Mom sequitur

Feeling wistful

2012-01-07T17:59:00.000-08:00

Today, as I dismantled All Things Christmas, I couldn't help but feel a longing for so many things: my youth, my children's youth, my first love (not for him, but for the feelings I had in his presence), my old body (before middle-aged weight gain).
These feelings surfaced because I was on my own with the take-down boxes. The husband and son had left at daybreak for a quick run to Des Moines. Daughters were nowhere to be found (one at work? one out with friends?), and so it was me and the dogs and a flood of memories.
It didn't help that I was posting on Facebook the Top Song of my birthweek: The Rolling Stones' "(Can't Get No) Satisfaction" ... others were doing the same ... and I became infected by those postings. My ADD does not need much help to distract me from any chore or project, and next thing I knew I was watching four or five youtube videos ~ the Stones, Sonny & Cher, Herman's Hermits.
Pretty soon, I changed my FB profile, used my baby picture, which got me to thinking: Did that big-eyed little girl know what she was in for? The dysfunctional family, the screaming mother, the alcoholic father (he was more fun than Sober Mom), the bitchy sister, the flat hair, the crooked teeth, the unpleasant loss of virginity, the heartbreak from loves lost and unrequited relationships, the quick marriage, the pain of childbirth, the heartbreak of parenting.
No, it is a good thing she did not know. Or others like her.
No one would want to grow up.

FiftyFifty Reading Challenge ~ Book # 1

2012-01-01T19:57:00.000-08:00

FiftyFifty Reading Challenge ~ 2011

Major: National Book Award Winners

Title # 1: What I Saw and How I Lied (Author: Judy Blundell)

Publisher: SCHOLASTIC PRESS/NEW YORK

Started: January 1, 2012

Finished:

First paragraph:

"The match snapped, then sizzled, and I woke up fast. I heard my mother inhale as she took a long pull on a cigarette. Her lips stuck on the filter, so I knew she was still wearing lipstick. She'd been up all night."

Fifty books, fifty movies, and me

2011-12-31T13:01:00.000-08:00

Just signed up for an amazing challenge: Read fifty books and see fifty movies in one year.

My writer friend posted a link to the 50/50 challenge on her Facebook page a few days ago, and ever since it's all I've been thinking about. Well, that and Indian food. Taj Majal opened in Liberty about six weeks ago and I've been there half a dozen times. My new deathrow last-meal request is now going to be chicken tikki masala and onion naan.

But I digress.

My "major" in this reading/viewing challenge is to read fif ... fift ... fifty books that have garnered National Book Award status (Read: Big Deal; Impressive Literary Award). Going to start with a YA Title: What I Saw and How I Lied by Judy Blundell.

I intend to blog about each book and movie as I go.

Oh yeah, my "minor" is to watch fifty movies that started out as books.

I can already see, ten minutes into fully grasping this challenge, that it is going to be difficult to focus only on NBA and book/movies: I will try my best, but I am already admitting that a random novel from my bookshelf is going to sneak in, or a movie one of the offspring brings into the house will end up in the DVD player.

DEFINITELY I will be reading above-mentioned writer friend's YA novel Hate List, which collected numerous awards, too. Her name: Jennifer Brown.

And I know her. Feels good to know a "real-live-publishing-author"!

Maybe someday I'll get there myself. If not, I'll have a heckuva good time reading good books and seeing good movies.

Thursdays with Patti

2011-12-15T11:43:00.000-08:00

My therapist is a genius.

Salient points from today's session ...

In no particular order:

1) There has not been a vast right-wing conspiracy to keep me uninformed about a friend's sister's passing. The people who knew have already dealt with and then moved on with the death. These are the same people who lost no sleep over Don Harman's suicide. (Like I did.)

2) The Bible says it is imperative to love one another; not to like one another. I am not going to go to hell because I don't always like my sister. Or my mother.

3) She Who Must Not Be Named is mean; I am hyper-sensitive. Not a good combination.

4) I need to forgive the behaviors that offended me when the person doing those behaviors was young and immature. Oh.

5) I ruminate over EVERYTHING. I need to stop doing that. Not everything deserves careful consideration or basic contemplation. (My words, predicting what Patti would say about my rumination.)

6) The girls in my Bunco group have not been losing sleep over the Sister Issue.

7) I should not care so much (or base my self esteem) about people's perceptions of me when those people are flawed human beings, just as imperfect as I am.

8) Not all people are as giving and generous and empathetic as I am. "Most people are totally self-absorbed," says Patti.

9) I need to wait until I am in a better, more composed place before sitting down to talk with my sister, even if that means waiting until after Christmas. It is all right to wait until after Christmas. IT IS ALL RIGHT TO WAIT UNTIL AFTER CHRISTMAS!

10) Sometimes, when things come to a sudden end (i.e. me dropping out of Bunco), that's not so much a tragedy as it is God telling us to move on, that staying is unhealthy.

What I have learned through therapy (making it real):

1) It is my OCD that makes me feel like I need to write EVERYTHING down. The world is not going to end if I stop recording life's minutiae. I need to stop: It's exhausting.

2) My anxiety disorder can, and does, cause heart palpitations.

3) My logic will trump my emotions! Every time. So think logically.

4) Give everything to God. Surrender, Dorothy. He is the only one truly in charge, anyway.

Now what do I do?

2011-12-11T09:21:00.000-08:00

Four days ago I got an alert from careerbuilder.com that a fancy-schmancy private school in a beautiful part of Kansas City, Pembroke-Hill, would be hiring an English teacher for the 2012-2013 academic year. Right away, two thoughts surfaced: ohmigod I want that job; nuh-unh, teaching English means grading papers. A lot of papers. Thousands. And that's no hyperbole.

And then the Yes! You need to apply!! Don't delay!!! opinions came swirling back, all dressed up in exclamation points and urgency.

I need to figure out what to do.

WWJD?

In a sense, and in a very large and profound sense, I believe that I have been put on this earth to teach. Only I didn't really get to teach at Northgate. Oh, with my challenge class ~ the advanced learners (RE: motivated) ~ teaching went on there. And it was fun and good and inspiring. But 75 percent of the time, I taught kids who came to class without pencils and without a positive attitude.
Redirected constantly, disciplined incessantly: Get out your pencil, quit talking, quit touching him, do NOT even think about throwing that, that is NOT appropriate language for school, where's your pencil? you don't have your homework? sit up straight, quit talking, don't run in the hall, where's your folder? where's your spiral? where's your pencil? quit talking, quit talking! quit talking!!

Ad nauseum.

Blech.

***

I should shadow a teacher at Pembroke before I even consider sending a resume. Presuming that prep school would even hire me ... .

Whoop, there's reality ...

2011-12-07T14:30:00.000-08:00

Back from vacay. Seven glorious days of sandy beaches and 24-hour room service, artistically plated meals delivered by white-gloved waitstaff, and a turn-down-the-bed housekeeping service that lit fragranced candles and deposited dark chocolate squares on my pillow. Heated indoor swimming pools and the Caribbean Sea to refresh and invigorate. Serenity pools, massages on the beach, and a constant parade of cabana boys to bring Mandarin Sours and Dirty Monkeys.

I drank more alcohol from November 25 through December 2 than I have drunk in the last three years. No kidding.

Had more romantic nights with my spouse those seven days than I've had in seven weeks.

Not kidding about that, either. And though I might be oversharing, just let me say that spending one full week in Playa del Paraiso (near Cancun, Mexico) was like being granted a week-long glimpse of Heaven.

There, everything was clean and pure and smelled like limes and ocean breezes.

Now I am home and everything is untidy and dusty and smells like wet dog and burned toast.

Third time is a charm?

2011-11-09T12:27:00.000-08:00

For some reason (why?why?why?) the poem I just posted won't post in its entirety. But it's a really good poem and I want to share it.

"No Tool or Rope or Pail"

~ Bob Arnold

It hardly mattered what time of year

We passed by their farmhouse,

They never waved,

This old farm couple

Usually bent over in the vegetable garden

Or walking the muddy dooryard

Between house and red-weathered barn.

They would look up, see who was passing,

Then look back down, ignorant to the event.

We would always wave nonetheless,

Before you dropped me off at work

Further up on the hill,

Toolbox rattling in the backseat,

And then again on the way home

Later in the day, the pale sunlight

High up in their pasture,

Our arms out the window,

Cooling ourselves.

And it was that one midsummer evening

We drove past and caught them sitting

Together on the front porch

At ease, chores done,

The tangle of cats and kittens

Cleaning themselves of fresh spilled milk

On the barn door ramp;

We drove by and they looked up --

The first time I've seen their

Hands free of any work,

No tool or rope or pail --

And they waved.

Fall leaves, coffee, iPod, and poetry ... bliss!

2011-11-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

I am home today from subbing. Had a high school French assignment scheduled for today, but canceled last evening because I wanted to get some homekeeping and writing done today. I tell you: this subbing thing is where it's at for me. The flexibility is delightlful. Yesterday I stood in for an elementary resource teacher. Saw several kindergarteners and first graders. They are so cute I just want to hug them and sniff their hair.
But today, well, today is mine. I've got a big beautiful roast in the oven, the dishwasher loaded, a batch of laundry spinning. I've got a stunning view of shrubbery aflame in cranberry and crimson; I've got some Amy Winehouse streaming ("So I brought you downstairs with a Marlboro red ... you probably saw me laughing at all your jokes ... ."). Miss Millie, my gorgeous little cocker, is gnawing on her enormous rawhide. And here I am, at my laptop, a poetry book to my left, a caramel latte to my right.
My God this life is good.

My poem post for today, chosen in homage to my husband's farming backgroud:

"No Tool or Rope or Pail"
~ Bob Arnold

It hardly mattered what time of year
We passed by their farmhouse,
They never waved,
This old farm couple

Small delights ...

2011-10-11T10:59:00.000-07:00

Although French poet and essayist Charles Baudelaire was a bit of a man-whore and died of syphilis at the age of 46 (my current year), I am impressed with this quote, circa 18-something: "A multitude of small delights constitutes happiness."
Because I agree with the statement. Because I appreciate its simplicity.
Look: Short of winning PowerBall, I am never going to be fabulously wealthy and have the financial wherewithal to order scads of fresh flowers daily (i.e. Sir Elton John). I am not going to employ a live-in domestic helper (no space for her in the house; no space for her in the banking account), which means all my life I will battle the dusting ritual (detested), the toilet scrubbing routine (ick), the daily vaccuming (moderately soothing). And then consider the countless dishwasher loadings and unloadings, the endless trips to the grocery, the cleaning of the refrigerator, the cooking of the food, the cleaning of the stovetop, the constantCONstantCONSTANT housekeeping involved in living and breathing and eating and bathing.
But I can and will and MUST find happiness in a multitude of small delights: fresh sheets on the bed, a steaming cup of morning coffee, the metronomic heartbeat of ticking clocks in an otherwise silent household.
You know what little experiences bring you happiness: a sharpened pencil (J.B.), breakfast at midnight (B.B.), falling leaves (C.W.), old phones (J.J.S.), Dunkin Donut coffee (K.M.D.), the sound of children laughing (J.M.-H.)
You know, the little things that help us get through the big things.

Rainy Day Cold

2011-10-10T14:35:00.000-07:00

Home today. Sick. Cough with cold, as Forrest Gump would say. Also, it's Columbus Day, and school is out for the kids. Hubby is home, too, only he's been tinkering in the garage for the better part of the day.

I've been in the chair, alternately checking FB and reading through the Sunday paper and several periodicals ("St. Anthony Messenger" and "Instructor" ~ two pubs that represent who I am, I suppose: A Catholic and an Educator.)

I've been subbing this year. Nineteen days, I believe. Don't have any pre-arranged dates this week, but I know the phone will ring incessantly starting at 5:30 a.m.

Still not writing. Outlining a tentative piece: "One Hundred Dollars, One Hundred Days" ~

detailing the life of a sub. I had a strong start, but like most things in my life, I start wholeheartedly and then ... stop, suddenly or with dramatic cessation.

Recently I was diagnosed with ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). Makes sense to me. Explains my starts and stops, my inattention to Things Around Me, my indecisiveness, my inability to sit anywhere without shaking my leg.

It's a start, the knowing. As Oprah says, "Once we know better, we do better."

Yesterday I signed up for Dr. Oz's "Transformation Nation." Goal: Lose 50 pounds by my August birthday.

Done that before, the goal setting. How to finish what I start?

Productive day ...

2011-09-10T18:46:00.000-07:00

I finally got my laptop, which should lead to writing. On this blog, on the new nonfiction project I have brewing. Should I find the novel I wrote in 2006 (how does a novel go missing?), this laptop will lead to its edit and completion and solicitation.

I have not been writing.

I will begin writing. One hour a day is my plan.

Also, I want to write a blog post a day, just to check in. Unless I have more important things to say.

Going gently into that pecan-pumpkin good night ...

2010-11-25T22:21:00.001-08:00

My mom is still hanging on.
Here in my dining room, she lies in the hospital bed, sleeping 20 hours of every day, waking to try to toilet herself ("Mom, you have to let me know before you try to use the commode!") or to ask for a piece of pie. Since coming here, she's consumed an entire pecan pie ~ one tiny slice at a time. She's now eaten half a cherry and pumpkin pie.
In thirteen days she's eaten two turkey sandwiches, some French toast, three slices of bacon, and twelve pieces of pie.
I am reminded of what my diabetic grandmother said in the weeks preceding her death: "If I can't have pie, then I don't want to live." She meant those words.
And so history repeats itself. At times I want to withhold the pie, say No, Mom, you need to eat something more nutritious, but then I remember what her hospice nurses have said: "It's about quality, not quantity."
It's no easy feat watching your mother waste away; it's hard to hear her talk nonsense as her cognition fades; it really sucks to have to empty one, two, three ... eighteen ... thirty-six commode buckets.

Death is not pretty here in this house. It smells bad and there's lots of moaning. Yesterday Mom cried, but I cannot remember why. She had a very good reason, but I am so tired from the caregiving that my own cognition is fuzzy. Lack of sleep. Tending to a dying parent is like having a newborn in the house again, only far more depressing.

It is not easy as pie.

The best-laid plans of mice and women ...

2010-10-28T14:21:00.000-07:00

"We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us." ~ E. M. Forster, British writer (1879-1970)

Is that right, Mr. Forster? Is your sensibility here due to personal experience?

My personal experience: Life is what has happened to me while I've been waiting for other things to happen to me. Like being a size 6. Like having a career that pays enough to shop at Ann Taylor Loft. Or a career that allows for travel and exciting locales.

How is it, exactly, that I am living this particular life? Is it by accident, or some
Great Plan or just a sequence of decisions ? that has led to my being a middle-aged, overweight, middle school teacher. I mean, I hadn't planned on being a teacher. I hadn't planned on having an empty nest at the age of 45. I hadn't planned on marrying a man seven years my senior who doesn't believe in spending money on vacations (and is prematurely bald, bless his heart). And I sure in heck hadn't planned on having a six-month pregnancy belly when I am certainly nowhere near being pregnant.

I really, truly thought my life would be far different than it is. If you'd asked me twenty-five years ago where I'd be in 2010, I never would have guessed at the helm of a middle school classroom, teaching eleven and twelve year olds the difference between simple and compound sentences.

I had PLANNED on an exciting world in broadcast journalism (I was going to be the next Jessica Savitch). I had PLANNED on marrying a thick-haired attorney/doctor; I had PLANNED on postponing motherhood until the age of 35. I had PLANNED to vacation in Vail with my well-dressed preppy offspring.

Of course none of this happened. None.

Not complaining. Really. That would be rude and horrible and disrespectful to the life I am leading. I'm just contemplating how it is that I got here. Mostly, though, I'm wanting to figure out where I'm going next ~ and if I really have any say at all as to what happens to me in the next twenty-five years.

The air, crisp like a potato chip ...

2010-10-27T17:42:00.000-07:00

"Just before the death of flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season
When nature is all aglow."
- Author Unknown

Feeling restless. Again.

2010-10-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting here in my dining room noticing there's dried dog snot on the window, but instead of cleaning it I want to go on a shopping spree, or book a vacation, or just get into the car and drive around, looking for Sunday Open Houses. I LOVE walking through other people's homes. I get great ideas for decorating, or decluttering.
Perhaps I'll go get some frozen custard, or stop by Lowe's and look through wallpaper books. Going to a pumpkin patch sounds appealing, only I don't have a small child to go with me; I would feel a bit like a creepster wandering around without a kid.
Fostering a child would be enormously satisfying; however, my spousal unit won't go for it. "We've already raised three children," he says.
There's a "BARK/BAKE" sale at the local animal shelter, until 5 p.m., only I think it would be VERY difficult to see an adorable animal and not be able to adopt it. "We already have a dog and a cat," my husband says.
Restless I am. Like I said.

What does it mean to be a Midwesterner?

2010-10-16T13:49:00.000-07:00

In the Midwest, husbands and wives go on Friday night dates to Home Depot or Sam’s Club, wearing jeans and college sweatshirts. Midwesterners tend to be frugal; we clip coupons. There exists a waste-not-want-not mentality. We cook our own meals ~ and, yes, Hamburger Helper and canned corn constitutes a meal, especially if there’s bagged salad to accompany it. We take leftovers to our cubicle jobs and classrooms. Many of us own silver thermoses and think nothing of taking one filled with Folger’s with us to work in the morning. Spending $3.50 on a Starbucks brew is a payday treat. We clean our own houses and buy clothing that does not require dry cleaning. Dining out at Red Lobster is considered a Big Deal. It must be someone’s birthday!

At the grocery, a Midwesterner can expect to stand in line without losing patience; there are magazines to read there and friendly people to consult. This is where networking happens, as in I Need a Good Podiatrist, or I'm Looking for New Childcare. Cashiers will remember you by name and that you like your groceries bagged in paper, not plastic. Apples, bananas, and iceberg lettuce are the most frequently purchased produce items. If a Midwesterner routinely buys star fruit and organic endive, he or she more than likely has East or West coast lineage ~ or, is from Old Money and lives in a mansion near the Country Club Plaaaaza.

To be from the Midwest is to live in a modest-sized house that is seasonally decorated. (Expect a lot of rubbery window decals and bulbs strung outside on the eaves.) We take our Four Seasons very seriously here. When fall rolls around high school football games take center stage, as do pumpkin patches. If you are a parent with wee ones, it is imperative that you take your children to at least one pumpkin patch and at least one corn maze. In the fall, local diners start serving pumpkin bread and pumpkin muffins. At the cashier you’ll see a festive and meticulously maintained display of pumpkins, assorted gourds, and bowls filled with complementary candy corn and Sweet Tarts. Once Halloween is over it is time to start stockpiling Christmas wrapping paper, Scotch tape, and two-pound bags of shelled pecans.

Thanksgiving tables feature real roasted turkeys (Tofu turkey? Anathema.), homemade stuffing, real mashed potatoes, and a Jell-O/marshmallow concoction called Heavenly Hash. After the meal the men retreat to a family room with a big-screen TV (football’s on, you know!) and the women end up in the kitchen washing and drying 428 dishes and pans. But they’re happy because this is annual female bonding time and there’s a lot to talk about: Aunt Angie’s hemorrhoid surgery, Cousin Mike’s addiction to Internet porn.
Besides, once the dishes are done, the women are going to sit at the dining room table with the ad circulars and compile their Day After Thanksgiving shopping plan. This can take upwards of three hours. If there is snow on the ground, which is likely to happen, the kids go outside and construct elaborate snow forts and igloos whilst their mothers and aunts construct consumer buying strategies. When they come in hungry, it’s time for turkey sandwiches made on store-bought white bread with Miracle Whip. (Here in Missouri, mayonnaise is Miracle Whip.)

In the Midwest, parents use layaway programs to buy their children’s Christmas presents; they take off work to deliver homemade iced sugar cookies to classroom holiday parties; they attend Christmas concerts whereby children still sing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and “Silent Night.” People still say "Merry Christmas!" when they part ways. Yeah, yeah, they know they should be PC and say "Happy Holidays!" instead, but there's a stubborn streak that snakes its way through the Midwest like the Missouri River.

There’s a lot of religion in the Midwest. Here in the Bible belt, Baptists attend services on Wednesday evenings in addition to Sabbath services; their children attend Sunday school beginning at 9 a.m. At home there will be a pot roast waiting, along with roasted potatoes and green bean casserole. Catholics move into Catholic neighborhoods and bury St. Anthony statues in their yards if they’re trying to sell their house. Statues of the Virgin Mary are sandwiched between low-maintenance Zone 5 bushes.

I have lived in the Midwest all my life and it is a place that I call home. It has made me the honest, hardworking, sensible, semi-judgmental Catholic woman that I am today. I have grilled thousands of cheese sandwiches in my lifetime; I have played hundreds of SCRABBLE games during blinding snowstorms; I have raised three children in public schools that did a darned good job of educating them; I have taught in public schools for more than a dozen years and I have done a darned good job of educating my students.

The Midwest is not a perfect place, but it is a good, decent place to work and raise a family. It is called the Heartland for a reason, you know!

I hope I get it ... I really want this job ...

2010-10-14T18:53:00.000-07:00

Like the dancer desperate for a role in a chorus line ~ A Chorus Line! ~ I am sooooo needing a career change. I am desperate to leave teaching. It has worn me down. Again.

As my husband has always said, I am the abused wife of education. Romantic, this Mr. Education is. The job entices me but then it beats me up. I leave but miss the classroom. Miss the students. I go back. More abuse ensues.

The story of my (professional) life.
This book needs to end.

Good Morning America has launched a nationwide search for an advice guru.
I want to be that person.

I can do that.
That I can do!

"Kathleen Stander, middle school communication arts teacher, has been rescued from her public school classroom to become GMA's advice guru."

My, what a community newspaper story that would be.

Look at all the people.
I really need this job, please God I need this job; I've got to get this job
A 5, 6, 7, 8 ... (queue the funky dance music)

I hope I get it
How many people does he ...
I really need this job; please God I need this job; I've got to get this job.
Strike ... strike .... strike ( Marvin Hamlisch is a genius.)

OK, girls, a 5, 6, 7, 8 (more dance music).

I'll come to New York. I really will. My children are raised. My marriage is strong.

I can do this job. I know I can.

This is just to say ...

2010-10-13T15:33:00.000-07:00

(With apologies to William Carlos Williams~)

I have eaten
the doughnuts
that were in
the pink bakery box

and which
you were probably
going to
take to work

Forgive me
they were scrumptious
so frosted
and so delectable

Isn't this the truth?

2010-10-11T14:50:00.001-07:00

Although I've been hyper-focused on babies for the last coupla years, I have given up on the Me-Now-Me-Now-Grandmother dream; I will be patient and wait for my children to reproduce. I will not harass them; I will not say Hurry Up, Please, I Am Getting Old. I will quit thinking of decorating a nursery in my empty-nest home; too many people told me that idea was weird. After some introspection, I realized they were right.

"A Little Tooth" by Thomas Lux

Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all

over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,

your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.

Isn't this the truth?

2010-10-11T14:50:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been hyper-focused on babies.

Lovin' me some poetry ...

2010-10-10T15:32:00.000-07:00

Lately, because of my craaaaazy life (new teaching gig/teenager issues/sis's problems), I have been unable to finish any novel I begin. Instead, I turn to poetry. I can get in and get out and be entertained and enlightened in the short process.
Currently I am enjoying Good Poems, a collection featured on The Writer's Almanac, (an edifying web site if ever one existed) and edited by one Garrison Keillor, whom I would immediately track down and seduce should his wife leave him. Yeah, yeah, I know he's "old" and "not all that attractive," but day-um I love the way he thinks and writes. I've always maintained that the sexiest part of a man is his brain.
Digression.
Sorry. My ADD is a-flame.

Thus, I present one of my favorite all-time poems. When I taught high school, "Courage" was in our literature anthology. The students had great fun snickering over the poet's last name, Sexton. Such is adolescence.

"Courage," by Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

Sigh. Heavy sigh.

2010-07-06T17:35:00.000-07:00

My heart is heavy. My dad is gone. My mother is dying. My daughter, Elizabeth, has left. We kicked her out. Well. Not really "We," rather, her dad. When I was out visiting my mom on the Fourth (a trip that requires I take half a Xanax ... ), he and Elizabeth were arguing.
She'd been ill; just that morning, her dad had taken her to a minute clinic, an urgent care facility, so a physician could troubleshoot her sore throat and her headache and her lethargy, and after two hours of waiting, the visit and diagnosis came: tonsillitis and sinus infection. Antibiotics were ordered, and bed rest, and the fluids we always hear about. And then, after she lay on the couch, she suddenly felt better, what with 3 p.m. rolling around and fireworks stands beckoning.
"I'm going out to buy fireworks, Dad," is how their conversation started.
"No. No. You're not," is what her father said. "Remember, you're sick."
"I suddenly feel better."
"You're not going. Besides, you're still in trouble for the other night." (The "other night" is a separate posting.)
"You can't make me stay home," she taunted.
"Oh, really? Watch me."
And then she was off, a renewed agility in climbing the stairs to her second-story bedroom, to the place that housed her make-up and straightening iron, the room that would prepare her for the night.
That's when things turned ugly. At some point my husband told our mouthy, entitled daughter that she was going to follow house rules, that she was going to show respect to her parents, at which point she complained of living in a prison (our home), and how horrible we were as parents, and how it wasn't fair that if we "made so much money" why wasn't she getting to go to school in Chicago and assorted other complaints, culminating in "I HATE IT HERE AND YOU CAN'T KEEP ME LOCKED UP HERE WITH YOUR RETARDED RULES ... ."
You know, I wasn't there to note who said what at what time and if there were, in fact, any expletives exchanged. All I know is when I returned to the house, my hubby had gone to a concert (which, later, he said was ruined on account of the conflict earlier in the day) and my previously ill daughter was out on the town.
Ignoring our house rules.
When she returned at 11:30 p.m., a half hour before her newly curtailed curfew, she figured her life would soon be back to normal, but OHNO, Daddy was mad.
"Get out of my house," is what he said. "Give me your house key. Take the clothes on your back and get out."
Which she did. No tears or anything, just a narrowing of the eyes and hatred spewing from her cold, dark pupils.
The next day she phoned. Wanted to come by to pick up the rest of her stuff.
"You have sixty minutes to clear out your possessions," we told her. (We have to be on the same page, my husband and I ... .)
She came, delivery made possible by a friend driving a four-door red car. She packed her stuff in humongous yellow garbage bags. Her friend sat out in the car, waiting. Fifty minutes came and went. She hauled out her belongings.
And then she was gone.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy ....

2010-06-04T18:29:00.000-07:00

Catfish are jumpin' and the river is high (or something like that) ... .
Well.
School is out and that means one thing: I have time to write and read now; I have time to talk to other people about writing and reading; I have time to plompf my butt down on a worn leather chair at my fave bookstore and turn pages in a beloved dreamlike trance. In short: I am free of grading and lesson planning and 5:30 alarms. Free of mothering 110 eighth graders (which is mostly great, but, hey, a gal needs a break).
Free to blog. Which makes me happy.

Needin' a new profile pic ...

2010-03-25T20:39:00.000-07:00

Not only am I now the beholder of rather long hair (or, long-ish), I really need to have an updated pic posted. Also, I am now a brunette. Too much peroxide (read: highlighting/low lighting/midlighting) had left my hair brittle and frizzled.
***
On a bright note, I'm down to about 40 instructional days at the middle school. I can do it. Forty I can do.
I survived turning 40, even when I thought I would stay in bed for the rest of my life, curled in a fetal position.

It's been a long time ...

2010-01-31T15:51:00.000-08:00

Since I've posted, that is.
School makes me so stupidly busy that I've come to resent my career. When I'm not teaching, I'm thinking about teaching, or grading papers.
Ick.
I am desperate to be a stay-at-home mom. I know, I know, my kids are growing up, and pretty soon I won't have any at home at all. When Elizabeth graduates this year and heads off to college it's going to be me and the dog.
The prairie-spawn spousal unit usually heads to bed around 8 p.m. ~ seriously ~ and so here I will sit come September, sans conversation ... part of me thinks I might end up liking it, supposing I take up quilting, or another time-intensive project.
Only time will tell!

Field of Dreams ...

2009-07-17T11:56:00.000-07:00

Everyone who knows me knows how much I love baseball. And the Midwest. Some people crave coastal living ... not Kathleen Stander. I've been to California; I've been to New York; my heart belongs in Missouri. Maybe Minnesota (I do so love winter). Perhaps Iowa. Kansas, not so much. Ditto for Nebraska.
So the spouse and I are heading to Dubuque. Has (his name, for the uninitiated) says that Dubuque, Iowa is, in his estimation, the most beautiful city in this great nation. No homebody is he, either. His employment takes him around the country in both clockwise and counter-clockwise direction. He's pretty much been everywhere. And he still maintains that Dubuque is "where the living is at."
I'll soon found out. Dyersville, Iowa, is the location where my favorite baseball movie, Field of Dreams, was filmed. The field is there, and the farmhouse that cutie-pie Kevin Costner called home in his role as the baseball-loving farmer. So we'll be visiting Dyersville, which is about ten miles outside of Dubuque.
I'm excited to visit some of the painted ladies that decorate this river town, set high upon a bluff.
Lots of pictures I'll take, and then will post.

Why I write ...

2009-07-15T17:20:00.000-07:00

I recently sat down to think about why it is, exactly, that I write. The way I figure it, if I didn't feel compelled to write, and spend anywhere from ten minutes a day to ten hours a day (no kidding, yeah, I've done that ... .) I'd have more time in my day. To clean house. To watch The West Wing with my politically-oriented son. To make my husband a homemade pie. You get the picture. I've had dry periods, where no writing came forth, but then I got cranky and had to pick up a pen to right/write my way out of the funk.
Why is it, exactly, that I write?
This is what I've come up with: I can't seem to NOT write. (So what I've split an infinitive.)
I started writing even before I knew how to write. What was I ... three or four years old? I distinctly remember "writing" stories under Mom's scalloped-trimmed coffee table ... using a skinny felt-tipped marker, or one of Mom's fountain pens. (She always called them "fountain pens," which to this day makes me feel tender about her.)
In second grade I wrote a story about a dog with a 100-foot tail. Won the teacher's seal of approval. My mom saved the story for years, and then it just up and disappeared. I'd really like to see it again. I remember the illustrations, but the words are out of my head.
In seventh grade I joined the school newspaper. Wrote a "Dear Somebody" column, offering advice. "My boyfriend skated with another girl. What do I do?" sort of stuff.
In tenth grade I was named Features Editor of my high school newspaper, which meant something because The Criterion won numerous state awards. Senior year? I was Editor in Chief. I wore business suits to school, high-heeled pumps. Aspired to be the next Jessica Savitch.
In college, I got distracted (Read: pregnant) and then, because I was a mother, left journalism to pursue a career I thought would be family friendly: teaching!
Taught high school English for five years, got burned out, left the field. While teaching, I dabbled in poetry and playwrighting. Wrote, produced and directed a two-act comedy, Trail Mix. Aspired to be the female Neil Simon.
Too much month at the end of the money. Had to get a job. A local newspaper was hiring a receptionist/typist (this dates me, doesn't it?). I typed up press releases and obituaries. Got brave one day and asked the editor if I could write a story. He said yes. Pretty soon I was writing more and more.
Missed teaching. Went back. Went for one year only.
Missed writing for publication. Got hired at a different newspaper. Did obits, press releases, feature stories, covered three local school districts. The paper hired a new managing editor: he gave me a column. Tales from the (mother)hood was born. It ran weekly, was my pride and joy.
Feeling civic duty, I ran for a school board seat and was elected. Could no longer work for the local paper. Missed teaching. Went back to it.
Two years in, I missed writing. Put myself on a deadline to write a novel, the summer of 2006. Wrote from 8 a.m. until 5 p.m. six days a week; took an hour for lunch and to stretch out my neck and shoulders. Ever typed nine hours a day? I lost 28 pounds that summer and by the time mid-August rolled around I'd done it: written a 130,000 word literary novel called The Hour of Lead. Solicited two agents. Struck down twice. School started. Teaching sucks my energy; I quit marketing my book.
Winter of 2006-07, my dad was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. I took six weeks off from school to take care of him while my mom was doing her own dying in a local hospital.
He died in front of me on a muggy, rainy Saturday night. June 30, 2007.
I didn't write for nine months. A pregnancy of drought.
And I missed it.
So I started this blog.
Why is it you write, dear reader?

Figuring things out ...

2009-07-13T09:16:00.000-07:00

I haven't been blogging: 1) My best gal pal's 18-year-old son was killed on the Fourth of July (motorcycle accident: NOT HIS FAULT); 2) I've been distracted by Facebook, what with getting an account and all; 3) I've been reading and reading (trying to get through YA titles); 4) Summer school's kicking my butt (a language acquisition course); 5) My children continue to be needy, which I love, as being needed fills me with contentment.
So I've been busy.
But Alex's death has really made me reprioritize what's important on this earth. My new fat roll should not be giving me stress; the abundance of animal hair in the house should not be making me crazy; the kid clutter and dirty dishes in the sink (perpetual, it seems) should not be cause for whining.
Because my children are all alive, and there are wonderful animals (two cats, one dog) to offer creature comfort, and my husband and I still really, truly love each other, and our house protects us and I have my library and a closet full of clothes and a pantry stocked with food.
My life is so, so good.
I am a blessed woman.

Feeling sad/creative/financially reckless

2009-07-03T11:46:00.000-07:00

Consider it a method of dealing with my-dad's-been-dead-for-two-years-grief, but I've been keeping uber-busy these last few days.
Bought twenty-two new frames for family pictures. Now all I have to do is get them hung in some sort of attractive manner.
Been playing the old vinyl LP's since Tuesday. Have listened to MJ's THRILLER 19 times. The children are getting very annoyed with that album.
Lots of retail therapy. Hundreds of dollars spent on household items. What is it about psychic pain that makes me want to buy kitchen linens?
Wrote a tongue-in-cheek piece about how Stevie Nicks's music saved my life back in 1982 (long story). Got brave and e-mailed it to The New Yorker.
What have I got to lose?

Monday, Monday ...

2009-06-29T11:00:00.000-07:00

Well, I feel like the shock of Michael Jackson's death is behind me. I let myself feel down in the dumps for three days, but it's time to move on. I just hope the media doesn't further crucify this extraordinary talent.
***
Today all three kids are home, and so far two are still in bed. And it's 1 p.m. How do they do this? When I loll about in bed I am subject to strange dreams that usually involve skyscrapers and feeling as though I'm being chased.

Because it's still stupidly hot I might not leave the house today; or, end up seeing a movie. My Sister's Keeper intrigues me, but I don't know if what I need now is a crying spell. The heat already has me feeling depressed.

I've done no writing on my Bologna Book. Will I even get to it this summer?

Rest in peace, Michael

2009-06-25T16:18:00.000-07:00

So the King of Pop left this world today too. What is happening?
First Farrah and now Michael.
I feel numb and so .... so old. So much of my adolescence revolved around Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. I was in high school when MTV premiered; Michael's Thriller video was something to behold. Everyone I knew endeavored to learn the dance.
One of my boyfriends had Farrah's red swimsuit poster hanging on his bedroom door.
My family watched Charlie's Angels together; I wore the Farrah signature style from 1979 until 1982.
Two pop icons are gone.
I'm feelin' pretty down.

Rest in peace, Farrah

2009-06-25T13:36:00.000-07:00

My favorite Charlie's Angel died this morning in a California hospital. Just 62, Farrah Fawcett succumbed to a three-year battle with cancer.
Stupid cancer.
I hate cancer.
I hate cancer.
I hate cancer.
Along with nine million viewers on May 15, I watched Farrah's Story, an excellent docudrama chronicling Farrah's medical visits and hospital stays. The television special showed the needles and the blood and the vomiting; nothing was sugar-coated. At times it was painful to watch, as doing so brought back painful memories of watching cancer steal my dad's health.
Did I mention how much I hate cancer?
It pangs me to know that Farrah was not the recipient of the miracle she'd fervently prayed for.
Rest in peace, dearest Farrah.

Joining the 21st Century ...

2009-06-25T08:53:00.000-07:00

Welp, I finally did it: I figured out how to access the speaker on my cell phone, and even though it was an accidental "A-ha!" victory was still sweet. And then -- THEN -- because I was feeling less a digital immigrant and somehow younger (summer always makes me feel younger ... I think it's the smell of sunscreen and every-other-day trips to the ice cream store) I mustered up huge quantities of courage and decided to navigate the world of Facebook.
Yes! You heard that right! I, Kate, who cannot figure out which remote control to use to get my DVD to work, have a Facebook page. And as the Web masters instructed, I am to direct my friends to: facebook.com/Kathleen.Stander.
I think.
Let me know if you're unable to get there. I'll ask my 17 year old to help me troubleshoot that one.

Why do people give up on each other?

2009-06-24T09:37:00.001-07:00

In the last few days I've learned that two couples I care about are splitting up; additionally, reality TV's Mom and Dad of the Year are calling it quits. Of course I'm talking about Jon and Kate Gosselin, the parentals on TLC's Jon and Kate Plus Eight.
I can count on one hand how many times I've watched the show (my students got me interested ... ), but I'd set my stove timer for 60 minutes to remind me to tune in Monday night.
There I sat on my sectional in the living room, riveted to the "couch scenes" whereby both Jon and Kate said something along the lines of "we don't hate each other, but we can't live together because we fight too much and that's not good for the children."
Hmn. Married couples who fight. Married, parenting couples who fight. OK, so what's divorce-worthy there?
All my adult life I've searched for non-combative married people who are parenting (the hardest job on the planet, BTW) and I've yet to run into a couple who are ALWAYS googly-eyed and exhibiting their best honeymoon behavior and never getting bored with one another and are perpetually smiling through life's big and little disappointments and "gosh-golly-gee-whizzing" their way through the week. Puh-leese.
I've been searching for going on 35 years now and I just haven't found that golden couple. I'm fairly certain that perfect couple does ... not ... exist.
There's something called LIFE that prohibits us adults from behaving perfectly 24/7. There's too much month at the end of the money; the dog pees on the new carpet; the three-year-old throws hourly tantrums and screams "You're Not My Mommy!" as you haul her over your shoulder through the automatic doors at Target; your spouse is balding; you are balding; you're tired at the end of a work day and want to go to bed at 7:30; the remote control has gone missing; the flirtatious co-worker is making you feel valued; the in-laws are a pain in the neck; the house needs painting but the Pontiac needed a new transmission and now the neighbors are just going to need to DEAL WITH YOUR FADED PAINT in the subdivision that tells you which colors to use anyway; your headaches (real ones, not the fake sort) preclude any romantic notions; the bank didn't post your deposit on time and now you owe a $25 overdraft fee; the cat killed a bird and delivered it to your doorstep, which your four-year-old has carried into the house with his bare hands; there's a perpetual toilet leak in the downstair's bathroom; middle-aged spread has attacked your midsection; your 13-year-old just brought home a grade card with five F's and one A (P.E.); the stomach flu has ripped through your house and it's two days before Christmas ... .
I could go on. And on and on.
Here's the deal: No one gets through this life unperturbed. Even Angelina Jolie at times is sick of Brad Pitt. And vice-versa.
The show must go on, people. Especially when there are children in the picture.
So, A.L. and B.L., and K.K. and B.K., is there any way to reconnect, to find that joy that first brought you together?
Please try. You're too loving and smart and compassionate to give up on each other.

Finished another novel ...

2009-06-19T12:36:00.000-07:00

Just turned to the last page of Elizabeth Berg's newest title, HOME SAFE. I absolutely love her down-home writing. Her style is casual and seemingly simple but really her message packs a wallop of understanding. She's one of those authors a reader wants to get to know. I imagine sitting down in a bookstore cafe sharing a slice of cheesecake with her. I would not have to be embarrassed licking my fork after enjoying the final bite ... .
In addition to being thankful for cheesecake and any sort of fancy pastry, really, I am enormously thankful for writers. Also, I am grateful for publishing agents, editors and houses.
I am starting to feel like books might be going away -- technology replacing the hardcover, the tangible pages. And every single time I hear someone bragging about the virtues of one of those hand-held Kindles or Tindles or whatever the heck they're called I start to feel bitter and a tad bit witchy. I do not want to hold a tiny computer screen in my hand when I sit down in my favorite chair with my favorite cup holding my favorite coffee. I want a bona fide book in my hands. I want to feel the weight of the tome sitting in my lap. I want to use the bookflap as a bookmark; I want to smell the pages; I want to break the spine and enjoy the soft craaacck, the newness of the book; I want to write my name in pretty script using a pretty pen upon a bookplate that I spent careful minutes choosing at Border's.
Stupid technology!

Forensicating in Alabama ...

2009-06-17T12:28:00.001-07:00

So the child I was ready to give away a few days back is in Birmingham, Alabama, this week competing in a national forensics competition. No, not the dead body sort of forensics, but the sort involving humorous interpretation of literature. She and her AMAAAAZZing partner, Emma, are showcasing their hysterical parody of Stephenie Myers (sp?) TWILIGHT saga.
Very funny this act is, the sort of funny that if you suffer from any sort of bladder malfunction you might want to bring along something depend-able.
Elizabeth phoned (breathlessly) last evening to announce that their TWILIGHT piece seemed to be delighting judges and that they'd made the first two "breaks" in competition. From around the nation 222 duo acts went to the southern state, and from that number Elizabeth and Emma have survived the first two cuts: they're now in the Top 30. Later this afternoon, E. will call to tell us if they've gone further. She's elated to have made it this far, and although she says she'll be "fine" if they "lose" I know she'll taste the bitter pill of disappointment. Still, it's quite an accomplishment! Needless to say, I await somewhat nervously the phone call ... .
On a separate note, the law-school son and I have been obsessed with watching WEST WING episodes, a show that aired back in the late 90's and somehow sneaked into evening programming without me knowing about it. I hate to come late to pop culture, but that sort of thing seems to be my modus operandi. My sister-in-law lent the seven-seasons catalog to my son and now he and I are staying up until 2 in the morning laughing and exchanging worried glances concerning the situations Josh and Sam and C.J., and, of course, President Bartlett get themselves into. It's quite a show!
***
The Prairie Relatives are coming to visit this Friday. Whoop! Seriously, no sarcasm. I do so love company coming!!

Bad Mommy

2009-06-12T16:12:00.000-07:00

For Sale or Lease: One obnoxious 17-year-old girl who thinks the parental units are talking bank machines. High maintenance: must be fed and watered daily. Prone to sudden outbursts or periods of intense sarcasm.
Contact www.thiskidneedsanewmommy.com.

LSAT and meatballs and professional jealousy

2009-06-11T11:30:00.000-07:00

On Monday, my 21-year-old son took his Law School Admissions Test (LSAT). In the days leading up to the exam, the household experienced a mild-to-medium level of distress. Son was alternately hyper ("I'm going to law school!") and depressed ("I'm going to fail the test," "No law school will have me," "I'm going to end up a teacher.")
I gotta say: That last comment hurt me.
I am a teacher.
Why don't any of my children want to go into education? Is it because they: a) know I make very little money; b) am frequently chained to the dining room table grading papers; c) hear me complain about the child that makes me want to set my trash can on fire?
As my husband has long said, I am the abused wife of education. I love it; I hate it. It knocks me down; I get back up. It beats me up; I leave it. "Shoot me in the head if I go back to teaching," I said, years ago, when I left the field. I was burned out, my brain fried, my emotions charred. Just couldn't discipline one more child. Didn't want to grade one more paper.
And then, like the beaten wife who returns to her husband because she loves him, I went back.
"So do you want me to use an air dart or a BB gun?" my best friend asked when I admitted I'd signed yet another contract.
***
Next year marks my fifth year back in the classroom. With the exception of becoming a famous author (read: wealthy) or a full-time grandmother or the owner of a Victoriana boutique I cannot imagine doing anything else with my life.
***
OK, so I'm really good at the kitchen thing. Now that school is out for the summer, I've been tying on the apron. My meatloaf and corn casserole dish from Tuesday was well received by the visiting sister-in-law; the family enjoyed Monday's grilled chicken meal. Tonight I'll be serving a steaming bowl of spaghetti with meatballs. The house smells garlicky and subsequently fantastic-o!
***
On a separate note, I'm feeling a bit blue today. A writers' group member will soon go on the book signing tour to promote her YA novel HATE LIST (hitting bookstores in September). I'm happy for her, as I know how much she's desired publication ... but I'm sad for myself because it's not happening to me. Feeling rather childish, actually, as though my big sis has stolen my coveted chocolate bar.
Grow up, Kate!

That was fast ...

2009-06-04T14:11:00.000-07:00

Two days ago I placed an order with Victorian Trading Co., and today -- yes, TODAY -- the order arrived. I hadn't paid for express shipping, so imagine my profound and delirious surprise to come home from the bookstore to find an enormous box sitting on my wicker settee.
YES!!!
My gosh, I do so love me some Internet shopping ... and I ADORE the vintage-style tea dress ... couldn't wait to try it on ... nearly tripped over the cat and a gigantic 18-pack of paper towels trying to get upstairs in record time. Now I need to buy the beautiful cameo necklace I'd admired earlier today at a boutique on the Square, Crybaby Farm. (Wonder if they have a Web site?!)
Additionally, I am looking forward to the next rainy day just so I can put to use my Monet-inspired handy-dandy Victorian Trading Co. umbrella. It's G-O-R-G-E-O-U-S!
Why does shopping make me so happy?
Earlier today, Elizabeth (my seventeen year old) and I went to Penney's. I headed to draperies and she headed to the Sephora counter. She's a cosmetics girl ... the apple sure doesn't fall far from the tree there! I too love makeup and all things girlie. (Currently I'm in search of an old-fashioned powder puff for talcum ... .)
Before leaving Penney's, I ended up buying a Waverly red/cream toile window dressing: panels and sheers and a valance -- and Elizabeth scored a "Girls Night In" gift set in a cute plastic tote.
My favorite purchase today, however, was picking up half a dozen "What a Hoot" note cards from Crybaby Farm. I intend to send one to Carol Cassella (author of OXYGEN, a novel I strongly recommend!) and then another to Elizabeth Berg, once I finish reading HOME SAFE. Berg's prose is simple and sweet, not too complicated, and although she's predictable, I appreciate her domestic details and heartfelt approach. I also bought Berg's OPEN HOUSE trade paper edition while at Border's today. Check out the first paragraph that hooked me into purchasing: "You know before you know, of course. You are bending over the dryer, pulling out the still-warm sheets, and the knowledge walks up your backbone. You stare at the man you love and you are staring at nothing: he is gone before he is gone."
I'm not sure if authors actually receive their "fan letters," but I'm an optimist. Besides, I really got a kick out of my letters and e-mails back when I wrote my newspaper column. There's a sense of validation, that what you're doing has merit and brings happiness to other people.
Corny but true.

Peanuts and Cracker Jack ...

2009-06-03T18:11:00.000-07:00

Yes! Today was a baseball day, which means, for me, experiencing heaven on earth.
The minor-league baseball game (Go T-Bones!) started at 11 this morning. Spouse and I met another couple at the stadium and for the next seven hours (no kidding ... there was a double header, and the first game played lasted 4 hours, 10 minutes) we drank beer and ate dollar hotdogs and laughed and behaved immaturely.
However, I did catch a rather miserable sunburn ... should have applied my sunscreen more liberally and more often ... .
But the best part of the day was spending glorious time outlining my summer writing project, which I did this morning, bored to distraction in my husband's office. I'd gone to work with him stupidly early (he arrives at his desk each morning at 6:15) and after listening to him talk through various telcons for ninety minutes, I sneaked off to the lounge and pulled out my pen and set to work.
Part cookbook, part memoir, the book will celebrate my blue-collar Midwestern upbringing. Tentatively titled chapters include "Broccoli-Rice Casserole," "Fried Egg Sandwiches," "Gravy," and "Recession Food." Of course one chapter will be devoted to my love and profound appreciation for Miracle Whip. If it's never published officially (Read: reputable publishing house) I'll just vanity press it and leave copies for posterity. I really don't want my mom to die before I get out of her how it is exactly she made her famous pork chops in brown gravy, or how to assemble the milk toast dish she talked about from her own childhood.
I'm jazzed to start the writing.
Stay posted!

Rainy days and Tuesdays ...

2009-06-02T17:03:00.001-07:00

I'm extremely affected by the weather.
Today the sky is threatening rain and I'm feeling blue. I'd really wanted to head to the pool today to soak up the Vitamin D; also, being at the pool means not having my hand in the Doritos bag.
***
So I went shopping, which always improves the mood. First, I did some Internet therapy, ordering a cute/artsy Chico's top and a beautiful vintage-reproduction tea dress from my favorite Web site ever: www.victoriantradingco.com

Then, I headed over to Kohl's (the real store) and picked up two pairs of sandals. Very cute. Bought a new bag and a busy-print Vera Wang summer dress.

Saw my hairdresser at the appointed 2 p.m. time and sat, scalp burning, under the dryer while my color oxidized. Two and a half hours I was there, total, and when I left the salon the gray clouds dumped a deluge. Yippee! My hair looked salon-styled for an entire four minutes.

Fortunately, I have the newest Elizabeth Berg title to finish reading.
Must make some hot black coffee and curl up in my cuddly chair.

Coupla things ...

2009-06-01T14:23:00.000-07:00

My sis turned 45 this Saturday. She and I and a few of the Bunco Babes met for biscuits and gravy (ohmy) at the local eatery. My sis wore a blinking rhinestone birthday tiara. Very fun. We then went back to my house to organize for a morning garage sale hunt. While there, Sis made a comment about the length of Husband's grass (my husband, not hers) ... about how long it was, and if he was holding out for me to do the mowing.
That was Saturday morning, around 10:30.
My husband is still not speaking to me.
He sucks. Male pouting is disturbing on so many levels.
My neighbor friend, Nancy -- also a teacher -- theorizes that Husband is pouty not just because his male ego was hit, but because I'm out of school for the summer and he still has to work Monday through Friday. There is definitely a transition time, that's for sure.
***
I've decided to start going to Overeaters Anonymous. Yes, I, Kate, am an overeater. I've been an overeater ever since I discovered bologna with the red string and Miracle Whip. So what was I ... four or five? I have a particular fondness for sandwiches, and all the goodies that go into the construction of a good sandwich. ... A local hospital hosts the OA meetings on Saturday afternoons. My sis (birthday sis) says she'll go with me. We talked briefly about stopping for breakfast first, but then we laughed at the same time and decided against that.
One of these days I'm going to write a memoir about my food addiction. For years I just thought I liked to eat, and then it occurred to me that my issues with food weren't just food related. It's that old "It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you" philosophy. Sometimes I'll cook just to cook, as I love it so, but generally, I cook because I feel a compulsion to spoon warm bread pudding into my mouth at midnight. It's figuring out what triggers the compulsion that I need assistance with addressing. I'll let you know how the OA meeting goes, only I think I have to post anonymously or something ... I remember reading somewhere that what happens at an OA meeting must stay at an OA meeting, under punishment of death.
***
I am currently feeling compelled to sell my house and buy another, which is a stupid thought because the economy is in the toilet and real estate is suffering. Who might buy this house in particular when there are 467 other homes in the area available?
***
Yes!!!!! I just discovered one of my favorite writer's Web site: Elizabeth Berg. You'll have to check it out if you're a Berg fan: http://www.elizabeth-berg.net/.
Happy perusing!

School's out

2009-05-23T10:43:00.000-07:00

Whew! Another school year has come and gone, and I gotta say: Amen!
By late-May, I am exhausted at every level possible: mentally, physically, socially, even spiritually. Lately, no thought has come in solitude; I've been pulled in 99 different directions.
And I can't breeze right now into the summer holiday, as I still have four assignments remaining in my Project EXCELL class (I'm studying to become an ELL ... English Language Learner ... teacher!) The drop-dead due date for the lesson plans/reading responses is Tuesday, May 26.
But I'm back to this blog, which makes me sublimely happy, as I've missed writing --and reading -- others' writing.
Ah, sweet, sweet summer!

"The summer's flower is to the summer sweet." (Shakespeare, Sonnet 94)

Snowed in ... in all ways possible

2009-03-28T14:30:00.000-07:00

Here it is, icing and snowing outside, and it's nearly April.
What is going on?
Weird weather has long fascinated me, which explains why I love the movie THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW so much. Check it out if you haven't seen it. Fantastic special effects!
***
So here I am, at home on a Saturday, which RARELY happens. Saturday's my day to spend my way. I tinker around town, window shop, get something decadent to eat (usually chocolate), drive somewhere I've never been, get the car detailed inside and out, watch my kind of movie.
But, NO, I'm stuck at home. Confounding!
Only good thing: I can finally update my blog.

School is consuming me. If it's not teaching seventh grade and preparing for the most-detested MAP test (standardized testing), it's attending night school and feeling overwhelmed with master's-level homework. This is what I get for waiting until my mid-40's to get the bigger degree.
***
Sadly, my mother's health is deteriorating. Hospice care has been called in. Mom imp[roves by two degrees and then slips back; gets better, gets worse. My sis and I went out to visit last Sunday. We played a few games of Scrabble. Mom's mind is intact ... it's her body that's giving out.

To the readers I have: hang in with me, please. Once school gets out I'll be all over this blog. Right now I'm snowed under -- literally!

Blessing to all,
Kate

Spilling my blog guts!

2009-01-25T12:40:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite bloggers, Audrey, has recently conducted an on-line interview. Here are the five questions she has posed in order to learn more about Mom Sequitur.

1. What film best reflects your life and why?
THE BIG FISH, by Tim Burton (based on the novel by Daniel Wallace). Because I'm a Leo and therefore enjoy (at times) being the center of attention, I've longed to be a big fish in a big pond.
As it is, however, I turned out to be a medium-sized fish in one of those murky goldfish indoor ponds frequently seen in Chinese restaurant lobbies.
I consider THE BIG FISH one of the finest movies I've ever seen. I recommend it to nearly every person I meet. And, it is true when I tell them that this movie made me feel comfortable with death and dying.

2. Do you have any unfulfilled childhood ambitions?
Definitely! I didn't have enough children. As a child, I wanted to be the quintessential Catholic Mama, a stay-at-home-barefoot-and-pregnant-meatloaf-mixin'-breastfeedin'-rosary-prayin'-mother-of-nine. The children would wear Saints medals and hand-me-downs that always looked spiffy because Catholic Mamas are superb laundresses. I would have Priscilla Presley hair and wear lots of eye liner. My husband, who'd be named Michael or John, or Michael-John, would delight in my perpetually swollen belly and kiss me often in church. There would always be enough money, even though we sent nine children through Catholic Schools, Grade K-12, because we tithed our full percent and were good stewards of the treasure God had bestowed upon us!
Reality: I have three children. Two of them have "left" the church. (They are, however, named after Saints ... Catherine, Thomas, and Elizabeth!) My husband did NOT share in my childhood fantasy to parent so many children. Sometimes I feel a little resentful, especially considering I'm in my forties now and the window of motherhood has closed.

3. What is the most important object in your house?
One of my 800 or so books. I am a true bibliophile. I love the smell of a book, the weight of it in my hands, the feel of the pages. Finally, after YEARS of begging and pleading and, oh, yeah, I'll say it: NAGGING!, my husband constructed built-in shelves for the living room. Whenever I walk into the house, I am instantly calmed by the comfort and wisdom emanating from the shelves.

4. Do you have any secret talents or skills?
For some reason, I excel at leg wrestling. I think I could take down a pro wrestler. Really.

5. If you could travel through time where would you like to go?
The Victorian Era! I'd like to be a wealthy woman, however, and have lots of embroidery to do to while away the hours. Bring on the patterned wallpaper and abundance of ferns, let me wear the corsets and hats with feathers! My favorite Web site is http://www.victoriantradingco.com/. I peruse it frequently.

Would YOU like to be interviewed?
Write "Ask Me" in the response line, and I'll get some interview questions out to you!
Thanks for reading!

I {heart} Obama!

2009-01-22T17:51:00.000-08:00

He makes me feel hopeful.
He makes me feel secure.
He makes me feel positive.
He makes me feel humane.
He makes me feel optimistic.
He makes me feel happy.

I can't wait to see what good will surely come from this administration.

Yes! A "found" grocery list

2009-01-19T10:11:00.000-08:00

There must be something wrong with me that I delight in discovering someone's left-behind-in-the-cart shopping list. It's just so ... so ... real, the idea that we're all connected by/through food and beverage and light bulbs, that someone else was using my shopping cart before me, and that someone else would be using that same cart after me. I know this sounds a bit odd. Anyone else enjoy perusing some other shopper's list?
***
Found Jan. 18, 2009, at a Target in Kansas City North; half a sheet of "Colorado" memo pad, a snow-capped mountain heading the narrow paper; the list reads exactly as such:

1/2 & 1/2
Milk
Bread
Dish Brush
Basket
lite Bulbs
razors
furn.filter

***
Part of me wants to create a bogus list and then purposely leave it behind. Something like:

Weight Watchers frozen entrees
Chocolate bars (quantity 12)
Feminine hygiene products
Ben & Jerry's Phish Food (quantity 5)
Doritos

Now who wouldn't want to find that list? Or, better yet, follow the woman out and invite her to an impromptu Bunco gathering.
***
I once had this delightful Price Chopper cashier ring me up, a middle-aged bespectacled gal, and with nearly item she scanned a comment came with it.
"Oh, I see you make your lasagna with ricotta, not cottage cheese. Good for you. As my Grand-Nana Bernadette always said, the "ri-cotha" is worth every penny. ... I've tried this brand of garlic bread ... a bit too greasy for me, if you know what I mean. Do you make your meatballs half Italian (she pronounced this like "Eye-talian") sausage, half ground round?"
Instead of being annoyed with her, I liked the conversation.
Connectedness~

Amnesia!

2009-01-18T12:47:00.000-08:00

So I walk oh-so-anxiously, this past Friday (having endured a white-knuckled spousal driving experience thanks to a morning snowfall) into a gastroenterologist's office in a busy hospital to have a tube the size of an average man's pinkie finger thrust down my throat, into the esophagus, into the stomach, and into the small intestine and, thank God for modern medicine, I have absolutely no memory of this invasive gastric procedure.
Needless to say, my husband has had great fun with this.
"You said you wanted me to go to that toy farm show in Minnesota," he told me, once I'd slept off the Demerol/Versed concoction and awakened, feeling refreshed and hungry, at 3 p.m. that same afternoon."You said all you wanted in life was to make me happy.
"And you know those Eagle concert tickets? You said to buy a dozen of them and we'd take the neighbors."
I tilted my head and looked at him sideways.
"Really?" I said. "I don't remember saying that."
"You probably also don't remember telling me that it's probably time for me to trade in the rusty old pickup and buy that Mini Cooper I've been looking at."
"You're making this up," I smiled. "Nice try."
"You can ask the doctor," my husband replied, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, and that nurse guy named Rusty. He was with you in the wake-up room."
Here's what I wanted to hear from my husband: Was I going to survive? My doctor had me all worked up, worrying about esophageal cancer and a mysterious malady called Barrett's Something.
"You're going to live," he said, reading my mind. "And the first thing you said after the doctor said 'You have a hiatal hernia, nothing serious, no surgery, here's a prescription to help you,' was
'Excellent. I'll be alive to go to a season's worth of baseball games with my husband ... Honey, go ahead and purchase that season package for $1,500."
I hadn't seen my husband look so serious since I announced I'd opened a credit card without telling him. Oops.
I was on to him now.
I shook my head. Found my reading glasses. Opened the day's KANSAS CITY STAR, turned to the Classifieds.
"Wait!" I announced, cheerfully, my memory suddenly restored. "I do remember saying all those things .... and, also, how you said, 'Sure, Honey, you can buy the King Charles Cavalier Spaniel puppy' ... here's one advertised for $700!"
He stood up, lowered his head, headed for the kitchen.
"How does chicken noodle soup sound?"

Wacky weather ...

2008-12-26T21:26:00.000-08:00

Thunder and lightning. On December 26.
Weird.
Should've known wacky meteorological phenomenon was heading our way. Yesterday it was 36 degrees. Today? Sixty-five. Yep, that's right: 65 degrees ... in December.
Whenever the sky sends spring-like droplets in a non-spring season, the first thought I have is this: OH NO the world is ending.
And then the second thought I have is this: I will never get to be a grandma.
***
How weird is it that I am SO wanting to be a grandma that I'm half tempted to make a spare bedroom into a future nursery for that spectacular day when I do, in fact, have a real grandchild to place in a real basinette.
It would be utterly delightful to transform a PlainJane bedroom into a magical baby land.
I just don't want to get carted off to a crazy place trying to make it happen!

White Christmas ...

2008-12-23T13:05:00.000-08:00

Looks like we're having one! It's a gray-skied Tuesday, windy and wet. Snow is in the forecast. Add new fluff to the blanket already on the ground and YES! a white Christmas it is!!
Tomorrow's Christmas Eve day, and I am ready. Gifts are wrapped, food is bought, cookies are baked. The freezer is stocked. A few pies need to be made, but that's still fun stuff.
Looking forward to Midnight Mass, looking forward to Christmas morning, up early as I am wont to do (I'm always the first awake, 'tis true!) Much anticipation to watching the kids open their goodies. As always, there will be lots of surprises under the tree. Each year I tell myself that I need to pare down. What child needs 20 gifts to open? I'll tell you: MY children. I'm out of control during the holidays. But it's fantastic, that feeling. And it only comes once a year. And, of course, some of those gifts are tiny, wee little packages. Socks and such.
When my children become engaged I will be sure to tell them: Look, you MUST marry a person who is in love with Christmas as much as you; otherwise, there will be great strife in your home.
Fortunately, my husband is the quintessential holiday man. He loves Christmas and all that it brings. My only complaint: Each year he announces, with a shrug of the shoulders, "All I want for Christmas is love and understanding." A great sentiment, yes indeed. But trying buying presents for a man who only wants love. Love, after all, cannot be bought. (This year I am gifting him with a half-season ticket package of T-Bones baseball! I'm so excited to see his expression!!)
Outside of shopping, it's been a beautifully busy season. I've attended three symphonies (I shall never grow weary of hearing "Sleighride"), one "Live From Radio City Music Hall, The Rockettes A Christmas Spectacular!," and one CHRISTMAS CAROL full-throttle production at the lovely Missouri Repertory Theatre. For this, Has and I and Elizabeth dressed in our finest, and then immediately dripped barbecue sauce on ourselves post-show once we were seated, plates heavy with pork and beef and fries, at Gates Barbecue. My goodness, I do so love me some Gates Barbecue. If I am ever on death row I will order the ham-on-a-bun/fry combination as my last meal. Extra pickles, please.
Oh, must say: The Rockettes were a long-legged vision to behold. I turned to my husband after one particularly sizzling dance routine and asked, ever so seriously, "So, Honey, do you think it's too late for me to become a Rockette?"
***
Here's wishing all of my blog readers (OK, the five or six that I have!) a joyous holiday with family and friends.
Blessings,
Kate

It's Christmas time in the city ...

2008-11-08T11:27:00.000-08:00

Subject: Christmas fill-in-the-blank

Date:
Saturday, November 8, 2008 1:25 PM

Christmas Edition ...

OK, so I got one of those copy/paste/forward e-mails. Thought I'd share my answers. Anyone up for responding?

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Both.

2. Real tree or Artificial? Both. Fake tree in living room; real tree in
kitchen eat-in area.

3. When do you put up the tree? The day after Thanksgiving.

4. When do you take the tree down? Usually after New Year's Eve.

5. Do you like eggnog? Love it like a fat kid loves cake.

6. Favorite gift received as a child? My Chrissy doll.

7. Hardest person to buy for? My husband.

8. Easiest person to buy for? My children of course!

9. Do you have a nativity scene? Need to buy a new one this year.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Mail. I love choosing Christmas cards,
writing special messages and then addressing and mailing them all. Seriously.

11.Worst Christmas gift you ever received? A Water-Pick tooth-cleansing system.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie? A Christmas Story.

13. When do you start shopping? When the temperature drops to around
40-something. It has to be cold-ish for me to enjoy holiday shopping.

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? No way! I have, however,
received recycled Christmas gifts, which I'm OK with. The fun part of Christmas
shopping for me is finding the perfect gift for that special someone.

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? Assorted Italian cookies my students
usually present to me. Cookies, overall. Iced Christmas trees are the best,
especially if they have those little edible silver balls on them.

16. Lights on the tree? The more the better. 'Cept I HATE the flashing ones.
Migraine city!!

17. Favorite Christmas song? "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," sung by
Judy Garland only. Might have the title wrong.

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? Definitely home for Christmas Day. MUST BE
HOME FOR SANTA CLAUS!

19. Can you name all of Santa's reindeer's? Definitely.

20. Angel on the tree top or a star? Can't remember. I'm more into ornaments.

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? The children open their gifts to
each other Christmas Eve. Everything else is Christmas morning. Now that the
kids are older, I'm the first one up. Very 5 a.m.!!!!!

22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? All the build-up and then
BOOM, it's the day after Christmas and life is back to business as usual.

23. Favorite ornament theme or color? Silver and gold, just like the song.

24. Favorite for Christmas dinner? My husband's oyster stuffing.

25. What do you want for Christmas this year? A big honkin' gemstone ring. A
Graceland miniature village house to add to my miniature house collection. Estee
perfume. Big fuzzy socks. New slippers. Gift cards to Borders Bookstore. A Baby
Grand piana. World peace. Safety for our newly elected president BARACK
OBAMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

26. Who is most likely to respond to this? Lisa.

27. Who is least likely to respond to this? Dunno.

Oh blessed day!

2008-11-04T21:37:00.001-08:00

Victory.
God Bless Barack Obama.
Change, it is a-comin'!
I have never been so proud to be an American. Standing in line today, waiting to vote, observing those standing around me -- the nurse, the police officer, the mother holding a baby in a sling whilst two toddlers wrapped around her legs -- I was reminded of Walt Whitman's poem, "I Hear America Singing."
Sing on.
The music is going to be beautiful.

Babies!

2008-11-02T15:22:00.001-08:00

Oh, frabjous day! I got to hold two ... count 'em ... TWO babies on Saturday. The first, a tiny baby boy named Easton, just two days old when I cradled him in my arms. Precious and adorable and perfect in every way. And then, a few hours later, a sweet and precious eight-week old little girl, chubby-cheeked and bright-eyed.
My goodness I do so love me some babies.
Easton is my colleague's newborn, born via C-section Thursday, Oct. 30. His wonderful mother taught seventh-graders all day long just one day before his birth. And now she has ten weeks with her cutie-pie. I'm going to miss her at school; I don't think she's going to miss school. Hmn ... let's see ... how to choose: Brand-new little one or 100-plus hormonal pre-teens?
***
Baby Number Two is my sis's niece. I'd gone for my niece's birthday (She's three! "Free" as she pronounces it!) and there! as a bonus treat for me was a little one to cuddle.
So of course my baby fever is back in full swing. Feeling the aging ovaries pining away for what was once an option. It's times like these I always ask myself What Were You Thinking, Having Only Three Children?
It's really what I do best in this world, mothering. Domesticity delights me.
Hopefully the grandma years aren't too far away ... .

He's a sly one ...

2008-10-24T15:18:00.001-07:00

Last night, around 8:40-something, my son called. A junior in college, he was walking around campus, cell phone to ear. He'd had a bad day. Received a "C" on a Mexican history test. Was unable to get the spring classes he wanted during registration. Still reeling from his little elf's "Dear John" e-mail.
"I need a pep talk, Mom," he said, forlornly. This child, my middle, is predisposed to the blues. Born on a Wednesday, he is, generally, as the saying goes, filled with woe ... . Inherited my depressive tendencies along with my light-colored eyes. He's easily frustrated; he is supremely sensitive.
And so I gathered up some emotional strength, which surprised me, given my stupidly long week at the middle school coal mine, and I offered some sage words. "It's only one test, Ryan. Your grade will not be ruined. And tomorrow head off to the guidance center, speak to your academic advisor. Surely there are still some of your classes available ... ."
He paused.
"Yeah, you're right. Guess I could have studied more for the test."
There will be lots of tests, I told him. You win some; you lose some.
"Hey, Mom?"
"Yes."
"Go to the front porch."
"What?"
"The front porch. Just go there," he said.
With the phone in my hand, I opened the front door.
There was my middle kid, his cell phone to ear, smiling broadly, leaning against the porch column. Pointing at me. Laughing.
Did I mention this one is a practical joker, too?
(And, no, there was no Mexican history test at all. He'd gotten all his necessary classes, too.)
He is a sly one.

Sixteen days ...

2008-10-19T09:24:00.001-07:00

In sixteen days America will choose a new leader.
We need a transformer, not a maverick.
Barack Obama can bring real change to America. The senator from Illinois will certainly have my vote come November 4.
Yesterday, I, along with 75,000 fellow Kansas Citians, stood in front of the Liberty Memorial to hear this intelligent visionary articulate his plan to TRANSFORM America's economy, healthcare and educational systems, global standing, and the environment of which we all inhabit.
He is change I can believe in. In my forty-three years I have experienced moments of eye-watering intensity: the birth of my three children (happy tears). Watching the towers fall that horrible day in September (tears of horror), Bush 41's Gulf War declaration (tears of fear). Yesterday's AMAZING gathering of old and young, black and white, a diverse demographic waving its arms in the air and applauding the dynamic words of the man we're hoping can, indeed, turn this country around.
Those were tears of pride.
God Bless Barack Obama.

Weird day

2008-10-15T13:59:00.000-07:00

What an odd, odd day.
First, drove to school in a torrential downpour. Lots of water on the interstate. Feared I would die. Did not die. (Fortunately.) Got to school a wee bit early. Forgot magical plastic card that allows me entrance into the building. Waited five minutes for a colleague to show. Followed him in. Managed to get poorly constructed but pretty umbrella through the door but dropped important papers. Muddy wet.
Nice.
Got to classroom but forgot key (attached to magical plastic entry card); had to hunt down a custodian to gain entrance to my own classroom. While waiting, I pass a woman in the wall who looks vaguely familiar, like I knew her once, maybe ten years ago. "Kathleen," she asks. "Is that you?" Why yes, yes it is, I respond, looking at her like a dog might look in the direction of an odd sound. "It's Betsy," she tells me, her Southern accent reminding me of our collegiate relationship. As I am thinking, Why do you look so much older than you should? the answer is provided. "I'm a breast cancer survivor," she says, smiling shyly. She points to her short, curly hair. (Didn't it used to be a different color?). She doesn't explain the wrinkles and tired face. Doesn't have to. Stupid cancer. Stupid, stupid, stupid cancer. Robs a person of vitality and youth. "So that's why you weren't subbing last year," I say. I reach to hug her. "I'm so glad you're well." Betsy, dear, dear Betsy, was my longterm sub the spring my dad was dying from lung cancer. How could any of us have known that she'd be fighting for her own life just a few months later?
I walk back to my classroom, thinking about my dead father.
While the rain beats a steady thumpthumpthump, I set about getting organized. Suddenly, I feel ill. Lower unit failure! Ugh. Stomach cramps. Bowel issues. Bathroom emergency. I either have an intestinal worm or should never eat chili again. Now I'm depressed and sick.
Homeroom children file in. I sell precisely three suckers. Not good for the fundraising effort. (We're raising money to support our team account. For field trips and ice cream socials, that sort of thing.) Do agenda checks but only three students have managed to write in their boardwork.
First hour begins. Time to collect homework. Five students have done so.
Small lecture begins. "If you're going to come to school, then doesn't it make sense to do the work? It's a simple worksheet, really, about setting. You know, time and place. (Blank looks.)
Where was 'The Highwayman' set? (Answer: Texas (wrong). New York (wrong). England? Dingdingding.)
The phone rings in my classroom. I am annoyed. Why on earth does the school allow incoming calls when I am teaching? Oh, wait .... It's the school nurse at my daughter's high school. Your daughter is ill, she tells me. Migraine. Visual disturbances. You need to come get her, please.
In addition to managing a class of 26 12-year-olds, I now must contact the school secretary to find out What to Do Next. It is a crappy part of the job, needing to leave suddenly. Just can't get up, grab the purse, and head out. You've got to find someone to take over the class. Really, trying to be absent on a school day is ALWAYS a difficult task.
But here comes the instructional assistant in charge of in-school suspension. She will be with my class. (Relief!) I head out into the pouring rain to retrieve my ill child. More thoughts of highway death. Again, I survive. (Thank God.)
The nurse is an angel and says wonderful things to me about coming to get Elizabeth. "I knew she was having a migraine when she walked in," the nurse says, making a sad face. "The migraine kids, you can always tell just by looking at their eyes." I look at my child, who squints to see me, as the lights are too bright in the nurse's room. I have a sudden thought to pick her up, to carry her out of the nurse's station. Mama to the rescue!
The two of us get home and I make her a comfortable pallet on the couch. Put on "Peanuts Christmas" album, one of her faves. Sit beside her, stroking her hair until sleep comes. Remember all the headaches she's had. Praying there is nothing SERIOUSLY wrong with her.
I am now reminded of Being Home During the Day, which happened with great frequency when I was a stay-at-home mom. Ran two loads of laundry. Made coffee. Read the paper. The obituaries. Saw that one of my favorite newspaper writer's wife had died. Cancer. STUPID CANCER. Sherri Eberhart, only 47 years old. Died Monday, Oct. 13. Forty-seven! She had no children, her husband John (my fave KC STAR books columnist) now a widower. About a year ago he wrote openly about his wife's illness, and about a year ago I remember thinking, Dear God, she's going to die.
And now she has.
So I think of setting as I type this entry. It is a gray day. The kind of gray, rainy day that makes death seem sadder somehow. I think of W.H. Auden's poem "Funeral Blues."

"... The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."

A special message to a favorite blogger, and all others who stop by to visit

2008-10-13T19:04:00.001-07:00

Glad to see, Bee, from your recent posts that your funk is subsiding. Meanwhile, I'm in one myself, a funk of mythic proportion. I've been thinking, My God, what is wrong with me, and so, today, instead of paying attention at a USELESS staff meeting, I sat with yellow legal pad and made a list of all that's bothering me.
I shall share it with you:
1) My mother (She makes me crazy but she is dying and I must be the world's worst daughter because I really don't feel that it's in MY best interest to visit her.)
2) My son (His girlfriend dumped him on Saturday. Instead of a "Dear John" letter, she sent an email, asking to be "just friends." His heart is broken. Therefore, so is mine.)
3) My weight. Ye gads I have gotten bigger and bigger. Kind of marshmallow-ish around the middle.
4) Sticky-icky weather. Come, come fall. This summery stuff sucks.
5) Not blogging. Why are you not blogging, Kathleen? Why? Why? Why?
6) Overall, no-good-reason bad mooding. Is this menopause? Feeling like I'm PMS-ing constantly.
7) Lack of coordinated drapery and bedding in the master bedroom. Why can't I get my bedroom design to click? Where's the black-and-white toile I've coveted for years?
8) Stack of mini-assessments to grade. I mean, STACK. One hundred of them to grade. Can't. Seem. To. Get. Motivated.
9) Absent exercise. Must get to the gym. Must get to the gym. Must get to the gym.
10) Why am I hot all the time?
11) McCain-Palin ticket.
12) McCain-Palin ticket.
13) Must get fall decorations out of boxes. Scarecrow to porch. Must purchase assorted gourds to decorate steps.
14) Pay new subscription to MORE magazine. Going to miss issues if payment is not made.
15) Why aren't tulip bulbs planted?

A Chili Rain

2008-10-13T18:43:00.001-07:00

It's rainy and mildly chilly in Kansas City. October has come. Daylight wanes.
It's chili time!
When I got home from work this evening the yummy aroma greeted me before I even opened the kitchen door coming in from the garage. Could it be ... ? Would it be ... ?
Yesssss! A pot on the stove of my honey's famous three-bean blend. Piping hot. Steam rising from the kettle. White porcelain bowls of shredded cheese and chopped sweet onion sitting on the counter. Scads of oyster crackers.
After a way-too-stressful day at school, the one-dish dinner was just what I needed.
And for dessert, a slice of my youngest's birthday cake, a delightful piece of white-cake heaven.
Thank goodness for simple suppers and sugary finishes.

Threading beads on a string ...

2008-09-14T10:14:00.000-07:00

Housework.
Love it (vacuuming).
Hate it (everything else).
The toilets are icky, the vanities sticky.
The hardwood floors needs a thorough hands-and-knees vinegar scrubbing; the tubs need a rubbing -- with a sanitizing concoction.
Housework.
It's like threading beads on a string with no knot at the end.
Which makes me wonder: does Governor Sarah Palin scrub her tubs and toilets? Does she do her own laundry?
I'm thinking: probably not.
And so there's the great divide. It's simply easier for a woman to work outside the home if she also doesn't have the home duties waiting for her when she gets back.
Case in point: My dearest spousal unit complained this Wednesday last that I stayed at school until 7 p.m. (I had lots to do. Really. Teaching isn't a 7 to 3 job. Seriously.) And, wouldn't you know, when I did arrive at 7 p.m. no one had eaten. Because, apparently, the mom wasn't home to do the cooking.
Now, in all fairness, I should say, because it is simply the absolute truth, that my husband does, indeed, rattle the pans more than most men ... but that night, because I hadn't arrived to notice that he was peeling the potatoes, he hadn't attempted to assemble a dinner at all.
Do we women get accolades from our husbands when we're assembling the lasagna?
I think not.
Wonder where Palin stands on this issue.

Palin a dynamo at the podium ...

2008-09-04T18:06:00.000-07:00

The election drama thickens. Last night I watched McCain's Veep approach the podium and wow the assembly.
This gal has gumption. She's poised and articulate and passionate in her philosophies.
I am excited for the Oct. 2 vice-presidential debates.
Watching debates has always entranced me. How DO these people think so quickly?
It will be interesting when the "rubber hits the road" to see if Palin can hold her own against Biden.
I have a feeling she just might be able to do it.

Political race is revving up ...

2008-09-01T13:48:00.000-07:00

Wow. Wow. Wow.
Normally, I'm not a political junkie. Sure, I'm interested, just not obsessed.
Until now.
First, there was Barack Obama's impassioned DNC speech before 80,000 folks in Colorado. What an orator the Illinois senator is. For forty five minutes I was riveted to my television screen. Riveted. Impressed with his words and his vision. Happy ... no, scratch that ... elated ... ELATED that he finally did some firing back to GOP misclaims. No, there will not be a raising of middle class taxes. ("I will cut taxes for 95 percent of all working families. Because in an economy like this, the last thing we should do is raise taxes on the middle class.") Refuted the Republicans' claim that he isn't patriotic. ("We are the party of Roosevelt. We are the party of Kennedy. So don't tell me that Democrats won't defend this country. I will never hesitate to defend this nation.")
An absolutely stunning, STUNNING speech that was more State of the Union than convention rhetoric.
And then, just when I thought I couldn't be happier (thank goodness there's change coming!), Senator McCain announces his running mate, Sarah Palin, governor from Alaska.
Sarah Who?
Former mayor of what town?
A town of how many? There are more moose and elk there than people.
My first response: McCain just shot himself in the foot. No one knows who this Palin woman is. Surely people won't elect a Veep who had a whopping 900 people vote her in for mayor. I had 400 more votes than that when I was elected to a school board seat.
I thought: Obama just won the presidency.
That was my first response.
Since that first response, I've talked to people (two sisters-in-law and a grocery checkout clerk). They like this Sarah-Who. Why, because she's pretty? This I want to ask, but it seems kind of snotty-pants. You know nothing about her, so why do you like her? This I do ask. And the response I hear is this: "I heard she might be anti-abortion. I won't vote for anyone who is pro-choice." (So much for the McCain camp thinking the maverick will get Hillary's voters.)

Ah, I think: Single-issue voters.
Voters who don't read the paper, don't watch real news programming, don't understand, really, that politics is never about a single issue. Don't try to understand. Just go out and vote for a particular candidate all because of one embedded conviction.

Now that I just don't get.

But I'm listening. And, yes, I'll be watching the Republican National Convention every night, too.
I'm what's called a Big Picture thinker.

Missing my boy ...

2008-08-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

So what if he's twenty?
He still left this morning to go back to college and I feel a bit empty.
For three months he's been home, spending hours on the computer and reading late into the night. For weeks and weeks and weeks now, he and I have sat up until two, even three in the morning, talking about politics and life and religion and evolution.
We've had about a dozen late-night Taco Bell runs, our most recent around 11 last evening. When we got home, he with his spicy chicken burrito and steak quesadilla, I with an ice water (too late for my indigestion-prone tummy to eat), our talk centered on his girlfriend, and how much he is going to miss her.
The boy is smitten with his "little elf," a girl who isn't in college yet, a girl he'll only get to see on holiday breaks and the occasional weekends he comes home.
It is both exasperating and wonderful to talk to my little boy who has become a man.
Where-oh-where did those years go?
Later this week I'll venture into his bedroom to clean up and organize the debris that remains following a hasty packing. Not today, though. No way. His bedroom door shall remain closed until I deal a bit better with his leaving.

A hint of fall is in the air

2008-08-23T17:20:00.000-07:00

Just got in from walking my beloved canine unit, Bella.
The air: crisp like a potato chip. No hint of humidity. Someone was grilling hot dogs. Children on bikes with training wheels rolled past me and Bella. One of them, a little girl, hopped off her bike to pet the dog. The tyke wore a jacket with a hood framing a kindergarten face. A hood. Yes!
All good signs that fall is coming.
Fall is my favorite season: A time of wienie roasts and pumpkin picking. A time to start the oven up again; a time to buy apples five pounds at a time. A time to bring out the cozy sweaters and pack away the sleeveless.
School here has already begun, and even though my first day of classes felt Very Much Summer, seeing the students wearing plaid skirts and striped polos advertised that tank tops and ratty shorts were being put away.
Another school year is here.
And that's how I measure the year. August to May.
Fresh beginnings.
Intoxicating!

Last Monday at Candy's ...

2008-08-05T22:13:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the final summer pool day at my dear friend Candy's house. Several of us girlfriends had been meeting each Monday throughout the summer to swim and nosh and gossip. Frequently we talk about our spouses and children, about our weight and our jobs, about excursion planning and retirement planning.
Yesterday's conversation, however, wasn't all goodness and light. We talked politics; we are a divided lot. Think The View, only instead of wearing pretty clothes and stage makeup we were decked out in swimsuits and sunburns.
Of the wonderful ladies on Barbara Walters's award-winning daytime talk show, my personality most aligns with that of Joy Behar's. She is a rather outspoken liberal sort, in case you don't know who she is. (Our professional wardrobes are spookily similar as well.)
Elizabeth Hasselback, an ultra-conservative Republican, reminds me of my sis.
The lovely Sheila is a Barbara Walters sort, refined and worldly (Sheila gets to travel a lot!).
And Nancy is a cross between Whoopi Goldberg and that Sherri chick on the show, a woman I can't for the life of me identify as Someone Famous. Was she a soap star? But make Nancy less politically inclined than Whoopi. Whoopi can get very deep very quickly, politically speaking. Nancy is more of a skirt-the-issues-sort. Very Switzerland.
So there we five gals were, lounging on pool floaties, enjoying lemonade and a fierce sun, our tummies full from a salad fest, when someone started in with the politics.
It might have been me; I can't remember. This perimenopause thing has been messing with my memory.
But we talked about abortion rights and Senator John McCain and Senator Barack Obama and the women's movement, and how it has sort of backfired on women (Sheila/Barbara).
Someone (I think it was my sis) brought up the "whining, entitled Hurricane Katrina victims" and how pitiful they were, when the flood-ravaged Iowans weren't complaining at all. When the flood in Iowa was "just as damaging."
That's when things got VERY "THE VIEW" and I, a woman who usually stays quiet on such matters, especially when I can sense I'm outnumbered, did not in fact stay quiet at all. I rather freaked out. Immediately claimed there was no comparison between the two events (Hurricane Katrina and the Midwestern Flood of 2008); I was peeved at the implication that the Louisiana folks were ignorant, government-dependent welfare cases who didn't have the intelligence to get out of dodge before the storms came and swept 300,000 houses away. Conversely, the people in Iowa were behaving perfectly decently and didn't start crying about the government not stepping in to help. (The Republicans' opinions, certainly not mine.)
I was beyond angry. But I didn't have the facts to support my claims. When one is floating on a pool noodle one does not have access to the Internet.
Because we women are all intelligent and benevolent ladies, we never yelled nor watched the spittle flying out of opponents' mouths. We somehow got off that subject and starting talking about something else. I couldn't tell you what, exactly, because inside I was telling myself, Go Home and Look This Stuff Up.
So I did. And then I sent my information on to the pool gals.
No one has fired back with vitriolic messaging. No one has phoned me to blow a whistle in my ear.
We're still friends. We can disagree and debate and by the end of the day there are smiles and hugs. I love my girlfriends. I love that we can engage in controversial subjects and speak our minds and then head out to a Mexican restaurant and giggle over the guacamole.
So that's how The View girls do it, too.
So don't believe what you read in the media about how much Hasselback hates Behar.

School anxiety ... again!

2008-08-03T15:25:00.000-07:00

I wish non-teachers could/might/would understand how much anxiety there is going into a new school year ... for the teachers! People like me who are already having back-to-school nightmares and anxiety attacks buying 24 boxes of Crayolas and hundreds of pencils.
The children, of course, have their unique anxieties (Will I miss the bus? Will I have any friends in my classes? Will I be able to even find my classes? Will my teachers be hags? Will I have the right kind of clothes? Will the other kids make fun of me?).
But we teachers, well, we have anxiety too. Although every single teacher I've talked to has some level of panic, mine always kicks into overdrive once August arrives: Will I oversleep the first day of school and arrive late and haggard and panicky? Will I have healthy colleague relationships this year? Will I be able to produce the level of energy that is needed to educate daily 150 seventh graders? Will the students think I'm pregnant on account of my newest fat roll and decide to give me Slim-Fast for Christmas (this actually happened to a former colleague ... oh, the horror and embarrassment ... ) Will I have good standardized test results? Will my IBS kick in during the middle of class? Will I have off-the-charts-horrific-to-handle-kids? Will I be able to climb the three flights of stairs to get to my classroom without needing oxygen? Will lesson planning and grading and lesson planning and parent meetings and grading and lesson planning and student discipline issues and staff meetings and grading get the best of me this year? Will this be the year I finally throw up my hands and announce, "Well, this is IT! No more teaching for me. I've had IT!!"
It's always possible, I suppose.

Anxiety in overdrive!

2008-08-02T12:53:00.001-07:00

Here it is precisely 2:53 p.m. on a beautiful Saturday afternoon and I feel paralyzed from these annoying PVC's (heart palps).
They started when the Mary Kay lady popped in around noon with my order, which I'd given her via telephone 90 minutes earlier. Somehow, no matter what I order, or how little I feel I order, the total always comes to fifty-plus dollars. So there was financial angst to consider. (This on top of three separate back-to-school lunches at fifty bucks a pop that I've: a) treated my children to; and b) not told my husband about.)
But before Mary Kay Lady leaves, she asks me if I've spoken to her daughter, who lives in California and, really, is my bestbest friend in the world and I was supposed to fly out there this summer but I'm a scaredy-cat about flying plus the tickets would have been about a thousand dollars because I sure in heck wasn't going alone and then think of all the extra money I'd need to spend on dining out and souvenir stuff and admission to things and so although I clearly should have called my California friend by now ... I mean, it IS August, I just haven't because what do I say, "Sorry, can't come. Too expensive, plus I'm a scaredy cat. Oh, and I've been battling these scary-butt PVC's all summer and I'm afraid I'll get on a plane and have a panic attack and my heart will spazz out and I'll die 30,000 feet in the air."
So, no, I told my friend's mother. I haven't talked to her.
OK, so there's friend anxiety piled onto cosmetic expenditure anxiety and then -- THEN -- I call my mom, which I should not have done, because she's extremely agitated and down in the dumps and feeling sorry for herself because yesterday would have been her and Dad's 45th wedding anniversary, only he got lung cancer and died four months later and now she's a grieving widow, only not one of those mildly tearful, soft-talking grieving widows. My mom is impossibly hard to communicate with (she's a vociferous type) because she is, in fact, a recent widow, a truth that only a heartless daughter would ignore.
So I'm supposed to go visit her this afternoon. But I don't want to go.
More anxiety.
And then, like a supreme idiot, I go to Wal-Mart to buy saltine crackers so I can make my special meatloaf that I know my mom likes only there are about a million and a half people shopping there because it's sales-tax-free weekend in Missouri. And that's when the PVC's got really bad. There I am, meandering my cart around hordes of people when they start. I use some self talk I read about doing recently: "You're OK, Kathleen, you'll be fine. You've had these before and they always go away and you don't die."
And I did, in fact, survive the shopping excursion, which brings me here to the typewriter.
If you, dear Reader, have any advice for me in dealing with life's anxieties, please pass on your helpful words.
I need some assistance.

Not doing well eating well ...

2008-07-31T12:05:00.000-07:00

Considering school starts OFFICIALLY Monday, Aug. 18, it occurred to me very recently that my new students might, just might, given the size of my newest upper abdominal fat roll, think their communication arts teacher is a pregnant communication arts teacher.
Seriously. I look about six months along, unless I'm exhibiting a strategic suck-it-in maneuver and standing straight on, no profile view. Where this fat roll came from I have no clear idea.
I have several foggy ideas, however, and these explanations have mostly to do with cheese. Vast cheese consumption, as a matter of fact. I love cheese -- in any form (cubed, shredded, melted) and in most any flavor (cheddar, mozzarella, provolone). Pretty much I've visited the Cheese World most of this summer and sampled about six thousand bites.
Is there time to look, maybe, say, four months along? Is it even possible to lose fifteen pounds in eighteen days?
Feeling panicky.

Biscuits and gravy and eggs, oh my!

2008-07-26T10:46:00.001-07:00

I made a ginormous breakfast this morning for my guests: bacon and sausage and scrambled eggs and bacon gravy with buttery biscuits and strawberry jam and apple butter and orange juice.
It. Was. Delicious.
***
Last night at the baseball game? Not delicious.
It was so annoyingly hot and humid (there must be something to that dry heat that people in the Southwest rave about ... ) and, what with no air movement AT ALL, I was a cranky beast sitting in the nosebleed section at Kauffman Stadium. Also, the Royals lost, a defeat which put us back to the bottom of the American League.
Additionally, there was a plethora of skinny women cheering in the stands, their tiny torsos sporting spandex-tight halter tops, whilst, meanwhile, there sat I in some ridiculous-looking turquoise number that I thought looked cute in the mirror at home but only wilted on me and stuck to my fat roll in an oh-so-unflattering manner. I felt obese and frumpy and hot and gross and, actually, rather bored with the game by the fourth inning. Yes. The FOURTH inning.
***
When we got home from the game it was around 11:30 and Helen Homemaker's sweaty husband (you should have seen us -- we were all a wrinkled/haggard mess) got out the air mattresses and Helen set to spreading sheets around and fluffing pillows and making sure blankets smelled fresh, not "been-in-a-closet-too-long" stale. When everyone was near settled, Helen gave her 22-year-old daughter her debit card and a quick grocery list (three pounds bacon, two dozen eggs, orange juice, gallon skim milk) and then went immediately to bed, whereupon her husband, who'd been out of town all week on business, lay snoring, peacefully, a smile on his face.
For him, it's never too hot for baseball.

"Dancing Queen"

2008-07-25T07:16:00.000-07:00

Dang, I love this song! Takes me back to when I was seventeen and so carefree and optimistic and able to dance for hours on end without waking up in pain.

"Dancing Queen"
Benny Andersson, Bjorn Ulvaeus & Stig Anderson

Ooh
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
Ooh
See that girl
Watch that scene
Diggin' the Dancing Queen
Friday night and the
lights are low
Looking out for a place to go
Where they play
the right music
Getting in the swing
You've come to look for a
king
Anybody could be that guy
Night is young and the
music's high
With a bit of rock music
Everything's fine
You're in the mood
for a dance
And when you get the
chance
You are the Dancing Queen
Young and sweet
Only seventeen
Dancing Queen
Feel the beat from
the tambourine
Oh yeah
You can dance
You can jive
Having the time of your life
Ooh
See that girl
Watch that scene
Diggin' the Dancing Queen
You're a teaser,
you turn 'em on
Leave 'em burning and
then you're gone
Looking out for another
Anyone will do
You're in the mood
for a dance
And when you get the
chance
You are the Dancing Queen

Company's comin' ...

2008-07-24T11:20:00.001-07:00

In approximately 24 hours I will have five additional people in my home. And, yes, they'll be staying the night, which means that today I must become Helen Homemaker, who is, of course, the mistress of the stripping and the laundering of sheets and the scrubbing of the tubs. She is a dusting doyenne, too, which is a Very Good Thing, considering someone shook a thin layer of talcum powder on the surface of my dining room table and now someone (Hello, Helen!) must swoop in and tidy it up.
It is the Day Before Company Comes that I most regret having wood floors in the entry and sitting room. Those who read this blog know how much I adore vacuuming: A lot. So cleaning the hearth room and bedrooms is not an icky task; to the contrary, I can get some meditation in while the vacuum sucks up all that is sucky.
There's the grocery to attend to as well. Not knowing what people eat is always tricky. To my benefit is the knowledge that all who are coming do, in fact, eat meat, as they are all Nebraska prairie spawn and therefore happy to hunker down to a plate of Something Carnivorous. Considering meatloaf is my specialty, I will bake a big one this evening. I mean, who doesn't like meatloaf? Or, even better, a cold meatloaf sandwich?

************ Kate's Marvelous Meatloaf **************

2 lbs. ground chuck/ 2 eggs/ 1 sleeve crushed Saltines/1 jar Heinz chili
sauce/ mix all into a delightful goo and then bake in a 350 oven for
approximately 60 minutes. (I pour ketchup over the top about 45 minutes
in; ketchup is a Midwestern thing, akin to using Miracle Whip
and ranch dressing whenever possible.)

******************************************

To put an additional smile on Helen Homemaker's oh-so-happy face, there will be much playing of the soundtrack of "Mama Mia," which I saw recently and adored from the very beginning. I highly recommend that any woman over forty attend a viewing of this remarkable film. Yeah, I said it: film. It's just that good!

Twenty days remaining ...

2008-07-21T17:27:00.000-07:00

While picking up a three-way lightbulb at Target the other day I had a wee bit o' panic when I walked by what used to be an outdoor furniture display but is now SCHOOL SUPPLY CENTRAL. (When did that happen?) Replacing patio umbrellas and floral-covered cushions are bins and boxes and cardboard carousels of pens and pencils and glue sticks and scissors and erasers.
This means one thing and one thing only: My summer break is about to end.
My life's stress is going to triple ... quadruple, perhaps.
During summer break, my biggest stress revolves around which car I'll be driving to the shopping plaza or grocery, considering the children are all licensed and working absurd shifts and in need of vehicular transportation. If they're off to work before I get out of bed -- I like to awaken at the crack of noon these days -- then I'm the one sans Chevy, or the sorry soul stuck with the gross car that smells like dirty dog paws.
A lesser summer stress concerns what I will eat for "breakfast": Shall it be something I have to cook (think omelette or Cream of Wheat) or something previously cooked, say, spaghetti or brussels sprouts adorned with congealed butter from the night before, that I can simply eat from the pan whilst standing in front of the fridge. Or, sometimes, someone drinks all the milk and doesn't replace it. That's summer stress, especially if there's a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and I'm feeling the cereal vibe. I've been known to have a bit of a meltdown when I reach for the jug and there's approximately a quarter teaspoon of milk remaining.
But when school is in session, when I go from being a mom of three kids to a school marm of 150 kids, well, then the stress level increases, let's just say, somewhat tremendously.
As a result, at the pool today I wasn't able to relax entirely. Oh, I tried. Lying face down on a floatie thingy, I imagined I was in the gentle part of the ocean, being lulled oh-so-tenderly, and then, without warning, a vision came to me of a seventh-grade boy ramming me with his boogie board (or whatever it's called). While inside making my lunch plate, instead of focusing on the awesome sandwich wrap I was assembling, my mind took a disturbing detour and reminded me of my school's load-'em-in/load-'em out cafeteria routine. Will I really be back to fourteen minute lunches?
Is it time again to learn 150 names and 150 learning styles?
To make parent contact sheets? To figure out which kids need preferential seating and modified lesson plans and alternative assessments?
In twenty days I'll be back to pantyhose and pumps and navy blue suits. No more flip-flops and swimsuits, shorts and wrinkled tees. I'll smell like Estee and the classroom ... the delicious sunscreen scent will have to stay in its bottle.
I'm likely to have a weird back-to-school dream tonight, which will, more than likely, feature a surly seventh-grade boy, a patio umbrella, a box of erasers and a three-way lightbulb.
That's how my dreams roll.

Of cavities and old-lady glasses

2008-07-18T14:33:00.000-07:00

Ruh-roh!
At my (yearly) eye exam today I was informed oh-so-delicately that I am in need of bifocals. I suppose I knew this day was coming; still, it smarts a bit on the inside to digest what this really means: half glasses on a beaded string. Won't I just be the marmy schoolteacher? Next thing you know I'll have to buy five pairs, like my Uncle Terry: one for every important room, including the car, which isn't exactly a room, per se, but you know what I mean.
I think it's true that the body starts to decay -- I mean, fall apart -- once forty hits. I clearly remember my dentist telling me that very thing back when I was eleven years old, sitting in his uncomfortable green plastic chair, having eleven cavities filled. Yep, that's right: ELEVEN cavities. (After all the smoke and drilling, the dentist went into the waiting room and yelled at my mother, and then I got yelled at in the car during the entire ride home, which would have been fifteen minutes, only Mom stopped at Zarda Ice Cream to get herself a rootbeer float, to deal with her "nerves." Of course, I got nothing, what with my ELEVEN cavities and all.)
But anyway, the dentist, Dr. Cox, told me these words, exactly: "You'd better take good care of your teeth now, Young Lady, because once you turn forty everything starts to go downhill." He then cited several health concerns that appeared following his fortieth birthday, chief among them a predisposition to "throw his back out," which meant nothing to me because I was, after all, eleven years old and limber in every way possible.
So, to recognize all that ails me now that I am in my 42nd year, prepare to be either impressed or distressed. I present, then, a list of my bodily decay:
1) need of bifocals
2) propensity to "throw back out"
3) new fat roll (upper abdomen)
4) breast sagginess
5) gray hair, kinky and stand-straight-up at the hairline
6) parentheses wrinkles around the mouth
7) need to have fourth crown put on (related, I'm quite certain, to those eleven cavities all those years back)
8) random heart palpitations (although, I'm glad to report, since I started taking a magnesium supplement those have gone away ... )
9) complete inability to understand the lyrics to 75 percent of the songs kids listen to these days
10) acute awareness of my bowel's performance and knowledge of every bathroom location within a thirty mile radius
11) forgetfulness, especially when it comes to words ... so, so many words these days are "on the tip of my tongue"
***
I'm sure this list could grow, but my bladder is beckoning. That and I need to go walk the dog ... she's over forty too.

Always late to the party ...

2008-07-16T10:46:00.000-07:00

I am SO upset at SELF these days. In the last two weeks, I have learned about three, THREE I say, books that I SO should have known about when they were new to the public and therefore exciting readers throughout the country, and maybe even the world.
Quickly, here are the titles, in the order of my retarded discovery:
1) Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen, by Julie Powell
2) The Sweet Potato Queens' Big-Ass Cookbook (and Financial Planner), by Jill Conner Browne
3) Jan Karon's Mitford Cookbook & Kitchen Reader, edited by Martha McIntosh

Aargghh! As usual, I showed up late to the party and missed the opening of the presents. Missed the presentation and silver-trayed passage of the crudites. Wasn't there to see the most beautiful woman on the planet trip over an extension cord, hysterically exposing her granny panties (when previously EVERYONE figured she was a thong-wearing princess... .)

No exaggeration, I am PEEVED for missing these titles. Upset because I loved them so much, albeit only recently. I could have been feeling this love and sharing the fun for the last four, five years. And longer when it comes to the Jan Karon cookbook, considering this woman created an entirely fictional town called Mitford, and then went and populated it, apparently, with Anne Tyler type characters (and everyone who knows me well knows how much I lust for Tyler's writing) LONG before this cookbook ever came into being. The silver lining in my dark, dark cloud is that I now have a list of Jan Karon titles (I understand there's a boxed set, even!) to look forward to reading.
Now, in terms of the Julie/Julia book, it's one of my favorite reads EVER ... and I read a lot, so this endorsement is really saying something. Reader: If you love to cook and read about cooking and don't get all freaked out when someone has a potty mouth, this is the book for you. Anyway, here's a synopsis: A bored, 29-year-old NYC secretary concocts, to escape the ennui that is her pathetic little life, a "deranged assignment" to cook, over the course of one year, every single recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Hilarity ensues. I read this book by midnight's oil, in bed with a sleeve of saltine crackers, with only one eye open (the eye with perfect vision thanks to a 1996 RK surgery). The other eye I sqinted closed for hours on end, having removed my contact lens for sleeping. (Yeah, I'm lame: I wear only one contact lens.)
What makes this book especially exciting is that I found out yesterday that Powell's book is being made into a movie STARRING MY ALL-TIME FAVE ACTRESS MERYL STREEP. I am giddy awaiting the launch of this film. Streep will play Julia Child. Can you believe it? In case you cannot remember the warbling voice that made the giantess (OK, she's only 6'2) a kitchen character of mythic proportions, you must check out some Julia Child vintage clips on www.youtube.com. I spent the better half of an hour last evening watching her make a "20-second" omelette. Delightful! Imagine Streep playing Child! My pulse quickens!!!!!
And then, in terms of the Sweet Potato cookbook, I laughed out loud about 36 times reading the little book, kinda misnamed on account of its "Big-Ass" title. It's not just recipes: There's good ole Southern-style aphorisms thrown in. Already (today, actually, before noon) I've cooked three items from its pages: Pig Candy (OMG), Bacon Monkey Bread (OMG again), and, the cherry on the sundae ... (drumroll, please ...) The Gooiest Cake in the World. This I haven't sampled yet, as it's currently sitting on my kitchen counter, cooling.
I'll get back to you after the official taste testing!

Prairie Nirvana?

2008-07-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

I'm still in Nebraska -- and lovin' every minute of it. The verdant countryside is a spectacle to behold. From my sister-in-law's office window (an enormous, beautiful oval), this is what I see: first, a row of "Fat Boy" pine trees -- a wind break to guard the west side of the house; behind, a gravel drive, heading north, to a house my brother and sister-in-law built; beyond the gravel is a farmer's field, manicured, sculptured, almost, in its purposeful rows. The corn is getting high, thanks to early summer rains. I stood yesterday among the stalks, thinking back to that Shirley Jackson line from "The Lottery": "rain in June, corn be heavy soon." West of the corn is a farmer's house and outbuildings, all painted white. Several silver silos stand sentinel north of his house. The shorter silos are partially occluded by tall trees. Folks 'round here MUST plant trees: prairie winds are furious at times. It is nearly always windy in Nebraska. Good if you're a wind-loving person. Most annoying if you're a careful hairdo sort of gal. Prone to allergies? Do not live here.
One of my strongest memories of living on the prairie happened during a blizzard. Husband had already gone to work; school was canceled, and so the children were with me, young and energized by the possibility of erecting enormous snowmen. No playful romping on this day, however, as the snow was so heavy and the wind so strong that it was impossible to see where the land divided from the sky. You know that phrase, "blinding snowstorm"? Well, there is such a thing. No hyperbole. I learned this myself when I went to retrieve our trashcans (massive containers made of hard plastic). After much bundling of heavy scarves/hats/mittens, the oldest daughter and I ventured out the garage door. Should have tied a rope to our waists, anchoring it to something heavy, like, I don't know, the house! Truly, I felt like Ma Ingalls out on the prairie, fighting to save the family's only calf. It was exhausting just trying to get to the trashcans. At times, I couldn't see my daughter; I worried that she'd been swept away. I yelled for her but the wind yelled louder. Amazingly, we arrived at our destination simultaneously, but once we reached the cans we were unable to pull them up the long gravel drive. Knowing we'd been beaten, we returned to the house, our mission an unsuccessful one.
Since that time, I have never been in such a weather fix.
Today, looking out at a cloudless baby blue sky, it is comical to remember The Day We Went Into the Blizzard and Survived.

A car trip and shower

2008-07-11T10:05:00.000-07:00

By bedtime tonight I will be sleeping in "The Elvis Room," the second-floor guestroom of a house on the Nebraska prairie that my husband and I built back in 1997. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law live there now. Located high on a hill on Church Road, thus named on account of the multitude of tall-steepled, stained-glass windowed churches that line the road (paved since '93), it was the finest home I have ever occupied. Gorgeous sunrise and sunset views. Built-in cabinetry in every single room. Six ... six, I say! ... lazy susans in the kitchen. Extraordinary craftsmanship.
Not my house anymore. Within 15 months of living in my dream home, Husband received a career location to Kansas City, Missouri.
Unbelievable! Fortunately, however, family now lives in the house, and so when I go to visit it really is like going home again.
Niece Emily's baby shower is slated for Saturday. There's a lot I love in this world, and any kind of celebration (bridal/baby) is icing on the cake!

Exuberance deflated

2008-07-10T23:37:00.000-07:00

Well. It was about to happen. Two red-letter days IN A ROW and then today.
First, I slept in far too long. What is it with me and all this sleeping lately?
I'm either depressed or there's something seriously wrong with me. Or maybe I'm staying up way too late. Here it is 1:40 a.m. and I'm wide awake. Posting a blog entry, for crying out loud! Ten minutes ago I was loading the dishwasher.
Another reason -- HUGE reason my day sucked -- was because my PVC's showed up around 2 p.m., and then lingered long enough for me to think: OK, is this the day I die? (PVC's are an abbreviation for premature ventricular contractions, which is a long way of saying "palpitations" or "irregular heartbeat.") I was vacuuming the stairs when they started. Immediately thought of that horrible scene in About Schmidt where the Jack Nicholson character comes home from an errand and finds his wife dead, the vacuum hose encircling her lifeless body.
Yeah, yeah, I've been checked out. My cardiologist tells me that my PVC's are the "good ones," the kind that won't cause my heart to quiver in a frenzied mess and then stop altogether, say, while I'm picking out peppers at Price Chopper. According to the doctor, my palps are probably with me for life: I just need to deal with them by, largely, ignoring them. Easier said than done, let me just say. Oh, and even though they're supposed to be "quite common" in women over 40, none of the Bunco gals has experienced them. I've polled every female at Northgate Middle School, and only the librarian can identify.
Third sucky reason to dislike today: I am down to $135 in my checking account, which means I'll have to ask Husband to deposit some money from the joint account into my little piddly expense account, which will more than likely peeve him greatly and cause a great poutage and the silent treatment for, say, oh, about ten days.
And then, I went and did something extra stupid: I watched a movie called Two Weeks, whereby Sally Field plays a 60-ish mother who is dying from cancer (stupidfreakingcancer) and hospice has come in, along with her four grown children, all of whom are there to be with her in her last days.
The movie's a Kleenex box jerker. My eyes will, most assuredly, be super puffy in the a.m.

Here’s what critics have said about TWO WEEKS ….

“Writer-director Steve Stockman is writing from experience, as the script artfully melds the honest, cold facts of dying with the awkwardness and humor that can be found in such circumstances. It’s a film to be sought out.”
Jeffrey Lyons and Alison Bailes, WNBC-TV

“Sally Field creates an agonizing portrait of Anita Bergman. Ms. Field’s tough, accurate performance is all the more compelling for its understatement. A knowing cinematic primer on what to expect when a parent dies.”
--Stephen Holden, The New York Times

“There’s an honesty to this film’s portrayal of what cancer does to family dynamics. Unsentimental, darkly funny. (Stockman’s) gifts as a writer are beyond reproach.”
--Jason Shawhan, The (Nashville) Tennessean

“Very real, very moving, and very funny. Sally Field is breathtaking.”
--Bob Rivers, CBS Radio

I need a math tutor/want a diamond ring/survey says ...

2008-07-09T19:09:00.001-07:00

Proof of why I am not a math teacher. In reference to yesterday's post ... It seemed too good to be true, to be able to purchase a diamond ring for just a penny and a half a day. (That Tivol's salesclerk is a tricky one.) So I sat down with a calculator and crunched some numbers: it would have to be one dollar and fifty cents a day, every day for one year, times 25 years, well, only then would I have the amount needed to purchase the ring I am currently coveting.
Actually, I am torn on the idea of spending thousands of dollars on a piece of jewelry that could get lost in the garden come tulip planting time. There's guilt to consider, too. Six houses in our neighborhood have gone into foreclosure in the last three weeks. That kind of money could help keep people in their homes. But, wait, Kate, is that your responsibility?
Readers, I'd like your opinion: Should I or shouldn't I desire from the spousal unit a 25th anniversary diamond ring? Am I asking too much?
Consider our history: Married in 1985. We were poor college students. Didn't have two nickels to rub together. Put our $250 worth of simple gold bands on layaway. Fast forward to first anniversary. Still poor. Within six years we had three babies. Still poor! Fast forward to tenth anniversary. Ah, finally some cashage. Not a lot, though. And even though we had debt (house buying/car buying/student loan repayments), it was then, in 1995, that I first approached Spousal Unit about desiring a diamond ring. At the time, appliances in our house were having nervous breakdowns; therefore, instead of a ring we purchased a new dishwasher, matching washer/dryer and a side-by-side refrigerator with an ice and water dispenser on the outside. Very cool at the time, BTW. Looking at that beige behemoth in my kitchen, I felt that we'd made it in the world. Oh, such is youth.
Year 2000: The world survived the Y2K paranoia. Again I asked for a ring. Cut out pictures of the style I wanted and taped them to Husband's bathroom mirror. Still no ring. Spouse thought paying for the kids' college educations took financial precedence.
And now, 23 years into my marriage, here I sit at my computer, the simple gold layaway band on my hand. I value its presence; it's been with me more than half my life. We've washed 2.3 million dishes together, changed 673,000 diapers, and mixed 1,020 meatloaves. Still, I desire the platinum Michael Beaudry Ballerina ring. My Catholic guilt tells me I should be giving alms to the poor and to forget about material desires, which can only lead me down a path to eternal hell and suffering and a great gnashing of teeth.
My 25th anniversary is 21 months away, which gives Husband plenty of preparation time.
Am I being selfish? Too materialistic?

Exuberance!

2008-07-08T19:14:00.000-07:00

Another red-letter day! Glorious time spent with daughter ... shopping, dinner, conversation ... photo opportunities for future scrapbooking pages. Met two women who are likely to become friends. Discovered a ridiculous kitty stroller that I feel inclined to purchase. My beautiful Himalayan needs some fresh air, too! Bought an a-m-a-z-i-n-g trench-style coat for $75. Unique sleeve detailing. Most exciting: Half price. Woot!
Imbibed in delicious coffee in a bistro-type setting. Elizabeth and I shared a cannoli. Decadent. I picked out a 25th wedding anniversary ring from Tivol's. It's only $13,000. A quick math calculation: an expenditure of 1.5 pennies a day (for the last 25 years). Reasonable, indeed!
A 45-minute walk with neighbor gals (an indoor track, so necessary considering the hateful humidity!). Time to blog, catch up on my e-mails.
Two videos and leftover lasagna waiting for me. Clean sheets on the bed.
Heaven on Earth.

This kind of day needs bottled

2008-07-07T21:27:00.000-07:00

Slept in until 10:45. Made vanilla bean coffee, read most of The Kansas City Star. Showered. Put on new bathing suit. Admired my body; did not berate one bit the cellulite/thigh jiggle. Taste tested the chicken salad I'd made the night before. Enjoyed 60-second fantasy that I have my own cooking show. Opened garage door and there was my next-door neighbor, wheeling her cooler up the driveway. "I put some sodas in here," she said. "Oh, and some of those raspberry cooler things you like." Drove to Candy's house, stuck the chicken salad in her fridge and immediately got into the pool. Stayed in pool for the next five hours. Drank numerous sodas, ate numerous potato chips, enjoyed my chicken salad, Sheila's pasta salad and Nancy's brownies. (Before baking she places butter pats on top/sprinkles with brown sugar. Stupidly simple. Seriously divine.) Got home around five. Elizabeth had cleaned the house! Major surprise. I thanked her for cleaning the house; kissed her on top of her head, old-school, like she was seven years old again. She smelled of expensive hair product. "Hey!" I said, somewhat breathlessly. "Let's go see that Kit Kittredge, American Girl movie." A quick shrug from Daughter. I had expected some whining. Something along the lines of, Aren't I Too Old To See That? No whining at all. Major surprise. Before getting to the theater, we stopped at Wendy's. Ordered some cheeseburgers. "We'll eat at the show," I told her. "Here, put these in your bag." At the ticket counter, we got a soda. The movie was cute. I laughed out loud several times, which was OK because we were the only people there. I caught Elizabeth on three separate occasions thoroughly enjoying Kit's escapades, although afterward she told me the show wasn't "great by any means" and she "definitely wouldn't have to see it again." Stopped at Walgreen's to buy quality tweezers and pick up a pint of Ben & Jerry's. Ran into one of Elizabeth's old friends, a sweet girl I considered a third daughter. Hadn't seen her since the girls were in eighth grade. Immediately I hugged her. "I am SO going to make you one of my famous PMS cakes," I told her. "Are you going to be home tomorrow? I'll be there at noon ... ."
Hugged again. Purchased quality tweezers/ice cream and then took Elizabeth home. Ryan (20-year-old son) hopped into my car. "Taco Bell, Mom?" From nowhere, he informed me the grocery store where he works had been robbed that day. Robbed?! What?!?! "Well," he explained, sensing my obvious anxiety, "really it was a kid trying to steal some Jack Daniels. It wasn't like he had a gun or anything." Oh. Thank God. ... At the drive-thru, Ryan ordered an obscene amount of food ... where does this slim young man put five burritos and two tacos? ... While he chowed in the Pontiac, I went into the grocery to buy cocoa and powdered sugar for tomorrow's cake. Again imagined having my own cooking show. Got stuck with creepy bagger man at the register, but other than that, this day was nearly perfect.
What blessings have been bestowed upon my head!!

The teaching nightmares have begun

2008-07-06T18:09:00.000-07:00

Uh oh. They're here, the dreams.
Oh, they start out all right: I'm standing at the head of the classroom, wearing my best suit and most confident smile. The students, lined up neatly in rows, smile warmly at me in return. Hands are positioned Catholic-school style on the tops of desks. Everything is right with the world. I turn to write my name on the board and then ...
.... suddenly the room grows three times in size; the children, who are now out of their chairs, scramble helter-skelter throughout the gigantic room. They're chasing each other. A desk is tipped over. Swooosh, Bang! A chair flies past my head and leaves a huge gouge in the chalkboard. Curse words pepper the air. It's snowing paper balls. I try to get the class under control. "Children, children!! Sit down!!! Please." I shrink in stature; the students grow large, larger ... . Total mayhem ensues. I start to cry and pound my arms at my sides. I work my mouth, trying to find something to say. No words come out. I am now a sobbing, miserable mute.
It's a terrible scene. Something out of a Roald Dahl children's book.
I awaken; the hair on my neck is wet. I look at the clock: 3:24 a.m. Remind myself of the date. Calm down by imagining I'm at the beach. Remind myself of the date again.
It's only the first of July, Kate.
For Pete's sake .. get a grip!

Nowhere circles

2008-07-02T14:39:00.000-07:00

I've been walking around the house aimlessly today. No motivation to get anything real accomplished. Did Windex the dog snot off the front windows. Did rearrange the kitchen island. Did two loads of laundry. Read some of the Bible: Proverbs. Berated Self for not being able to memorize scripture. Why can I memorize entire poems ("maggie and milly and molly and may") and song lyrics and literary passages but no Bible verses?
Walked past THE MEMORY KEEPER'S DAUGHTER approximately fifteen times, never stopping to pick it up. (One should never watch a movie before reading the book that inspired it.) Want desperately to just stop reading it altogether, but that would mean my ADD got the best of me. There are three YA titles waiting for me at Border's, books I special ordered a week ago. They're Truman Award Nominees; I think it's important to know about these books before school starts up again.
I haven't showered yet today, and considering it's nearly 5 p.m., I just might not get around to it.
Part of me wants to get cleaned up, heat up the hot rollers, try out the new Mary Kay mineral foundation, pull some cashage out of the ATM, and go shopping: I need a new bathing suit and the house needs some paper towels. Another part of me wants to climb into bed and roll around on the sheets, drifting in and out of sleep.
Today is the one-year anniversary of my dad's "official" death.
I'm trying not to think about it.

On relationships ...

2008-07-01T17:35:00.000-07:00

I've long been fascinated by the manner in which people enter -- and leave -- my life. Some come into my world and stay for years; others show up for a few months, or mere days. All who have come, regardless of their stay, have affected me. Taught me how to be better. Teachers, editors, next-door neighbors and two-blocks-over neighbors, coworkers, students, the Bunco babes. A retail clerk.

Serendipity, I believe, has placed a significant role. Consider the seventy-three year old neighbor I wouldn't have met had the mail not been misdelivered one,two,three,four times. After the fourth doorbell ring -- "Here's your mail ... again," I told her, smiling sheepishly -- she invited me in. Poured me a cup of coffee. Her big gray cat circled around my ankles. I noticed a voluminous dictionary stationed on a pedestal table in her eat-in kitchen. "Ah, a word person you are, huh?" I asked, smiling sheepishly. Instant recognition! She saw the same in me. Out came a Scrabble game. We played two games that afternoon. I lost badly. A weekly game ensued. Lots of coffee. Lots of laughter. For several years Pat and I played the weekly game. Her health dwindled. Cancer. She died a few years back. I miss her lots.

About a week ago I struck up conversation with a young lady at a nearby home improvement store. She was ringing up my paint, and shortly after the usual chitchat ended she divulged that she'd lost her mother at the age of 17. "She hadn't told me she was sick," the girl told me. "It was just the two of us. She suddenly died. I found out later she had cancer ... ." I told her about my dad. We looked at each other with an intensity that made my want to reach out to her, to invite her out to lunch. I asked her how old she was. "Twenty two." The same age as my oldest daughter. No wonder I felt so maternal. Amazingly, I bumped into her -- her name is Heather -- Saturday night at a coffee shop twenty miles away from my house. It was my first time in the shop, a sort of urban hangout I normally wouldn't patronize. I'd gone there to watch my daughter compete in an improv show. I felt seriously out of place. The tiny shop catered primarily to artistic types wearing sleeve tattoos and bandannas.

"You're the person at Lowe's, aren't you?" Heather asked, immediately recognizing me. She smiled widely. I could smell her perfume. "I'm going to be at Panera at two o'clock tomorrow, if you want to join me."

I already had plans. No problem, though. I am certain that Providence will align our schedules soon.

Necessary procrastination ...

2008-06-29T11:49:00.000-07:00

Needlework. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll awaken bright and early tomorrow and head over to a craft store and buy one of those punch kits and make something clever/cute for my kitchen. What a hooker I am I'll think as I punchpunchpunch the hook into the canvas, bright embroidery thread trailing.
Perhaps I'll head over to Border's and get lost in magazines or new fiction titles. Started reading THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA last time I was there -- even got halfway through Hemingway's tiny tome -- this time I'll finish the piece.
Could always go to the Kansas City Zoo, I suppose. Haven't been there since my own kids were small, what? ten years now? Lace up the comfort walkers and slather on the sunscreen. Maybe even wear one of those uber-ugly fanny packs. Who knows what lurks in the gift shops. Might need a polar bear keychain.
There's always grocery shopping, which I need to do, but I'm certain to see something that will remind me of him: bananas, coffee, tapioca pudding, crunchy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside bread rolls, Little Debbie's, icecreamicecreamicecream (no matter the flavor, just make it cold and creamy), Hershey's bars at the checkout. Better not head to Price Chopper. Groceries can wait another day.
I just have to find some activity to keep me busy ... some non-Dad activity that will occupy my thoughts so I won't be crying all day missing my dad.
Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of my dad's death.
Maybe I'll just skip the day altogether and stay in bed.

Aah, Relief ... At Last!

2008-06-23T20:56:00.000-07:00

It only took ten days, but I am now pain free. By the fifth day of EXTREMETAKEMYBREATHAWAY back pain, new understanding came my way: first, I will never (so help me) make fun of my mother's back pain again; second, Dr. Kevorkian had an important place on this earth. Seriously. As I lay on the sofa softly moaning, hour after hour, I told myself that should this pain be chronic, I'd have to find a way to take myself out of this earth. Honestly, I do not know how chronic pain sufferers endure. Like cancer patients. Accident victims. Eight-headaches-a-month migraine victims.
Apparently I am a pansy. And I always thought I had a high pain tolerance (natural childbirth three times, sans pain medication).
I suppose I have Dr. JC Penney to thank. I'd gone to the store, hobbling (thinking walking would help me) with my sis today to take advantage of a store closing blowout sale! and after I bought several hundred dollars worth of stuff (schlepping the gigantic bag throughout the store) my back pain suddenly left me. No warning. No, "Hey, Lady, I'm getting packed up, ready to leave ... ." No, none of that. Just as Mr. Back Pain had sneaked up on me ten days ago -- suddenly and without notice of any sort -- he was gone.
Sneaky bastard.

Pain, pain go away ...

2008-06-21T20:41:00.000-07:00

On Friday, June 13, at approximately 2:15 p.m., I dropped the soap while showering. Twisted in a weird way to retrieve it. I haven't been the same since. (Hold the prison rape jokes, please.)
For eight days now, eight days I say, pain has been my constant companion.
There are two positions that don't bring me pain, but getting into -- and then out of -- those two positions causes pain. Serious pain. The kind of pain that makes me screw up my face and mutter "shitshitshit" in rapid succession.
On the 1 - 10 pain scale, my lower back pain rates a clear 7. Maybe an 8. (Do know that, for me, a 10 would have to be how I'd feel if, say, some demented murderer chopped off one of my limbs with a chainsaw.)
Of course I went to the doctor. My 16 year old drove me and then proceeded to carry my purse even though she clearly did not want to into the clinic. I had to take itty-bitty-bird steps into the place. Obviously I was having some pain. The woman I sat down next to waited for me to get settled (Read: in the chair without crying) and then said, chomping her gum, "Ah, it's your sciatic nerve, huh?" We chit-chatted for some time and then my name was called. "Tell them I'm coming, and to have some patience," I told my daugher.
Diagnosis: sacro ileitis.
Prognosis: I'd get over it.
Prescriptions: Muscle relaxant, anti-inflammatory, painkiller.
I've played by all the rules (except the one where the doctor said to do floor exercises). Still I hurt. The pain is now throughout my hips and upper thighs. I suppose by this time tomorrow it'll be around my knees. Monday, through the calves. Tuesday, by then, well, maybe the pain will go to my toes and exit altogether.
A girl can hope.

Teachers let the monkeys out!

2008-06-01T14:53:00.001-07:00

Remember, back in elementary school, running through the hallways on the last day of school, waving your arms around, shrieking "School's out, school's out, teachers let the monkeys out?"
Just so you know, we teachers do that exact celebratory singsong dance after the kids leave on the last day. Nirvana, that's what it is, once the last student walks down the hall. Into File 13 go the last-minute assignments ("Yes, you're getting a grade for this worksheet, and a big one at that!). Happy dances abound. Even the old-fart educators have bounces in their steps.
The lockers are cleaned out, the classrooms are boxed up, the bulletin boards are dismantled.
And we teachers have two glorious months off. Not three, which is what most people think. Same kind of thinking to being pregnant for nine months when really it's 40 weeks.
In case you're reading this, thinking Spoiled Teachers, Always Complaining About Low Salaries and Look They Don't Even Teach the Whole Year, just let me say that my salary is so low even the school custodian outearns me. Seriously.
And of course there are "mandatory" courses to take in June and July.
But I am not complaining. No way.
There are lazy hours to spend out on the porch talking to the kids. Museum trips coming, picnics at outdoor festivals (Kansas City has a yearly Shakespearean Theatre in the Park soiree ... delectable!), a gazillion movies to rent, a neighborhood swimming pool to visit, sunscreen and iced tea in hand. Even though I don't swim it's relaxing to sit poolside with an Anne Tyler or Elizabeth Berg something. Each summer I vow to read Some Sort of Classic; inevitably I end up with a women's fiction, recently published.
And this life, this "I'm home all day life," this is the life I love the most. It's my comfort zone. Domesticity brings me joy. I love doing laundry. Really. Ironing is meditative. Preparing a dinner for the family makes me happy. Vacuuming soothes my soul.
Ah, sweet, sweet summer. Bless your heart!

Too many ribs ...

2008-05-26T19:07:00.001-07:00

,I have gained upwards of three pounds these last few days; a new fat roll has surfaced.
I blame it on the ribs. And the barbecued chicken and potato salad and beans and slaw and all the accompaniments to a Kansas City cookout.
Holyfrijoles I am a pig. Guess "you are what you eat" rings true.
Basically I've eaten the world this entire month. Memories of this time last year have surfaced and I've turned to the fridge. Last May I was taking care of the parentals, watching one wither away to cancer (stupid cancer); the other in intensive care with a multitude of coronary/pulmonary difficulties.
Mom lived; Dad didn't.
This time last year he was still sitting in his brown corduroy chair. I was feeding him pancakes dripping in butter and full-calorie syrup. Half a pound of bacon each morning. Orange juice. Five pills on his tray. "Let me break this one into two pieces, Dad," I'd say, picking up the Vicodin tablet, heavy between my thumb and forefinger.
I hate cancer. Stupid cancer.
One day, last May, maybe mid-month, I took Dad his morning coffee, only to notice (like a blaring neon sign: "I've changed! Look at me! I've changed!) a different dad sitting in the brown corduroy chair. A slighter man. Overnight, the muscles in his forearms had vanished. And that little hunk of muscle that only guys have, that half dollar sized chunk of meat above the kneebone, that had left in the night, too. Dad's bermuda shorts showcased the absence.
Stupid cancer.
The anniversary of his death approaches, and while I await it, I have eaten the world.
Salty or sweet, no matter. I've consumed it. Gumdrops, licorice, Cheetohs (what kind of a grown woman binges on Cheetohs?). Potato chips. Dip #1, Dip #2, Dip #3. Ice cream. Sorbet. Frappuccinos. That disgusting fake dairy QuikTrip "malt" you mix yourself and then pay the cashier $2.49 to consume.
Stupid cancer.

Of allergies and housework and end of school grading

2008-05-18T09:58:00.000-07:00

Today I'm in a pissy mood. The house is a disaster: dog and cat hair everyfreakinwhere. Kitchen sinks needs a good Ajax scrubbing but somehow the new scrubber I bought a month ago has disappeared. No kitchen towels in the drawers. A half sheet of paper towel glued to the holder.
Someone washed the metal cake pan but neglected to dry it: It's rusted, really rusted. A thick orange edge surrounds all four corners. I'd rather throw the pan out than subject Self or family to some sort of rust poison that I haven't discovered yet on WebMD.
Dust on every surface. My allergies are screaming GET ME OUT OF THIS ENVIRONMENT.
I get out of this environment only to escape to the front porch, where the green things grow; allergies send me back inside. Yesterday, I'd escaped to Border's to grade but my ADD kicked in and I was annoying even myself. Allergies were at bay but OCD cut loose.
"Grade three papers and then you can look at a magazine," I told myself. "Just three. C'mon, you can do it!"
Couldn't do three because I hadn't lined my coffee cup exactly ... where .... it .... should.... be.
Must grade two, or four, an even number. Yes. Then the magazine, something decorating related.
After four hours at the bookstore, I'd graded approximately thirteen essays and looked through a dozen magazines. Drunk two honey-cinnamon lattes. Eaten a bagel.
It's that time of the year when LifeFunk takes over. I'm in that end-of-year teaching zone: Summer's coming but it's not quite here.
"Give everyone an A," my husband says, satisfied with himself. "That's what I'd do."

Nineteen Days and Counting

2008-05-09T21:49:00.000-07:00

In nineteen days I can read a book on my porch without feeling guilty that I should be doing something more productive. In nineteen days I can stay up past 9:30 and sleep in past 6 a.m. I can hurl my alarm clock across the floor. I can unplug my alarm clock entirely. I can give it away; sell it at a garage sale. Hell, I can just throw it away.
In nineteen days I can go to the gym on my schedule. A regular schedule. A schedule I will actually follow. Hopefully follow.
In nineteen days I will be surrounded by only my own children. Three instead of 103.
Yes, in nineteen days school will have ended.
Hello, Summer.

A friggin' good day ...

2008-04-19T20:17:00.000-07:00

Today was the kind of day where things get done. No procrastination. No dilly-dallying.
Awoke at a reasonably early time for a Saturday (8 a.m.). Made food for the writers' group: taco bars, spinach-cheese dip, brownie squares (that my girls made into an adorable crossword pattern to celebrate several group members' successes).
C
O
JE NNIFER
G
R
A
T
S

Attended a luncheon in honor of one of my amazing students. She's one of about 20 Kauffman Scholars from the Kansas City metro area. She's a dynamo and one of the most intelligent and articulate students I've ever had the privilege to teach. I felt honored to be asked to attend (she had chosen me as her most influential teacher). Teaching is worth the pain when an event like this surfaces, I can tell you that!
I got home with only three minutes to spare before the writers group showed up. Fortunately the girls had tidied up the house in addition to playing Martha Stewart. It was wonderful to look around my dining room at all the creative people sitting at my table: poets, essayists, short story writers, novelists. My friend who scored big with the publishing houses talked about her journey. Says she's feeling overwhelmed with what's being expected of her (revisions and new synopses on projects she hasn't yet written).
Another group member lingered for a full hour to discuss a community issue.
It does feel like a kind of family, meeting with these folks ... .
"Come, let's take a night ride," I said to my oldest daughter, after the last guest left. "It's beautiful out. "
And so the two of us got into the Grand Prix and drove around the town square, the moon suspended low and large in the sky. We talked. I sang along to a song on the radio -- Celine Dion's "Taking Chances," and felt, truly felt, that I am ready to do that very thing.

How about library work?

2008-03-29T09:30:00.001-07:00

OK. Here's the deal: I have an opportunity to "step down" from classroom teaching to move into the library, as an instructional aide. This means my primary job responsibilities would be shelving books and checking out books to middle school students.
Supposing I try for this position, which I'll probably get, considering I am more-than-qualified, that would mean I would have: a) no more lessons to plan; b) no more papers to grade; c) no more parent meetings to endure; d) no more IEP's or 504's; e) no more MAP preparation; f) no more papers to grade; g) no more surly kids (surly kids in the library are promptly asked to leave); h) no more teacher evaluations (weekly walk-throughs of my classroom); i) no more papers to grade.
Hmm ... .
Supposing I do, in fact, get this position, I will be paid approximately $20K less. That's a chunk of change.
Hmm ... .

It's Easter!

2008-03-23T10:06:00.001-07:00

My mood has lifted somewhat, considering it's Easter Day. I love Easter! I sat in Mass this morning telling myself how pathetic I have been acting, how pitiful it is to walk around all hunched over, feeling sorry for myself. I have so many blessings! So many successes! A ton of chocolate waiting for me at home and a Norman Rockwell ham dinner forthcoming.
Instead of thinking negatively about my friend's sale, I intend to proceed with sweetness and light, and celebrate her joy. My friend has earned every moment of glee. She's the hardest working first-time novelist I've ever known. The Sister knows how to market herself and get her name out in the world.
It hit me in church: I can learn from her. I am, after all, an educator. "Each one teach one," right?

Feeling ADD

2008-03-22T10:46:00.000-07:00

So much to do today, but I can't seem to get started. Papers on the dining room table loom large; laundry needs finished -- why do certain members of this household put clothes into the washer and then the dryer but leave the items to wrinkle in a basket, unfolded and not hung, as though a Laundry Finishing Fairy will pick up the job ... I'm desperate for a Starbucks mocha frappuccino but not dressed yet to get in the car to purchase the drink; thought I cleaned the house well over spring break but wouldn't you know the dust is back (and pet hair is abundant, particularly on the wood floors ... now whose idea was it to replace the carpeting with wood floors?); should go to the gym but I have an annoying head cold.
The spousal unit returned from this business trip, and in some disturbing way I am not pleased that he has come home. My life is less complicated when he's not around. I feel ashamed at writing this, but it is true. It's like there's some sort of necessary re-entry period, like he is a space shuttle coming back into my atmosphere.
I feel lazy, lethargic, apathetic. Still upset about friend's sale to the publishing giant. Wondering when my day will come.

Career Crisis

2008-03-21T22:21:00.000-07:00

I am in that ohmigod-what-do-I-do-next phase ... continue teaching (a job that I alternately love and hate with equal passion) or get back into journalism (writing feeds my soul)?

A friend in my writers' group scored a book deal today with Simon and Schuster. I don't know whether to throw her a party or throw her dead body into a lake. (Normally not prone to violence, I am angry at Self for even thinking such thoughts.) I am consumed not so much with jealousy (I AM happy for her, knowing how deserving and hard-working a writer she is) as I am with self loathing: Why didn't/don't I work as hard with my writing?

I'll tell you why, Self: because your time is spent educating today's youth. Teaching consumes me. Lesson planning and grading and disciplining and grading and too-frequent meetings with parents and administrators and grading ... .

Here it is spring break and my dining room table is heavy with papers to assess/evaluate.
What I really want to do with my time is rework the novel my daughter and I wrote two summers ago. I want to pen a short story about an amazing woman I met today in my sis's kitchen. I want to sit down and read every single Jane Austen book written (I watched The Jane Austen Book Club three times in the last four days.) I want to get Elizabeth off to school and go into my writing room and turn on NPR for company and write the day away.

I want my husband to allow me to write instead of constantly reminding me how much debt we have and why I must work.