Shadows

I'm at a point where I'm internalizing so much stress that I'm no longer trusting my reactions or judgment. I feel like a volcano bulging with pent-up magma, ready to explode at the slightest fracture. My neck and shoulders are bunched up, my throat aches, my head throbs, and acid burns down my esophagus. It would only take one wrong word for me to erupt in rage, tears, or both.

It's no one thing. It's everything. It's the buildup of all sorts of stress and fears and worries and hopes and aggravations. It's the fatigue of the year drawing to a close. It's the frustration of senioritis. It's the lack of sleep, the lingering effects of whatever respiratory plague attacked me last week, the sense of dread as wave after wave of bad news and potentially disastrous now-we-wait-and-see news rolls in about loved ones and politics and money and everything else in this seriously fucked-up world.

I don't always deal well with stress. Okay, fine, I rarely deal well with stress.

MTL thinks I need to take a mental health day. I hate to do that. I have few enough sick days left, and I tend to hoard those for truly necessary sick leave (mine or, more likely, kidlets'), as I know all too well the financial impact of unpaid sick leave when those days run out. I do have a couple of personal business days I haven't used that will vanish if they aren't used, but I have to request those at least three days in advance, and anything further out than Thursday just isn't possible. I have senior project presentations, junior speeches, senior exams, and then the rest of final exams filling every available slot.

I'm just so TIRED. Not just physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. I can't even focus much on the wedding, because everything else takes up my attention. I can't look forward too much to the honeymoon, because a part of me dreads the possibility of having to cancel due to financial or other reasons. I don't want to have my heart too set on that in case it's pulled out of reach.

It's as if there's a threatening cloud looming over everything. I'm struggling to find the light through the shadows.

I May Be Barefoot In The Kitchen, But I Swear I'm Not Pregnant

Today was the first day of Operation Clean House. I'm calling it that because at this point I lack the creativity to come up with an awesome name, like Operation ThunderHawk or some such shit. Besides, while the results are awesome, the process is, well, not.

Now, lest you suddenly picture me amidst a near-avalanche of trash and clutter, a la the pitiful people on my obsession of the last few months "Hoarders" and "Hoarding: Buried Alive", let me assure you that in point of fact we keep the house remarkably neat considering it regularly contains a pack of tasmanian devils kids. I've shocked my parents and former roommates with my current tidy tendencies, MTL breaks out in a rash when he sees clutter, and we gratefully employ a wonderful woman to come by every two weeks to do the deep cleaning. Not to mention that we firmly believe that one of the benefits of having children is that child labor laws do not apply at home.

Nevertheless, the house could do with a proper spring cleaning. Last weekend we put the kids to work on their domain--the bedroom and the game room--instructing them to not only put things away properly but to also put the trash in the trash bag rather than tossing it into the nearest toy box, and to fill additional boxes with the toys and clothes they no longer use.

I tell you, if there are any people with serious hoarding tendencies in this domicile, it would be the freeloaders non-rent-payers around here.

After hours of fighting and fussing decluttering and cleaning, their bedroom and game room are finally fit for human habitation, and I no longer feel like weeping when I walk through the hall. The chances of seriously injuring myself have also decreased.

This week is Spring Break, and it is also our break from children. The boylets are down in Florida with their father, being spoiled outrageously by their grandfather and other relatives on that side, and MTL's children are all with their mother this week.

NO CHILDREN FOR TEN DAYS.

Excuse me while I break out into spontaneous celebratory dancing.

----

Whew. Where was I?

Ah yes. Spring Break. Now, before you go off muttering about spoiled teachers sleeping in every day (I can hear you, MTL!!! Stop that!) take a look at my agenda. OK, fine, not really, but imagine it at least. Not only am I diving into some wedding planning and spending valuable time with my sister and her adorable if exhausting seven-month-old son, I also have major chores written in for each day. It's time to get serious about cleaning house, peoples.

So today was the kitchen. I roped DMB into the task, and he scrubbed the refrigerator while I emptied cabinets and pantries and threw things away and sorted and organized to my heart's content. Do I love doing it? Well, okay, sort of, since there's a part of me that loves doing that sort of thing every now and then. It's the same part that finds folding laundry soothing, especially when done in front of a TV watching one of those hoarding shows and patting myself on the back that I am so much better than that.

Hey, MTL likes cleaning the garage every now and then, too. I'm not the only weird one.

I can't say that I love the first part of this task, though, which involves pulling out all the food and finding out just how old that jar of mayonnaise actually is and how long that box of pasta mix has been hiding in the back corner. Since I'm trying to be a responsible recycler, it also involves emptying all those nauseating jars and tins down the garbage disposal.

My scented candles saw use today. I also appreciate sliding doors and stovetop fans. Just sayin'.

I won't tell you how many bags of garbage went out today on DMB's back. I'd like to keep my shame at a reasonable level.

Anyhow, I'm enjoying the ability to close the pantry door without something falling out. Not to mention opening the fridge without being forced a step back by the odor of Something Gone Off.

Tomorrow I'm tackling our walk-in closet and the master bathroom/bedroom before I head out to search for a wedding dress with my mother and sister. Wednesday the great room will submit to my ministrations. And Thursday I get to sort and organize the books that have crawled off the bookshelves and strewn themselves on every surface. Maybe I'll even find money somewhere to purchase the much-needed additional bookshelves that MIGHT brhttp://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=4078483744873792132ing our collection under the semblance of control.

Right now it's time to whip up a chicken pot pie for dinner so MTL has a nice hot dinner when he comes home from work.

Am I crazy, or am I getting positively DOMESTIC over in these here parts?

Don't answer that.

Feathers and Fat

Another post from my [reluctant] reflections on the wintry world outside my window. Which is where I prefer to keep it, on the whole.

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

I've never loved birds as pets.

Oh yes, I thoroughly enjoyed the antics of Fraque, our African Grey parrot, when I was a child. But I was able to enjoy him as a pet without dealing with his mess. He lived in a spacious cage, after all, and I was not the one deputized to clean out the bottom.

I didn't learn to detest pet birds until college. My former mother-in-law had a yellow parakeet who flew about her apartment with almost complete freedom. I discovered first-hand the joys of a bird's inability to control its bowels. Wherever that thing landed--clock, cagetop, couch arm, carpet, shoulder, head--it could and often would leave behind a curdled-milk trace of its presence.

Even now, as a mother of two who has personally handled far more excrement and other distasteful bodily emissions than I ever dreamed, I shudder at the memory. At least my children don't leave their waste smeared all over the furniture and walls. Well, not often.

So--no birds as pets in my household.

Our townhouse backs onto a wetlands, a tiny refuge for the local wildlife nestled amidst the human residences of West Bloomfield. And birds nest and fly about and forage in our extended backyard every day.

I have discovered that I love birds--when they are properly outside, in their natural medium. MTL and I obtained a bird feeder a few weeks ago, and Thanksgiving weekend we drove the pole into the ground and stocked the feeder with blocks of suet and peanut butter and seeds, the kind loved by birds who winter here rather than fleeing for warmer points south. We have hovered by the window, waiting for the birds to discover it.

Today, they have. Winter's bitter breath is blowing, with distinct promise of snow to come, and the birds are gorging on the luscious fat we have provided them. I sit and watch, wondering if this provision in some way violates the natural order of things. These woodpeckers and cardinals and other birds I cannot name would be forced to make do with the scant provisions of winter-bound wetlands if people like us did not lavish them with food. Would they have more natural foods available to them if we had not invaded their world with brick and wood and vinyl siding? How much of their ability to winter here, as is their natural wont, is based on our tribute to their beauty?

Have we formed an odd partnership, we denizens of the suburbs, feathered and featherless alike?

We pay our human entertainers with offerings as well, forming a niche where basic necessity does not go. Have we extended that concept to nature's entertainers as well?

Come here and brighten up my yard. Sweeten the wind with your songs. And in return, I offer you the fat of the supermarket...

Checking Myself

I stood in the Self Check Out lane for far too long, growing increasingly impatient with the fumbling idiots who apparently couldn't handle a process that a monkey could figure out. Why do so many seniors choose that lane and then demand the undivided attention of the lane monitor to help them lift each item and scan it through? Don't they realize that completely negates the purpose of SELF Check Out?

I was fuming by the time I stepped up to a scanner to run through my five grocery items. As I quickly and competently sped through the process, I noticed that the woman at the scanner next to me had run into an issue. She had run through a dozen cans of Pringles under a misunderstanding about the sale price and wanted to void them out--but, as the monitor tried to explain several times with little success, could no longer void them because she had already run through her card as well.

Around this time I noticed that, having run my own debit card through, the machine was stalled in a "Please Wait..." status. I growled and jabbed the "Call for Assistance" button. Some use that would be, with Ms. Don't Know How To Understand Basic Explanations still mumbling about the Pringles over there. Why does this sort of technical snafu always happen when I'm in a hurry? And when someone else is monopolizing the monitor? The day was just getting worse and worse. It had been bad enough navigating the treacherous traffic getting there, since the roads were filled with idiot drivers who needed to lose their licenses. The store hadn't had the meat I needed for dinner in a couple of days. It had been a crazy day following a crazy weekend. My feet were killing me. Now this.

I tapped my feet, impatient, huffing just loudly enough to let the monitor know I was waiting. She glanced at me, then focused again on convincing the other shopper to let her void the entire purchase and just run everything through again.

Finally, she succeeded with Ms. What Do You Mean I Can't Do That? and came over to me. She was an older woman with short, curling grey hair. She showed no sign of impatience or exasperation, and instead greeted me with a pleasant smile and an apology for my wait. I curtly explained my problem, and she glanced at the screen.

Oh, well, have you pressed the End Order and Pay button yet, dear? You ran your card through, but it won't complete everything until you press that. She smiled at me again, no trace of sarcasm or impatience to be found in her voice or face.

My face flushed. I meekly extended my finger, pressed the button, and watched as the machine finished the process and spit out my receipt.

There you go, dear. I know, sometimes it's a little confusing! I'm sorry again you had to wait. Thank you for your patience! She patted me affectionately on my shoulders and moved toward her monitoring station.

I quietly picked up my bags and left the store, mumbling a sheepish Thank you! as I passed her.

You're welcome. Merry Christmas! she replied.

I've been bitching lately about the lack of basic human decency in the world around me, about all these ungrateful, impatient, rude people I encounter every day.

It took a trip to the grocery store to make me realize that I'm part of the problem.

Forget waiting for the New Year for a change of attitude. It's time to start now.

Why Papercuts Are A Very Real Job Hazard

I did the math.

I rather wish I hadn't. But what's done is done.

I added up the average of essays that I assign, taking the low side of page numbers per essay, added in a guesstimate of essays from tests, the pages of writing on projects as well as essays, and multiplied by the number of students I have per year (around 150--this year I have 148). I did NOT include the other kinds of grading I do, including objective quizzes and tests, "checked in" notes and vocabulary logs and graphic organizers and the like, and presentations.

According to my calculations, I grade a rough average of 16,000 pages worth of writing per year.

SIXTEEN THOUSAND PAGES.

PER YEAR.

On a not-unrelated note, the first marking period ends next Friday.

Any wonder why I'm not posting much lately?

And, uh, anyone want to come help me wade out of this paperlanche that seems to have fallen on me?

An Unexpected Post : Now With Lava. And SHARKS.

So a dear fellow teacher and friend of mine posted this link on her Facebook page with a statement about how all the cruelty in the world saddens her, and I read it while I was wasting time procrastinating taking a break during my prep hour and then commented that people like this should be exiled to an island where we wouldn't have to share the same air. And she commented back about how they don't deserve the beauty of an island, and I responded that it could be one of the ones devastated by nuclear testing and we can surround it with electric fencing and SHARKS, and she said they'd still get to enjoy the sunsets and that just doesn't seem right.

So we came up with a new idea. We think that all the evil douchebags of the world (including but not limited to cyber AND non-cyber bullies as well as massive numbers of politicians, Wall Street brokers, megacorporation CEOs, and of course idiot drivers who think the road belongs to them and their massive SUVs) should be air-dropped into the center of the very very deep caldera of a dormant volcano with impossible-to-climb sides. The top of the caldera should be rimmed with electric fencing, just in case.

We are also debating the possibility of genetically engineering lava sharks, because there need to be sharks. Obviously. We think one of our science teacher friends may be able to help us.

And just think of the excitement the evil douchebags will get to experience on a daily basis, what with all that wondering whether the volcano will decide to end its dormancy!

Talk about fire and brimstone. We have all those ultra Baptist preachers beat by a mile.

Because we're talking LAVA SHARKS, people!!!!

Like this. Only a lot scarier and more shark-like, because honestly this doesn't exactly make me shake in my shoes. Don't blame me. Blame mishaelley.

I fully expect a Nobel prize or two when we've accomplished all this. You're welcome.

Who else should we include in our group of future charcoal briquettes exiles? We're open to the possibility of employing multiple volcanoes, if need be.

Just Another Hysterical Female With Unreasonable Girly Bits

****FAIR WARNING SO I DON'T GET GROSSED OUT COMMENTS: This post contains references to icky medical and "girly" issues both past and present. If you are easily skeezed out, horrified, or otherwise proven a total wimp by such details, skip this post. If not, or if you're just all, you know, curious now, read on. Just don't say I didn't warn you.****

Yesterday I was reading, with great empathy, the latest post on ongoing medical issues Betty at The 52 Seductions has been facing. Her most recent session with her gynecologist resonated with me, not because of her specific medical problems, but because of how the doctor continues to approach both her and her mysterious condition, which apparently he finds quite annoying because it won't cooperate by being easily diagnosed or treated. His disgruntlement extends to Betty, who is also quite uncooperative since she won't agree that his treatments are actually doing much of anything. It's all quite inconvenient for him. Apparently, paying any real attention to the details of her case or listening to her like she has much of a clue about her own body is also inconvenient.

One of the commenters wrote, Sometimes I have the feeling that gynaecology consultants are not *actually* listening and are just hearing, “blah, blah, blah, woman’s complaints, blah, blah, blah.”

Been there. Felt that.

Let me explain. When I was a nubile young thing of eighteen, I started experiencing occasional bouts of severe but short-lived pain. These incidents would occur every couple of months and last for only a few hours, but I was incapacitated during that time. The pain was very much like that of a severe bladder/urinary tract infection paired with a nasty yeast infection, but would manifest out of nowhere and depart just as suddenly. While in pain, I pretty much could only lie about wearing as little as possible and popping Advil like it was candy.

Time after time, I would take myself to the doctor the next day: he (or more rarely, she) would run the routine tests for a UTI or yeast infection, find nothing, and send me on my way. Occasionally I would be given antibiotics and creams anyway, on the off chance that I had an infection that was escaping their tests.

As time went on, the incidents gradually increased in frequency, severity, and duration. My menstrual periods, which had been relatively consistent, started arriving earlier or later and heavier or lighter than usual. I began spotting between periods, something that had never happened before. Something was wrong.

According to the expressions on the doctors' faces, they started suspecting something was indeed wrong--not with my body, but with my mind. The symptoms were most common at night, so invariably I had nothing to "show" when I was in the doctors' offices. Not a single doctor ever seemed to listen to the whole story. Not a single doctor ever varied in their approach. It was always the same exam, the same tests, the same results.

Looking back, I should have insisted on something more. I was too young and intimidated--all those years of school, all those diplomas, all those shiny metal instruments!--to challenge them. You'd think that since I grew up in a family filled with nurses and doctors I'd be different, but in truth I had grown up believing that all doctors knew what they were doing. The ones in my family certainly seemed to. It didn't occur to me to ask more questions or push for different tests.

After two and a half years of increasing pain and desperation, I was nearing the end of my rope physically and mentally. I was starting to think maybe those expressions were right--maybe there WAS something wrong with my mind. And yet, the physical result was undeniable. The pain was so much worse and so much more frequent that others were noticing. Once, in the middle of my African Lit class, it arrived like a freight train. The professor actually stopped class because I turned white and started sweating. He had another student escort me to the health center, concerned that I might collapse on the way. Same results. Same facial expression.


Then in the fall of 1998, I scheduled my routine pap smear and exam like a good girl, at the university health center. I requested an appointment with the same Nurse Practitioner who had performed my very first gyno exam years before, because I appreciated her approach. I felt like a person with her rather than a pair of legs in stirrups. Let's face it, having one's lady bits messed about with is difficult enough without feeling like the person doing the messing about views one as an unfeeling slab of meat. Or a mannequin.

After the routine part of it all, she let me sit up and regain a bit of dignity, then asked if I had any concerns to raise.

Actually, I do, I said. And I told her the whole story. From start to finish. With every detail. Because unlike every other medical practitioner who had seen me in the previous two and a half years, she actually listened.

Once I completed my tale of woe, she said, Please lie back down. I think I might know what this could be. She then probed my lower abdomen with her fingers, quite firmly, for perhaps a minute. Oh yes, she said. There's definitely something there that shouldn't be. You need an ultrasound.

Two weeks later an ultrasound technician found, in almost no time at all, a single massive fibroid on the posterior of my uterus. It was seven centimeters in diameter, about the size of an orange.

Not quite two months after that, four days before my twenty-first birthday, the fibroid was surgically removed. It had apparently been growing quite rapidly, which explained the increasing pain, because it was then nine centimeters in diameter, about the size of a grapefruit.

I haven't had problems since.

Well, at least from uterine fibroids. I did have to have planned cesarean sections with both children because of the risk of uterine rupture. The scar is...interesting. At least I can still wear a bikini.

And along with the joint issues I inherited from family, I also am prone to REAL urinary tract infections, a problem I share with a close relative or two. I get them way too frequently, despite precautionary measures and cleanliness, and almost half the time the infection makes a run for my kidneys. I've learned to hie myself to the doctor post haste at the first signs of discomfort. And every time, that pain brings back the nasty memories of those years of misery.

So when I read Betty's post yesterday morning, I wrote a comment summarizing my story (yeah, it was long, but shorter than this post, trust me), and then decided I really wanted to write about my own experience over here. Because the main point is true for both of us: medical professionals need to stop jumping to conclusions without truly listening, and they need to start believing that patients can and do know their own bodies. I know enough doctors and nurses who practice excellent and compassionate medicine to believe that it is possible, even under the time and financial constraints so common today.

Here's the fun little kicker, though. Last night, just after popping a handful of cranberry pills, I had to use the bathroom. And lo and behold, I felt that telltale burning.

Went to the doctor today.

Irony, thy name is...well, apparently it's cystitis. And occasionally, when you want to be really nasty, pyelonephritis. Your timing is impeccable. Damn you.


****For an added little TMI bonus, I made sure to text DraftQueen with my test results right away. Because we have this very weird tendency to get UTIs at the same time. Sometimes within hours of each other. Even though we're miles and miles and states apart. I kid you not. She's gorging on cranberry as we speak.****

I've Got Them Under My Skin. Kind of Like Chiggers.

So Wanderlust tagged me for a meme about Seven Things That Get Under My Skin (but not in the Frank Sinatra sort of way) and it's honestly more about narrowing down the list than coming up with ideas. Especially today because OMG I was hanging on to my temper with a death grip at one point this afternoon, I kid you not. It was one of those moments where I had to shut my mouth and just breathe, then decide NOT to address the issue that was standing there in the room like the biggest frickin' pachyderm ever described by Rudyard Kipling (Oh Best Beloveds) and instead move on while talking in a very very very calm and soft voice. This served to send every student in the room into a stock-still nervous hush because they could tell the slightest slip might send me over the edge and they apparently wanted to survive the day.

Smartest thing they did all hour.

Anywho, here are my grumpy seven things that are currently getting under my skin (and I'm keeping a smallish scope here, people, because it could get ugly otherwise.)

--1--

Politicians. Pretty much all the time and everywhere, but especially (right now) the Michigan ones who have apparently decided that their budget woes can be solved by screwing all the public servants and state employees, especially the teachers, police officers, and firefighters. BECAUSE THEY CAN.

--2--

Lazy students. Like mine today. The ones who've had a week to work on a project WITH class time to do so and chose today--the Due Day--to come up and tell me they weren't done and needed more time. Or the ones who had a presentation but had obviously invested as little effort as possible. It's a good thing this year is almost over, both for my blood pressure and their continued existence.

--3--

The smokers whining about the changed law here in Michigan. Especially the ones who believe that second-hand smoke is a myth. I KID YOU NOT. Makes me want to grab their little cancer sticks and shove them in a different orifice so they can enjoy a special kind of smoking experience.

--4--

The legal system. Especially the way it's been designed to make it as difficult as possible, if not practically impossible, to do anything without resorting to lawyers. It's a self-propagating, parasitic process that sucks us "regular" people dry. As Arby commented to me last week, judges are just lawyers in a referee outfit. And as Shakespeare wisely humorously wrote in Henry VI: The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.*

--5--

Bureaucratic nonsense--especially bureaucratic nonsense that costs money. The district hired a firm to run an audit of all the dependents carried on health insurance by district employees. You know, to make sure we're not lying bastards or whatever it is they think we are. I never received my audit in the mail, or it got misplaced (you know, what with the whole weird living situation thing), so here I get an email today about it, and I have to come up with all this paperwork proving the existence of my dependents. It needs to be postmarked by May 31st. WHICH IS MEMORIAL DAY. /headdesk

So I'm scrambling to get that together and mailed by Friday at the latest.

And how is this audit being funded? Oh, don't worry. It's not being paid for up front by the district. No, it will be paid out of the premium savings made through the audit.

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

--6--

Telling a certain someone that he needs to get a certain task accomplished for OVER A MONTH only to discover, yet again, that it was not accomplished. And knowing full well, all the time, that eventually I will have to give in and just do it my own damn self, give him the receipt, and have him pay for it this time because I paid for it last time. Just like almost every one of these kinds of tasks we share. Passive aggressive, much? Also see: insanity.

--7--

KIDS WHO WILL NOT GO TO SLEEP even though it's getting insanely late and they'll be super grouchy in the morning when I have to get them up to go to school. I mean, at least they're being quiet. But the morning's gonna be a bitch.


There you go. I think I may have used up my grump allotment for the day. But WHOO does it feel good to get it out!

I'm now tagging:

DraftQueen at The Drafts Folder
Beth at BurkinaMom in France
Aunt Becky at Mommy Wants Vodka
MaryMac at Pajamas and Coffee
Nicola at Some Mothers Do Ave Em
Melissa at Rock and Drool

And since the whining gets to even me, let's relax a bit and listen to something much nicer.

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*For the sake of legal protection, I state for the record that I am not, in fact, promoting or condoning violence toward anyone, no matter how scum-sucking or sharklike he or she may be. Ahem.

To Tell the Tooth

Today is Earth Day. Happy Earth Day. Go recycle a bottle or plant a tree. Woot.

Now that I got that out of the way, let's talk Dentists.

I don't know anyone who loves going to the dentist, but I have had a particular horror of them rooting (hehe) from some horrific childhood experiences. It may come as a surprise to you, but there aren't too many qualified dentists hanging out in West Africa. Mostly people chew on sticks and, when their teeth fall out in their older age, gum down on some nice soft foutou.

image courtesy of http://www.squidoo.com/ghanianrecipes

When I was a child, however, there was one American dentist with a practice in central Ivory Coast. As our water lacked flouride and I wasn't particularly conscientious about brushing my teeth, he had a good bit of work available to him courtesy of my cavities.

I hated him.

He was short-tempered, horrible with kids, completely unsympathetic, and heavy-handed. When I had to have a crown placed on one of my molars, he refused to allow my mother to stay in the room with me, despite my obvious terror. He then proceeded to talk to his assistant in French the entire time, only addressing me to bark out the occasional order. As he drilled into my tooth, so deeply that the Novocaine became moot, he shouted at me not to flinch or cry. When I, inevitably, did so, he pounded his fist down on my shoulder so hard that it left a bruise.

Oh yes.

I was so frightened of him, in fact, that I didn't even have the courage to tell my parents WHY. They knew he wasn't great with kids, but they didn't know for years that he had actually hurt me in non-dental ways.

I'm pretty sure there was a good reason he was working in Ivory Coast rather than the U.S. of A.

So I am less than happy about visiting the dentist. Nevertheless, because as fond as I am of foutou banane and cream of wheat and split pea soup, I would rather be able to eat a good steak now and then in my old age, I faithfully go and sit in the chair of torture every six months.

Yesterday was one of those days.

Don't get me wrong. I shopped carefully for a dentist when I came into the area and found one who is so dang gentle I sometimes wonder if he's even anywhere near my mouth. My hygienist is awesome too. So it's more the lingering trauma that gets me each time than the reality.

So yesterday I sat in the chair, opened my mouth, and submitted to my hygienist's loving attention. Ann, marvelous as she is with my teeth, is An Odd Duck. The woman loves teeth. I do mean this. She is passionate about teeth, gums, and jaw bones. She can speak on the merits of flossing for half an hour. She has story after story about her clients--or rather, her clients' teeth. Because here's the thing: she'll remember every detail about your teeth for decades, but damn if she can remember much about you!

I get the same questions every time. She finally remembered after about three years that I'm a teacher, and after another year or two she started remembering where I teach, but she's still working on my area of expertise. Our conversation is much the same every time:

You have nice teeth. I like working on your teeth, she says. Some of my clients just don't take care of their teeth. I knew this one man who said he only brushed his teeth every ten days. I had to wonder, how does he know when it's the tenth day? But you have nice teeth.

Ankhh ooo, I respond. Sort of.

What is it you teach again? she asks.

Eeenhgicscssh, I gargle.

Oh right! Which grades?

Enh, eyeyench, and telchhh.

Oh right. Do you ever run on the track up at [school]?

Onh. I hanh eecaush uh y eees.

I like to run up there sometimes, she goes on, because my response and explanation about my bum knees is not actually essential to her train of thought, because I think it's always safer. I mean, unless you have a dog or something to take on your walk or run, who knows who might come after you? But I don't like to go up there when there are lots of kids around. It feels like they're all watching.

At this point I stop responding other than the occasional grunt to let her know I'm aware of her ongoing patter. I try to ignore the whine of the waterpick and let my mind drift to an image of her running awkwardly along the sidewalk. What would make someone attack her? Would they see the flash of her perfectly flossed teeth and be so jealous of their loveliness that they wouldn't be able to resist trying to obliterate them?

Violence and dentistry are meshed in my twisted mind.

She told me a story yesterday that had me thinking that perhaps I need to pick up some more of those flossers, though. She knows an older woman who has now had every single tooth removed from her mouth due to (OMG major) dental problems. Rather than going the dentures route (which, according to Ann, can cause bone thinning because the bones are not being used) (see what one can learn while sitting in the dentist's chair?) (or reading a blog?) this woman had false teeth implanted in her jaw.

And here's the shocker: this ended up costing a total of EIGHTY THOUSAND DOLLARS.

She remortgaged her house in order to have teeth. I KID YOU NOT.

I'm thinking the occasional $5 pack of flossers and a few minutes of dental discomfort might be worthwhile.

That or learning how to make foutou.

Unto the Least of These

All that will do is raise taxes and give free shit to those lazy welfare people who sit around and let other people work to support them. --J. Q.

I'd like to excuse him on the basis of being sixteen and stupid. He's never had a day of hunger in his life. He's never had to work to put his Abercrombie & Fitch clothes on his back. He doesn't pay the bills for his funky little I-Phone and the I-Pod that's constantly plugged into his ears.

At least he has that excuse, if you consider it one. There are plenty of others who don't.

I don't get into political crap on my blog, generally speaking. I'm an independent, somewhat left-leaning, somewhat middle-of-the-road reluctant voter who hates conflict. I have friends spread out all over the political spectrum. Some of them would fight like cats and dogs if put in the same room. They're all good people. They all have what they believe are good reasons for their stances. Sometimes, I agree. Sometimes, I don't. Usually, I keep my mouth shut.

I do, however, believe in social justice. I believe that we are commanded by God to care for the poor and abandoned, the orphan and the widow, the persecuted, the least of these. So do most, if not all, of those friends I mentioned. How that is to be done? Ah. Well, that's where the debate begins, isn't it?

I'm not here to debate that point. I am here to speak out about the reality of poverty, a reality that far too few of those outspoken people know first hand. Today I read an amazing guest post by Mad over at Frog and Toad are Still Friends. This is the reality of poverty in America, a form of poverty that is overlooked by so many of the smug White Tower WASPS. (And yes, I know they're not all actual WASPS and and this is a generalization, but you get what I'm saying. Let's move on.)

I have been fortunate in my life. My parents were never wealthy, and apparently there were times that were lean indeed, but I never remember going hungry or without. We always had presents at Christmas and dinner on the table. I was able to go to college, although I racked up debt doing so. I earn a good wage and can provide for my own children in turn. My boys are well-dressed, well-fed, and have toys up the wazoo. I don't worry about whether they have enough; I worry about whether they have too much.

There was a year in college when I had very little money. I did not have a job, and I was getting by on macaroni and cheese, cheap frozen salisbury steak, bread, and tater tots. I became ill after a few months, and the doctor at MSU's Olin Health Center told me that I had no choice but to get some vegetables and fruits into my diet. We scrimped and sacrificed to add some canned vegetables, to add just enough nutrition that my body would not shut down.

And even then...I had a roof over my head. I had food in my belly. I was still going to school. I knew it was a temporary situation. If push came to shove, there was family that would help. I was still fortunate.

I have witnessed true poverty. My parents earned less combined than I did alone my first year of teaching. Compared to the vast majority of people where I grew up, however, we were wealthy. We were surrounded by the least of these.

About five years ago my parents received news about a small family they had taken under their wings: a widow with many health issues who had two children and no support whatsoever. No one took care of them. Her children were bright and hard-working. They wanted to get educations, but the cost of schooling was prohibitive (no "free" public education over there, you see). The mother earned a few francs here and there by picking mangoes from the trees in my parents' yard and selling them in the market. Abou, her son, who was one of my brother's best friends, and Giisongi, her daughter, would work around my parents' house. They would bake bread and cookies, clean, do odd jobs. There still often was not enough to pay the school fees, which ran around $200 a year. Nothing much to us Americans, but astronomical to a family that lived on a few dollars a week, if they were lucky. I remember doing a fund-raiser with one of my classes to raise the money to send them to school for one year. We were able to raise enough in one month, mostly through bottle returns. That's all it took.

When civil war broke out and my family was evacuated, then lived here in Michigan for three years before it was safe enough for my parents to return, that little family was left without even that much assistance. Every now and then they would hear from Abou, who would call them on a friend's cell phone. But it wasn't until a mutual friend called and talked to my father that my parents found out just how much that family was struggling.

Do you know what "chaff" is? It is the papery husk that covers certain kinds of grain, such as wheat and rice. It has no nutritional value. It is removed during the threshing of grain. Since it is worthless, it is often abandoned on the ground.

This little family no longer had money for even the most basic of foods. So they were going to the areas where women would thresh grain, and they would gather up the chaff left in piles on the ground. They then would put the chaff in a pot with water and boil it into a tasteless, gritty porridge. If they were lucky, perhaps there would be a little bit of vegetable to add.

They may have been tricking their bellies into thinking they were being fed, but the truth was that they were slowly starving to death.

Ah, but that's in a third-world country! you say. It's not that bad here!

Want a taste of reality? Go read this. Or this. The reality is that poverty is alive and well (so to speak) in America too.

This is the harsh truth, folks. As a species, we haven't been doing too well on the social justice front. The wealthier and more comfortable we are, the more distanced we become from the reality of those who are less fortunate. We sit in our ivory towers and mutter about the laziness of the poor, how only the deserving should receive.

Those weren't the commands given to us by Christ. He didn't say to do good unto the least of these--if they've shown they deserve it. And Paul didn't qualify his words in James 1 as caring for widows and orphans who have worked hard enough to be rewarded.

I think a lot of us--and yes, this includes me--need to reread Matthew 5 a few hundred more times. Because we may find that our ivory towers are no more than crumbling plaster and all our self-righteous words are no more than worthless babbling when exposed to the light of the Son.

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

Because apparently I'm in a self-flagellating mood today and want to invite conflict (dear God, my stomach hurts now), I'm going to go ahead and Flog My Blog on this post of all posts. My darling Brenda over at MummyTime does Flog Yo Blog Fridays, and I've been meaning to do this, and so, whatever, I'll be brave and do it now. Click on over and check it out!

Because It's Not Just Kids Who Have a Sense of Toilet Humor (Warning: Not for the Overly Squeamish)

For decades people have discussed, debated, argued, and even screamed about an enormously important issue that is central to the lives of most Americans. Friends discuss it in a friendly fashion--unless they are roommates and on opposite sides of the issue, in which case the friendliness vanishes. Advice columns cover the topic once annually to address the flood of letters. Spouses seek counseling over it. For some dating couples, this crucial issue can be a deal breaker.

I speak, of course, of the Great Toilet Paper Hanging Debate.

Over or Under? Chances are you have an opinion, and it's a strong one. For many, the directionality of the toilet paper roll on the toilet paper holder is passed down from generation to generation. In peaceful households, all are in agreement, until some interloping in-law introduces riotous disfunction when he or she loads a new roll improperly. In other, less fortunate households, the debate rages on between family members, leading to sneak attacks and middle-of-the-roll alter[c]ations.

Most advice columnists say there is no Right or Wrong way to hang the roll, that the choice is ultimately up to the individual--and therefore an ongoing issue for debate. However, I am happy to inform you that there is, indeed, a Right way to hang the toilet paper roll, and I have incontrovertible support for my position.

Diagram courtesy of treehugger.com

I'm so sorry, Under people, but you are Wrong. The only Right way to hang toilet paper is Over, and there are three strong reasons for this.

Any parent who has potty-trained a child knows that the ultimate goal is for that child to be able to wipe his or her own butt. Even after the days of diapers are long past, every parent knows all too well the lilting song that issues from the bathroom, often loudest in public restrooms, of Mommy! Daddy! Come and wipe me! There may no longer be a soggy disgusting diaper of which to dispose, but for quite some time you must still place your hands into the depths and wipe off what your child cannot reach.

Or you could just deal with some truly disgusting laundry and bad cases of rear-end rash. Your pick.

Therefore, anything that simplifies the transition to your child being able to do the wiping is all to the good. Watch a child attempt to gather toilet paper sometime. Toilet paper that hangs Over the roll is simpler by far for those chubby little fingers to grasp than the elusive end trapped behind the bulk of the roll in the Under position. Be kind to your child. Use the Over position.

A similar situation applies to adults as well. No doubt everyone has experienced middle-of-the-night bathroom adventures, usually complicated by an inability to wake fully during the experience and a reluctance to turn on any lights. In such a semi-somnolent and darkened state, the last thing anyone wants to do is fumble for the end of the toilet paper, again trapped behind the bulk of the roll in the Under position. Likewise, not all toilet paper hangers offer easy access to Under-hung toilet paper, particularly in public restrooms. Just yesterday, at a doctor's office, I found myself in the highly frustrating situation of fighting to get more than a few shreds of flimsy single-ply paper off an Under-hung roll a little too big for the limited space between hanger and wall. Granted, I would have struggled somewhat even if the roll was Over-hung, but the fight would have been far simpler to win. At the very least, the shreds of paper would have been significantly larger and more useful.

Besides the issue of easy access, however, we must acknowledge the crucial component of cleanliness. Bathrooms and toilets are already germ factories, and any reduction we can make in the general nastiness is vital. When toilet paper is Under-hung, people's hands come into contact with far more paper than necessary, especially on second and third wipings (for those of us who are thorough and therefore civilized). Just imagine the filth that is left behind for the next person to use that roll! I shudder to even think of it.

So if you have been hanging your toilet paper properly (i.e. Over), then give yourself a pat on the back--once you've washed your hands thoroughly, of course. And if you have been falling into error all this time (i.e. using the Under method)...

Repent. There is still time to mend your ways. Forgiveness is freely offered.

I'm generous like that.

I Was Trying For Something Humorous And Then Found Myself Getting All Nasty. Must Have Been The Subject Matter.

We never talk trash, our rhymes are clean
Our rhymes are never vague and we say nothing obscene
So any sucker mcs who wanna battle us
Can you go at least 20 lines without a cuss?
Cause once we start to jam, you'll be in a state of shock
Clear the way party people, we're the new kids on the block

Ah, memories. Back in 1990, when I was a gangly, gawky, flat-as-a-stick seventh grader with bad skin and worse hair, someone brought a CD back from the United States that sent waves of (delayed) pop culture through our little boarding school. This was the Next Big Thing, what Regular Americans were listening to, and if we were going to be Cool, we had to be in love with

The New Kids On The Block

God help us all.

Boy bands had been around for a while, apparently (Menudo, anyone?), but NKOTB made them American as apple pie and pickup trucks with shotgun racks. The boys were so Cute. They were so Upbeat and Perky. More to the point for us, they were ICA*-approved, which meant that their lyrics would not offend the Powers That Be Were. That meant we were allowed to listen to the caterwauling music and dance er, bob our heads in appropriate restraint.

I didn't really get the music. But Everyone Loved NKotB, so therefore I loved NKOTB. And when the other girls asked me breathlessly which one was my favorite New Kid, I went with the most popular answer and said Joey...or was that Jordan? Crap, I don't remember any more. Because it was such an IMPORTANT decision, you know. The New Kid you liked best apparently said huge amounts about you.

I think some people may have gotten into fights over it, but mostly I just tried not to look too confused.

When NKOTB went out of style (thankfully quickly), I had hope that the days of boy band craze were of Yore. I should have known better.

In college, along came

The Backstreet Boys

who were then challenged by

'N Sync

and I believe people still debate who won that fight.

I am TOTALLY an 'N Sync girl, let me tell you. I mean, really. How could there be any competition there? Justin T., y'all!!!

Excuse me while I run to the restroom.

Whew. Sorry about that.

And if that weren't enough, along came the MMMMbopping Hansons

Aren't they nauseating adorable?

And lest we think that only the male half of the species offended, there were

The Spice Girls

I wish I could say that was all. But it wasn't.

What do I have against the Boy (and occasionally Girl) Bands?

Well. Where do I begin?

If you like meaningless and cheezy lyrics, derivative melodies, overchoreographed dance moves, an almost complete inability to write or actually PLAY music (and let's not even talk about originality here), and an overwhelming emphasis on merchandising and faux celebrity "news", then go for it. Boy Band it up. More power to ya.

Personally, I want to hurl.

And yet...there is something hypnotic about that pop-bubblegum, faux badass, overproduced stuff. It's kind of like Taco Bell or Cheetos. You know it's just so very bad for you, but once you start eating...you can't put it down.

Because while I may not have ever owned an album by one of these bands...

I did catch myself singing along to their songs.

And I kind of liked that one 'N Sync music video where they were marionettes.

And I did watch the Spice Girls movie.

 I may be going to Music Hell.

Um, so DraftQueen? Once you decide to forgive me for my musical sins, you want to send me some more mp3s? I'll be washing my brain out so it's clean enough to receive those luscious songs.

Oh, and you can thank Jason Mayo of Out-Numbered for the post topic. He apparently is a Backstreet Boys fanatic (seriously, all I can do is giggle) and has threatened to play Boy Band music through my window at night so it haunts my nightmares dreams.

I'd be a lot more scared if he knew where I live.

I'll never tell. I value my sanity too much.

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*International Christian Academy, the now-defunct boarding school where I went for 7-9 and 11-12th grades. They were quite conservative there. Quite.

There's a Reason I Listen to Alanis Morissette. And It's Not Because of Her Stellar Fashion Choices.

As much as I love myself (because really, who doesn't?) (love themselves, I mean) (well, or me, because I'm awesome) I also am my own harshest critic. No, really. I may not always let people know just how much I judge myself, but I do. It's far easier for me to see myself in a negative light than in a positive. Thus the self-deprecating humor. You know, make fun of myself before other people do, because then it hurts less? Yeah, I'm special like that.

(You see what I just did? Yep. Slammed myself in a joking way. Jeez, I can't help but do it even when I'm talking about how I do it.)

Sometimes the humor fails me. Then I just get angsty. Let me tell you, it's a real riot walking around with an inner teenager, especially one like mine. My inner teenager is not the bubbly cheerleader who loves trips to the mall and texting all her BFFs about the cute guy she saw at Forever 21. Oh no. Mine dresses in black with black eyeliner and mopes about in the corner and writes dark poetry about the horror of existence in a world of pain and anguish and bubbly cheerleaders.

Okay, fine, I've also been known to hang out at the mall with friends and text BFFs about guys, such as the cute policeman who totally gave me a major break this summer on not having renewed my registration for, oh, seven months; or the hot mechanic who changed my oil and replaced my sway bar links this weekend. But then my inner teenager has to hate ME, so it gets complicated.

I never said I was a simple person. I come with fine print. People just keep forgetting to read my manual.

Heck, I wish I could find my manual. Maybe then I could figure out how to run my own head.

Crap. Where was I going with this post? Oh right! Harshest critic. Angst. Too complicated for my own good. Fun stuff. Not entirely sure why I'm spewing this, but hey. Whatever. You can just stop reading if it's too emo for you.

Except now I'm panicking that you're really leaving my blog because AND THIS IS KIND OF THE WHOLE POINT OF THIS STUPID THING I have abandonment issues. And I've been realizing lately, as I've been navigating the ridiculous self-designed maze of my own mind (map not included), that I have a nasty habit of never fully giving myself to those I love. Deep down, you see, I don't really think I'm good enough to keep people around. So I have to protect myself from the inevitable. Friends, family, significant others, my own children...it doesn't seem to matter who the person is, there is always a part of my heart, a part of ME, that I hold back in reserve. There's always an unwillingness to risk myself fully in a relationship, because in the back of my mind a voice is always whispering They always end up leaving. One way or another, you will lose this person. He or she will leave you, will walk away, will break your heart if you give it all.

It's a sobering realization to have. It also explains certain behaviors. For example, my tendency to NOT write my parents much when they're overseas. Oh, they get my blog, I tell myself (which is a handy excuse these days but doesn't do much to justify the previous thirteen years). My mother will write long, lovely, newsy, satisfying letters that make me feel like she just sat down and had coffee with me. And I will, if she's lucky, write back a paragraph or two. Just the basics. A brief response to specific questions, usually. A quick update on how the boys are doing.

For another example, my ability to disconnect from friends and not even realize that two months have passed since I've seen a person or even necessarily talked to that person on the phone. I just continue to go on through my life, pushing away any sense of missing a connection. If she really wants to talk to me or see me, she'll call me, right?

I have to wonder, too, if I'm capable of loving a man in a way that means forever, 'til death do us part. I haven't done so well so far. And recently I've realized that it's one thing to say I love someone: it's another to give him my heart. Fully, completely, with all the tremendous risk that comes from placing that most delicate part of Self in someone else's hands. I don't think I've ever done that. I'm not sure what it takes to do so, or whether that strength, that willingness to risk so much, is even in me.

Most sobering is the realization that as much as I love my children, there's still a part of me I withhold from them, too. You see, they're going to grow up. And they may not like me very much some day. They may not call. They may not talk to me. They may resent me for choices I've made and have yet to make. They may move far, far away and only come home for the occasional holiday. I will lose them. One way or another, I will lose them: to jobs, to wives, to time.

So I shield a part of myself off from the world. Because if I give myself fully, then every time someone leaves, every time someone walks away or vanishes or drifts off or outright rejects me, there's a piece of my heart that goes with them. And I'm not sure there would be enough left of me to survive.

We're Staring at the Headlights and There's No Hero Riding Into Sight

Oy.

Okay. There's another reason I haven't wanted to write much prose lately.

It's called Stress. Over my everlovin' fund-cuttin' teacher-bashin' student-screwin' state legislature's decisions to cut education funding again and again and again. Halfway through the school year, as is the idiotic illogical normal way things are done around here.

My district, a large district, will lose an estimated $14.5 million as of December 20, 2009.

My building alone will lose almost $600,000.

This is not projected money, money that would be spent Down The Road that simply cannot be spent now. This is money that (because of the way things are done in this state) was already figured into the budget for the year before the state said Oh, sorry, did we say you could have that? Never mind.

This is money that pays for the programs that educate our youth, for the teachers and support staff who make the programs happen, and the facilities in which the programs are run. This is money that is spent to cover costs in a district that has already been paring away at spending and programs and jobs in an effort to absorb all the budget cuts made over the last several years.

So we are in Crisis. Crisis-mode decisions have been made, and the devastating results are already in play.

Last Thursday, after we wasted our time sat through a professional development presentation, four close English teacher friends of mine and I headed to a nearby Coney to eat lunch. I snapped a picture of them, these four young 20-somethings who have become my colleagues, my buddies, my mentees, my confidantes, and sent the picture to Joe via text labelled My peeps. He texted back Hi peeps! And then he and one of my peeps teased each other through me.

The next day three of them were told they will be laid off as of January 25th.

The fourth one is the next on the chopping block. Reality says she will not have a job next year.

The reason? One of the many cuts being made at the semester's end is the position of high school media center specialist (i.e. librarian.) Our libraries media centers used to have one full time MC specialist, one full-time MC paraprofessional, and one full-time MC secretary. And they were Busy. Over the last several years, the media centers first lost the secretaries, then dropped the para-pros to half-time, then lost the para-pros entirely. Our beloved MC specialist is quite possibly the hardest working and most overworked woman in the building, and she saves our asses on a regular basis. I put her on a pedestal along with our IT woman and the administrative secretaries.

Now all four high school MC specialists have lost their positions. Each school will have one para-pro working in the MC half the day.

This will work well.*

As a result, those MC specialists (all of whom were once teachers and are certified) are being moved back into the classroom. Even the one who only taught for a couple of years and hasn't been in a classroom for twenty-five. They have the seniority, they have the certification, so they will go into the classroom and the low people on the totem pole are gone.

Thus, my peeps.

Don't get me wrong. I don't want the specialists to lose their jobs either and I believe (knowing the kind of people they are) that they will work their butts off to do well as teachers. That's not the issue.

What is an issue, besides my friends losing their jobs, is that all these cuts (and there are more than these, believe you me) will Not Be Enough. More are coming our way--if not during this year, certainly within the next couple. Our in-school custodians are losing their jobs as the district switches to a cheaper (and much less effective) outsourced company. Some secretarial positions are being cut, others put to half-time. Bussing may have to be cut. Elective and Fine Arts programs may disappear. Sports programs may even be cut--freshman and junior varsity teams are already on the list of possibilities.

Class sizes will very likely rise (we're already at 35). The middle school program may be changed drastically, leaving about fifty teachers either laid off or transferred to high school, which means lay-offs there. Our contract is up for negotiation this summer, and I have every expectation that we will be forced to take dramatic salary cuts and benefit changes/losses. More people will lose jobs. MAYBE even some administrators (and believe me, that's a true sign of a crisis).

I understand, to a certain extent, why this is happening. Michigan is in crisis too. The state does not have money and is cutting all sorts of programs. Education is not alone. Police and fire departments are being drastically slashed. Other programs are being cut entirely or severely underfunded.

And I know that not just state employees are suffering. Almost all of Michigan is suffering. I know many people who have been laid off and cannot find jobs. Believe me, I'm grateful that I have one.

In fact, yesterday I found myself counting up the number of English teachers in the district who stand between me and a layoff. It may be human nature, but I recoiled at my cold-blooded approach to reality: how many bodies (so to speak) must fall before I do? And how bad would things be that I, who have approximately 14 people buffering me from unemployment, would be on the chopping block?

The reality is grim. It has been for some time, but now I'm catching a glimpse of the Reaper in my peripheral vision.

However, I have to wonder: at what long-term price are we making these short-term decisions? How will overcrowded classrooms, lack of bussing, lack of enrichment and Fine Arts and sports programs, and (yes, I'm going there) underpaid and overstressed teachers create an educational environment that will draw crucial people and funds to this state? What are we sacrificing for the present crisis that will contribute to the long-term one? The experts waffle on when we will start emerging from this recession, but I can say this: unless positive decisions are made rather than negative ones, that journey will be a very long one. And at this rate, I believe we may drop down into a full depression rather than the "milder" recession sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, I'm glad the legislators are able to sleep at night.* Apparently they're so relaxed about the oncoming train of the December budget cuts that today they declared a hiatus from sessions and decided to take a two-week vacation.

Unfortunately, they left a lot of people stranded on the tracks.


*In case you can't tell, this is being said with Deep Deep Sarcasm.

Changing My Perspective

I apologize in advance for getting practically warm fuzzy in this post. I'm sure the snarkiness will return in due time. It's the whininess that needs to go.

This look? Not attractive. Another reason to knock it off.

I've been feeling quite whiny lately. Not that *ahem* you would have noticed that in my last few blog posts or anything. My juniors have been driving me nuts because they are horrified that *gasp* I'm actually requiring them to READ A BOOK (I know. The humanity.) My kidlets have been less than cooperative the last couple of days. The district is trying to destroy the honors English program AGAIN. I miss my peeps. I'll be filing divorce papers as soon as I get some time to actually finalize them. The holidays are looming and I don't know how they're going to go or be organized or anything. Almost every time I try to get together with a friend, something drastic happens or someone gets sick and plans fall through. And I sound like a frog.

And then I read about Stellan suddenly ending up in hospital again and Mom Zombie's encounter with a content counter man and Bored Mommy's very sad anniversary and heard some horror stories from other people about deaths and divorces and illnesses and whatnot and suddenly...

I had to put things in perspective.

I have a job. It pays well, I have excellent insurance, and because of my spot on the seniority list and the size of my district, I'm not in danger of being pink-slipped. And as an added bonus, it's a job I actually enjoy (for the most part), and one in which I have earned and receive a healthy measure of respect from students, coworkers, and administration. I am good at what I do.

Although my children still get the sniffles and have asthma flare-ups and whatnot, they no longer suffer from the more extreme illnesses that had DramaBoy in and out of the hospital and required special diets and required consultations with insane infectious disease specialists. Neither of them has ever been on the verge of death, even amidst all that drama. They are both bright, beautiful, (usually) adorable children.

Even though I am going through divorce, it is one marked by an absolutely mutual desire to keep things friendly and make things as peaceful and positive for the children as possible. Despite financial complications (like a house that is worth less than is owed), we do not have to argue over money issues or get lawyers involved. Neither of us hates the other. We are both good people going through a bad situation, and we are both attempting to do so with grace and patience.

I do not have to worry about having a place to put my head at night. If anything, I enjoy a plethora of options. I may live out of a suitcase much of the time, but I have clothing and fabulous shoes to put in that suitcase and a car to transport it and places to take it. I may need to be a little careful with my money, but I can afford to put gas in my car and pay my bills and even have a little fun now and then.

I have friends and family who love me and, even when they can't be with me, actually WANT to be with me. I may not know where I'll be these holidays coming up, but there is no lack of options.

I have children who adore me and want to give me hugs even when I have Lost It, who run to me with huge smiles on their faces when they see me. This afternoon I will be taking my children and meeting a wonderful friend and her children and we are going to take photo shoots in a park. And the sun has chosen to emerge from behind the clouds, so even this oft-gloomy season is deciding to cooperate.

Maybe I don't have a voice today, but I can still choose which words I will say both aloud and in my own head. I am blessed, and I'm choosing to focus on that.

After all, it's less than a month until Thanksgiving. Might as well start practicing! I don't want that Thanksgiving Turkey to decide I've been a Bad Girl and give my house a miss. That would be embarassing.

Oh wait...

Okay, so maybe I just got a little...confused, but the practicing is still a good idea. What are you thankful for?

That Better Not Be a Double Chin I See in the Mirror

Reflecting on the comments my lovely peoples left yesterday about my photos, particular the one written by Becky, I came to the realization that lo, these many months of not exercising have made me a wee bit more, well, fleshy than I was back in January.  Witness the evidence:

Me in mid-January, following angst and drama and a few days in the hospital

Me in late August, following months of no exercising and summer foodiness

That and the firmness with which my work pants pressed upon my thighs this morning when I greased slid them on for the first time in months made me think that perhaps, unless I really want to spend a minor fortune replacing my wardrobe, I really should start exercising again. It also occurred to me that perhaps four pieces of toast with lovely smooth spicy apple butter slathered all over aren't the best late night snack.

Just a thought.

Putting On The Glitz

Been wondering where to go for that birthday party your little munchkin has looming on the horizon? Want something that offers a full range of services including cake, beverages, kid-friendly location, and entertainment? Trying to raise a child who believes that either the Disney princess or the youthful Paris Hilton look is the greatest aspiration a little girl can have?

Then why not try your local kids' hair salon?

Yes, indeed! What better place to entertain a group of estrogen-laced little kidlettes than a salon that will tart them up in hairspray and butterfly barrettes, cheap glam outfits, glittery makeup, and plastic high heels? And then have them parade down their very own grabbed-from-the-remnant-rack red carpet to the applause and camera flashes of their mamarazzi? Or will let them learn their very own makeup- and mousse-application techniques on a creepy head-on-two-legs doll that they can take home for their future style rehearsals?

That's Snip-Its, "The Most Amazing Kid's Haircut Franchise" known to--um, me! You can choose from the Glamour Party, specially crafted for those pageant mom wannabees; the Hollywood Party, where your little darlings can prepare to be the future Paris Hiltons of Hollywood "celebrity"; or the Style-A-Doll Party, where the dolly creep factor is unbound!

Come--join in the effort to brainwash an entire generation of girls into thinking anything that glitters is, in fact, gold!

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When we were looking for a new place to get the boyo's hair cut, now that our beloved Carnival Cuts is defunct, ComputerDaddy spotted Snip-Its near his workplace. Desperate to keep the kidlets from turning into woolly mammoths before our very eyes, we decided to give it a try. (I should note that our previous attempts at home haircuts have been, shall we say, disastrous? I'd rather not have our children be mocked and stoned on the playground, thank you very much.) We checked it out online first, and I was rather surprised to see that they offered birthday events. I don't see how that's possible, opined ComputerDaddy. It's such a little place, tucked between Trader Joe's and another store, that must just be something that happens at other locations.

Despite my inner ick at what I had seen online, I was desperate enough to give the place a whirl. I mean, it's just a kid's salon, right?

Ha. We walked in just in time to witness the grand finale of what I THINK was a Glamour Party. Since they weren't slutted out a la Paris, as the website had shown in their *ahem* "adorable" photos.

Hey, biotches! aren't I HAWT? See ya on Surreal Life!

A gaggle of six six-or-seven-year-old girls in multiple layers of garish clothing, wilting fairy wings, glittery wands, plastic high heels in various shades of pink and purple, and glitter plastered all over their faces and hair was milling about uncertainly at one end of a cheap red runner. A store employee was explaining to them what they were supposed to do. A handful of parents gathered, cameras in hand, at the other end of the carpet. One by one the girls stomped down the runner and stood for a few seconds, then turned and lumbered back. A couple smiled brightly for the camera, one of whom I believe was the birthday girl. A couple looked confused. A couple looked downright sullen and embarrassed. The parents oohed and aahed and marvelled over what a brilliant idea this was. And for only $175?!?! Why couldn't they do something like this for adult birthday parties?!?!

(They do, chickas. They're called Spa Days. Not as cheap, though, and more likely to involve chocolate and mimosas. Much more satisfying, though, in my humble opinion. Unless you'd like karaoke, for that potential public humiliation factor.)

I struggled to keep the sneer off my face, peoples. I mean, girliness is great, and we all know I'm a shoe addict, and I enjoy earrings and makeup and dressing up and all, but in this day of rampant obsession over all things Barbie and Bratz Dolls and Miley Cirus and Britney Spears and Paris Hilton (I'm aiming for some major search-term pop ups here), it seems to me that we're sending a strong message to our little girls about what's important and just what it means to be a Girl these days. It's one thing to enjoy femininity--I'm not saying I don't ooh and aah over precious little dresses with ribbons and bows, or cute pigtails--but it's another entirely to take it to such a glitzy extreme. And then put it on such a display. I think the red carpet strut may have put the whole thing over the top for me, horror-wise.

People can talk all they want about Disney heroines and modern female celebrities being strong, independent women who choose their own paths, but the reality is that Jasmine and Pocahontas and all those chicks are NOT realistic representations of the female body or lifestyle, any more than Barbie or Bratz Dolls. Every time we see young female stars in the news, there's some emphasis (often exclusive) on what they are--or are not--wearing, how many extra ounces of fat they seem to have accumulated, and who they are dating/marrying/divorcing/sleeping with. How many of those celebrities went or are going to college? And if so, how many articles are covering that?

Being the parent of boys is not magically easy, and I believe I will be facing my own set of social issues--not least of which is the horrific Boys Will Be Boys fallacy and a massive double standard regarding male behavior. But right now, having witnessed that birthday party yesterday, I'm grateful I don't have a little girl to raise. I wouldn't be the one giving such a party (bring on Chuck E. Cheese or a day in the park!), but what would I say to my daughter if she was invited to such a thing?

Maybe I'm getting too heated up over a birthday party in a hair salon. And maybe I'm not getting heated up enough. What do you think?