratic president than living in a red state with a republican president -- or more to the point with Sarah Palin as Vice President.

So, I missed the speech. I missed the Daily Show coverage. I missed most of it. But took note and marked the ocassion as historic. Elijah was able to fill in my ballot for me. And he was right there panicking when so many states were turning red. And made a point to ask this morning about the electric college. And Isaiah awoke this morning and asked where Obama was going. And that he didn't want to go to school, he wanted to go with Obama. He was actually uttering that through tears as I had to lead him to preschool this morning (apparently 5 days off in a row is too many for the preschooler).

And now, my mom has called and said she'd like to go to the innagurational parade and would we go to. And, I will happily take days off from school to do just that. Jose won't - he doesn't care about the historical impact about the awe of seeing something so big happen and marking it - memorizing it - immortalizing it. But I do, and given the opportunity will happily do that for my children. Who I told this morning they too could be President. To which Elijah said, how? and I responded, well... you got do good in school. "And don't do drugs." he added. And then Elijah decided that it was probably too much work and he didn't really want to go there - until he considered ordering the Senate to do all his work for him. But there is something immensely pleasing about having a child, even for a brief moment, consider the option of being president - and believing that he could do it if he wanted to. What power in that dream - what power in this moment that has made that dream seem more real than ever before.

Bored on an Election Morning

2008-11-04T04:28:00.001-08:00

Take a Free IQ Test.

Thank God for SNL

2008-10-25T05:32:00.001-07:00

My Worst Nightmare

2008-10-23T03:55:00.001-07:00

Hearing George Bush thank me, even virtually, really made me cringe.

The unwanted friend

2008-10-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

I don't really understand what my hang up is with having friends - I guess it's just one of those things that I need to accept rather than change. And why, yet again, am I back to this age old, get over yourself already - topic? My address book in my phone. It's handy to have a portably phone book, it really is. But on the flip side, when I want to find a number quickly, I don't want to be scrolling through every single number in creation (those of you who know me, know I get obsessive about adding things, making to do lists - and then promptly lay them down and forget about them) But my cell phone well it doesn't delete the item just because I dont use it - though come to think of it - i wouldn't mind having a phone that said - by the way you haven't called this person and they haven't called you in - oh 2 years, do you still think you need their number. I think that perhaps it should add a short text message - seriously, what event would have to occur that they would call you or that would take your call. I have a couple of numbers like that - idealistic - wish I was who they thought I was or they were who I thought they were kind of numbers -- they are really more a symbol of hope than reality. I imagine they are the equivalent of a guy getting phone numbers from a girl in a bar - and calling the number to discover that it is the number of a fast food place or a fax machine. But still, he clings to that scrap of paper and every so often will dial the numbers just to make sure that he dialed them the right way the first time. And now, you've found the connection - I'm the loser guy with the scrap of paper. That's not to say that I'm starting big. The first number I deleted was Jim Jim Wallace's. I only had that number by accident - he gave it to me at the reunion - why I don't know. Reunions - like prom - are moments moved from realistic time - things seem shinier, better, closer to perfect somehow. And though I hadn't used the number and knew that he would never call me, I felt somehow like I was giving up on something to delete his number. Steven Sanders will be my next number to erase - and that number will make me a bit sadder I think. Mostly because for a brief moment some 20 years ago - Steven thought that I was smart or had something worthwhile to say - and that someone thought that and cared enough to tell me matters. That doesn't not however mean that he necessarily wants to be an active member of my daily existance (and to give him credit, he did indeed say that he would not be the type of person who would keep in touch at all - setting those expectations almost as low as the republicans with Sarah Palin's debate skills). And there was a time when I had hoped that maybe we would be friends -- but you can't be friends with a fictional character. Or rather, you can, but it's not really considered good mental health, though it may result in a nice vacation if you don't care padding and buckles. And deleting him from my phone doesn't mean losing his email - it just means putting things on more realistic footing - accepting what is without expectations. And it is exactly this reason why I'm not putting John Bruce's phone number in my phone -- but rather on an email / christmas card list. It's a fair acknowledgement to say that seeing him again affected me and I want to thank him and let him know that it did. That doesn't not mean that he wants me all up in his business. Nor does it mean that he wouldn't like to know how everyone is from time to time. I'm going to operate under the same assumption for many of the other people that I know. And who knows - maybe someone will suprise me - but I doubt it.

Who Says You Can't Go Home . . . They're mostly right

2008-10-14T16:03:00.000-07:00

I returned to my childhood home today, two of them actually, after 30 years. The first was in Greenfield, Missouri. This home was the one I most remember – where most of my childhood memories were formed. It was these there that Jodi and I saved Nothing’s kittens. There that I first understood what it meant to “rain in sheets.” At the farm, we were chased by goats, terrorized by roosters and geese, and struggled with the concept that just because you can see by my outfit that I am a cowboy, didn’t necessarily make it so. I have written before of the farm, and I knew that going back would be a risk. And true to form, I was prepared to accept the worse but so hoping for the best. And the best isn’t really what I got. The road itself was overgrown, the weeds reaching greedy hands toward each other across the skinny black pavement. And when we turned the last corner, and were perched on top of the hill looking down at what used to be our house, it was one of those climactic moments – whatever outcome would result would be revealed soon. And it was not the hopeful, general preservation of a historical landmark that I was hoping for. My house hadn’t been preserved for posterity – the two huge trees in the front yard were gone, replaced by a vinyl fence that was hidden behind about 3 feet of overgrown brush. The small green house had been upgraded – siding replaced the green wood. The outbuildings / sheds and barn had long since been torn down. The only common factor was that the yard was mowed and there were big dogs in the house. The lot had housed the barn was simply part of the yard and the lower lot with the pond was now a wooded area, the bond nothing more than an indentation in the ground at the bottom that you had to strain to see. It would appear that the magic that had hovered around the farm when we were little – fled when we left. The park where we had my 8th birthday party was much the same. The bathroom that I remember being overrun with crickets was still there – and it was too late in the season for a huge amount of bugs – but I could see why they’d like to hang out in the spot. And I’m pretty sure that the tornado slide was EXACTLY the same as it was when I was little. I’m pretty sure they don’t make layered metal slides like that anymore. While we were there we stopped by the elementary school. I didn’t remember that it was white, but I’m pretty sure that it is because I’m combining it with small school clipart. I think they’ve added to the back. What used to be the baseball field was gone. But what was there – and I had forgotten – was the kindergarten building which was across the street. I remembered that tiny sidewalk up to the door, the playground in the back and the thorn bush that grew near the fence. I remember Mrs. Reeves – who in 1974 was probably one of the few black teachers in white schools anywhere in the south. If the visit taught me nothing else, it taught me that metal playground equipment can and most likely will last forever. The square was familiar, I remembered skating around the square for the Buffalo Days parade, and hurling buffalo chips down the hill. I remembered the house with the mimosa tree on the corner – that bloomed brilliant pink sweetness in the summer. But the town looked old and unkempt. The fields were grown over, the town itself was old. It looked forgotten, like a run down senior citizen community with no money and no prospects. It is however, probably one of the only towns with a city park that posts a notice that says no horses allowed. We also traveled to Marshfield, MO. This is where we lived when my brother Jason was born. This house in my head was always very much like a Brady bunch house. And it looked much the same when we stopped by to visit. I didn’t realize that it mattered that it looked the same until I saw it. The yard that in my childhood stretched for so many miles that I was sure Jodi would never be able to reach the, was just a nice sized yard. But the house was a page from a faded memory book. T he trees where we tied Sawdust was there. The sidewalk where Jason found the pee in a bottle (mountain dew I’m sure) was still there. And John Bruce still lived right down the road, though not quite the mile that I remembered. And when I saw him, I just wanted to burst into tears. His hear was white and fading from the top, but he still had his mountain man beard and ponytail. He was still in his overalls. And his eyes were exactly the same. And I lost it. And even when I wrote this, I am overcome again with weepy, nose running tears. So I gave him a huge hug with tears streaming down and he said, Welcome home. And finally there was that one part that was true and was w hat I remembered and was still perfect. And then it was there – the disappointment and loss from Greenfield that I didn’t think bothered me. No one valued that magic place of my childhood. There would be no pictures to frame prettily – it was gone. But John Bruce, he still had the magic of my childhood. He still has the magic twinkle that Santa has, with this calmness of spirit that is reverberating all around him. And when he said welcome home, my journey back to childhood was complete and culminated not in a place as I had anticipated, but in a hug. And it made all the abject horror if Greenfield apparent, and it scoured away the grown up acceptance of the fact that everything was so different – and laid bare and raw the sadness that a place that was so important to me had fallen to ruin. My own Terabithia destroyed. I was again a little girl lost in the mall trying to find a place to belong. So amid the relief that there were parts of my childhood that lived still unchanged there was, and is, just his overwhelming sadness that the rest is gone – neglected, abandoned and discarded – and in the acknowledgement my hope to let it go. But it is one of those moments when you struggle with regret – and it constantly brings to mind – or rather is the same kind of loss – as when my granddaddy walker didn’t know who I was the first time or the last time that I saw him in the nursing home and he didn’t look like granddaddy at all. I have been spoiled it seems in the relative unchanging nature of several constants in my life – and saying that – I must correct myself – there are aspects of my life that are the same only because I’ve seen them evolve and change – there is contentment and security in that. And the lesson learned from it all? This one is hard – it has taken me so long to figure out why seeing John Bruce made me want to cry – so I’m not sure that I’m ready to create the end of blog summative statement. But I suppose if I must say something, it would be that if you value it – hold on to it somehow – not so tightly that you prevent change – but close enough that you are a part of its evolution. Because there is no going home – only going forward.

Election 2008

2008-09-27T17:27:00.001-07:00

O.K. for like the gazillionith time in my adult life, I am again surrounded by republicans. I can’t say that I really understand why anyone would be a republican – but for some ungodly reason, there are people out there who feel that the government shouldn’t really interfere in what they want to do (though it sure better be there to protect their rights). And in the midst of living in Kentucky – which has turned from a forever democratic state into an eternally republican one – so much so that no one even bothers to come here to campaign – I am in the closet – the democratic closet. Not because I’m ashamed of my beliefs – but I sure don’t want to hear anyone tell me that they don’t agree with me. Though I’ve discovered, that in my experience, republicans don’t say, I disagree. They say, you are wrong and stupid for believing what you are doing. Unless they are far to the right – at which point you are wrong, stupid and most likely going to hell for your heathen beliefs.

And this year, more than most election years, I can’t really figure out why someone wouldn’t like Barack Obama. I don’t see why people say they are scared of him more than anything else in the world (especially after seeing Sarah Palin stumbling pathetically through her interviews with Charles Gibson and Katie Couric – which should make them more afraid of John McCain’s death than anything else). Someone on CNN today said that Obama was TOO articulate. How can you be too articulate? Have Americans become so complacent listening to George Bush slaughter the English language these last 8 years that someone who actually speaks intelligently, doesn’t make up vocabulary and uses 3 and 4 syllable words correctly seems foreign and elitist? How does that happen? How can someone be scared of a man who seems to realize that the energy crises isn’t going to be solved by drilling for more oil – ANYWHERE. Last I checked, oil, like coal, is a fossil fuel. Fossil as in, really old, antique. You can’t make any more of it when it’s gone. Who cares if you drill every single damn crevice in the entire globe – it will run out and then what are we going to do? If someone can stick a giant pinwheel on my car and I can drive without using gasoline – then suit me up. And if they can find a giant pinwheel to heat my house, then give it to me. You all know I’m cheap. If solar panels didn’t cost more than my house, I’d already have some just to save some money.

It’s all too bizarre to me in general. This hatred of Barack. And it goes deep. Poor Elijah, my childhood champion, is suffering my pain at a 2nd grade level. I am generally impressed that kids are at all discussing anything political, but it happens. And Elijah is in the minority. A minority of one, if I’m not missing my guess. He comes home from school and says – everyone says that Barack isn’t Christian. That’s what their mom’s and dad’s say. And so we discuss that fact that he is indeed a Baptist. Or it’s “mom, no one in my class wants Barack Obama to win, do I have to want him to win.” And because I’m truly a good democrat, I must answer, “Elijah you can be whatever you want, believe what you want.” And the liberal in me must follow it with “but you know republicans don’t want to give people money to go to college. The government gave me money to go to college so that I could be a teacher and we could be in the same school. I feel that I owe it to those programs to vote for a democrat. I want to help people who can’t help themselves. That’s what I want my tax dollars to go to, helping people have a better life, like someone helped me.” And then he’s back chanting OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA. He even wore my Barack Obama button to school. It makes me proud.

And with just a few more weeks until the election, and a sure to be deliciously lopsided debate coming up on Thursday between Palin (the female, Alaskan equivalent of George W) and Joe Biden (please God don’t talk yourself into a hole) – which I am fervently hoping Palin fails miserably at and if she could do irreparable damage to McCain’s campaign at the same time I would be gleeful. I am waiting with baited breath. And I am hopeful that we will all be moving a step in the right direction. And if McCain wins – I pray that he doesn’t die, because I don’t want to move to El Salavador, and that he reverts to the man he was before he was pandering to get those “loyal conservatives” to vote for him.

A moment in time

2008-09-27T16:42:00.000-07:00

I don't know about the rest of you, but there are moments in time where I stop and think "remember this moment. remember it. remember it." And I know that it will be gone and fleeting before too long. I think that that is why I take so many pictures and make movies - because there are so many times that I am looking out and I see a smile, a glimpse, something and it strikes me that time is so fleeting - it will pass us by and before I know it - Elijah will be lumbering out the door to college. Isaiah will finally be taller than I am. And they will be running away - to a new life - not just to chase after some bug, to reach some toy. They will be running forward and not looking back. Perhaps those aquarian aspects of my zodiac are coming to the forefront - that standing back and seeing the big picture. No longer do I operate under the firmly held belief that my life is life eternal - but there is indeed a wall at the end, a final act. And in your twenties it is easy to say, I would be content to die tomorrow. I have lived a life that I am proud of, I have no regrets. Having children adds an urgency to your life - or at least to mine. I know that I am mortal and I there are things I want to see before I go. I want to see my children graduate from college (i would settle for other forms of training -- but I'd really like to see them as college graduates and preferably at the top of their class, thank you very much). I would like to see them if not married, then in the company of someone they love deeply and are content with (if it falls apart after my death, then that's fine with me). I would like to see them as fathers - good fathers - and trying to create life experiences for their children as I have tried to do for them. A few weeks ago we found a creek. Well, we didn't find it really - there are a multitude of people who know that it was there, but I didn't. And it's a lovely creek. It has all the great creek features (small fish, a few deep spots, cold water, a tarzan swing) without all the weeds and general snake feel that most creeks have. So, we took the boys (and Riley, Elijah's friend) and went to hang out a bit. And as I sat in my soccer chair, with my feet dangling in the water, I had moment after moment of "remember this" -- and because I'm not really like anyone in my family and actually had a camera with video -- I took pictures and video and can remember it -- and for that I am grateful - for the moment, and for the ability to freeze it, revisit it and remember it - forever.

The Successful Marriage?

2008-09-20T10:55:00.001-07:00

A friend of mine at work told me that she and her husband have separated. It was one of those weird moments when you stand back and sort of want to place the blame on someone but aren’t sure who it should be. The girl in me immediately thinks – what has he done, that rat bastard! And then the adult in me knows that he’s always seemed to be a really nice guy, as I had known him professionally. How do I reconcile that person with the rat bastard that he must be! Girls always blame the boy for the break-up, unless they themselves want the boy and then the girl is undoubtedly a slut. It’s always been true, and it will most likely always be true.

My own parents are divorced – more than once (though only my father legally). So divorce is no stranger to me. It’s not like I don’t think it can happen. But, none of my friends have been divorced or separated. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, what friends do you have in the first place. And that’s true enough, my best friends in the world aren’t married. But the other friends that I have, who are my age, that are married, are still married (although one girl is probably still taking drugs to stay with her husband). It’s weird. In my mind, as I sit here writing this, divorce is little more to me than breaking up with your boyfriend in high school or college. Give him back his class ring, divide your stuff and go on. Having never had a boyfriend or intimate relationship with anyone before my husband, I have no experience with the emotional trauma of breaking up with someone. It is true that I was a glorious fag hag for some 10 years and that relationship really faded into nothingness after a traumatic 6 month period. But, in all fairness, I can’t really count that as a break up – because I knew from the beginning that it was really a doomed relationship. So, it was more an issue of me coming to terms with my own idiocy than it was a break up. And a fag hag who doesn’t kiss ass and is ½ in love with her fag is really no good as a fag hag, so I had to find a new gig.

I have had some friends who have had marital problems. And it’s a really difficult conversation to have. It’s not difficult to say, “Oh my God! He’s an ass! You deserve better.” But in high school or college, such comments can easily be followed by “you should dump him, there are better men out there.” You can’t say that when you are talking to a mother of two who has been married for 15 years. It’s not so easy to cut those ties. So, now, I really try to avoid those types of conversations in total. I got nothing to say and no experience, so no one needs to hear what I have to say.

But back to the point, hearing that a marriage may end, really makes you step back and examine your own. How do you know that your own marriage won’t crumble away into nothingness. Do you wake up one morning and go, “O.k., I’m done. I want something else, but not with you.” Is it gradual, is it quick, is sad, devastating. Do I really want to know?

You Get What You Ask For

2008-09-20T10:27:00.001-07:00

In the past several years, I have often been told that I’m bossy. And I am often taken aback by such a statement. I don’t consider myself bossy. And even as I write that, I am positive that there are at least some of you who are snorting and thinking “:whatever.” So, allow me to clarify.

To me, bossy is someone who is forever telling another person what to do – ordering another to complete a task. And I suppose that is the fundamental difference for me. I don’t order. I ask. I also realize that sometimes when I ask, some people feel put upon or compelled to comply with my request. And I say to them, that is your burden, not mine. Every single request that I have made, I have fully expected to receive a negative response. If I ask someone if they can do something, then I accept that they will say no, they can’t. And that’s fine with me. That they don’t say no, they can’t or no they won’t isn’t my problem. It sounds callous doesn’t it. But in all honestly, learning to say no was one of the hardest things that I have ever had to do – and with the learning of it, no longer fear it from others. It probably all goes back to selling books door to door for Southwest book company when I was in college. One of those life lessons that you know you’d never repeat, but what an adventure it was at the time. Call me a sucker for the promise of big money. Because of them, I don’t play the odds on anything. And that in itself is a life lesson. Anyway, when you’re selling books door to door, one thing you learn, and quickly, is to take rejection—and to realize that a no isn’t a personal condemnation – it’s just a no. And because of my horrific experience during that summer, I would speak to every telemarketer, every door to door salesman. I didn’t want to hit them with the same rejection as a salesman that I had suffered through. And then, finally, a young man from southwest book company came to my door. And I seized the opportunity. I bought books from him; the same set of books that I had tried to sell some 13 years before. And I told him as he walked out of the door that finally, I was free. I was never going to have to buy anything from anyone ever again. My debt was paid. And I haven’t bought anything that I didn’t want from anyone since that moment. I don’t feel compelled to donate money to the office envelope, if I don’t want to. I don’t feel guilty if I hang up on (after saying that I’m not interested, thank you for the chance. So, I’m going to hang up and good luck to you.) the random telemarkter (why waste his time with me when I know I’m not buying anything). And all I can say is that it is a freeing experience.

The other side of that coin is the not being afraid to ask. Knowing that there is no malice behind my no, I assume that there is no malice behind yours either. So, why not just check and see. The worse thing that could happen is that you say no. And what’s so bad about that. You might say yes, and that’s even better. That doesn’t mean that I ask for everything. Pride is still an issue there. It’s as if there is a line in the sand and some things – those things that aren’t so personally important – are safe to ask for; while others are forbidden. I don’t ask for money. I have in the past, and I am hopeful that I will never have to do so again. Asking for money is tantamount to admitting to failure and it is a wounding blow. Asking for help is also difficult, but less so as I get older. When I was younger, I felt that asking for help was admitting that I was too stupid or incompetent to complete a task on my own. As I’ve gotten older, I realize that sometimes, I am too stupid or incompetent to complete a task; but the task is important enough that I’d rather have help to get it done right, than not at all. Yes, I have realized that I don’t have to know everything and have begun to identify whole realms of material that I don’t even want to know. And that’s o.k. Perhaps it’s nothing more than the result of growing older and drawing my world in smaller to those things that I can control and those things I can’t. Work on the first, and enjoy the second for what it is – the adventure of living. And as I meander through all of those things over which I have no control, then by all means, let me ask for company, or for help, or for someone to lighten the load – I might get just what I asked for.

Family of Strangers

2008-07-21T11:35:00.000-07:00

Isn't it funny how with your family you operate constantly under the misconceptions that you created throughout your childhood. Your sister is the same as she was at 8 or 13 or whatever age you remember her the most in your head. Sort of the same concept as the age you think you are. You know, when someone asks how old are you, your gut answer is 28, and then you remember . . . no, I'm 39. Oh my god I'm 39, when did that happen. How can I be 39 with a 3 year old, am I crazy?

It's no different when you describe your brothers, sisters, mom, dad, grandparents. They are forever frozen in time somewhere in your head. Well, not always, I suppose it depends on your family dynamic. If you're one of those families who see each other or talk to each every single day, you have that running change going on. But if you don't see each other every day, or talk all that often, your family sort of becomes like your friends from high school that you are seeing again for the first time at a 5 year reunion. They are who they were then. And because you expect it, you get it.

That aside, it's all well and good to be operating under false impressions when you are the one operating. It's really much easier and less involved than having to actually work to build and grow a relationship. But, when you are on the receiving end, you often sit around thinking "why in the world would they think that." In fact, a sure sign that you or your family is suffering fromt his dilemma is the wierd birthday / christmas gift. "why thank you for the leapord print / gold lame shoes and matching handbag. I love them!" oooh oh oh -- or "Wow! a Clinique make-up kit with complete brush set, and hair rollers. I needed these!" And you sit back and mentally ask yourself what about you made someone think that those were gifts that you'd like. And true to form, they are stuck in that creating the you now from the you in the past. After my last post about anonymous responses, I went back and read a couple of my other responses. And my sister had written a couple that had a comment about -- huh, who would have thought we were alike -- or -- see you judge just like you say I do. Now, I must say that I don't really remember having said to Jodi that she was a judgemental person -- maybe when I was 19 -- but I can't be sure - it sounds like something I would have said when I was 19. But I worry that there are people that I care about who have a misconception about what I think about them - that I don't really like them, that they've done something for which I still hold a grudge (Terri - I do not hold a grudge, I swear, I swear, I swear - I remember but not with anger - it's just a good story).

And then it takes me to a place where I feel that perhaps such misconceptions are more a reflection on myself than I'd like to really admit. What sort of unforgiving vibe to I put out there -- I can't be intimidating because too many people give me a hard time. And I'm the first to admit that I'm aloof - really. I compartmentalize people - relatives, step-relatives, work friends, out of work friends. And seldom to people cross over -- and I don't like to mix my groups - makes me anxious. And I suppose, that ultimately, since I'm not really forthcoming with my thoughts and feelings (I see no reason to tell anyone when or how Jose and I had sex, when I last had my period, or what my last bowel movement felt like) nor do I want to hear that information from anyone else - that I may be a bit hard to take / understand / like.

It's a quandry and requires more thought -- ties into that reoccurring theme about never having had "best friends" like the Sex and the City girls -- but as I'm getting older I can honestly say that I really don't think I want that kind of relationship with anyone - I mean seriously, who has time or energy or interest in getting all caught up in someone else's life and problems. Sort of answers that why you dont' have those kinds of friendship questions on it's own doesn't it. Oh well, it could be worse. I could smell.

The Unknown Reader

2008-07-21T11:18:00.000-07:00

Alright, it's true. I am obviously vain enough to have my own blog - hiding behind my aspirations to be discovered and have someone come to me willy nilly and say - wow I love what you write, please, please let us publish your work - oh and here's an advance for $250,000. Sigh, I get happy just thinking about it really.

The reality is that I create some random posting - hurl it into cyberspace - and then hope that someone will read it. And occassionally, I will get a response - and I feel validated somehow. Now, not all entries are really response worthy - I am aware of that - because this blog does double duty - it is my correspondence with friends and family as well as a sounding board. And I also realize that it can be a pain to respond - with the request to sign up and become a member of the google-cult. So many people choose to respond anonymously (sp).

And now we enter into the perverse aspect of my nature. The "oh my god, is nothing good enough for you" part of me -- which I shall whole heartedly blame on Jose as he is often stuck in the look only at the negative aspect of reality. My joy at receiving a response to a post is always - but always overshadowed by the intense mystery of the anonymous poster. What do you mean what's "what comes from the heart, touches the heart. " -- from a post that I think I wrote like 4 months ago -- how totally random is that? Is it someone that I know? Is it someone who stumbled across the blog on a random search - how does that happen - almost all of my random searches end up with foreign blogs (though I've gotten a reponse from a foreigner as well - which was kind of cool). But because it is against my nature to let a sleeping dog lie - I kind of view someone's response as an invitation to conversation. And just flinging a little comment out there isn't enough -- I want to know who you are - what you mean, what do you do for a living, where do you live (have I mentioned before that I tend to get obsessive).

It's not much different than when I was in school and I'd miss 3 points on a 50 point essay and the professor would write good job. Well if it was a good job whey did I lose 3 points - what was wrong with it, how can I fix it.

The other part is a bit of the Mike Rowe, Dirty Job request. In that a good comment could foster another inspiration. (this blog being case in point)

So anyway - let me beg, plead with those random few people in the world who accidentally read this thing - as well as my family (who will all now want to respond anonymously just for spite) and my friends (who will want to do the same - except for Jenny who will just laugh and sign her name anyway) -- please tell me who you are when you respond - even if I don't know who you are. It will make me feel better at least.

Vacation Travel

2008-07-21T05:44:00.000-07:00

By and large the worse part of any vacation is travelling. The drive down there isn't too bad, it just takes for ever. You are anxious to be there, to see the ocean, or the museum, or the park, or the whatever it is you are going to see. And travelling with parents and children, well it means that you are going to stretch your 9 hour trip into 13 hours. There is logistically no way for everyone to synchronize their poop chute - that's all there is to it. Stop for gasoline, everyone goes potty, except maybe two people. In 20 minutes, one of them will have to stop. Everyone goes again. except one person. And another 30 minutes that last person will have to stop. So in one hours time, you've traveled 30 miles and stopped 4 times. If you're lucky, you might get another 2 to 3 hours in before the process begins again, but usually not. Usually about one hour after the last stop, someone will need to stop again.

It's really no different on the way home, but in the long run the effect is much more devestating. Travelling down to florida, there's always the hope and anticipation of what is to come. Coming you, you know what's there, you just want to get into your comfortable clothes, and into bed and sleep for a while -- but you know you can't do that, because you're going to have to unpack (thank god the condo had a washing machine and all your clothes are already clean). But by the time you get home, the drive has washed away all of the joy of the vacation. You arrive back in town and it seems as if you've never been gone. There was no vacation, there was no laughter and sun and sand and surf. There was only this long drawn out time spent in the car, scouring away the vacation entirely. That's why you need to take pictures while you're there, because by the time you return, you will have forgotten everything.

Of course, I'm doing it all again in October. This time I'm going to Branson with Grandma Walker, my dad, and Elijah and Isaiah. I'm thinking Benadryl all around!

Summer Vacation

2008-07-21T05:38:00.001-07:00

Most of my life summer vacation has been about going somewhere, staying only a few days, because that's all we could afford, and then cramming as much as possible into those few days. It wasn't really vacation, it was work. This year, bold and daring person that I am, I invited my mom, my dad and stepmother to go with Jose, Franklin, Elijah, Isaiah and I on vacation. I really want my kids to have some memories of doing stuff with their grandparents, like I did. But unlike my grandparents, my parents worked, or are now in poor-health, and not really the cookie making, bread baking kind of people. And that's o.k., because there are very few people out there who could match Grandma Walker anyway, what a high standard to have lay down for all to follow.

I'm pretty sure that every adult member of the party was approaching the vacation with trepidation. My parents because they were dreading having to spend a lot of time, 24 / 7 with small children who were bound to be cranky, and myself, for having to be caught in the middle between cranky old people and cranky young people and knowing that there would be no escape, unless I could trap Franklin into babysitting, cause God knows Jose wouldn't (he'd be too busy napping on the couch).

Suprisingly, the entire event went off very well. The place that we rented was large enough that everyone had a place to be quiet by themselves. And there was a pool just by the front door, so the kids were able to spend the afternoon in the water, thus giving the adults a quiet place to find. There were snakes, lizards, frogs, bugs of all sorts, and a turtle. Really, the boys paradise. And though we werne't on the beach, we were close enough to get the ocean breezes - yet far enough that I didn't have to go traipsing down with the kids at 2:00 in the afternoon to swim again - which would have been a nightmare. Port St. Joe, barefoot cottages, is the place - very rasonable in case you want to go yourself.

Fort Knox

2008-07-21T05:18:00.000-07:00

Elijah has really been into World War 2. This is a direct result of Jason being stationed as a combat medic in Kirkuk, Iraq. And since there's really nothing to glorify about this particular military engagement, we're going backwards to a time when playing army wasn't really considered politically incorrect (you know when it was o.k. with kids to play with guns, and walmart actually still carried some).

And because Elijah is my child, when he becomes interested in something, he gets a bit obsessive. Or maybe I get obsessive for him and expressing interest usually leads to toys, books, games, movies and trips so he goes along. It's really too blurry a line.

Anyway, since Franklin had to go to Danville for soccer camp (armed with the knowledge that though he might visit said university there was no way, short of us winning a lottery or robbing a bank that he could ever actually attend) we stopped by Fort Knox. Now, in case you have a wild hair and decide to go for yourself, you need to know that the Patton museum is not on base. And if you drive up to base looking for the museum the guards at the gate will look at you like your an idiot and tell you that you aren't going on base to get there, thank you very much, just turn your little terroristic vehicle in disguise (minivan) around with your al-qida (sp) troops (children) and head on your merry way, Allah bless you. So we did.

And, in case you didn't know, Patton is largely responsible for creating and developing the armored tank division of the United States Armed forces. So visiting his musuem is code for looking at a lot of tanks, lots and lots of tanks. And if you're me, going to the Fort Knox museum is about like going to the National Corvette museum, after the first one, I'm good and ready go get back on the road. However, if you're a small boy, or even an old one, it is a magical place. Elijah would look at each tank and then tell me what that tank would do (from his Medal of Honor games, or Axis and Allies computer game). The only thing that could have made the entire day even more perfect for him was being able to get inside a tank, which wasn't an option.

Isaiah's favorite part was when they had mock battles created from toy tanks and toy soldiers behind plexiglass cases. He would sit and star and move around to see every angle. It was most likely one of the few times that he could play the giant to any scene. Franklin and I sort of drifted in and out, giving a little "hmm" every so often. And Jose was entranced with the mobile living quarters that Patton had - actually a converted amubulance unit. He'd have given a couple of quarters to be able to go up in there. As for me, the most interesting thing that I learned was that Patton died in 1945 in a car accident that broke his neck (though he didn't die for a month after the accident). I didn't know that . . . and it seems such a random act -- one of those survive the war to die from a staph infection received when you stubbed your toe kind of things.

So, Fort Knox has become a been there and done that sort of thing. And know we'll have to put the Fort Campbell equivalent on tap for this fall (after another trip to Dinsoaur World no doubt).

Fourth of July

2008-07-21T05:13:00.000-07:00

This year, we decided that instead of hanging out in the Hardees parking lot and looking for fireworks across the trees from the National Corvette Museum, we'd actually go to an event like real people. So we attended WKU's celebration. Mostly because they have an band (couldn't get orchestra to look right today) and it was free (Mama LOVES free). It was really a nice time, even though it was raining, but that was kind of fun too. People don't do enough stuff in the rain, really. And, thank you Jason, I only got teary eyed once or twice and not at all when the fireworks were going off.

We also splurged with left over vacation money and bought some fireworks from one of those walmart tent places. Isaiah wasn't a big fan of the loud popping at first, but since most of what we got were fountains, he soon settled into the home made ooh and aah and joy of setting things on fire! We are all really little pyromaniacs at heart.

Hey, It's Franklin!

2008-07-21T04:53:00.000-07:00

Franklin, my full grown, didn't have to change his diapers son is beginning to approach typical teenagerdom. He's shown some flashes of it in the past, but not really anything spectacular. He often hovers somewhere between 13 and 17. And he would be the first to say that he acts 13, by teasing and antagonizing his little brothers, because he doesn't have any teenager friends. He doesn't get to go the mall, or hang out with his friends, go to parties... what are we doing to him. Destroying any chance he might have a long term happiness that's what! Now, before you all sit back and shake your head at me, shouting out Heil Amy! Please know that he's not forbidden from said activities, but before I let him get into a car with another teenager (and they can be nasty, untruthful, deceitful, things teenagers) I want to at least have had the chance to meet the kid who's holding the life of this child in his hands. I owe it to his mother, at the very least. And Franklin, well, harboring a deep sense of teenager shame, doesn't want to invite any of his friends over. Not that I blame him, most of his friends come from the in ground pool set in the ritzy zip codes -- you don't get that kind of glamor with cheapzilla (me) and survivor of the the third world.

But it is his senior year. And as he's not allowed to get his driver's license until he can pay for his car insurance, I have finally gotten him to contemplate, though not too seriously the thought of maybe, possibly, looking for a job, kind of, after soccer season is over. I think the threat of going with him to prom with Elijah as my date was really the motivating factor - though not too motivating until he understood going with him didn't mean that I was going to sit in the car and wait for him, but sit right next to him and tell all sorts of stories about wierd habits he has at home (of which I'm actually unaware, he must complete strange rituals in his bedroom).

And finally, after almost 2 years, I know that Franklin has finally reached a true level of comfort here because last night, as we were looking at a way to find a class ring that didn't cost an arm and a leg, he passed gas. Yes, you all know about the fart level of comfort. It was a special moment for us all. And being me, I let everyone in the house know, and now I'm telling the 3 people who read this as well.

Ohe What a Difference a Year Makes

2008-07-21T04:46:00.000-07:00

Isaiah is learning to swim this summer - at the tender age of 3. Of course, this isn't life saving swimming potential as he can only swim underwater. But he does seem to enjoy the water as much as Elijah and I do. And though Beech Bend still thinks Isaiah is 2, which means he gets in for free, he has come quite a distance this last year.

Last year, Isaiah wasn't speaking - not really. He didn't say Mama until Thanksgiving weekend last year. He said a lot of other things, just not mama. It's really amazing how quickly you can get tired of hearing Mama - even if you'd been desperately waiting almost 3 years to get it. I think that most likely he was trying to pay me back for refusing to give him his pacifer unless he verbally asked for it (he refused to even make the effort, and that's how he broke from the boppy). I'm thinking that this child may hold a grudge.

And now, my little package of boyness -- well he shouts "fire in the hole" before he gets out of the car. And when you push him high on the swing he looks at you and says "that's what I'm talking about" And because of his big brother, when he gets out his hotwheels to play, he says "Mama are you Japan or Germany or Russia" World War 2 reigns supreme at the Serrano household currently (a whole new blog). And making the English teacher in my happy, he hands me papers and asks "what's that say?" And likes to pretend to read books. Something neither of his older brothers or his father would bother doing -- books - who needs books! What vast growth we will see by next summer I wonder?

Faces of Love

2008-04-27T14:57:00.000-07:00

The boys are really becoming hams for the camera.

Soldier Boy

2008-04-27T13:59:00.000-07:00

Since Jason has been Iraq, Elijah's fascination with dinosaurs and Star Wars has transformed itself into major battles of the world. So, we've been watching World War I, World War II, Civil War, ancient battles, you name it. And at home, he and Isaiah play the combat medic.

You Spin Me

2008-04-27T13:32:00.000-07:00

The boys were playing on the swing after running through the sprinklers -- Well, mostly Isaiah. And the camera was handy, so another video we made.

Bye Bye Bitterness

2008-04-27T12:41:00.001-07:00

You know, I’ve written several times about how spring and fall make me want to get in contact with people that I knew from the past. And this spring was no different. When I was 19, I met a boy named Craig. Craig was / is gay – and I was, well, for lack of a better word, stupid. But this is not about rehashing all that old crap – suffice it say that many people get married and then get divorced and then get married again. I was a fag hag, lost the fag, and then got married. Really, it all equals the same.

I don’t know about other people, normal people. But for me, there was really always this part of me that felt dissatisfied or unresolved. Sure there was anger and bitterness to get through (some at him, some at me). But when that had been waded through, and faded, there was still a part of me that missed that time in my life. Does that make sense. Not so much that I missed him, but that I missed things that I used to do. And when you are codependent and obsessive with one person for 10 years, well that’s a big chunk of time.

For example, we used to play Nintendo, board games, read the same books and watch the same shows on television. There as a connection of similar interests there. Those are things that I really enjoy, and I have been patiently waiting for my children to grow (slyly buying board games and the like) so that when they were older, we could play together. But, it’s a long time to wait. And really, heigh-ho cherry-o isn’t what I had in mind when I was thinking of playing board games (or chutes and ladders, and definitely not candyland). And I suppose, if I were a normal person like everyone else, I’d probably have other friends who did those things and then that void would have been adequately filled. But I’ve not ever been much on having lots of friends or doing things with people on my free time. That’s not to say that I feel that Craig is the only person with whom to do those things – but he’s the person I associate with those activities.

And, if I’m to be perfectly honest, and uncensored, there’s a part of me that feels like making contact with Craig is this whole dirty little secret sort of thing. It would be like Jodi coming up and saying that she and Lance had started to correspond and be friends. And I’d look at her as if she had lost her fricking mind – what is she nuts? But then again, Mom and Dad are now friends – driving to the doctor together, sharing stroke stories, comparing frailties and ailments and abilities. And that only took them some 10 years or so to make the first steps (I’m comfortable in your presence) and the next 20, I can spend time with you on the holidays, to the present, really, a FFO – fine, but I’m taking my own car or I shall most likely kill someone before we reach our destination. So, there it is. I think that Craig and I will be friends again – maybe – at the very least he’ll be on my email list to forward silly things to – and on the other hand, we might hang out (which still feels a little weird in my head when I say it).

I can definitively say this – it does feel nice to not have the bitterness or anger. And it feels weird to give myself permission to be o.k. with that – You know what I mean, when you break up with someone and 3 weeks later, even though you don’t want to get back together, you still want to call – but you know if you do it could all go horribly wrong and that everyone will think that you are some weak willed ninny whose life if falling miserably apart – what a LOSER. I don’t want people to think that I’m that girl or that person. And piss on it if they do, I guess. It is what it is. And for those of you who are concerned about this new step --- rest assured that I still whole heartedly dislike Mrs. Lawler from 11th Street and hope that she, in all her incompetent glory, falls flat on her face – or should KARMA have a greater demise in store for her, then I would gladly watch that one as well. Of course that bitterness has only been resting for a year – and it’s most closely related to someone taking away a favorite toy – I loved my job and that hateful woman ruined it for me. But perhaps, I shall be inspired and become a nationally recognized teacher (ha ha – as if, I’m way to lazy to do all the work entailed – those teachers come into the building on weekends and stay late every day, and make an effort to talk to parents – I’m not there yet—and by the time that the boys are grown and gone, I will be too tired to go there – so mother of the year will have to do).

And now, I’m done with the rant rave and tentative exposure. We’ll just have to see what happens.

Spring

2008-04-27T12:17:00.000-07:00

There are seasons in the year that make me yearn for yesterday. Usually, it’s spring or fall. I don’t know what it is about the first warm days of spring, with the faint breezes and the green leaves bursting forth that takes me back to my childhood, but it does. There is this bird that begins to sing in the spring. I don’t know what kind of bird it is, but to me it always sounds like the old hinges on the swings at school – that odd sort of creaking that isn’t unpleasant, but simply a playground sound. And after going to the bird song web site (http://www.learnbirdsongs.com/) I can’t find the one song - because each one that I click on sounds like the playground to me – so maybe it’s just the spring sounds, and being back outside. (although, it may be a robin or cardinal – but I don’t hear it in the winter even though I see those birds)

It’s during the spring and fall that I will invariably try to get in touch with people from my past. It is during that time that I wonder what happened to people I used to know. And sometimes I find them, and sometimes, I don’t. And sometimes it’s awkward, and sometimes it’s not.

As a mother, spring is a time to create new memories for my children. To find a way to awaken them to the simple pleasures of life – which gets harder with each passing year and the conveniences of the modern world. When I was little, I thought nothing of swimming in the pond. It was water when it was hot and it was close. But you couldn’t pay me to get inside a pond and swim now. I used to like to walk up creeks, look at crayfish or try to catch them – or perhaps more often than not put my hand down to catch one then jump out of the way when it looked like I just might do it. The first one is always, but always the hardest. The first one is the one you have to talk yourself into. After that, it’s really not so hard. And by far, crayfish are no where as creepy as crabs (giant hard shelled spiders is what those things are). And now, sometimes I think how much the boys would enjoy something like that – and my mommy brain conjures up having to rush from said creek to the emergency room because Isaiah’s left arm has been nearly amputated by a snake. That and not really knowing any places that have said little creeks that aren’t guarded by crazy, toothless people with guns. Who knew that being a mommy would give you a whole new set of fears to overcome – or make the old ones that you thought you had overcome hit you all over again. And when it comes to that, what is about being a human that makes us want to recreate memories for our children. I’d like to take my kids to Current River in Missouri, or to Ava. Those were places that I thought were magic when I was little. And I want my sons to have a wow place like that. On the other hand, I don’t really want to go back and ruin the memory for myself – what if it turns out to be nothing more but a whole in the wall, some skanky place that my older, snobbier self wouldn’t want to touch? How badly would that suck?

So, as I work my way through this mire of wants and cans, I do my best. And, to my credit, I do take lots of pictures and then set them to music – which makes even the crappiest event look special – seriously!

brothers

2008-04-13T04:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Elijah and Isaiah were playing army men in the living room. Army men has been a frequent game lately with Jason in Iraq. They had pieced together juice box boxes and 12pk sodas and strung them across the kitchen and living room with chairs and what not and had created a bridge. Elijah got tired of the game and moved on to bigger and better things, but Isaiah wasn't quite ready. So, Isaiah came back to the room and told on Elijah because Elijah wouldn't play bridge with him. And when I said that it was o.k., Elijah didn't have to play every game that he played, Isaiah responded with, "but, he's my best friend."

Now, there are a couple of little miracles here. One is that my child who was mostly unintelligble some 7 months ago is now talking so well, and coming up with new and wonderful phrases that I know that I didn't teach him (unless he's already able to read and has logged on to my blog and read all my best friend blog issues - at which point, I've created a genius). The other little miracle is that at the tender ages of 7 and 3, Elijah and Isaiah's relationship is already beginning to move beyond siblings to friends, and there's something precious there. Now, at first, I thought I'd just enjoy the moment and I'd remember it. But I know that I would forget - mom's always forget. So, of course I got the camera out and had him repeat it. And while I was there, thought about my brother and had them record a message for him - but of course, though they might work together - they conspire against me - and it was more of a silly time than anything real. That doesn't mean that I didn't put it in a video... cuz I did. It does mean that when I did add a few pictures of my brother at the end as tribute.

Brother's do hold a special sort of place in the world. I look at my dad and Uncle Darrell who stayed in the same town and live next door to each other, and visit with each other almost every day. And I envy that. And I think that those types of relationships are easier for boys growing up than they are for girls. Not that I can say for sure - but it seems to me that girls bond more as adolescents when they go through growing up trauma - and my sister and I didn't have the same interests during that time . . . so some of that was missed - we had to wait until we were both parents - and even then she was 12 years into it when I first started, and a grandmother not long after I had my last. But Jason, well, I suppose it's best summed up with this quote that I found:

There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother. Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too.-- Anna Quindlan

I think that hate is too strong a word - but oh man that annoying little fart who used to stick his finger right up to my face on car rides - he's still in there. And when he comes to pick on my kids and they look at me in desperation, (and when he did it to Lanny), Jodi and I sit back and watch with a bit of a rite of passage mentality --- It is Jason, and this must be survived -- but know that he does it with love.

Family Vacations

2008-03-27T13:14:00.000-07:00

What I remember about family vacations is sitting in the backseat of a car, usually with vinyl seats, and not being able to see out the window. I remember fussing with Jason and playing the no touch game - and invariably losing. I remember looking at letters from road signs and trying to spell my name. It was better when we were a little older and we had the black van - it had a full size bed in the back, and a sliding side window. There was a bit more mobility and freedom there - in part because seat belt laws were merely a figment of some tortured mother's imagination. I also remember stopping at neat little spots and getting out to roam and play. We stopped in Colorado once, all of us dressed in shorts, tee shirts and flip flops, and playing in the snow and thinking that was soooo coool. My mom, to compensate for back seat bickering, usually had us all in the car at 3:00 a.m. so that we would sleep most of the journey - and awaken some 6 hours later at our destination (or at least our first stop). She was also a big fan of leaving at 8 p.m. and driving all night to accomplish the same thing.

So imagine my mother's suprise - nay consternation - when we departed for Gatlinburg with 3 children in tow at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m. Since it took us some 45 minutes to get from Cadiz to Clarksville (we stopped for gasoline, had a bit of tire trauma), she huddled in her front seat snorteling like some evil gnome - waiting for the first "How much further!" Remembering all the headaches that my siblings and I had caused for her, she was ready to get payback, as was her due. But I had a secret weapon .... technology. No more staring blindly out the window as cars streamed past. No more making up back seat games to alleviate boredom. In the 21st century, the backseat is the entertainment capital of the car. Everyone had access to a mini dvd player and videos. Don't like what is on the radio, well here you go, have your very own .mp3 player with songs taylored for just your tastes. And for long stretches of time, there is peace in the car.

There are some of you who would claim that such a means of travel diminishes the family time together. And to you, I say poo poo. By what definition does family travel time have to be bickering in the back seat about who's hand crossed some stitched seam. Why does family travel have to be a frustrated parent slamming on the breaks, glaring in the rear view mirror and threatening to turn this car around if you don't behave. Oh sure, those of us who have survived such events laugh about them. But we laugh about them the same way people who have survived a massive car accident laugh about it. It sucked then, but it's funny now. And when that family arrives at the hotel, bitterness and tiredness rolling of them like smoke off of dry ice -- it takes hours to find the joy of vacation again. My family, they laugh and talked about a movie that we'd saved just for the trip. Headphones were removed as someone pointed out something to see on one side of the road or the other. And Elijah still managed to wonder aloud more than 10 times, how much futher it was until we got to Gatlinburg and what would we do when we got there. But when we finally arrived, stretched our legs, unloaded the car. We still liked each other enough to want to spend a few more hours in each other's company in the car - go see the top of the mountain. No breaks were slammed, no body cried, and no one got their hair pulled. Doesn't sound like a vacation does it? (click title to view movie)

Baby You Can Drive My Car

2008-03-26T15:45:00.000-07:00

There are many things that you aren’t told about getting older:

1. how you will become afraid to sneeze or cough because you will most likely pee on yourself
2. how your ears begin to get a bit crusty (I don’t know else to describe that)
3. how every part of you expands, except your bladder, forcing you to wake up every night to pee at 2:30 a.m.

There are many, many more – really but what I wanted to talk about was the fact that no one tells you about how odd it feels when life starts to come full circle. When you have small children, you revel and bask in their new discoveries. It’s exciting to see and be a part of those times. Mostly that’s because you can’t remember those times first hand. I have several video camera memories. I’ve watched the video or seen a picture and those images are part of my memories, but not the moment itself. But when your children get older, they begin to experience life moments that you actually remember.

Franklin has just gotten his permit. And we have begun our endeavor of learning to drive. This weekend, I took the first step in creating a new family tradition and took Franklin to Land Between the Lakes to learn to drive. It’s really an ideal place because there’s nothing there. The roads are curvy and empty and there’s no better place to get used to driving a car. Sitting in the front seat slowly talking him through the process just made me think about learning to drive myself; though, surprisingly, the details seem somewhat dim. I don’t remember much about it. I remember driving Glenda’s giant car that took up most of the road and felt as if it were powered by a rocket. I remember driving across the Lake Barkley Bridge and gripping the wheel so tightly that I felt as if I might bend the steering wheel.

I don’t think that Franklin has ever seemed more like Jose to me than during this time. He has this stoic-ness to him that amazes me. I have never really been one to hide my emotions – any emotion – from anyone. And Franklin, like Jose, keeps himself close to himself. His excitement manifests itself in raised eyebrows – no hopping up and down, or vocalizations for Franklin. And though he will admit to being nervous after the fact, he doesn’t allow himself to appear nervous during it. After he had finished driving, and we were on our way back to Bowling Green, he told me how nervous he was when he was driving over the bridge – especially when the moving van was coming at us from the other way and there’s really no where to scoot over on the bridge. And he stuck his hands in front of him and was pretending to steer and told me that he was thinking, Papita, you are talking but I am not listening to you right now, I will talk to you again when we are off the bridge. Which was so much like what I felt the first time I drove across the bridge, except I’m sure that I maintained a running commentary of everything that was happening the entire time it was happening as I was driving.

And when Franklin would make me a little nervous because I felt he was too close to my side (the passenger side) of the road and I would reach my hand out to grab the door, Franklin would say “it’s o.k. Franklin can do it.” And when he took a turn too wide and a tad too fast, or today when he the light turned yellow before he quite got under it, he would make a short, low “oooooooh” almost like he was about to say “ooh, you’re getting in trouble.”

I am glad that he is nervous and that driving isn’t something that comes easy for him – because I am hoping that will make him cautious and careful. I’m pretty sure that since he’s been practicing with the boys in the backseat and my dad in the front seat, he is really developing his skills to ignore in car distractions. He hasn’t even asked to turn the radio on – which seems so not a teenager to me.

It will be interesting to see, in some 30 years or so, when Franklin has a teenager of his own how he will feel about teaching him/ her to drive. I hope he takes his children to LBL to practice too.
(click on title to view accompanying video)

The FFO

2008-03-26T15:21:00.000-07:00

When I was very little, my mother took us to Hematite Lake. It’s really more of a giant pond and is located at Land Between the Lakes. There is a nature trail around the lake, and some places to have a picnic lunch next to a stream. There is also a little waterfall area and some cement stepping stones that allow you to walk across the waterfall. When I was very little, I remember standing on those blocks and being terrified that I wasn’t going to make it to the next block. They were very, very far apart. And the water was dark and murky and bound to be over my head. I don’t remember receiving words of encouragement or words that would soothe my fears. But I’m sure that I got them. Though with my family, that’s not always the case. I could have just as easily been told that I’d better do my best to make it across because there was a sea monster that lived in the water and would come to eat my legs if I fell in. It’s really a crap shoot in the Walker house when it comes to negating childish fears. I do remember stretching my leg out as far as it could go and not making it. My leg plunging into the water and then scrambling onto the next block in abject terror. The rest of the walk is a blur, I’m sure blocked from memory because the degree of terror.

When we moved back to Cadiz when I was in the 4th grade, my mom took us back to Hematite again. And my first comment was, when did they add more blocks to the walk way. My mother looked at me, puzzled, and replied that there were no more blocks than there’d ever been. And I experienced my first moment of shifted perceptions. As a child, I knew those blocks were at least 3 feet across. I had to really jump to get across. Yet as a 10 year old, the blocks appeared to only be 6 inches apart. 6 inches – no way!

This weekend, as we were touring Land Between the Lakes to offer Franklin the opportunity to drive with his shiny new permit. And we returned to Hematite Lake. It was the first time that my children had gone to the lake as well. Elijah was immediately enamored of the stepping stones. Really, anyone with just the tiniest bit of a child still in them enjoys walking across. And because they are somewhat oddly space, no matter how long you’ve been walking, you have to pause in the middle to sort of regain your balance / equilibrium / gate. I’ve never crossed that I didn’t think that it was possible for me to lose my balance and fall in the water – which is still as murky as ever. And I took Isaiah, how must now be about the same size that I was the first time that I went to the lake and tried to cross the stones. Isaiah, who even at the age of 3 is very practical, looked at the stepping stones and though he wanted to cross, merely shook his head at me when I asked if he wanted to go, and then raised his hands for a lift. And I, afraid that I would fall in myself and a grand recreator of my past for my children, refused to give it. Instead, together, we baby stepped across. He’d stick his leg up and out as far as he could, and then sort of lean into it and tip himself over onto the next stone. All the while he maintained a death grip on my fingers.

There is a quiet, subtle joy in moments like that. Getting to see first hand what you yourself must have experienced, but can’t really truly recall. It gives you a feeling of being god like – seeing life through time and in the instant all at once. And you can’t help but smile and try to remember what it was like this time – so that you will remember it always. A moment like that makes me grateful for cameras (still and video). And a moment like that makes me wish we had neither – because I want to keep it precious on my own – but who are we kidding. Those memories get lost and fall to the wayside. And in 20 years, I will look back in confusion as the boys recount some memory they have in common that somehow shaped their young lives – but to me was just another day. And that saddens me – but seems to be rite of passage in itself – because I’ve done it often enough to my own mother. And sat back in dazed wonder as my brother and sister told a story from their point of view and wondered where they were because that’s not how I remember it at all. But it’s o.k. and it’s how it should be.

And as we made our way off of the stones, I told my dad that I couldn’t bring him back for about 8 more years so that he, too, would ask when they had added the extra stones. (click title for link to video)

Pipe Dreams and Gonna Do’s

2008-03-04T17:03:00.001-08:00

My mom once described my dad as a gonna do. And to be fair, Wayne Walker is forevermore planning one thing or the other in his head. There is probably not a conversation that goes by that dad won’t say something like “you know what you oughta do…” And I have found that I have a bit of that in my own personality. I like to call it being the “idea man.” It is one of my trials in teaching. I love to come up with ideas, but I don’t much care about seeing if they work, or analyzing data, or the rest of the ick stuff that mucks up the joy of coming up with the idea. But I’m working on that.

I think an aspect of that is the glass ½ full, and more’s on the way, mentality. That pipe dream that something wonderful is just around the corner. For some people, not getting that pipe dream is a foundation for depression or despondency. But that’s only if you quit believing that something good is just around the corner . . . AND if you aren’t content or happy with what you have right now. My mind flashes to the beginning of Pretty Woman when the homeless guy is walking down the street saying “What’s your dream? Everybody got a dream?” And I think that as we get older, we forget what that dream is. When I was in high school, my dream was to get out of high school, to get a real life (maybe a husband, good job, be financially secure (able to buy what I wanted – that’s a pipe dream for sure), maybe a couple of kids). When I first started teaching, my dream was to be Disney’s Teacher of the Year. There is actually a lot of work that is entailed in being Disney’s Teacher of the Year – and I’m not sure how much editing goes into those vignettes, but I’m pretty sure that I’m not that enthusiastic about teaching (it’s still my job – not my life). And another bit of pipe dream comes from thinking, wouldn’t it be nice to be an author. I say that with about the same sort of self belief that I say, wouldn’t it be nice to be size 10. Do they make a magic pill for either? This whole blog thing is sort of my passive aggressive step in that direction. I’ll write, and then put it on the web and see if some exec. From Random house happens upon my writing and says oh my god, it’s brilliant, come write for me! I had thought of sending letters of interests to local newspaper and start a column – Erma Bombeck as inspiration. But you know, that’s also a lot more time and effort for something that I’m not sure that I actually want to pursue. Though don’t get me wrong, if someone came and said – we’ll pay you 60k a year to write for our paper. I’m pretty sure I could pop out some nonsense or the other once a week without any true difficulty. But that’s just a thought. And as Delores Claiborn says – wish in one hand, spit in the other and see which gets filled up first.

So anyway, I did a web search and found a small publish company and have submitted a few blogs for perusal / evaluation. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that it’s going to turn out to be a vanity press. At which point, I’m not so vain and too poor for that. But it’s better than the passive aggressive waiting that has been occurring. And who knows, perhaps someday I’ll be a published author and if you go into a ½ price book store, you’ll see my blogs, nicely arranged and on sale for 50 cents – of which I’ll make a whopping 2 cents. Ahhh, the sweet smell of success.

On LOST

2008-02-28T15:37:00.000-08:00

O.K. I have been one of the last Americans to jump on the Lost bandwagon. Usually, if something comes on regular television – I don’t watch it – for a couple of reasons. We don’t really get local chanels with any clarity and regularity. I don’t want to start watching something and then not be able to see it the next week. And secondly, with 3 televisions in the house and 5 people, I don’t usually get to watch what I want. Franklin or Elijah are on one playing xbox. Isaiah doesn’t really understand the concept of taking turns with television, and after having to have several discussions regarding profanity and sex with Elijah who would watch what I wanted to watch – I thought I’d extend his innocence just a bit. And then there’s papa. Who only wants to watch Spanish television – so if he’s watching television, and it’s not soccer, then he’s alone with that t.v. As an aside, his current favorite show is called the 12 hearts. It’s a game show where 7 girls and 5 boys do what appears to be really stupid stuff and then pick who they want to be with. Sort of like a hoochie mama dating game. And at the end, the strangers are sucking face so hard that I’m pretty sure the man from the dyson commercials is going to come and offer them a job.

Anyway, about 2 weeks ago, Jason emailed and said that he had been watching Lost – and that he wouldn’t mind seeing additional episodes. So I went to abc.com and found out that they were all online. I had seen the season 4 past, present and future premier and thought the show looked pretty interesting. So I decided to just watch the first episode and see how / why the plane crashed. And there it was… my first taste… I was a LOST whore. It’s not high brow entertainment. I’m sure my friend Steven, from high school, could find the hidden symbolism and discuss the metaphysical meaning behind each turn of grass. But me, well I sit and stare, open mouthed. And every so often, I jump in startlement. Sometimes, I blurt out – “he’s crazy” or “I don’t like him.” And most episodes, I’ll say “what IS that thing in the forest?” But every single episode, I say… what’s gonna happen next… and that’s the draw. I want to know what is going to happen. And they leave you hanging. It’s worse even than when I was watching Days of Our Lives in the dorm. And they’d get you to that point where something good was really going to happen, and then they would simply slap a commercial in your face.

And so my obsession has grown. I am almost ½ way finished with season 3. I no longer dread getting up an hour early, because now, I can watch an entire episode before I have to wake up the boys. And I have been watching about 2 episodes a night. So, I’m about to reach the edge.. when I’ll have to wait for an entire week for the next episode… and I’m not too happy about it. But I’ll survive.

And before I leave – here are some Lost commentaries – since I’ve no one to talk to about it. Everyone else has been watching it all along and are not quite so excited as I am.

Jack: you know, he’s a bit whiney. I keep seeing Party of Five and it seems that he’s kept within the same character frame: grumpy, whiny guy who doesn’t get his way and isn’t too happy about it. I like him fine. He seems smart and relatively rational.

Locke: he’s got a pedofile feel to me. I don’t know why. Sometimes, I think – he’s o.k. and other times – I think he’s off his rocker and a danger to the world in general.

Ann Lucia – I am sort of glad she had the drinking and driving thing and had to be killed off. She was just to ghetto for me. I didn’t really believe that she was a good cop.

Ecko – His death made me think that the writers decided that the tail-survivor thing was not such a good idea – really. Except maybe for Rose’s husband.

Charlie – O.K. I know he dies and how – I saw that part. And once you get over the “he’s a hobbit” thing – he’s not bad. Though to be honest, once he kicked his heroin habit, I didn’t really care that much about him.

BEN – he’s really creepy – I don’t like him. Though he does look like he should be a techie on CSI somewhere. I think they should let Sayid torture him forever.

Sayid – He’s got the basset hound eyes that sort of get on my nerves. I mean, I want him to have mean, grumpy, hard eyes because he tortures people. And sometimes I think – he’s hot – and sometimes I think – uh, maybe not so hot. I felt really bad when Shannon died, but figure his Arabian girlfriend will probably show up on the island sometime from some weird water skiing incident.

Hurley – LOVE HIM!!! He’s got a way with the word Dude that I find appealing. I spend a lot of time judging the frizziness of his hair and thinking how much I’d hate having that long frizzy hair on the island and wouldn’t this be a good time to cut it. Apparently they have utensils for everything, but no scissors. And I felt really bad for him when Libby died. And also am glad that he didn’t take a gun, because I don’t want Hurley to kill anyone.

Kate – I don’t trust her, so I can’t really like her.

Sawyer – I trust him more than Kate. He seems to be a good guy who’s tried a long time to be bad – where as she’s just bad. I don’t like that line he has between his eyes that really folds when he does that I’m pissed glare.

Michael - I'm hoping that he gets killed. Don't care how it messes Walt up. He needs a better role model anyway. If I hear, "he's my boy. where's my boy" one more time, I might hurl.

Walt - you know he killed that bird when his awful, selfish mother wasn't listening to him.

THINGS THAT BOTHER ME IN GENERAL:
what airplane has that many blankets and plastic tarps. And why, if you were stranded on a desert island, would you continue to bury people in your blankets and plastic tarps, when you may need them eventually?
No matter how long I spend in the ocean or in a mountain stream, I never, but never, look that clean and freshly washed.
Has anyone seen any toothpaste or toothbrushes. Except for Sun showing Walt how to brush teeth with some bush in the beginning, I haven’t seen anyone brush their teeth – that bothers me.
The girls seem to still have perfectly manicured eyebrows – really that’s what they are going to do with their time?
and no girls seem to be growing armpit hair – but the men can’t get a close shave on their faces. How does that happen.
What loser was part of the beginning group that they brought such hideous music.
Where does the electrical power come from?
When the guy was using the toilet in one of the stations – where was that plumbing going to? A septic tank?

Alright. I feel better. Most of it’s out. And it’s almost my computer / tv watching time.

On Creative Punishments

2008-02-15T18:26:00.000-08:00

Today, Franklin and I had a really good talk - a visit really. And it all came about because of a creative punishment. You see, Franklin was supposed to ride the bus to my school so that we could go, as a family, to buy Jose's birthday present. A mini version of the FFO if you will. And Franklin, in the wisdom of all of his 17 years, decided that he really didn't want to do that. Rather than calling to say that he didn't want to do that, or calling to make up some excuse, Franklin merely boarded the bus home. When I called him at 3:30 to inquire as to the reason for his absence, Franklin said that he didn't feel good. Now, I admit that in the major scheme of things, this is a small thing. But there is a larger underlying principle involved - and an act of open defiance (which although common in teens, is not necessarily something that I wanted to encourage). A precendent had been set, and had to be met with some consequence.

Now, because I do possess a modicum (minute though they may be) of skills dealing with teenagers -- I did not storm into his room in anger. I merely popped my head in his door and said, "you couldn't call?" And when that received no response, I used a little paraphrasing and turned it into "Why didn't you call." And I received THE (capital letters, the one and only, every parent will hear this answer at least once if not a thousand times beginning at age 2) ANSWER.... "i don't know." And my parenting moment comes from acknowledging that those 3 words are perhaps the most annoying in the entire English language. When I taught high school students and recieved this answer, I would always say that I don't know is a lazy answer that means you don't want to think. The parental version of this statement elicited the response, "I didn't think you'd let me come home." Which, in all honesty, was a pretty fair respone. As it turns out, today, I would have let him come home because Elijah had, unbeknownst to me, invited and arranged (including note from the other parent) for his friend Riley to come over and play after school - so the family shopping event had to be post poned anyway.

Anyway, being a fair minded individual, I asked Franklin what he thought would be a fair punishment. Acknowleding that it wasn't a big deal - but did have some serious implications - and there needed to be a fair consequence. Again, "I don't know." So I offered some encouragement, with the parental come back - either you offer a suggestion, or I'll have to come up with something that really sucks. I was thinking of taking the phone and the zune. Franklin's response was . . . the fatal "that's o.k." Instantly, being the guru of discipline that I am, I was more than aware that the loss of those items was not and adequate punishment. He didn't care!!! And then, inspiration struck. His bedroom door. Franklin is a strict guardian of privacy and his space. He doesn't want the dogs in his room, or toys, or too many people. He keeps his door shut all the time. And so, his punishment is that his door must remain open for 3 days. And instantly, Franklin was agitated -- and I had succeeded. It's no different than when you're child is being so very annoying and is about to get in trouble - but you don't want him to be in trouble MAD - you want him in trouble CRYING! why? so that we feel better. Ha! Ha! I made you as grumpy as you made me! And with Franklin's door - well, there was something that made him as annoyed as I had been for a few brief moments that afternoon. It was something that mattered. Sounds mean and petty I know - but well - some parent moments are both - and they aren't all bad parent moments either.

And then, when it was all said and done, we sat and chatted - just about stuff: about how parents don't want their children to make the same mistakes they made - but how kids need to make mistakes so that they can learn to be adults -- a little bit about girls (and how they are essentially evil especially with other girls) - And tonight, as I was putting the dogs out - and picking up a few things - if only to keep Jose from being so terribly grumpy in the morning - I went to check on Franklin's door - and there it was open (even though he said it would make him feel like he was sleeping outside - and that he didn't think he could sleep with it open) - and I didn't have to remind him, or ask him, it just was. And so, being my mother's child - I turned on the light and told him that he was not a bad kid at all -- even though he was sleeping and won't remember. And as I finish this entry - I am fighting the tempation to put food in his room so the dogs will hang out there for the entire 3 days. (I have decided that some part of parenting is also tied very closely to sibling relationships - or maybe that's just for me -- and definitely for another entry.)

Oh Jason

2008-01-29T14:27:00.000-08:00

THE SMIRK ON MY FACE WA ONE OF " I KNOW THIS IS HURTING HIS HAND,BECAUSE IM SQUEEZING THE SHIT OUT OF IT" AN OL' GRANDADDY WALKER TRICK HE DIDN'T EVEN SEE IT COMMING. I THINK WE WHERE TALKING ABOUT HAVING TO PACK A CYST IN SOMEONES ASS CRACK AS A MATTER OF FACT,OR SOMETHING TO THAT AFFECT.

The man in the picture on the left, that's my brother. His name is Jason. Growing up, he was one of like 7 Jason's in his class. And to my recollection, every single one of them was more hellion than angel. My brother was by no means the exception to the rule. In fact, in many ways, I consider him the leader of the pack. Jason is 2 years younger than I am. And as we were growing up, I figure we had a pretty good relationship. We weren't an AT&T commercial by any means, but we had fun together. He was a master at the no touch game - not only in skill but in actual duration of the game. He usually played about 20 minutes longer than I wanted to. And he was able to put his finger in a spot just on the very edge of peripheral vision so that you'd turn your head to see what was there and JAB!!! you'd run right into his finger. He'd laugh and then punch the hell out of your arm. And me, feeling like an utter fool for getting suckered in, would hide my embarrassment by telling on him for hitting. It's what girls do really - not fair, but true.

On those days when we were too young to go outside and play in the neighborhood when mom was gone, but we were too bored to watch tv (it was before cable / satellite and way before video games) we played the no trip game. In this game, one of us would like on the floor on a mattress or blanket. The other would walk around the perimeter of the mattress. The objective was to trip the person walking. At my advanced age, the details are a bit vague, but I do remember the game. We'd also play living room baseball. The bases were the couch, the corner of the tv, and the woodstove (not in that order). The person who was at bat had to "run" the bases in an upright position on his/her knees. The person who was in the field, could crawl on all fours to get the ball. This was only fair as the batter would always aim the ball down the hallway. We would often have a ghost on every single base. I don't remember getting carpet burns at all.

When he was in high school, Jason was beginning to develop his adventurous spirit. He jumped off the Lake Barkley Bridge. The first time he said he was sure his balls were shoved up his body to his throat. But he held onto them better the second time. THE SECOND TIME!!! I can not begin to fathom it, jumping twice. Later in his life, he packed up everything he owned and decided to move to Colorado. Just to leave and go. Of course the end of that trip resulted in his car being repossessed and having to file for bankruptcy - but financial consequences aside, there is a freedom and free-spiritedness to be admired in such an action. It is nothing that I think that I would ever want to do, but I admire and respect that trait in others. It's sort of the same admiration that I feel for people at a pentacostal church who are so moved by the spirit that they begin to dance, wave their arms and dance about. Though I don't feel the spirit in that way, I do admire the depth and breadth of their belief -- even if I don't covet it.

Jason has had his share of demons as well. And has battled them -- not always as successfully as I'd like; not always in the manner in which I'd prefer, but in his own way. It speaks greatly to the stubborness of his nature. Everyone in my family look to me and say - you always want to be right - it must be your way or no way. Me, I think that Jason's will to have his way and do his thing far out reaches my own. Mostly, I think that I'm quick to make a decision and put it out there for those who are humming and hawing about and asking "what do you want to do?" But I'm not inflexible -- not really -- not too bad? I don't know - it's not a very clear mirror for me there. But I don't believe that I've ever convinced Jason to think a different way, to change his course, or do something different. He will unfailingly give another person credit for their feelings, acknowledge their frustration or fear, and then continue on his merry way because that's what he wants to do. And the most amazing part is, that despite wanting to pinch his head, punch him, smack him, make him angry . . . he can do all of that and still we all just shake our head and go -- "well that's jason, what are we gonna do. We can't help but love him." He is the baby of the family - and has had more second chances, more special treats, more - more - more. And I'm not jealous of that, I dont' begrudge him. I guess I know he somehow needed more - just like I believe that he could be and would be MORE.

And this is the man, who when given the opportunity to meet and greet a three or four star general squeezed his hand as hard as he could while talking about some inane topic - just because he could and he thought it would be funny. And when I first saw the picture and was so proud, and sentimental, and so glad to see him looking so good - it just never even occurred to me that he would be doing anything like that -- and upon reading his comment -- I just shake my head, smile through my tears and think "Oh Jason."

I love him - and he is one of my heroes.

Perpetual Youth

2008-01-21T17:59:00.000-08:00

I can’t begin to estimate how many millions of dollars are spent each year on people wanting to look, feel, act, be younger. After watching several episodes of the real housewives of Orange County, I’m pretty sure those 10 women spend $1 million dollars on their own. And really, well, you’re going to get old anyway, so why waste the money. But these past few weeks, during the cold snap, when my skin has begun it’s annual lizard-up phase, I’ve been thinking about about being younger . . . and I have a couple of solutions – maybe.

I have found that having young children makes you feel younger. Scratch that. . . it puts you in contact with younger people who have kids the same age as yours. With Isaiah just about to turn 3, most of the parents of his peer group are 10 to 15 years my junior. And I flatter myself that we resemble each other in appearance. They are realizing that having children ages you immeasurably. Don’t believe me – go look at your picture taken a year before you had children and then look a year after you’ve had children. That will show you that you’ll age. My fat face tends to hide those ravages, but Jose – well even at 42 – he looks like he’s 25. But before we had Elijah, he looked 12 – so it’s honest to God the absolute truth – as I know it.

I have also found that my chosen profession has extended my youth. Working with high schoolers has kept my interests in music, art, video a bit more current than would have normally occurred. I’m pretty sure that the Road Rules / Real World Challenges don’t really have a near 40 demographic as their target audience. Of course, I don’t think they have any more of those shows – which is a shame, because I really enjoyed them. So much more than the Real World – which makes me feel my age because my relatively lax moral values tend to be offended by people who are getting naked upon meeting strangers. That, and I really no longer have the patience for the self-created drama that the under 25 set is so adept at creating. Not that I’m not a reality show junkie. I’ve even got Jose hooked on the Scott Baio – 46 and pregnant show. Mostly because though we envy his obvious wealth, we both feel superior to his whiny, selfish attitude. Who needs money with all that extra baggage.

Anyway, back to my job. Now that I work with little kids, well, I find that I am able to continue to find my general joy in all things silly and fun. I have always liked doing kid stuff. I am a HUGE fan of a circus. I can stay in the pool all day and not get tired – though I will immediately fall asleep upon arrival at my domicile. I adore animated movies. I like candy. I LOVE to win tickets at Chuck E. Cheese (I’ve accumulated almost 3000 in the past 5 years – I’m saving them up – for what I don’t know because the frugal, thrifty shopper in me knows that the 5000 ticket item only costs 12.00 somewhere – but someday, I’m going to get something really good!).

This year, I’m working for a county school. That means that we have something called – SNOW DAYS. There is nothing that more firmly plants your feet into perpetual childhood than going to sleep on a Sunday night and hoping for snow on a Monday morning. Living in Kentucky makes this aspect of youth very difficult. We get a lot of wasted snow in Kentucky from November to March (most of you call it rain). Most of the other teachers want snow just to have a day off, stay at home, relax. I don’t really get to relax when I stay at home. If Jose’s here, then we have to clean or work or do something. If he’s not here, then it sort of feels like babysitting. But maybe, just maybe we’ll get enough snow that we can all go outside and play for a while. Ride the sled down the tiny little hill in the back yard (short climb up is a plus – sucky ride down – can’t have both).

So, here it is 8:00 PM and I’m getting ready to go to bed – before lights out at 9 PM (childhood bedtimes even as an adult). The forecast is calling for snow – to begin early morning and continue most of the day. And I’m hoping that the school board will decide that it’s safer to just stay at home than it is to go to school on hazardous conditions that will only worsen as the day progresses. More than that. I’m hoping that the weather man is wrong and the 1” will actually be 6” and we’re out of school for the rest of the week. After growing up in Trigg County (where the superintendent apparently thought we had snowmobiles rather than buses for transporation and thus never called off school) and then working the past 8 years for city schools (who never cancel for snow). I am hoping beyond hope to enjoy a few snowdays this year. So I can play in the snow and watch cartoons all day.

An American Idol

2008-01-01T08:49:00.001-08:00

When I was little, I used to spend a lot of time making up songs - singing them to myself - I don't remember singing a lot of songs that were on the radio - and to this day, I can usually only remember the chorus of any popular song - not all the lyrics - Anyway, me aside... It would appear that Isaiah may have that wierd music gene --

On Empty Nest Syndrome

2007-12-30T09:31:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning, Jose came into the bedroom and lay down for another brief morning nap. If you’re not a morning person, then you are probably unfamiliar with the morning person sleep in. A morning person will still have to wake up at 4:30 a.m. to pee. No matter what. And once up, then you’re up for an hour or two. It’s a really nice time of the day. It’s the time that I use to watch whatever late night shows that I’ve DVR’d – the shows I can’t normally watch because I’m asleep or some cartoon network, star wars, sci-fi or dinosaur video is taking over the television. About the time that everyone else is beginning to stir (around 8:00 or 9:00) I’m ready for a nap. Which actually works better because then Jose (who is not a morning person) will get up and want to clean (something that is as bizarre a Saturday morning ritual as … well I can’t think of anything as bizarre as wanting to clean first thing on a Saturday). So while he cleans, I go hide in the room. My mother would tell you that this is not a new pattern for me.

Anyway, back to the story. Jose came into the room and laid down while I was reading. He was drifting in and out of sleep – as evidenced by the occasional snore and the slow motion of his foot back and forth. Suddenly, he asked if I wanted to go to eat breakfast at Cracker Barrel with the gift certificate that we had gotten. I said sure, let’s wake up the kids. And he responded, that he thought we’d just go together. “Like a date?” I asked. And then we spent a bout 10 minutes discussing how we felt guilty if we went out somewhere by ourselves. And it’s true. I don’t really want to go anywhere or do anything too fun unless the boys are with us. It seems unfair to not let them enjoy in the moment. Now, I have seen on television and read about those parents who will often leave their children and go to the movies, or go out to dinner, or go away for a weekend. And I just can’t quite get my head around such an occurrence. It seems to me that actually having children is not unlike signing a contract that says you will forgo the right to pee alone, bath alone, have a long meaningful conversation on the telephone for the next 20 years or so. At least that’s what I signed up for when I decided to have children.
And Jose, ever the pragmatic said “Well, they are just going to leave us anyway.” Which really isn’t anything to ever say to a mother. Sure, we realize that eventually they will leave – but we don’t think about it. And of course that’s why when they do leave, mothers are in tears and walk about lost for days, weeks and months on end. It is perhaps the only argument for teen age pregnancy – as those mothers who were afraid to lose their children to the real world, now have someone else who needs them. And really, after a few years of having to pee with an audience, it’s almost impossible to do so alone. In fact, I believe that when all three of my boys finally leave the house when they are 30, that I might have to start peeing on the front porch just so I’ll have the company of the passersby.

I realize that with a 3 year old, I have quite some time before I will have to worry about an empty nest. And with the economy and college, I’m sure that my boys will be living her for quite some time. Shoot with the Hispanic heritage thing going on, I might even end up living like the Waltons with everyone’s family. And you know, that’s not a bad idea. I can think of things that are a lot less appealing than living on a family compound so to speak. It sort of goes against the Broadbent/ Cameron frame of existence – but my dad and his brother live across the street from each other – though I don’t know how often they see each other or talk.

All I really know is that knowing that they will someday leave to live with some substandard woman who presumes that she knows everything – you wait, she’ll be just like that – makes me really focus on making each day, argument, whine, and giggle something to be cherished. I have long believed, said, postulated that life is about making memories – and I hope that we are creating some good ones.

On Entertaining

2007-12-15T15:45:00.000-08:00

There are people in this world who love to have people come to their house. And when they have company, they have themed serving dishes, matching plates and dinnerware. They are capable of making their table look as if it could appear in a food magazine.

I am not one of those people. My idea of matching dinnerware is paper or Styrofoam plates (they do match and I have a full place setting for 100 guests), plastic cups, plastic silverware, and paper towel napkins. The only serving dish I have is a glass cake stand that can be flipped over to serve dip and veggies, chips or fruit (maybe cheese and crackers). Every meal that I have served in my house to company has been a serve yourself buffet type of meal – and as I have an eat in kitchen it’s really the way to go. I do not have a formal dining room. I don’t even have one of those look but don’t touch rooms. As every piece of furniture in my room was free or cost less than $100 (which was what we spent on a used 3 piece living room suit that someone was just going to donate to good will), then I have no qualms about messes, spills, or eating in the living room. I defend this style by saying it really is a matter of personality. It’s easy, there is little clean up, and it gives everyone a chance to visit in comfort – no pressure about table manners at my house.

The problem is that deep inside of me resides my Aunt Martha – or probably My Aunt Martha’s mama (whom my mother called Big Mama). And that part of me feels like such a casual approach to a dinner party is entirely inappropriate. Guests should not be sitting on a couch, hovering over the coffee table. I should purchase a small card table (2 or 3 if necessary) and allow them to eat at a table like civilized folks. I should have nice dinnerware, glassware, and silverware that lets the guests know that I am honored to have them in my home. And in my defense with this issue, I have purchased plastic plates and glasses that match from the Dollar Store when I’ve had some guests over for a summer BBQ (on clearance, each plate was 25 cents – a bargain I thought, so I got 12). There should be linen tablecloths and napkins. Place cards are really not necessary but would be a nice touch. If a buffet style was called for, then all food items should be placed on the side board, not on the kitchen counter. And the kitchen should be closed off, if possible from company view so as not to display the cooking mess that was the result of the feast that has been prepared. If it is not possible to hide the kitchen area, then all dishes must be cleaned after they have been spooned artfully into serving dishes – that also match the dinnerware, or have a holiday theme.

That is the demon that I face when people come to my house. And though I never succumb to the feeding said demon, I am forever more wondering if those who come to my house are somehow judging – and then letting it go as “she doesn’t care about those things.” And I do care, just not enough to do anything about it. Fine dinnerware and serving dishes falls into that category of – not going to spend my money on it – frivolous. Because nothing will ruin my appetite more than thinking that the bowl that the mashed potatoes are in cost $60 – for a bowl – that looks like the bowl I saw at Fred’s for $1.50. Why do you spend $60 on a bowl? And a gravy boat – really –

In the end, if my Aunt Martha was going to infect me with the desire to have proper dinner parties (proper by southern lady definition) then perhaps she should have also infected me with the belief that spending large amounts of money on such items was worthwhile. Though, I’m sure her answer to that was that you buy quality and take care of it. But really, I’d rather go to the movies, or do something that would create a memory. And my self talk argument to that is those proper dinner parties at Christmas, in which my brother, sister and I were relegated to the basement to play ping pong until dinner was served and we had to sit in the kitchen at the little table forever as we were the youngest in the family – created a tradition and an expectation that is with me to this day – thus the blog in the first place I guess. I’m just not grown up enough yet to have those parties and those things and to care about it. And to be truthful, I’m not sure if I ever want to be.

On Secret Santa

2007-12-15T15:02:00.000-08:00

We’ve been doing secret santa at school since Thanksgiving. I’ve been very lucky in that I drew the name of a woman whom I think is “good people.” I can’t say that I know her very well, but since August, I have not seen her upset, grumpy, or looking worn out in anyway. That may be due, in part, that I strongly suspect that she may just be passed her PMS days which are the days that I invariably feel upset, grumpy and worn out. But that is really neither here nor there.

Now, I have been approaching this secret Santa thing a little differently. Instead of just leaving gifts, I’ve been leaving little stories, or copies of one of my blogs. I’ve been taking this opportunity to share something of myself, more than just a few gifts. But on the off chance that she didn’t appreciate my humor or gift for gab, I’ve left most stories with a small gift of some type. I left her the story about my grandma’s house with a canister of ribbon candy.

Anyway, I told another coworker that I feel like the whole secret Santa thing is a bit like flirting, in a weird way; perhaps because my idea of flirting closely resembles stalking – see my story about meeting Jose early in the blog history. It’s leaving these little gifts that you think will just make them happy if only for a second. It’s like those little gifts that your boyfriend, lover, or husband leaves you unexpectedly on your pillow, or brings home at the end of the day. It’s the surprise of it and the thoughtfulness – perhaps not the oh it was just what I wanted, but more the you thought of me in the middle of your day – when I wasn’t with you – that seems to envelop me.

I also suppose that it is the giving of gifts that I enjoy so much. I have not been nearly excited to receive gifts from my secret Santa. Though I do look at my mailbox with a bit of longing each day as I walk past the office. There is a moment of joy when you see that little gift just sitting there. It’s an uplifting experience. But I have really enjoyed trying to figure out what type of gifts to give to my secret Santa. To create a theme of sorts and find ways to share it with this stranger – and allowing the anonymity of it all to be an excuse to lay it out on the table – to share more of myself than I would have perhaps normally have done.

It is, at 38, a recapturing of my late teens and early 20’s when you’d meet someone new and spend all night at a coffee shop talking and getting to know each other – without any of the life that has collected and clung in the interim. A chance to be me: not mother, not wife, not teacher . . . just me. And there is joy there.

Christmas 2007

2007-12-09T15:09:00.000-08:00

Just a short video of photos from our visit with Santa

On Handicapped Spaces

2007-12-09T15:05:00.000-08:00

I don’t know how many of you shop at Walmart – it’s my version of the Mall. But Walmart, especially the new and improved SUPER Wal-marts have lots and lots of handicapped parking places.

Now the Western Student in my often approaches parking at Walmart like I used to approach finding a parking place on campus. Sure there’s a dozen spots on the back of Diddle lot, but really, who wants to carry all their crap out that far. And Amy doesn’t make second trips for anything – it’s waste of time. So, I used to spend a fair amount of time trolling the parking lot waiting for the best space. Later, when I started to go to the gym, I would have to actively fight the urge to find a close space and instead approach the walk as free exercise. I mean if I’m going to pay a monthly fee to exercise, then I might as well park in the back half of the lot at Walmart, that’s at least ½ a mile right there. And when I had children, my idea of an ideal spot is the one next to the buggy return. That way, I don’t have to carry any children into the store and no one will be able to steal my precious babies from my car as I return the cart to the cart return like they do on television to all those nice white trash ladies who usually end up in jail later.

What’s the point – where are we going with this? Well, it has occurred to me, on more than one occasion that our moral code about not parking in handicapped spots at Walmart have some carry over in the most unusual places. Or perhaps, I’m the only one. I don’t park in a handicapped spot. I know that it only says tow-away zone – and those of you who know me, know that a $60 towing fine is more than punishment enough to keep me from using the prime parking space. But somewhere down the line in the development of my moral compass, I have it in my mind that parking in a handicapped parking place is against the law. I mean, go to jail, pay a stiff fine, do not pass go, do not collect $200 – AGAINST THE LAW. I don’t know for sure that is or isn’t. I’m sure it may be some sort of traffic violation. But that’s really neither here nor there right now.

The strange thing is that I have, for a very long time, felt the same way about the handicapped stall in the restrooms. I don’t know if they have handicapped stalls in men’ restrooms – I imagine they must though I can’t really get my head around that one – but in women’s restrooms, the handicapped stalls are the largest stalls. They are also the ones that always have the baby changing station. And if it weren’t for that combo, I would never have begun to use the handicapped stall on a regular basis. Until Elijah as born, I believed that the handicapped stalls were against the law for someone who wasn’t handicapped to use. I don’t think it was a conscious sort of belief, but it still lay there and was an integral part of how I chose a bathroom stall. But I don’t think I’m the only one. I was at a professional conference on Friday and the handicapped stalls were the ones that were the last to be taken each time. Which worked well for me as it meant no waiting. But that’s when it occurred to me – other people don’t think they are supposed to use the handicapped stall either. And that was quickly followed by the thought – well, who says someone in a wheelchair doesn’t have to wait in line just like the rest of us. Though to be perfectly honest with you and myself, that last thought was more like preparing an argument should someone confront me with my use of said handicapped stall. It’s always good to walk into confrontational situations a bit prepared.

And really, it shouldn’t be any big deal. The handicapped stalls are much nicer than the other stalls. They are bigger with room to maneuver. They are definitely more convenient when you have guests in the bathroom with you. Trying to pee with two children in the stall with you is really the newest form of American torture. (in fact, I’m quite convinced that if I could record the sound of my children whining, it could be played to political prisoners for a remarkably short time and they would be spilling their guts just to get a reprieve – already, I have no secrets). But despite the larger space and the convenience of almost always being free, I feel a bit defiant every time I walk into the stall. I tense up like someone is going to say, hey where’s your handicapped card that lets you pee in that stall!!! What is that – exactly? Ultimately, it’s just a good thing that I have learned through my life long speed peeing competition with Jason to get in and out quick - because should someone ever confront me, I’ll be doomed to the tiny stalls once more.

Grandma Walker's CandyLand

2007-11-18T09:51:00.000-08:00

When I was a young girl, Christmas time was a magical time. It’s always a bit more magical when you’re children than when you are an adult – or at least you don’t have to work as hard at finding the magic. But perhaps one of the most special times of Christmas was going to Grandma Walker’s house. What else would you expect of the epitome of grandmotherhood than the perfect place to have Christmas. Grandma’s house wasn’t big, but seemed to have an endless supply of nooks and crannies. And every one of them held some sort of treasure. Perhaps it was the little shelf in the kitchen that held the small iron stove and cookery that would keep me entertained for hours. Maybe it was Grandaddy’s closet that smelled like cologne, hay, and cigars and the hidden ladder to the attic that was strictly forbidden to one and all. There was the little room, just off the kitchen, where games and old toys could be found in the closet, and old clothes and knickknacks were stored in the dresser that no one had used in years. I think that I learned to snoop from visiting with my grandmother, because she just had so much stuff tucked away. Almost every item had some story – whether it was a yard sale item from someone who she had known since she was young, or perhaps it was something that had belonged to her mother, or my dad. And everything, but everything, was saved because it might have some purpose later. I think I also inherited that collecting gene from her as well – it seems that throwing anything away is really more sin than a matter of practicality.

One thing that I most remember about Grandma’s at Christmas time is the food. When I was younger, Grandma did most of the cooking. At least, I don’t ever remember arriving with dishes in hand, only gifts. The small table would be spread with mashed potatoes, chicken and stuffing, something we call porkstuff (I don’t really know what it is except that pork was involved somehow). There might have been beans of some type; for sure there were deviled eggs. But the good stuff was always kept in the sewing room or the back bedroom.

My grandmother’s house doesn’t have central heat and air. She had a wall heater in the kitchen and the bathroom and a space heater in the living room. So, in the winter months the other rooms in the house were always cold. Not quite see your breath cold, but really chilly. And after we walked in and stored our presents under the three, I would begin to work my way through these rooms looking for Grandma’s Christmas candy. In the large oblong Tupperware dish she would have chocolate covered peanut butter balls. And it was so easy to snag one or two without being seen or even making a dent in the final amount. Other dishes contained a myriad of confections. She would usually make divinity – with and without nuts – but it always tasted like stale marshmallows to me so those were safe. There would always be something peanutbuttery (cornflake candy, or perhaps candy made from crunchy lo mein noodles), sometimes peanut butter brittle. You could find fried apple pies. And if it was a really good year, there would be container after container of GOBS. Gobs were my grandmother’s home meade version of cupcakes. They were round chocolate cake that had been split and filled with homemade creamed icing. They were light and fluffy and you could eat about 12 without really feeling like you’d eaten anything at all. Wonderfuly gooey things that to this day make my entire family salivate.

And if you weren’t into home made confections, my grandma and granddaddy also had other sweet treats about. My granddaddy had a corner and a chair in the living room. It was his spot and only for rent when he was at work or out on the farm somewhere. My grandmother had made some little pockets to hang on the side of the chair and that’s where granddaddy kept his special treats. Spillover treats found their way to a variety of jars and dishes on his little side table. My granddaddy had simple tastes when it came to candy. He loved the keebler chocolate wafers and would keep a package of them beside his chair at all times. There would often be salted peanuts. He liked to put some in his Dr. Pepper – which I never really understood and thought was a little gross, but to each his own. He would have circus peanuts, chocolate covered coconut drops (which was not the name he gave them, he called them nigger-toes which is not at all politically correct or appropriate but the name that first pops into my head when I see them). And on the coffee table, or perhaps the end table, there would be a dish. No leaded crystal, but a fancy beveled glass my grandmother would keep some ribbon candy. This candy would invariably have melted together sometime in the past and become more one giant clump than individual pieces of candy. And the candy was always, but always, a last resort choice. If nothing better could be found in the house, the ribbon candy would sort of satisfy the need for sweets cravings that seemed to roar to life as soon as I stepped foot into my grandmother’s house. Grandma always kept a little something made up, and almost always had something on the stove. Her house was the house that everyone came to for every holiday. Her house was the house where everyone came for breakfast, lunch and dinner – she was always ready and happy to feed who ever came knocking.

My grandma doesn’t keep that dish out in the living room anymore. She usually keeps something sweet on the kitchen table, though that dish is now brown and pretty large. And like most things the vivid richness of the treats have faded and dulled. I know that logically it’s because she no longer has the home where everyone pops in. But the memory is still there and welcomes me when I walk in the door. The feel of her house is still there and clings to me, tugs at my inner child and reminds me that this house and this woman created magic for me, my brother and sister. And she is creating some of those memories for my children – for them she’s the cinnamon toast woman. Though she often apologizes that she can’t do like she used to, she will happily make him an entire loaf of cinnamon toast when we come down. So now, my children also have that come to graze mentality that hits everyone at Grandma Walker’s house. It’s not the same amount of magic that I was able to feel, but it’s something. More importantly, it’s enough. It’s enough that my children are able to partake in my grandma’s ability to cook love into every dish.

The Classic Sleepover

2007-11-06T10:14:00.000-08:00

Instead of a birthday party this year, Elijah had some friends from school sleepover. Now, I admit that this wasn’t a suggestion that Elijah came up with on his own… I suggested it because I just didn’t have the wherewithal to plan a big birthday extravaganza like I have for the past 3 years – especially when only 4 kids every show up anyway.

There are a few basic rules that I think should be followed for any sleepover.

Rule 1: Always have an even number of kids – especially if it’s a party for girls. Kids tend to pair off. And if you have only 3 kids, or any odd number really, you will have one child who feels left out and unhappy. Sometimes that ends up being your kid – which no one wants as he can’t call his parents to come and get him early – he’s stuck there. So it’s best to have even numbers. The groups of two tend to change as the evening progresses, but everyone is generally happier.

Rule 2: Find some activity for the first evening that will make the children tired (preferably exhausted) before bedtime. We went to Chuck E. Cheese (with coupon for double tokens) and then McDonald’s indoor playground. We spent roughly 3 hours (total) in both places. The kids got to play all the games they wanted (no one came and asked for more tokens). They played long enough to be hungry when it was time to go. And they had enough tokens so that everyone had about 100 tickets and got two or three things from the prize boxes. At McDonalds, everyone played long enough that they had worked up a sweat and they all began to have that I’m getting a little tired look in their eyes.

Rule 3: Have good music that you can listen to loud in the car. I have found, especially for short car trips, having good music with a lot of kids in the car makes a difference. Without music they will begin to search in the crevices of the seat, the floor board and their pockets for objects that make quality projectiles. Said projectiles never hit the intended target who is sitting right next to them, but rather will hit the toddler in the car seat three rows over, the back of your head, or the windshield. I can only assume this isn’t the intended target because when confronted with angry mommy voice, the assailant will invariably claim that it was an accident. And being a strong believer in the inherent good in all, I will believe them – if they can make the claim with sincere voice and facial expression.

Rule 4: Keep them up late. In a further quest to make your evening go smoothly, when you return home, have some simple activities for the kids to do. We used playdoh and playstation. The evening isn’t the time for Jedi attack and running through the house – as you are going to be on the verge of grumpy and don’t want children returning to their home saying something like – Elijah’s mom shouts a lot!!!! Let every child know that they have until a specific time (I picked 845 – which was already past all bed times but Elijah’s) to play games. When the nerdy kid informs you that his bedtime is at 7:30 – make a big deal about being able to break all the rules at a sleep over. Of course, this only works with small children. Never suggest to a 10 year old that he can break all the rules – as he will not be content with the bed time hour rule alone.

Rule 5: Be prepared for the wind-down. Having kept the children up for at least an hour past their bed time it’s time for the wind down. The wind down is what I think is really the best part of any sleep over. It’s the part that most everyone remembers the most. It’s that time when everyone is in the bed and the giggling begins. This is the time when the parents have to go in repeatedly and say, boys keep it down. It could escalate until you get to “Don’t make me come in there!!” but if you’ve followed the previous steps well enough, then it shouldn’t be necessary.

Rule 6: The morning after. It never fails that, despite being up late the night before, the children will arise, en mass, not that hour of 9:30 as you had hoped, but exactly 30 minutes before you normally arise for work on any other day. Typically, this is not a gradual slow awakening where they are content to sit in bed, snuggle under the covers and watch television. Really, it’s much more as if the pause button has finally shut off and they are going to resume activities from the night before. It is almost always the two who were up the latest who will wake up the earliest – which is nice because then you know exactly who to blame for your own irritability the next day.

Rule 7: Serve a heavy breakfast. As you stumble about the house trying to function on a mere 2 hours of sleep – a nap really, your quest for today is to make the children as slow moving as possible so that you can survive the morning until parents begin to pick up their children. To facilitate this, you want to feed them a big, heavy breakfast. If the food itself doesn’t slow them down, the sheer weight of the meal should make them at least 10 lbs heavier so they are not as mobile as they once were. It also might result in extended visits to the restroom.

Rule 8: Kick them outside! After feeding them a meal that would harden even the cleanest arteries, send those children outside to play. If you time it well, then the parents don’t even have to come into the house (which will be trashed – mostly because you didn’t bother to clean it for kids – and they didn’t bother to clean whatever they played with the night before).

Rule 9: Force your child to admit through direct questioning that he did indeed have the best evening ever and pat yourself on the back.

Halloween

2007-11-03T13:25:00.000-07:00

Well, another Halloween has come and passed. The good news is that we've found a really good neighborhood to trick or treat in. The houses are pretty close and they give out good candy - lots of chocolate - not a lot of penny / hard candy!

It was, again, Isaiah's halloween. He is so small - and Elijah's costume choice for him was absolutely perfect - so he got lots of accolades. I'm pretty sure that Isaiah would have been happy to go on for another hour or so. As it was, we spent an hour and a half, got enough candy to last until easter (not the chocolate of course, franklin, isaiah and I will work through it pretty quickly) and have officially left dinosaur world for outer space.

Hope you enjoy the video. -- though the music cuts out to early and the last title is missing - i'm tired of fighting my computer -- sigh...

On Honeysuckle

2007-10-31T19:42:00.001-07:00

FAVORITE SMELLS?
Freshly cut grass, coffee brewing, bacon frying, honeysuckle

I recently received, answered and forwarded a survey via email. One of those cheesy getting to know you things that you ignore at will and complete in a state of utter boredom. My friend, Steven, gave the above answer to the favorite smells statement. My own favorite smell was something about breast fed baby smell – it’s a nice smell – a bit unispiring. But Steven mentioned honeysuckle – to which I felt that I must respond.

I have just returned from trick or treating with my children. And was checking my email when I saw Steven’s answer, and I was immediately transported to summer. Imagine if you will (and if you’ve lived in the country, you can with no difficulty), a sultry summer night – mid to late June, driving in the country late at night with the windows down. The air temperature shifting from sticky warm at the top of each hill and cooling as you move down into the hollows where the steam turns almost instantly to dew on your flesh. Get there, and just inhale the sweet smell of freshly mown hay laying in the fields, the slightest hint of sweetness as you pass a patch of honeysuckle on the side of the road. The sound of the whippoorwill or the bobwhite calling out from the brush begging you to let out the day, breath in the night and look up at the night sky. To take the time to absorb and celebrate the greatness of the world in which you live.

Or perhaps, it’s not driving down the road, but in Grandma’s yard just at dusk. Your chilren, your cousins, you – running around the yard trying to catch fireflies to turn into captive night time lighting. Laughter, sporadically emerging from behind trees, bushes, and in the tall grass while you’re playing hide and go seek. The faintest scent of the grill – someone’s having steak – you’re having hotdogs and marshmallows roasted over the fire later – only slightly burnt.

What a lot of images to come from honeysuckle – the quintessential scent of summer. Honeysuckle is the innocent childhood evening romp, the carefree teenaged night time adventure, and the reminiscent adulthood quiet joy of life. What a wonderful thing is honeysuckle.

Paper Money Society

2007-10-21T14:44:00.001-07:00

I’m sure all of you have seen the debit card or visa check card commercials where everyone is happily parading about purchasing and dancing and purchasing and dancing. But then, one poor sod comes up with cash and the world stops, the cashier looks at the guy as if he has the plague and everyone else rolls their eyes at the stupidity of that man / woman. A cute, relatively innocent scenario – you’d think. But there is dark underbelly to purchasing in this country (or rather in Bowling Green and Nashville) and it’s paying with change.

Because we are not rich people, the boys and I actively save for vacation / recreation by collecting change and putting it in the piggy bank. Sometimes we add a few bills, but mostly it’s change. And when it’s time to go on vacation, we roll the change and that’s our free spending money. Usually, I take the money to the bank and exchange it for cash. But this weekend – as we began our expedition to see the live dinosaurs in Nashville, I didn’t have time to get it to the bank – so I had roughly $30 in change (the equivalent of 50 lbs). Our first stop was Russellville for gasoline. So I sent Jose in with the change and $20. The gas station refused to accept the rolled coins as payment. I couldn’t believe it. Although secretly, when Jose came back and told me, I thought that perhaps it was a prejudicial thing.

That evening, we stopped by a drive through at McDonald’s. And I again tried to pay with change (a roll of dimes – the last I checked it still equaled five dollars). The little man walked away, came back and said, I’m sorry it’s only $3.50 in change – it’s short. Thus effectively accusing me of lying and trying to steal. I calmly looked at him and said it is in no way short, it was $5 and then proceeded to count out the fifty dimes one by one to pay for my meal. The entire time ( as I was quietly fuming) he was huffing behind is little glass.

Now, upon introspection, I realize that I have my own prejudices about people who pay with vast amounts of change. I always think that people who pay with change instead of cash (if they are older than 10) are poor. To be fair, I know that I’m poor and am often counting my pennies and nickels to save up for one thing or another. I feel wealthier when I can pay with cash, and like to pretend that my debit card is an actual credit card (which I don’t allow myself to have because I abuse them – which is a vicious hole that I can’t get out of and don’t want to revisit). And as I’m rolling my coins, I am often tempted to just put in 38 or 39 quarters. But really, to short someone 15 out of 40 dimes. Does the fat woman in the mini van with an old woman and 3 children look like the one who’s going to be running a scam for $1.50?

So, the trip is over. I still have about $15 in rolled change, which I’ll save for Chuck E. Cheese instead I guess.

Perspectives on the Rites of Passage

2007-10-20T04:14:00.000-07:00

About 3 years ago, my nephew Lanny purchased about $200 in pay per view porn from DirectTv. When I heard about it, I laughed out loud. Not at the money spent, but at the stupidity of it—thinking that he was not going to get caught. This week in my house, we had a similar incident. Apparently Franklin, my step-son, had been using his cell phone to access naked girlie pictures (only about 7 hours and 24 minutes worth of browsing). And if you know me, you will know that I do not have a cell phone plan in which we have free internet browsing included – so there was a $60 charge (split over two months). And of course, his phone kept a list of the his internet searches: hot girls, hot naked girls, video porn.

Ironically, Jose’s first response closely mirrored my own. Essentially, it was why is he looking on his phone, he can get a magazine (jose) or he could use the internet for free (mine). And for goodness sake, who in their right mind wants to peruse porn on a screen that is 1.5 x 2 inches in length – really. My only thought was that perhaps he wanted some privacy when he was looking (to which Jose in our chat suggested that maybe he use one of the magazines that comes here) – I was impressed that he had 7 hours worth of stamina – though is suppose it could have been 700 one minute sessions – though ultimately, I’m don’t really want to think about it.

Now, as we all know our first instinct, when confronted with our own wrong doing is to lie. Or perhaps you’re a really good person, but my first instinct is to lie. And Franklin was no different. Last month, when the first $30 appeared, I asked Franklin, and he said that he accidentally accessed the internet. I told him not to do it again and he agreed. When the second $30 appeared on this month bill (their billing cycle actually splits months with the land line – long story) – I was more than a little irritated. That parental irritation was quickly replaced by big sister glee that someone was getting in trouble – and I caught him. That glee is probably one of the reasons I became a teacher – a way to be in charge – ha ha ha I’m in charge and you can’t stop me – na na na boo boo. Anyway. I told Jose – who was not only irritated with Franklin but also mad because I didn’t mention the incident to him last month. So we had our little chat. Franklin lost the phone for a month, and has to perform slave labor until Jose feels he’s worked $60 worth – which is going to be punishment enough because Jose operates on Latin American pay scale so Franklin will probably be working for a very long time.

And then a miracle happened. Jose came to me and uttered the following phrase. “One good thing is that now Franklin is a man!” My husband finally took a step back and found the silver lining. I was awfully excited that such a feat could even occur. Franklin is a bit reserved. I don’t think I would say shy. But Jose was beginning to worry that he may be hitting for the other team – though my gay-dar didn’t go off (it is rusty – but not that rusty I don’t think). So, Franklin is a heterosexual teenage male who will be performing slave labor for quite some time – woo hoo!!!

Unfinished Business

2007-10-15T17:47:00.000-07:00

O.K. I promise that eventually I'll let go of this reunion thing. But it seems that after angonizing about it for weeks and weeks, I'm doomed to think about it for a few days at least. I think that ultimately, there wasn't enough time to have the conversations that I wanted to have. I got to spend quite a bit of time with David Thomas. We had several enjoyable chats - or one long one -it doesn't really matter how that goes. But I enjoyed talking to him and felt that all that needed to be said, was said -- including acknowledgement of the night of chess tension that had me bookin' it out the door quicker than snot on a cold day. I wish that I could have had a nice sit down with Steven - and that didn't happen. And me being me - I wrote him a letter because I didn't get to talk - and then second guessed the letter - and am now trying to let it all go one way or the other. And Jim Jim had called and I wanted to talk to him more, couldn't because of the other conversations going on in the room and the phone being yanked from my hand. So I called and left a message - but he hasn't returned my call. And here I am again - back in my area of ineptitude - Trying to avoid my stalking behavior (no matter that it was successful with Jose - I still deeply feel that had he been aware of stalking legislation we most likely would not be married and I'd be someone's bitch in the big house - I can only hope that she'd have been cute). I wish I had one extra day and I would have talked to Andrea, Christina, Shannon, Karina, Janet and Becky a bit more - or gone to lunch somewhere and laughed and hee hawed over chinese buffet - or whatever was handy.

Does anyone else ever feel that way. Like you were having a great moment and then boom it was over and you weren't ready for it to be finished yet? And you want to somehow go back and grab a hold of it - let it last a little while longer. I think that's where I am - really. Just wanting for the night to not have ended - to say everything that I wanted and hear / learn new things. And it's gone - that moment - it's passed -- and the controlling, stubborn part of me wants to be stubborn and control it. And the rational - trying to be a grown up - part of me is trying to let it be and see where the cards fall. Which is so totally against my natural inclination it isn't funny.

If you want to know what is going to happen - I can make a prediction. Oh, I'll call and then I'll feel foolish and stupid - because like a true cancer (and you can check this out) we are pedastle people - you are wonderful, and perfect, and ideal, and can do no wrong -- we must worship you - hero worship and containers are our speciality - and then when humanity emerges it destroys the image and our hopes and dreams - it's a lot of pressure for someone really - though I suppose the upside is that we don't tell you that we are doing it - so you don't know when you have fallen off the pedastle upon which we've placed you.

It is my hope that by writing this down - that perhaps I've be able to overcome the demons / desires and have the patience to wait and see - but there's really no telling is there. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

On Vacations:

2007-10-15T17:42:00.000-07:00

I’m sure you’ve all either heard or said “you need a vacation when you come back from your vacation.” It doesn’t matter if you’re out of town for a month, a week, or just a few days; by the time you return, you need at least 48 hours in which to recover.

This past week, I spent 3 days in Cadiz. Thursday afternoon, Friday, Saturday, and returned home early Sunday morning. I didn’t do too much any of those days – I did stay out late two nights – but really, the days were lazily spent to say the least. By the time I returned home Sunday I was exhausted. Two late nights, and primary supervision of 2 children under the age of 7 can really wear you out. So most of Sunday, I spent sleeping. Almost all of Sunday, I spent in my pajamas in bed. And just to make sure that I didn’t wake up too early, Sunday night, I capped off the day with a benedryl – hard drugs in my old age. And when I startled myself awake (I had forgotten to set my alarm but my internal clock awakened me at 5:45 a.m), I was no more prepared to get up and function as I was the day before. I seriously contemplated calling in sick.

It seems to me to be an odd phenomena, really. The recovery time needed for the break that you take from your every day life. Travelling is just a tiring experience, unless you are going somewhere. When you’re going to Florida, you can get up and on the road at 3:00 a.m., drive for 12 hours and be ready to have a party when you arrive. But when you’re coming home . . . you struggle to get into your car by check out time at 10:00, stop every 2 hours to pee, get something to drink, stretch your legs, let your heathen children run free so that you don’t intentionally wreck the car and put yourself out of their misery. And when you come back, you feel like what I would imagine I would feel like after running a marathon – o.k. 2 miles – who are we kidding, I’d never be able to run a marathon as I’d most likely stroke out around 2 ½ miles – and again – belly fat flapping in the breeze is one of the most annoying sounds in the world – and no one wants to run holding their stomach with both hands to prevent it. You get the drift.

The only really good thing about getting back from vacation is that your children, when they return, are oh so happy to back among the familiar. They like having their toys, games, rooms around them. And they can be counted on to play for at least 6 hours without bickering. My husband squanders that time with unpacking, starting laundry, cleaning up. It’s sad that he wastes the time that way. I, prepared person that I am, have already separated dirty laundry from clean (I will wash clothes when I’m at my families so that I don’t have to wash it when I get home – I don’t like the downstairs laundry room). So I dump the dirty laundry, change into my pajamas, and hop into bed with the clicker – find an episode of CSI or some such, and immediately fall asleep. And though it has taken some 9 years and numerous arguments -- and if I’m honest – hissy fits – my family is now adhering to the rule that if someone is asleep, we don’t wake them unless it’s time for work or an emergency. I only trained them in the rule so that eventually I could sleep uninterrupted. It’s finally paid off. Though, I had to add the emergency / work clause because Elijah woke up Isaiah the other day (Isaiah had fallen asleep early around 6:00 p.m. but would have slept the night if he wasn’t awakened) – and when I got mad at him, he told me that I woke him every day and he didn’t want to be awakened at all, and that wasn’t fair. Which was a good point, and thus the clause.

So anyway, for all intents and purposes, I made it through the day, was only slightly tired, and not really grumpy at all. I was, however, so glad that I taught resource room and didn’t have to have to come up with really fancy lesson plans with the intent of keeping 20 kids on task. But the vacation recovery does make you come into work on your first day back and immediately count the days until your next day off. Mine comes in 16 days (12 if you don’t count weekends).

Regrets and Influences

2007-10-14T08:06:00.000-07:00

In my last post, I discussed the question "what was the thing that you most wished that you could have changed about your high school expierence?" and "What high school experience has had the longest lasting effect on your life there after?"

I spent a while this weekend pondering this question for myself. I prefer to live my life in such a way that I am satisfied with each day and wouldn't change a thing. To be fair, I wasn't quite at such a level of development at the ages of 14 - 17 when I was in high school. So, I have allowed myself to think of one thing that I would have changed. Ironically, it is the one thing that I couldn't change without totally altering my entire life.

I have decdided that the one thing that I would have changed in my life is that I wouldn't have waited for an invitation; or rather, shouldn't have. If you have ever watched the nature chanel shows about meerkeets, you may know that they are very much tribal animals. There is a leader a hierarchy. And new arrivals have to court and woo in order to be included. They can not, if they wish to survive, merely sit along the fringe of the group and wait for someone to come over and say - hey do you want something to eat, somewhere to sleep, pick a do you want. And at this moment, putting it into that perspective, I realize that I never could have done it. Then and now, I have never had the energy or desire to actively seek the approval of someone else (if you exclude my tendencies to stalk boys that I have hopeless crushes on -- which is a whole other blog). And at 38, I know that about myself. And perhaps at 17, I knew that as well because I never actively pursued inclusion into the group. Although, I must also admit - actively seeking entrance is also actively seeking rejection - and who really wants to go there? God knows there is little worse than giving your best effort and being shot down. It's really not unlike those at-risk kids in the classroom who no longer make an effort to learn or participate because every effort to do so has met with rejection and failure. Much better, much easier, much safer to just say forget it, I don't care. And 20 years later, I was no different. Those same girls who I thought were the models of humanity might have shared a platitude or two but for the most part, I kept to my corner. And ultimately I'm so glad that I did, because I was able to share wonderful conversation with my friend David, tidbits with Steven, and thoroughly enjoy the wit and humor of Becky and Janet. And all the while I felt these tuggings in my mind - I know that I had spoken to them before in high school. I remember liking them. And I can't for the life of me, now, understand why I didn't be who I was and hang with them - because I'm pretty sure that I have much more in common with them than I would ever have had with the rest. But I also know that I have spent much of my life with rigid boxes - compartmentalizing people in my life. I didn't have many classes with Janet or Becky or Christina -- and school was the extent of my social life - so if I didn't see you at school, well I didn't see you. And that was definitely a missed opportunity because I don't know if you've been privy to a conversation between Janet and Becky - but it's very very funny.

The answer to the second question is the same as the first. I had to have all those issues - those feelings of not being included or not fitting in to be able to evolve into who I am today - it's all wings of a butterfly causing hurricanes in Japan sort of stuff. My high school experience left me wide open for experiences during Junior Scholars and my freshman year at college. That summer that I was in Junior Scholars was the first time that I honestly realized that people could / would / wanted to like me. I try not to think about the fact that perhaps some of those people were also nerdy unliked at their school - so I won't. I prefer to think of them as creme de la creme of their school. But it didn't matter, really, because people my age thought i was interesting, funny and worthwhile. And that made a difference. And I spent much time thereafter trying to be the best person that I could be - and letting go of what other people thought of me. Those were the first steps on the journey toward I am who I am, and I like that.
I spent a lot of time thinking about who that person was this weekend. Who am I - what are my goals / aspirations, what are my beliefs, who do I want to be today and tomorrow.

I learned this weekend that I have not yet conquered the tendency to make sexual oriented comments when i'm nervous or uncomfortable. I talked about penises more this weekend than I have in 18 years -- The comments just kept coming out of my mouth and there was nothing that I can do.

I accepted this weekend that my idea of a good time at a party is sit with one or two people and chat and watch everyone else as they mingle in. And there is little that is more entertaining to watch than people who haven't seen each other in 20 years. I don't think that many people understand my enjoyment in that - and that's o.k. to each his own - and that's mine.

I realized that grown up parties are better than high school parties because when you know that no one is going to get drunk and make out - on the couch next to you, well you can relax and not worry about the uncomfortable everyone has a partner but me feeling that is one of the worst ever.

I learned that for the most part, I am still not a girlie girl. There are some girls / women that I enjoy talking to - and as I get older that number is increasing. But girlie girls and me - never the twain shall meet - really. I just don't get them.

I discovered this weekend that I apparently postively influenced several people's mathematical abilities. It's wierd that I don't remember that, except for Kris McGill. I remember helping her study all the time our senior year (advanced math). But Judy Lancaster said she remembered me helping her in math - and I didn't remember that - but was flattered that she remembered. Tommy Cassidy just remembered cutting up in class with me -- Apparently I was just a hit in math class -- it's wierd how selective memory can be.

and since i've adequately moved off topic entirely - I shall end here.

High School Reunions

2007-10-14T07:43:00.001-07:00

There are several things that I know that I want to talk about here - and I can't decide if I want to do it all at once or make several - so we'll just begin and see what happens.

I decided to attend my 20 year high school reunion at Trigg County. And it was an eye opening experience in many different levels. I suppose there were really 2 that mattered most to me.
The first was that Steven Sanders, upon seeing my arrival, took the time out to tell me that he was the person that he most wished would attend. I was totally and utterly shocked and overwhelmingly flattered. About 15 years ago, Steven, Jim and I had all returned to Cadiz with a bit of a hang-dog, tail between our legs oh my god what are we going to do with our lives sort of mentality. And somehow the fates transpired that the three of us ended up at Steven's house having one of those magical coffee house moments. Those moments when you meet someone new and explore the secrets of the universe on every level that you can imagine. I remember the conversation - and believe that I asked Jim and Steven then the same questions that I asked this weekend (fondest memory, the thing you would change about your high school experience, what aspect of your high school experience most influenced your life after) and from what I remember (though memories fade and alter through time) his answers remained much the same - and aren't really mine to disclose. I can share with you my own - My fondest memory is being back stage during Wizard of Oz - with Lean on Me music blaring in the library - it was perhaps one, if not the only, moment in high school that I felt at the time that I needed to remember forever - and I have. The other answers will be another blog - Anyway, I was so grateful and relieved that Steven (anyone) was there to say they were happy to see me. That meant a lot.

The second moment occurred not to long after and lays at the feet at Andrea Caylor, Christina Baker and Janet Harper. They made a point to tell me that they had read part of my blog and couldn't believe that I had felt that I didn't fit in when I was in so many clubs. And I had to take a step back from my self perception -- because for the past 20 years, my high school perception had been as self centered and black / white as i thought life was in high school. I spent my entire school career really moving on the fringes but not jumping in. I was in clubs and organizations for two reason: I enjoyed them, and I was building a college admissions resume. I started with Speech and Drama really was a natural step from there - standing and performing is standing and performing. And really, the people in those clubs were always a little nerdy / odd and I had things in common with them. It quite simply took me aback that in someone else's reality, I was part of a crowd or somebody. And such a realization is somewhat bitter sweet. What changes in my life would have occurred if I had known that 23 years ago? But it's also water under the bridge because I wouldn't change the past and sacrifice my present for anything in the world.

But to those people - (Shannon Simmons and Karina Phillips who echoed the sentiments at the runion the next day) - I thank you for the life lesson that you shared with me. There is little doubt in my mind that it was because of you and that comment that I was supposed to be there - that was the lesson that I needed to learn and the words that I needed to hear. I had thought that perhaps the reason that I was going was that this was a final chance - the last chance, the next chance - to fit in - to be the person that I wanted to be - or rather to be the person openly fawned over and adored by all and sundry. Which is an insane wish in and of itself - because I am not that person. I don't like to be the center of attention - I don't like to socialize or flit from place to place - of fill my schedule / calendar with a never ending list of gatherings. I'd much rather have a few good friends come over, have a nice meal, and sit and talk and laugh and create memories and links. So, any or each of you, please feel free to stop by - we'll chat.

And to Steven, thank you again for giving me the courage and the inspiration to attend both evenings. I had a really good time (in my sit in a corner and watch the world), learned so much.

38 going on 17

2007-10-13T10:01:00.000-07:00

Thursday afternoon, as I was driving through the placid landscape of Western Kentucky heading for Cadiz - presumably to attend part of my school reunion with Ham Festival as a fall back plan - I was overwhelmed by anxiety. I mean, really wanted to cry anxiety. All I could think of was that I was going to a party with people from high school and what if they didn't like me - still, after all these years. That's not to say that I was unpopular, but rather to say that I was non-existance - in my mind anyway.

In the midst of my anxiety I called my friend Terri. I would have called Jose - but any man who responds to the news that your father has had a stroke with "well at least he didn't die." Isn't a person who is really great at comforting the anxious soul (but we're working on it).

It was so strange to feel such anxiety and insecurity wash over me again. I hadn't felt such since I was in my twenties - when i finally learned to let go of any perception of myself but my own. and to know that all this stuff had laid hidden down in the deepest recesses of my mind. Who was going to be there, what would I say, why was I going? over and over again the mantra repeated itself in my head - i don't want to go, I have to go, i don't want to go, i have to go. such drama - i swear. But in the car, I was no longer professional, capable, married mother of 2 - I was Amy Walker - you know Jason's sister, Jodi's sister, Wayn'e daughter. Amy Walker, smart girl - wierd girl - I think she's the one who's in all the plays at school. Amy Walker girl that I thought I had dealt with, conquered and retrained - but she was still there - and she for sure didn't have it all together by any stretch of the imagination. And me say, that I wasn't too happy to have her resurface.

Let me simply say that I am more than happy that I am no longer that young and dealing with that crap - because life it too short, time too precious to worry about - well much of anything - what is ... is. And what you can't change or fix, then let it go -

On Old Friends

2007-10-09T19:37:00.000-07:00

There is something almost magical about getting together with an old friend. Not the friend that you speak to every day, but the one who has touched base with your life for several years. The old friends that I have are akin to brothers and sisters. I see them almost as often as I see my own brothers and sisters, and I have much the same level of affection. For me, good friends are family (though for some reason step children – not my own--don’t really count – don’t ask me why) –

Anyway, this entry, not unlike several of the past, is inspired by my 20 year high school reunion. You know, it really is quite amazing how the past clings to you in all sorts of weird ways. Anyway, the upside of the reunion is that I’ve been able to get back in touch with the person that I call my only friend from high school – David Thomas. David sat in front of me for three years of Mrs. Robert’s math classes (geometry, algebra 2, advanced math). And the last year we spent much of that time playing connect four on the chalk board – and were good enough in class that Mrs. Roberts just let us keep the board up so we didn’t have to redraw and asked that we at least be quiet so that we didn’t disturb the rest of the class. I went over to his house once and played chess. During our freshman year of college, David was the only person who wrote to me (once on popcicle sticks – that I remember – I wrote once on a balloon) and I remember vaguely that his roommate was someone named Trent – Ricks I think – and he would do weird things like put his penis on someone’s table while they were trying to do homework – that may be urban legend but from what I even more vaguely remember about Trent, it could have happened. A few years after that, David showed up at Kinko’s. We had lunch at subway and I went over to his apartment – that he shared with Jason Majors and his girlfriend. I had some of that cough syrup tasting booze – bleck – that was about 10 years ago. And he’d just attended the 10 year reunion. I didn’t go – I was working at Kinko’s with nothing to show. I was still in college, working at Kinkos. His response was that at least I was married (and to be fair, for me, that was a pretty big accomplishment – not to be self-depreciating – but really – I’m nothing to look at, opinionated, and controlling (in a side stepping manipulative type of way that works well for me and leaves most others unsuspecting). He was working at radio shack and attending Hillvue Heights church – we discussed tithing – I was a bit amazed that he was so devout – but it may have been during a newly baptized phase of his life – I however have lived much of my life in contact with someone who is stuck in the newly baptized phase of religion and am not so easily swayed (do you think that if my father had known that his faith would have stymied my own, he’d have practiced reverse psychology?).

Anyway, enough about the life and times of David Thomas. You, hopefully, get the point. There is history there. I know that when he was in the 5th grade he told people that he read the encyclopedia for enjoyment (though later claimed that he was lying – I still prefer to believe him). I know that when he was in middle school and lived in the big brick house on my bus route he almost drowned in his in ground pool and was saved by his aunt (and remember mostly thinking how lucky he was to have an in ground pool). I know that he also liked the A-Team in middle school and I know this because we would all sit in the back 2 rows on the bus (Bubba Grant, Brent, David and I) and we’d sing/ hum the theme song and talk about last night’s episode. He would also pretend to talk when the bus went over the gravel road (to pick up Eric Vickory – who was odd then and the last time I saw him) – and when the bus stopped turn his voice on as if it were on the whole time. I know that in high school he and his friends were into dungeons and dragons and came up with a fake bomb and that is why Trigg County had it’s first bomb threat notation in the student handbook.

Anyway, though I didn’t intend for this entry to the ode to David Thomas, you get the point. There is a history there. Something that doesn’t have to be explained. Stories that we don’t visit that often but laugh about when we do. My friends Terri and Sandy are the same. I see them once a year, maybe twice. They are on my mailing lists for videos and school sales. I will call and chat occasionally – I don’t have to see them every day or talk to them every day but they are there a part of my family. I know that if I were having surgery and frightened out of my mind I could call them and they would come. I hadn’t spoken to them for almost 10 years and found them during one of my nostalgic summer searches and not 3 months later they were throwing me a baby shower with people they didn’t even know.

There is a magic in having those kinds of friends. In part because every moment you spend with them is full of love and laughter. When you don’t see anyone that often, then every moment is special and a memory. You aren’t there long enough to get hurt, angry, upset, bored, disgusted. It is why some long distance relationships work so well (though with friendships there’s no assumption of faithfulness – really it’s ok for them to have other friends, I don’t mind – and that helps too). The other part of the magic is that you remember these friends better than they actually are – in my mind they are always perfect. To some degree they are almost like imaginary friends. This blog is a part of that. It is my imaginary conversation with my friends that I don’t get to see that often – and what lovely conversations they often are. I hear Terri’s voice – always saying, “well, you know Aim…” and either agreeing or disagreeing (which would mean we’re talking about politics).

They don’t really make commercials about these types of friendships. Or rather, I’ve never seen one. It seems the ideal is the sex in the city friendships where the girls get together every week and talk about life and what not – or go shopping together, or to movies, or out, or whatever. And there is this part of me that feels like that because I don’t have that type of friendship then somehow I’ve failed as a person. I mean, I still classify my relationships into family and friends (those friends who should be family) and people at work that I like (but don’t want to hang out with – makes work messy), parents of elijah’s friends that I like and can have a decent play date with, people I don’t care about, and people that I wish would have bad things happen to (this is a very small list and I try to forget them most of the time). Pretty much those are the groups. And when I have a social event – well I keep it divided about like that – though you should add a group for Jose’s family – so we have events in triplicate because I don’t mingle groups well. Sometimes, on very rare occasions, someone might move from one group to another. Jenny and Vicki moved from people I work with to people I consider family. Who knows . . . I’m a bit off track from the original topic here – that’s what happens when you start to ramble at the end of the day – but there it is. And it all brought on again by that damn high school reunion – that I’m just going to have to attend. Unlike prom my junior or senior year, I think I might actually regret not attending this – and I don’t believe in doing anything that I might regret. The worse that could happen is that no one talks to me – and well – been there done that – scratch that the worse thing is that Michele could show up drunk, embarrass me – someone will say isn’t that your sister? No? I always thought you were sisters? So your Jodi and Angie’s sister? Jodi and Jason’s. I though Jason and Angie were brother and sister. Well hmmm… at which point, I have keys, own a car, and won’t be too far from Dad’s house. I’ll let you know how it goes – and just so you know –I’m not dressing up – and not going to the formal dinner – who eats at 8:00 – people with maids and nanny’s I guess.